by Ian Hunter
Published in 1996 by
INDEPENDENT MUSIC PRESS
Reprinted 1996
Second Reprint 1997
Third Reprint 1999
Fourth Reprint 2002
This Edition is Copyright © Independent Music Press Ltd 1999
This Work is Copyright © Ian Hunter Patterson 1974
Originally Published in 1974 by Panther Books Ltd
The right of Ian Hunter Patterson to be identified
as the author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act. 1988
All Rights Reserved
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers’ prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue for this book is available from The British Library
ISBN 189-7783-094
Every effort has been made to contact the photographers whose work has been used in this book - however a few were unobtainable. The publishers would be grateful if those concerned would contact Independent Music Press Ltd.
Independent Music Press
P.O. Box 14691, London SE1 3ZJ
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Diary of A
Rock ‘n’ Roll Star
Ian Hunter
Independent Music Press
London
Contents
Introduction
Preface
Tuesday, 21 November 1972
Wednesday, 22 November 1972
Thursday, 23 November 1972
Friday, 24 November 1972
Saturday, 25 November 1972
Sunday, 26 November 1972
Monday, 27 November 1972
Tuesday, 28 November 1972
Wednesday, 29 November 1972
Thursday, 30 November 1972
Friday, 1 December 1972
Saturday, 2 December 1972
Sunday, 3 December 1972
Monday, 4 December 1972
Tuesday, 5 December 1972
Wednesday, 6 December 1972
Thursday, 7 December 1972
Friday, 8 December 1972
Saturday, 9 December 1972
Sunday, 10 December 1972
Monday, 11 December 1972
Tuesday, 12 December 1972
Wednesday, 13 December 1972
Thursday, 14 December 1972
Friday, 15 December 1972 10a.m.
Saturday, 16 December 1972
Sunday, 17 December 1972
Monday, 18 December 1972
Tuesday, 19 December 1972
Wednesday, 20 December 1972
Thursday, 21 December 1972
Friday, 22 December 1972
Saturday, 23 December 1972
Sunday, 24 December 1972
Introduction
Thanks to a Melody Maker ad in 1969, Ian Hunter was singer with Mott The Hoople, a Midlands boogie quintet of sufficient stripe to incur a temporary ban on all rock gigs at the Royal Albert Hall and one saved from splitting-up when pal David Bowie lent them ‘All The Young Dudes’.
On 21st November 1972, (it was a Tuesday) Hunter “mopped up the cat shit” from his kitchen floor and prepared for a five week tour of the States. His decision to document this latest trip, as “a letter to a fan in the front row of The Rainbow...as a buzz for the people who dig us” led to, quite simply, the finest and funniest insight into this life we call ‘rock’ ever committed to the back of a boarding pass.
It is not just the glorious naiveté of the age that endears (Day Two and Hunter is excitedly expounding the delights of air travel: “You get free meals, drinks, papers...the seats recline and they even have movies, a choice of two!"), nor the marriage of jet-set luxury and down-home Shropshire common sense (sunbathing on the roof of The Hyatt, LA, in “Woolworths trunks"). No, the magic of this little book, this dear diary, lies simply in the way the whole early seventies rock ‘n’ roll circus is distilled to its component parts by a bluff 28 year old Shrewsbury lad, high on Alka Seltzer. Medoc, Winston fags and life, caught up in the machinery of the Billboard 100, tour itineraries and “ladies of the lobby" hell.
With a star-studded supporting cast (Bowie, Moon. Zappa, Roxy, Sha Na Na), Hunter's observations – on travel, hotels, groupies, promoters, Hereford United and the perils of the tight trouser - resonate down the years, as relevant today as they were then to those of us hooked on the biz and the bollocks.
On picking up my own distressed copy of the book I was, as expected, thoroughly re-tickled, not just by the quaint spelling errors in the text (“Manhatten”), but by the original jacket’s outraged enquiry: “Who are they, these rock stars?”
No-one knew then, everybody knows nowadays, but it hasn't lessened the mystique of the dirty work that they do....
Andrew Collins, Summer 1996.
Preface
This is a documentary about the band I'm in: Mott the Hoople. It covers the duration of a five-week American tour in November and December of 1972. It was written as it happened, on planes, buses, in cars, hotels, dressing rooms - anywhere I could put pen to paper. Sometimes I was tired, sometimes drunk, sometimes corny high and sometimes very down. For those of you who would like to hear lurid tales of orgies and the like, forget it. They did it all, rather sadly, in the film Groupie. I’m not about to reveal things that can happen to anyone, anywhere. Anyway - I'm a happily married man!
I'll begin at the beginning and I will write as simply as I can because I want the people to read it as it happens. It's not meant to have literary merit, nor to be a journalist’s delight. No, it's more like a letter to a fan in the front row at the Rainbow, a diary to keep in touch. It's meant as a buzz for the people who dig us and will never be able to go to the places we travel. I hope the kids we play to will read it and that it will give them some pleasure.
I’m sitting on a T.W.A. Flight 761 on a 10 and three quarter hour flight from Heathrow to Los Angeles - the only city in the world where they have ornamental oil rigs in town. The plane is a Jumbo 747. T.W.A. usually are better than most, and we’re flying economy class because the price difference from that of first class is ridiculous.
I've been busy!
After leaving my mad black dog, Solveig, in the capable hands of Pete Frame (ZigZag), we gigged Saturday night in Northampton. As usual we had trouble. Two wagons and a car broke down, we had a lousy meal and Kim Fowley (Mr Nutrocker) got run over. Never mind, the gig was good and that's what matters (least that's what Kim said). The following morning I ship my American/Austrian wife, Trudy, to Long Island, New York (her home town).
Now we’ve got to look groovy so our manager, Tony Defries, gave us £100 each to buy clothes. That’s O.K. but the clothes are all shit - Carnaby Street, Ken Market, Kings Road - ridiculous prices for rubbish that doesn't last five minutes -that's show biz; oh, and I saw Julie Christie on Kings Road, smaller than I expected but that jaw does something to me.
Trudy rings in the middle of the night - she arrived O.K. and there was also a call from Mainman (our agency) New York office. Apparently the work permits arrived late so we put back the flight a day till Wednesday.
Tuesday, 21 November 1972
Got rid of the cat to my friend and budding film producer, Richard Weaver. He and his wife, Edna, are a really nice couple. Crashed on the way - me and the guy shook hands and forgot it. It will cost a few bob though; I did the near-side head lamp and wing in. That's why I keep the Anglia, it takes all sorts of knocks and miraculously still goes. Bought Disc and Sounds, average week, nothing really outstanding to read. It must be difficult for the trades while Bowie is out of the country. Still, they make up for it with Bolan. It's a wonder he hasn't committed suicide by now!
I cleaned the flat up a bit - mopped the cat shit up from the kitchen floor, had a bath and washed my hair. I don’t look too bad. I've decided to travel in jeans and Mick Ralph's old shirt and my newly acquired afghan coat, and then change into black leather just before we reach L.A. C.B.S. will meet us and little ole poser me doesn't want to disappoint them.
Pull the T.V. plug out, pull the fridge plug out; stereo, Revox, hairdryer all pulled out. Send the landlord the advanced rent and settle the red electricity bill before it's cut off. Leave the keys in the car so Bill can pick it up and fix the damage - he's also going to spray it black and gold. (A black and gold Anglia - too fucking much.) Finally I had a bottle of Medoc and took a mandy (rock ‘n roll sleeping pill) to ease the buzz building up inside. It’s three o'clock in the morning by the bird on the wire - someday I'm going to strangle it. Doesn't time fly.
Wednesday, 22 November 1972
Well here we go on a good old-fashioned English morning - grey, damp and miserable. 9 a.m. the phone rings. I know it’s Stan (our personal manager) ‘cause the phone rings twice as loud as it normally does. I don’t answer it as all he wants to do is wake me up. Somewhere in my dazed state a doorbuzzer ends an erotic dream, and I answer the door in my knickers. Stan gets annoyed, but no sweat as I've already packed. Clothes on and straight into a Mercedes limo driven by a nice girl - very courteous. Pete (Overend Watts, Mott‘s bass player) is already there. Half dead from an all night chess game, and moaning about hair spray. It’s later in the morning now, and the sun breaks through a little. It looks like it could be a nice day.
Off to guitarist Mick Ralphs. He lives in Shepherd’s Bush, and it takes half an hour from our Wembley flat. Stan goes in and comes back. Poor old Mick’s got it bad. Red in the face and crying - he’s the world's worst flyer. He's on valium and mandrax to keep him sane, and the mood is quiet so as not to upset him. He really has a terrible fear of flying. I privately console him but I know it really doesn't do much good – still perhaps he realizes we care about him and that's O.K. if nothing else. Pete's all for putting him on a ship, but that means losing two gigs, and frankly we can't afford it. Bold Mick bears up even though he's petrified inside and we’re already upset for him - it must be horrible.
Next stop Phally and Buffin‘s (Verden Allen, the organ player and Terry Griffin, the drummer), which is in bedsitter land, West Ken. Both are ready on time and Buff looks great in a red velvet and fur suit. He's really into clothes, studies Hollywood movies and Superman comics for ideas.
Whisper goes round about Mick and the conversation is general and lightweight all the way to the airport, deliberately avoiding the plane and flying etc.
We make good time and me and Phally have a salad in the grill room and people start turning up. Dan Loggins (who signed us to C.B.S.). Nicky, an old friend from Polydor, and various other good friends who went out of their way to give us a send off. Through the immigration with no hassle and jolly remarks about the name of the group - ‘Mott the what? - never heard of you - but I'm sure my nephew in Wigan has.’ Yeah, yeah, and they all think it's the first time that funny was cracked.
For those of you who have never flown, I can tell you it’s a buzz if you can dig it.
You get ‘free’ meals, drinks and papers, duty-free gifts and fags (200 Benson & Hedges for £1.50) and they get good wages to treat you like royalty. I’ve flown about 100 times so the novelty has worn off but I’ll never forget that first flight. I was elated. Looking down at that land of clouds - you want to jump out and play in them and jump up and down. The seats recline and they even have movies (a choice of two). I’ll be watching Steve McQueen in Junior Bonner any minute now.
For a pound you can get earphones which when plugged in give a variety of music for every taste plus the sound track of the movie - which ain't bad. The plane's about half full and as I write, Mick's stretched out across three chairs. Pete and Buff are together in front and then Phally asleep beyond. The roadies, Phil, Ritchie and Dick sit conveniently near the escape hatch so as to be first out in case of an emergency. Ritchie's always been a macabre bastard. The others follow number one.
Over the windows there are pull-down shades which a chick just asked me to close because of the film. I feel good on a continuous supply of Schlitz, the traveller’s companion, so I’ll settle down and watch the action - see you later . . .
Well, the film was shit. The earphones didn't work for Steve McQueen so I saw Omar Sharif instead. Weak plot although bags of car-crash action.
My little window flap is up now and a moon-like surface greets my eyes. Mountains make groovy patterns some 39,000 feet up. Awe-inspiring sights become models when seen from so high. All I can see are snow-capped patterns, the odd road and a few glints which signify towns or cars or something How people live there I’ll never know.
It’s not dark, and won't be. We're cheating the sun – flying from the dusk and just beating it. Our arrival time is roughly 5 p.m. in L.A. having left London at l p.m., so we lose nearly six hours in transit. Time changes can be difficult to adjust to. Everybody’s groovy and all you want is some sleep. The plane is steady as a rock which is fortunate as yours truly has had one too many beers. A heave in the toilet brings me dangerously close, but not quite. The hostess delivers my third black coffee and I curse the day I smoked my first cigarette, whenever that was.
I'll tell you something; flying is an own up. What an infinitesimal flea you are compared with the sights you see. Somewhere below an Eskimo lines his igloo for warmth, catches fish, avoids polar bears in his back yard whilst I pass by pissed and unconcerned above his head. Yet another coffee arrives! Don’t ever tell me groups see the sights - it’s a fallacy.
And so white becomes a greyish brown, snow gives way to pastures and miniature settlements appear in tiny neat plots along the road. The sky from up here is cloudless so they must be having good weather and the mountains must be verdant. Huge mammary monuments discarding their overspill into the mouths of grateful lakes. I sometimes think if architects had seen London from the air it would have been a much easier place to drive a car. Please forgive my rambling thoughts but I can see it with my eyes, maybe not grammatically precise, but instinct should grab you. Still the scene is the same, so I’ll meander a bit and give you a little information about the band I’m mixed up in.
Buffin is the baby of the band, unsure of himself, and paranoid about his nose. A guy lots of ladies like to mother, polite - sometimes too polite, and very into Mott. He goes out on all these formal outings with women. He met Lynsey de Paul - a singer / song-writer of some repute - a couple of times, but nothing serious. He's always broke, although he makes a bloody good screw. He's messy and lovable and breaks everything he touches. He gets uncontrollably drunk three times a year and we all have to get him, or what there is left of him, together.
Usually he's too far gone though. The last time was Newcastle City Hall, where disaster upon disaster fell upon us. He was so pissed the roadies were feeding him black coffee during the numbers and stamping their feet in time with the beat so he could try to keep up. Needless to say he didn't. To cap it all the organ broke down and we beat a hasty retreat leaving a confused audience not knowing what was going on. If I die and go downstairs I would imagine hell to be like that particular gig. I felt suicidal. Now we‘ve promised a cheap concert to make it up. Buffin’s hard, gets easily bored and is quick tempered, but soon comes round if left to sort himself out.
A brief excursion into new territory under the name of Johnny Smack fell far short of its intended expectations and Buff it is, was, and ever shall be. He's a drummer, man, a fucking great one at that so I’ll leave him alone before he hits me with his camera. Scorpio.
Mick Ralphs is your original loner. He’ll run for miles to escape friendship when it's the one thing he needs. He campaigned to get out of the group flat but having done so panicked completely and met a rather skinny girl. Nina has since blossomed into a mature woman, beautiful sense of humour. She's just what Mick needs. She’s delicate and sincere, her control of animals has to be seen to be believed. He relies on her a lot. He used to be the ace pusher, along with Guy Stevens, our manager at the time, and he pushed Mott down the throat of Chris Blackwell (of Island Records). Mick was the kind of guy who, if you slammed a door in his face, would open it again smiling; but all the shit we ‘rock stars’ go through has changed all that. He's now perplexed, uncertain and on the run all the time. His favourite answer is ‘I don't know’ - that's what the pressure does for you. He’s totally committed to the group. Over the years Phally and I have come up for the boot, but both times he stuck out for us, and you don't forget things like that. Mick would dig it if it was all honest - this game we all play, but it isn't, so he lays back and plays the guitar, and I would say to other bands, ‘You can’t have him - he's one of us.’ That's the way I feel about Mick.
Cloud is gathering and obscuring our view of Salt Lake City, Utah, so I’ll move on to the character of the group, Phally. A product of Wales, he comes from the same tiny village as Marion Davis, just outside of Swansea.
It would take a book to describe Phal. He continually goes insane and comes back for holidays. Hypochondriac, fanatic, self-dramatist, Gemini. When he's down, he's down, when he's up he's within reason. Elaine puts up with him, helps him and loses weight because of him. Phally‘s head is continually troubled and he has great difficulty in living, the reason being he wants everything right - not a tall order you might say, but almost impossible to fulfil. Phally is unpredictable from day to day. He can storm out, grab you by the throat, be the most awkward bastard under the sun, but he's the most generous of us all. He's just started to write. The songs are in the main good and sometimes exceptional and each one takes countless hours of sleep away from him. A Van Gogh in a rock band's a difficult thing to be, but somehow Phal, with the help of God and Elaine, and a C3, manages to keep on an even keel. I should say at this early stage we're not into heavy drugs which is just as well. The thought of Phal on acid scares me out of my wits.
