Ian Gillan: The Autobiography of Deep Purple’s Singer

by Ian Gillan

  A bit differently, it never bothered me how much the management and other professionals were earning, which was strange, given the experiences I’d been through with Episode Six and the Pye label. However, I did question the percentages when it was decided to drop the agency we used, and bring the matter ‘in house’, and, about that, the figure of 27 per cent comes to mind. Still, if I wasn’t interested enough to ask properly then, why should I now? On the other hand, why shouldn’t I?

  I’ve already touched on Bill Reid, our accountant, whose introduction to the Deep Purple set-up is the stuff of folklore and deserves a proper mention. As I recall, it was decided that we needed a top firm of accountants to give substance to our image and standing in the music business, so a couple of us went to this big city firm, where we marched into reception and asked to see one of the senior partners. We said we were Deep Purple, which was enough to pull a fairly serious-looking chap in a pinstripe suit from out of his office; and, as he approached us, he had alongside him this older, rather wise-looking gentleman, who was introduced as a manager. There was clearly a misunderstanding as to what the partner thought Deep Purple might be, other than a nice colour, and so the meeting went no further than the reception lobby, where our stay was also very brief!

  However, someone got the vibe that the old geezer and manager seemed amused and interested, so we lowered our sights and telephoned back, asking for Mr Reid. It can take several factors to come together for a moment of good fortune to be manufactured, and, in the case of Bill, it was that he’d probably reached the pinnacle of opportunity at this firm, that his kids were approaching independence and, above all else, he was probably very bored. So he handed in his notice and bravely took the plunge with us – in fact, just before ‘Black Night’ was released.

  Fast-forward, and a few months later Bill was travelling ahead of us, setting up deals and contracts on a worldwide basis, and deservedly having the time of his life! His modest offices in Wallington became a financial centre for a major part of the music business, and he also represented many stars in sport. Old enough to be our father (he took on that kind of role), Bill became an anchor – at least in my life – as he sat in his panelled office overlooking the high street, with a steady build-up of gold discs adorning the wall, and dressed in multicoloured shirts, Bermuda shorts and sandals. He also scratched his balls quite a lot, which was probably a two-fingered statement to the rather restricted and staid life he’d left behind in the city!

  It was often said we’d play our best shows when Bill was backstage, or out front, but, when it came to the after-show parties, he’d hover, resplendent with a huge Havana cigar in hand, and, after a glass of wine or two, bid us goodnight and take himself off to bed, leaving us to abuse the expense account. I’d love to know how he explained away receipts like the Chicken Wey in Frankfurt (which was not a restaurant!), but, then, a lot of our leisure activities and expenses were looked after by the promoters, who also liked to enjoy themselves. So maybe it wasn’t that big a problem for Bill, while other things about the man deserve my discretion.

  Bill told us what we could afford, and he paid the accounts – all of them! He was the one who dished out the weekly money and, if I ran short, I’d call him to say, ‘Bill, can I afford this?’ or ‘May I do that?’ and he would make it possible. It seemed that we were a bottomless pit of money, but everything was channelled through him, and we respected that.

  On the domestic scene, Ritchie was married for the second time; Jon was with Judith (and child); Paicey was engaged to his money; and both Roger and I were in love. In fact, I was in an ongoing and full-time relationship with Zoe Dean at the time, having first met her at Pye Records, during the Episode Six days. I’d always had a spark for this mysterious girl, which is what attracted me to her in the first place, and then I met her at a Purple gig, which she turned up to with a friend in her Austin A30. I was sitting in the back of a limo, and just got out, jumped into her car, and we drove down to her home in Salisbury, after which things drifted on for ten or twelve years.

  It’s hard to know what to say about the relationship, and, because Zoe has felt unwilling to disclose much here, I’ll deal lightly and politely with a part of my life that saw me at my youthful prime, but in which any personal regrets are best kept that way. To have stayed with Zoe for so many years, when I had so many other opportunities, speaks for itself.

  As our touring continued to intensify, I suspect the close-bonded relationship within the group began to crack when I brought Zoe along with me, and we started to live in separate quarters and hotels from the band, and even took to having our own limo. In fact, I played the ‘star’ part to the limit, and I guess I was a pain quite often. But this wasn’t the real world – or, at least, if it was, it was a fantasy to be enjoyed while it lasted. Eventually, all the women in our lives joined the circuit and began to compete, bitch, and generally screw things up, mostly when we were doing that perfectly well enough between us! Otherwise, there seemed to be few real problems, except that I had my ego severely dented when I failed my driving test in April 1971. Having decided not to be flash by using the Roller, I used the test school’s 1100, and apparently indicated left before taking a confident right! Still, it was worth it just to see the instructor’s face when I climbed into the Rolls (L-plates still on) and drove away. Perhaps I should have had my hair cut, but I’d been failed, and would remain a learner for many years thereafter!

  CHAPTER 5

  With album and singles success, plus our huge following in the UK, the management realised they were sitting on a goldmine, and upped the pressure and routines. I can’t say we complained because we were so hyped up that it just didn’t matter, as we pushed our notoriety ever further with a foray into Scotland in October 1970, where we took that nation by storm!

  20th Edinburgh Odeon

  21st Dundee Caird Hall

  22nd Dunfermline Electric Ballroom

  23rd Aberdeen Music Hall

  24th Glasgow Electric Ballroom (changed to Tiffany’s)

  25th Hamilton Town Hall

  In fact our music and reputation had clearly travelled ahead of us, because the promoters had to switch one of the venues from the Electric Ballroom in Glasgow to Tiffany’s, because Sauchiehall Street was jammed end to end, and we needed a police escort to get us in, and out. It was unbelievable – we were so ‘underground’, so ‘dangerous’, that people were turning up saying, ‘Who is this band?’ As word spread like wildfire, and our concerts needed a police-with-dogs presence, so we began to adjust our pattern of behaviour and performances at gigs. In times past, I’d played to audiences who would stay in their seats, maybe getting up to dance around sometimes, but almost always well-mannered and controlled. However, with Deep Purple progressing as we were, we couldn’t stop external changes beyond our control, which included the seating having to be removed (by promoters), while I invented ‘head banging’, which I’d later describe (Ian Gillan Band days) as performed by a ‘person with rhythm’. In my case, the concept of ‘head banging’ was made all the more dramatic, because of the mane of hair I had, which also covered my face, and which I made sway, as I rhythmically gyrated my head to the music. It was a new touch but, again, totally spontaneous and reflective of the show and excitement we were generating, while it wouldn’t be long before I’d look up, to realise the fans were following my example, irrespective of the length of their hair – or, in later years, perhaps with none at all! If truth be known, I think this added dimension and piece of theatre helped to create a closer bonding between the band and the audiences, because it made the fans almost feel they were part of the band. And if that’s not quite the case, well our shows still became a bigger party than the one that was happening on stage! I’ll quote from Melody Maker (24 October 1970): ‘Now it’s Purplemania. Deep Purple are the latest group to attract Beatlemania scenes in the north of England.’

  So we’d arrived at a point where instead of the (mainly) girls sitting politely, with han
ds clasped on their laps, or perhaps moving just a bit, now there were no seats, and they were flinging themselves at us, fainting, crying and screaming at our feet on stage, as we played ‘Black Night’ to the backs of bouncers.

  Getting out of venues also became something of a problem, and we would often call upon skilled backup to see us safely to the waiting cars. It was interesting to hear the view of promoter Jeff Docherty when he commented on the screaming, and suggested that it wasn’t the music we played that created the new ‘concert’, but how we looked that counted, and because they were all very young. However, one member of the band would add to that by saying, ‘I suppose it’s something we’ll have to get used to, after appearing on Top of the Pops!’

  We closed 1970 with a trip to Scandinavia and another tour of Germany, where we played Nuremburg, Würzburg, Stuttgart, Hanover, Offenbach (again!) and Saarbrücken; but it was a bad period for us, because the pressures of touring and our self-made lifestyles had begun to catch up with us, even as the rioting got worse. I remember 8 December being a particularly scary show, when fans ran amuck at Lüdenscheid, many trying to get onto the stage, where they smashed gear worth around £2, 000, which was not a small amount at the time! I guess the problem that night was partly due to the fact that we’d played as a quartet, because Ritchie had been taken ill, and was flown back to London for treatment. In fact a little after that, two other members of the band also went down, including me, and so the rest of the German tour was cancelled.

  How the business was changing! How concerts were being done differently! How in such a short space of time so much was no longer what it used to be! And that’s before Switzerland, where I had my first experience with Hell’s Angels. The show was in full flow, Purple style, as the crowd got caught up with the energy, and then went berserk. The next thing I knew, about fifteen of these guys were on the stage with their backs to us, and they were manhandling and chucking kids all over the place. It was ugly and really pissed me off, so I started attacking them with a mike stand, and kept on going until they left. However, after the show they were waiting for us to leave the building, and promptly chased us out of town! The incident was quite frightening, not least because whoever was driving took us into a field, where we got well and truly stuck! However, the potential of a wide-open gate in farmland, and late at night, is not to be underestimated, as I’ll try to illustrate.

  Back home, once I’d slept off a tour, I used to relax by playing football, and often kept goal for the local Pangbourne police team. They were a great bunch, but, unfortunately, many opposing pub and factory teams saw the matches against us as a way to hand out legitimate violence, and included me in all of that! I’ve often found that, like many musicians, members of the police force have a wicked sense of humour, and I’ll example this by (again) dipping into the future, with the period being the Ian Gillan Band, circa 1976.

  We did a show in Norwich, which was an end-of-tour gig, and where a party had been laid on, including some strippers, who were brilliant. Well, all was going perfectly well until this twat tried to gatecrash. He was asked to leave but, as he went, he grabbed the tablecloth at the end of the buffet and dragged it along with him. So, with our hospitality fare spread across the floor, I went absolutely mental, and raced out of the hotel to sort him out, but he’d got away. Still irritated, I returned and ended up chatting to this guy in reception, telling him what had happened, before I returned to the party.

  Unfortunately, Zoe and I had not been getting on very well, and she obviously thought I’d been out there with one of the strippers. The more she went on about it, the more l wished I had been! Anyway, we had a huge argument on the way through the hotel to the car; we’d not had one for a couple of days, by which time I’d downed a couple more Scotches. Once in the car, and on our way out of the market square, I spotted a police car, and this recognition sufficiently cleared my mind, so that I drove carefully down a one-way street, although realising they were looking to follow me. It then became decision time, and, without a map, I took the first available left turn and put my foot down. The thought of being caught horrified me, but, however fast I seemed to be going, there they remained, until after a couple of miles I started to look for an exit – anything to get them off my back. And then I got lucky, as my lights picked out an open farm gate a little way on (just like the one in Switzerland), through which I rocked into the field, and pulled up inside the high hedge, where I switched off the engine.

  Well, first to explain is the fact that I ‘rocked’ into a field; and by this I mean that taking a sudden and sharp left in a Rolls-Royce of the vintage I had … well the car did ‘rock’, and the experience was both dramatic and frightening! So there we sat, puzzled that the blue lights hadn’t gone flying past us, until the police, who we’d shortly discover were similarly parked on the other side of the hedge, must have decided to end their game, as they made their presence known with a couple of peeps on the blue light, or hooter. Oh well, that’s it, I thought, and opened the driver’s door to meet ‘the law’ as he came through the gate and walked towards me, saying: ‘Nice bit of driving, Ian. No chance I could have your autograph, is there?’

  It was a brown-trouser job, but I most willingly signed, and then drove home extremely carefully – in fact, rewriting the definition of ‘careful’ to be even more than ‘extremely’! It was very stupid what I’d done, and brought back my father’s words that would caution me against momentary acts of lunacy, which could result in my being maimed, killed or, worse still, doing it to somebody else. Otherwise, it wasn’t the first time the law has been kind to me in this country, and I realise and appreciate that.

  In a different way, I’ve tried to compensate for moments of selfishness or irresponsible stupidity, through the realisation that I do have a responsibility to the public and, in particular, to the many thousands – possibly millions – of fans who come to my shows, buy my records and merchandise, even have my picture on their bedroom wall. You can show humility in various ways, beginning with the signing of autographs, which I’ve always tried to do as much as possible, including outside stage doors, when all I really wanted to do was to get back home or to my hotel. I know a lot of artists like to get away from venues as quickly as possible, but even a brief ‘after the show’ exchange of gratitude and friendship with the fans is fine by me, and, apart from putting my mark on scraps of paper, a gig entry ticket, brochure, or the odd record or two, there’s also the occasional surprise encounter when a part of anatomy is exposed to me, and signing that is also perfectly acceptable!

  There’s another way in which people like me can show we have a reasonable side to us, and the occasional visit to a fan in hospital is one way of recognising my appreciation for the life I’ve been allowed to discover, apart from the fact that it brings me back down to earth! So there was this time when we were gigging at the Dome in Brighton, and, after the soundcheck, someone told me about this young boy who was lying in a coma in hospital. He was known to be a great fan, and so I went to see his parents, and together we visited him. I just sat and held his hand, talking quietly about whatever – I can’t remember – before taking my leave.

  When I got home, I made a tape and sent it to him, and, a little while later, I got this message telling that he’d come round, and so I returned to the hospital. It was a choking experience just to see the look in his eyes, because, although he’d suffered brain damage and couldn’t feed, he seemed fully aware of what was going on, and the occasion brought memories flooding back of the days with Episode Six in Beirut, where I came to understand how it can take another person’s misfortune to make you revisit your own priorities.

  There was no let-up in our touring schedule, and 1971 saw us on a major UK tour, where we pulled capacity crowds and were very big box office. In February alone we did the Royal Albert Hall, Hull, Sheffield, Bournemouth, Portsmouth, Birmingham, Bristol, Plymouth, Manchester (cancelled), Newcastle, Coventry, Leicester, Croydon (cancelled) and Brighton – all t
his as our reputation again preceded us, sometimes to cause quite serious and unexpected problems.

  For example, we received late notice that we’d been banned from the Free Trade Hall, Manchester, because the authorities had deemed us unsuitable for the venue, while Croydon’s excuse was that the weight of fans in the balcony might cause it to collapse. Actually, their stage did in fact collapse, but that would be on a different occasion sometime in the future, and I forget which band I was fronting at the time (not Deep Purple). Perhaps the reason for the debacle was the sheer amount of backline gear we stacked onto it. Anyway, March saw us with three shows for the BBC, before we went to Germany to do four dates, and then to Montreux in Switzerland for another two, followed by Brussels and places in Scandinavia, where we did four more.

  Our health really should have alerted someone to question our routines, and we had some problems with Roger, who’d been complaining of stomach pains, about which a £200 fee for his ten-minute consultation in London’s Harley Street, did nothing to really help! It was therefore a no-win situation for him, because he’d paid to be told there was nothing wrong, while, if there had been something to worry about, he’d have felt just as bad. More to the point, someone wasn’t doing their job, because he became incapable of returning for the several encores the fans were calling for, and Chas Hodges (Heads, Hands and Feet, and now Chas and Dave) had to help out with the rock-’n’-roll closer, ‘Lucille’. Ritchie’s less helpful contribution to our bass player’s agony was to suggest that, if he was going to die, he should do it on stage, so we could cremate him as part of the act! Ritchie was in good form in that period, assuming ‘good form’ can include another phase of using his catapult to brighten up long car journeys, this time by flinging peas at passers-by and men digging roads. Silly, really, but, unlike with the River Thames incident of times past, at least the police didn’t catch up with him.