Diary of A Rock 'n' Roll Star

by Ian Hunter

  We change our clothes and we're happy. There’s a good atmosphere; we’re all relieved. James and Iggy from the Stooges both say they dug it more than three weeks ago in London. You can see I’m trying to convince myself that America is good for us - we're fighting again and the drama is high. Buff promptly proceeds to get pissed. Mick does his disappearing act – he always watches every band; Phally sits quietly relaxing and Pete dutifully talks to the slags (not too much, just enough for them to dig him and want to see the band again). Where chicks go guys are bound to follow-we've always understood this and gone out of our way to be nice.

  I sit up the corner and enjoy a duty-free fag and an ice cold beer. The door opens and in walks Keith Moon, who sits down and tells us he is here for various business reasons including introducing the Coliseum show tomorrow. We get into talking money, and I literally marvel at facts and figures pouring out of this extremely sane guy who is said to be a nut. I always find that the more insane a guy’s supposed to be the more sane he is in reality. I remember once talking to Alvin Lee (who was coming in for a lot of ‘ego’ criticism at the time) on our first American tour in 1969. I thought he was one of the nicest guys I’d ever met - and he didn’t have to be - I wasn't a reporter he had to impress - just a small-time singer.

  Poor old Alvin. B.B. King was doin’ his cabaret act in the same gig, you know tuxedos, polite freakouts etc., and to be honest I never did dig him as much as Albert anyway. The Avalon Ballroom typifies Chicago. 4,000 kids trying to leave the first show battling with another 4,000 trying to see the second. Anyway, B.B. was top, Ten Years After second, us third and a couple of bands I've quite forgotten.

  Backstage, the dressing rooms, alleyways - a huge shit house ’n Alvin sitting quietly reading an underground newspaper. Ten Years After were really hot at the time. Woodstock was out and our Alvin a superstar. Now this can cause trouble.

  See, when you were a superstar in those days, the underground press often went against you. In other words, if the Daily Mirror was biased one way then Oz or IT was biased just as much the other so you got no fuckin’ truth unless you read the Guardian and we all know they’re a bit of a drag to get into anyway. Alvin slings down this underground paper, stalks on stage and proceeds to do himself in, the group in and the audience in finally smashing his beloved cherry-red Gibson onto his equally beloved amp. He'd definitely blown his top - pressure, at a certain level, always does that.

  I picked up the rag Alvin had been reading. Three pages of pure personal invective against him. Real shitty Hollywood-type gossip done by some prat masquerading as a positive-type hippie. I can dig positive hippies but there’re too many masquerading negatives. To cap it all this guy went on to say how Leo, Ten Years After bass player, was such such such a nice guy. The cunt was even trying to break the band up.

  We once worked five gigs with one of Melody Maker's pet bands and they were the biggest bunch of cunts ever. Never heard any bad reports about their egos though!

  Noel Redding (Jimi Hendrix’s ex-bassist) steams in and he sits and tells us he ain't played now for two years. He lives in L.A. and even though he seems really frustrated at not playing, he looks well. It looks like he’s still living in Hendrix's shadow a bit no matter how hard he tries to lose it. He's trying to start afresh and is on the lookout for a keyboard player and a bass player. Apparently Neil Landon reformed Noel’s old group Fat Mattress and Noel saw them a few weeks ago but he didn't seem to like them very much.

  Poker chips go round - plastic entrance tickets to a party afterwards in the arena’s V.I.P. lounge. A C.B.S. rep puts in an appearance. He's young and hairy which, I suppose, is a good sign, and before we know it Flash Cadillac's set is nearly over. From the side of the stage I can see leather motor-cycle jackets, slicked back hair and shades, a white-suited pianist headstands on the piano and one guitar player hits Chuck Berry double notes as he sits astride the other guitarist’s shoulders.

  Jailhouse Rock, Roll Over Beethoven, etc. - you name a rock standard, they played it, and they did it well too. Arrangements - so much better and slicker than the original ones. The nearest I can get to describe them of course is Sha Na Na, only these punks are young punks - they’re great and they go down a storm. Flash Cadillac - England, don‘t forget them!!

  To be honest, West, Bruce and Laing were a bit of a let-down to me. I feel involved, having known Corky Laing and Leslie West for so long but I still dug them more when Mountain were hungry and Felix’s nose touched Leslie’s, egging him on to new heights of guitar virtuosity. Now? Well, Les is playing great, but it does go on a bit and Corky started to muck about a bit too much. Jack Bruce, from where I stood, was almost inaudible and the place was so full (a tribute to their drawing power) that I couldn't move round to hear them from his side of the stage. A pity, as he’s one of the finest electric bass players in the world.

  Obviously, they went down incredibly well and encored, much to the delight of the audience. Moonie shakes his head, ‘Fuckin’ encores - leave them waiting for the next time! Encores are just not on — an apology for going on in the first place.’ I agree, encores are a pain in the arse, but they are there and no one knows quite what to do about it. I mean seven times out of ten they're false, but it does give the kids another chance to shout their balls off, and who wants to go home anyway?

  Out come the little poker discs and now we're eating bread and cheese and drinking filthy wine in the V.I.P. lounge. I talk briefly to a guy from Crawdaddy (another American music paper), about the gig and thank Christ, he dug it. It means a lot if you go down well on the first gig; it gives you extra confidence. Also, L.A. gigs usually get a lot of press, more than anywhere else in the States apart from New York.

  We’re all very tired and it's 2 a.m. John Porter, who's emerged as a great character, gives us a lift back to the Hyatt in the limo. Now I could say the limo was full of birds and we raved all night and lots of wicked things happened – and what of the Petit Bon-Bons? But I won't. Like an old film, I'll let today fade into romantic music, mist swirling across the screen, etc. See you tomorrow.

  Saturday, 25 November 1972

  Saturday morning and once again I'm awake at some ridiculously early hour of the morning. Never mind. Tom Mix woos perhaps his third generation of fans - I thought these films had long gone, but there he is. I forgot to tell you a couple of things we did yesterday morning. Buff and I went walking and I took his photograph bending over Marilyn Monroe's star on the pavement on Hollywood Boulevard. Then, just for a laugh, we went and checked on the prices of apartments here.

  ‘Er, excuse us, but how much does it cost to live in this apartment block?’

  A very tatty chick, well coked, ‘Well gee man, you don't want to stay here - I mean they’re up there on the hill with binoculars man. Like they're watching the place all the time.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The fuckin’ fuzz man, I mean it's really bad. My old man got busted last week and there’s no bread about.’

  ‘How much does it cost you?’

  ‘Well man, it's only about 140 a month, but them bastards are watching us all the time man . . I mean fuck it man . . they really interfere. Those fuckin’ pigs are everywhere man.’

  ‘And this is all your place?’

  ‘Yeah man, it’s really a groovy place if it wasn't for those bastards.’

  ‘Well thank you madam, we'll return if we're interested. See you.’

  ‘Well the guy that runs it is out now but if you get back around twenty after five he'll be home . . . see you.’

  ‘Tara.’

  But anyway it’s Saturday, and nothing‘s happening except I've got to do an interview with a bloke from San Diego called Cameron who writes for Creem magazine and also helps with Rock. The sun beats down on the roof of the Hyatt as we sit and talk by the pool. It must be 75 in the shade. I look down over the back of the hotel railing and some freak opens his front door and starts hammering away at a huge drum that totally encompasses his front porch.
Further away in the distance I can see a man hanging upside down from two rings while a chick seems to be pulling fleas out of his hair - don’t ask me why. It was here at the Hyatt that a singer called Bobby Jameson stood on a ledge on the fourth floor contemplating the fact he wasn’t quite making it at rock ‘n roll. People hung out of windows below screaming, ‘jump’, and the poor guy had to please the crowd - just one more time. He broke both arms and both legs.

  The interview’s over now and it's about 3p.m. in the afternoon. I'm hungry so I go down the lift to the coffee shop with Cameron. I’d just sat down when in comes Keef Hartley who’s been here since July with John Mayall and is quietly going mad (L.A. unreality), although he looks fit. We spend an hour or so reminiscing about Hamburg and sobering slightly as we discuss the recent death of Rory Storm and his mother - Keef was Rory’s first employer.

  To be honest, it's not for me to say much about Rory Storm. Suffice to say he had a band called Rory Storm and the Hurricanes right back at the beginning of Mersey Rock and Ringo was with him before the Beatles. I never knew him personally but he had his band, he was around but didn't quite make the big time and he just couldn’t take being a failure. I’m sure he was a nice bloke, most musicians are. When you look at our various colours and creeds you've got to hand it to us. If we ran the world there would be no bother.

  Although Rory wasn't a big name to be missed I get the same feeling of terrific sadness when I see musicians with ‘broken noses’. Anyway, I bid goodbye to Keef - he has a gig a little while away and we're playing at the Coliseum tonight.

  The best way to describe this place is to ask you to imagine Wembley Stadium. Security guards all over the place and we get that big-time buzz as people strain to see who we are through the darkened windows of John’s limo. Down a huge ramp and the roar of the 35,000 strong crowd as Stevie Wonder finishes his set and is presented with a gold disc by a local DJ. who’s acting M.C. until late in the evening when Keith Moon arrives to take over.

  It's about 10p.m. and the feeling is good. Passes tacked on our legs enable us to get to the backstage area and I get a good view of the Raspberries who aren't very good. I hang around for a while then wander back to the dressing rooms (vacated by American footballers for the evening).

  Stevie Wonder is ecstatic at his reception and is surrounded by eager chicks. Chuck Berry slips by in an old overcoat (I saw him wearing that coat three years ago) almost unnoticed and almost uninterested too. He’s due to go on soon. Meanwhile, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons do a fine set. A huge screen to the left of the stage video reproduces the show as it happens, enabling the buggers at the back to get a good idea of what's going on. The sound’s not too bad considering. Already the show’s behind schedule and I say hello to Maurice Gibb in the corridor. They're due on after Chuck Berry - and we're due on about six acts later - far out mate.

  Berry’s bloody awful. His group (Yellowstone) don’t know how to play; the sound is distorted, particularly the bass, and old Chuck doesn't really care. What does it matter? Ding-a-Ling brings his act to a storming finish and the best ovation of the day - or was it?

  Merry Clayton’s 20-minute spot turns into a 50-minute marathon and it becomes increasingly obvious that we're not going on stage until at least 2:30 a.m. We feel it’s not on and as we're contracted to play before midnight, the guy says O.K. and pays us. The Eagles feel the same way too. There is a time at each gig when you should play. If you can't play at that time you should blow it out. We found out the hard way at Wembley and the Oval and I‘m positive, in this case, we’re making the right decision. We’re just getting our bags together when the main man walks in. Sly Stone has actually shown up, contrary to everyone’s forecasts, and he looks great.

  Hair piled ridiculously high, he’s like a black Mick Jagger, very friendly. We're probably seeing him in a good mood. He grabs John Porter and mucks about. He has a horde of spade hangers on plus the usual parasites and a few bodyguards for good measure.

  Stashing away a few beers from a nearby bin we go out and wait for the limo and John takes us back to the hotel. In the foyer we meet two members of the James Gang, which is nice as we’ve always been fans of the sound they had with Joe Walsh. Apparently Joe’s left now and is up in Colorado with a group called Barnstorm. I didn’t meet his replacement, but Lee says we’ll be playing with both bands during the course of the tour so we’ll see.

  Anyway, we nip down to the Whiskey for half an hour. The Rhinestones are going back to New York on Monday to record an album and I shall definitely buy it because they've grown on me. Back to the Hyatt and the lobby looks like Piccadilly Circus.

  You know, I've got a bloody awful memory. I just met some body in the foyer who knew me well and I knew his face but I just couldn't place him. You always try and explain about your lack of recollection but it never works. You always offend and the bloke always thinks you're a big-time twat. While not particularly caring what anyone thinks (life's too short) I've decided that I must improve and that’s one of the reasons I'm writing this tour down; let’s hope it works. And so . . . to bed.

  Sunday, 26 November 1972

  Bells tolling, then ringing shrilly, then screaming, then whining, then becoming clearer and clearer and eventually the drowsy awareness that the phone's ringing, wakes me up. Cameron, the reporter, says he’s going back to San Diego as his business is finished here and wishes us good luck on the tour. Well, that's it - I’m awake now and it’s Sunday and the weather’s just the same as yesterday. A quick shower, a phone call, and I meet Stan for breakfast. Poached eggs, bacon and toast seem to be the safest things on the menu and the orange juice is a good average. Unfortunately, our eating is slightly spoiled by a freak hanger-on (there’s a few bands at the hotel at the moment) and these prats continually shout and scream in an attempt to be noticed.

  One chick annoyed with a lad in one of the bands . . .

  ‘You God damned fuckin‘ bastard; you lousy cunt; you left me in Detroit with no fuckin’ money - but I found you, you black bastard, and I’m gonna make your total existence a fuckin’ MISERY!’

  ‘Easy baby, the people are trying to eat. You'll get us thrown out. . .’

  ‘If I fuckin’ get us fuckin’ thrown out I'll take your whole stinking, rotten band with me, you rotten cunt - nobody, NOBODY, leaves me in a hotel room - and you didn’t even pay the bill you bastard . . . ’ etc., etc.

  Meanwhile Stan and me are sitting like all well-brought-up English lads do, pretending nothing’s happening. Now a huge Amazon chick with fleshy thighs comes up and I quietly pray she won’t sit down.

  ‘Where were you last night? You missed the party in Penthouse 37. There were 15 broads there and it was busted. You should have come, you would’ve got screwed.’

  ‘Well, er . . . nobody told us, what a pity, eh . . . Stan, what a pity.’ [Please . . . please go away . . . or I'll die, I know I will, I never feel good in the morning as it is.]

  Then there’s a silence and she finally takes the hint. Up to the pool with six cans of beer to combat the heat, and a meeting with two young ladies from a paper called Zoo which is pushed around for us to have a look at. Most American rock papers seem to be smaller versions of Rolling Stone – not contentwise but in the way they fold sideways. They’re not as newsy as British papers and tend to concentrate more on letters. A few informatory items, a couple of real big features, and then the album, singles, film and book reviews complete the issue. They’re definitely more political in nature, which I think is wrong, but they do really get into the bands much deeper than they do in England. I get the feeling they have more respect for musicians over here. Anyway, we do the interview which is fair and now Phally is trembling with anticipation as he‘s seen a Wurlitzer piano in a music shop he wants. It’s older than the model he’s got and it sounds heavier and more solid.

  Ritchie, Mick and I go along for moral support (try and get the price down) and we also try out a Buick we’ve just rented on the way. Also, Mick wants h
is Echoplex checked over - it’s been running a bit fast lately, and farting plaintively, as if in need of help.

  We shoot down Sunset Boulevard. To our left we see a giant Sheraton motor inn and dwarfed beneath it, the tiny shop where Phally‘s piano lies in wait.

  While he’s trying it out we have a wander round. There's a Danelectro amp (I've never seen one of them before), a local Mosrite Bass in great condition (remember the Ventures), and Fender necks hanging from shelves with no heads or bodies attached. Speakers are piled high and there’s a huge assortment of sustains, wah wahs, echoes and other varieties of sound effect pedals, tuners and mini-mixers. Then there's a very small Fender with four picks-ups piled onto it plus a galaxy of apertaining controls. Over in the corner a couple of Telecasters are stripped down. The bloke’s panicking because it's Sunday and he’s the only one in the shop and he’s certain we're going to nick something, and he could be right. For the third time I'm threatened out of the shop, and so I give up.

  See, the only way to find bargains in shops like these is to poke about in dark corners, perhaps finding an old gem in the dusty back room. There's soon going to be a market for antique guitars - one usually finds their sound superior anyway. All you kids who eventually get enough bread together to buy a Gibson or a Fender, don’t waltz in and buy a nice shiny new one. Find a ten-year-old battered one; the difference in sound between the old and new guitars will surprise you. And give Gretch and Mosrite a go too. These are great guitars, generally overlooked ‘cos they're not groovy at the moment, but they’ll come back into popularity one day. I have a Guild which I use on stage, and to my mind it's just as good as Gibson and the action seems to be slightly better. I say all this because although there‘s a bias towards Gibson and Fender, there are so many other good guitars around.