by Ian Hunter
Phally gets his piano sorted out and orders a couple of sets of spare reeds in case some break on the road. Mick, still ‘nosing’ in spite of the bloke, finds an ancient Gibson amp (early 50s) which looks like one of those old leather-covered radios you used to buy - and it’s only $80 (about £30). So there you are, we did find a bargain. We come out of the music shop and the evening sun plays tricks among the hills that front Laurel. Some turn red, others stay green; multi-coloured neon dunes in the electric dusk.
Having attended to business, we decide to eat at a little place up by the Whiskey. We’re on Hollywood Boulevard and we stop and look at this strange theatre that's been intriguing us every time we‘ve passed it. It’s called The Chinese something-or-other. In the fore-court there's a wax effigy of this guy who went to China in 1924 and, upon returning, decided to build a Chinese picture house. It’s a real piece of Hollywood unreality and in the foreground there are famous prints of the stars that honour his theatre. Bing Crosby, Jean Harlow and Cecil DeMille are amongst them. Little kids stand in Judy Garland’s foot prints and dream that someday over the rainbow they’ll get everything they've always wanted. Of course they won’t, and even if they do they'll pay for it through the nose just as she did.
Stars’ lives don’t seem to be their own at all. Daily guided tours take coachloads of sightseers round their houses and you can buy an assortment of books from kid street-sellers. I’ve bought one for you and one for Buff who has to know everything there is to know about Marilyn Monroe.
I told you before that Beverly Hills seems to be the main area and any Raquel Welch freak can find her, along with Danny Kaye and Fred Astaire on San Ysidro Drive. Lucille Ball lives on Roxbury Drive as does Jeanne Craine, Rosemary Clooney, James Stewart and as did Jack Benny. Beverly Drive sports a host of stars including Pat Boone, Stan Freburg, Betty Grable, Van Johnson (Christ, this brings back memories), Raymond Massey, Rosalind Russell, Jimmy Durante and Sylvia Sydney. Micky Rooney lives on North Rexford Drive as does Jane Wyman. Dean Martin lives on Mountain Drive, Charlie Chaplin has a house in Summit Drive and ‘all American girl’ Doris Day lives on North Crescent Drive. Phil Silvers has a house in North Alphine Drive and for the tit fans (it says here) Jayne Mansfield lived at 10100 Sunset Boulevard, which is where I am. Boot fetishists will find Nancy Sinatra at Carla Ridge. He-man Kirk Douglas at North Canon Drive, Burt Lancaster at Linda Flora Drive, Bel Air, and Bob Mitchum at Mandeville Canyon Road, Brentwood. The king himself, Elvis, has a home in Beverly Hills.
The saddest one of all is the number of a house on Fifth Helena Drive which is listed briefly as ‘last home’ - Marilyn Monroe.
Ah well, over to the restaurant where we ate spare ribs and wined thoroughly. They have a silly system in some cafés here where they give you a huge flagon of wine which has horizontal lines going down the side of the glass. When you've had all the wine you want, they charge you according to the level the wine has dropped to in the flagon. The fiendish and subtle replacement of water can render you totally pissed and cost you next to nothing. Far out. I can't believe I'm the only one that's thought of it. It’s about time they sussed it.
Mick decides he’d like to see Beverly Hills by night and when we get up there it is indeed a remarkable sight as we look down over L.A. It's like looking down on a massive field of electric potato plants, millions of them. A beautiful sight which proves L.A. can show off quietly and nicely despite what the people have done to its guts.
We returned to the hotel about eight o’clock and there's no gig until Wednesday so I thought I might go to see Loudon Wainwright III and Steeleye Span at the Ash Grove. It's their last night, and we met them briefly in the hotel. They all seem like nice people. My thoughts, however, are interrupted by the phone and the devilish tones of Keith Moon come storming through the receiver. He’s been here a week, made his fortune (for this week) and goes back tomorrow, First he suggests we go to Dante’s to see Murray Roman then, after a think, says he'll come round in 30 minutes and take me to see Frank Zappa in Laurel Canyon. I'd only met Keith Moon once, briefly, if you remember on that Friday at the Palladium, so this is a small example of what a nice lad he is. Now he’s in the Who and I'm in Mott and they‘re bigger than us and so he breaks down that barrier which separates every on-the-way-upper from a made-it. Needless to say, I was knocked out and he'll probably be embarrassed to read this and mutter all kinds of words like ‘cunt’ but I am me and I thought it was a nice gesture; it made my day. I was also slightly apprehensive about meeting Zappa, whom I admit not having followed closely, preferring to accept his press image. Again the press is wrong - or maybe they just see what people like Frank Zappa want them to see. What I saw was a quiet family man with his lady, little girl, huge white cat and delightful Siamese kitten! I have a weakness for cats, we have one of our own called Saucer, and this little thing pulled the most amazing faces I’ve ever seen when Frank's Wife scratched its nose.
But this is flying a bit. Keith picked me up in a Volkswagen which only went if he continually turned the lights on and off. It had to be parked on slopes and had what looked like a dog's kennel in the back - God knows where he’d found it. It steamed into the Hyatt forecourt scattering flowers of the female L.A. musicians’ society. I was amazed and wondered if this was really Moon amongst the Cadillacs and limos. Joyfully he careered up the road in second muttering about his first solo singing role as Uncle Ernie in Tommy, which he did because Ringo was still filming and couldn’t make it in time. Out to Laurel Canyon, finally farting to a halt at a three storey building set back amongst the trees. Up a flight of steps through strange-smelling brush and finally into Zappa’s house. To describe his house, would be difficult and an invasion of privacy, so suffice to say the carpets were great for lying on and he has got his own studios in the basement. His quadrophonic was away ill but he still used four speakers for stereo. He played tapes done at Electric Ladyland with Jack Bruce which he hopes to release on a Frank Zappa album. He’s also working on the new Mothers album.
Earl, one of the Mothers, was there with him. He seems to agree with everything Frank says. I don't - not with everything, so I stay non- committal, with my mouth shut. I have tremendous respect for him anyway. He’s totally dedicated and can play you tapes for hours upon hours. He must edit for weeks to get the speed of change. Some of it was good, but some of it was boring too. I didn't feel overawed. I was annoyed at my memory for not identifying the musicians he worked with, and who was good and who wasn’t. About 12 Keith wants to go and Frank still wants to play us more and show us a film he’s got but Moonie wants to pay a visit to another of his friends, John Sebastian. I follow. It's a bit much to take in one day—these are people I've only heard about before. Still, if he’s like Zappa, it will be O.K. I don't know what Zappa thought of me suddenly appearing. I'm sure Keith didn’t forewarn him, but he was really quite nice and courteous to me. He said I could go back round there any time. I probably won’t, ’cos that's the way things go.
Off again in the little V.W. and a hair-raising running jump at the steep hill that leads to John Sebastian’s place. Don't quite make it but never mind; once round the block and the sweetest bit of cajoling I've ever heard got the little car up the second time. This bloke really likes his privacy. Several times I thought we were going to fall off the edge of the road - it seemed like the Alps. Well, John Sebastian wasn‘t home; the house was empty - just a ginger cat on the doorstep as eager to get in as we were. So, off to the Whiskey yet again. What scrubbers we all are. It was half empty but once again the Rhinestones slowly got us moving. The manager gave Keith a bottle of Champagne at two minutes to two (a.m.), and at two a huge black heavy wanted it back again. We gulped it down and Mick and Stan came over and helped. The ‘own up’ light went on and Keith and I exchanged phone numbers. The last time I saw Keith was in that slowly dying; but bravely hanging on Volkswagen. Never mind little car, he’s going back tomorrow. Have a good flight Mooney, and a safe one - and thanks for the evening –
I won't forget it for various reasons. I jumped into the Buick with Stan and Mick and went to sleep smiling. That was a buzz.
Monday, 27 November 1972
Tomorrow we fly east to Philadelphia. The Los Angeles Times gives us a flattering review for the Palladium concert so the atmosphere is good all round and we congregate at the pool for sundry photographs. The guys who are taking shots surround us. Supreme false security, ‘cos they know, and we know, there’s a long way to go yet. Still, they’re nice, and it’s all painless enough. No interview for Phally or me today, and, as I sit by the pool and write, Phal is sun bathing with Stan. Mick's doing his interview over in the far left corner. Beneath his feet fake grass abounds as do fake trees and shrubs. Still, I suppose it saves water!
Now I've just come back from the coffee shop, doing my observation bit. The guy at the till snorted coke while he was sorting out my change. Two groupies to my left looked quite reasonable while three hideous ones ogle from my right. One has on hot pants, velvet clogs and green tights; another wears a denim bib and brace with the arse sticking out of it and weighs about 13 stone and yet a third has on glitter lavender shoes, other assorted gaily coloured rags and this horrendous sight is completed by the application of bright red eye make-up, liberally daubed on with what must have been a trowel. Her only redeeming feature was the size of her tits, but even they hardly compensate for her overall appearance. Two Mexican birds walk by chatting excitedly, and a very tall bloke sits with an attractive bird at the top end. The place is a bar all down one side and seats and tables back onto the windows on the other. It’s not unlike your Wimpy bar, except that the service is better and the carpet thicker.
‘Welcome Mott the Hoople’ still shines out over the foyer main doors - imagine the Railway Inn at Birmingham doing that!
The pool has emptied now as the sun cools downtown L.A. and pollution covers the city. Even the hills the other side are slightly misty. Pete's now moaning about a chess opponent (American) who thought he was God and if I continue I’ll get boring so I'll close for now.
Tuesday, 28 November 1972
It’s about 1:30 p.m. and we’re sitting in a 707 which is just about to take off. As I write we move slowly in line to the end of the runway, then turn and ascend.
As I told you, it's Philadelphia today. The California sun beams down on my writing pad through the window. Apparently it’s snowing and freezing cold in Philadelphia and if I can find a doctor who uses a gun and not a needle I think I‘ll have $10 worth of flu shots. The flight today stretches from one side of the U.S.A. to the other. From California into Northern Arizona, then just tipping New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas on through Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio, finally reaching Pennsylvania at about 5:30 p.m. Eastern time (8:30 Western time) - the time difference being three hours coast to coast. The sun's hot, really hot as we go down a little bit of coast and take a last look at the Pacific before turning inland. Oil holders from the L.A. mining fields look like little orange buttons, and LA. itself, with its vast suburbs (all apple, no core) lies neatly below.
In Arizona we’ll pass over what's left of the once proud nations of the Hopi and the Navajo, squashed to the right of the Grand Canyon Park - it’s desert as well. No kind of land for the American people to give the rightful landowners; this barren consolation. The sooner they get back on the fuckin' warpath the better. They are beaten right down into the ground and have lost more than the blacks. It is said that if you befriend an Indian for life he still hates you deep in his heart (a) because you are white and (b) because you are wrong.
Palm Springs lies below us and we are now flying at 27,000 feet, eventually reaching 39,000 feet and holding for the main part of the trip. I've just ordered steak from a choice of three courses. The film today, by the way, is The Graduate which I haven't seen and is highly recommended so I've invested a quid on earphones. They also give you a couple of channels of music. Richard Strauss plies for trade alongside Lindisfarne. Brahms competes with Carly Simon, and Beethoven’s Gloria from Missa Solemnis is quite groovy if you alternate with Piano Bird by the Doors. Somewhere around is Petula Clark, Sonny Stitt, Junior Walker, and a Ruth Brown doing Let It Be. What a choice. Excuse me while I eat.
A nice meal, and now the little screen comes down and we put on our headphones for The Graduate. The first thing the man says in the film is, ‘We are now landing in four or five minutes in Los Angeles.’ Strange, we’ve just left. It occurs to me that you, reader, have probably seen The Graduate. So, if you have, the hotels in that film are exactly what most of the places we stay in are like. In some places the film drags a bit. It doesn’t seem to be as good as its reputation would suggest, so I watch us slowly cruise into the night. The clouds below us, which obscured the terrain most of the way have changed from white to dark grey. The sky slowly sinks into deeper blues and yellows, and various golds line the horizon. The Graduate builds well at the end; the beginning only annoyed me as I have an intense dislike of the hypocrisy of American family life - difficult, as my wife, Trudy, comes from Long Island, and it looks like I can't avoid a confrontation with her parents much longer.
As Dustin Hoffman elopes with his bride on a Greyhound bus, the lights of Philly take shape below. As always the plane descends and lands deceptively quick.
Quickly through the terminal and into limos waiting at the front. Mick chirps up a bit. His fear of flying forces him to take sleepers but at least he’s a lot better than if he flies straight. Brave lad, he knows we’d be in the shit if he let his instincts take over so he struggles on through. A passing black porter loves Buff’s fur trousers. I really find much more comfort with the blacks in America; people take the piss at them all the time - just as they do to us. We share a mutual sadness in the medieval state of silly, stupid hypocritical bastards that dominate this world. Fuck ‘em, I ain’t got long enough to live to let them worry me, but they still bore and anger me. I just can't help that. I have noticed one thing personally, people who have taken the piss at me because of the way I looked have always been ugly themselves. Perhaps they delight in jeering at those they think subservient as an escape valve for the sadness their own images cause them.
The Warwick Hotel is in downtown Philadelphia and looks like a stately home inside. It’s sedate and quiet; in fact, it’s got no balls all! I ring Trudy and she is coming down the 100 miles or so tomorrow on the Greyhound bus.
We cross the street to a small café as we only want a snack. The evening dinner at the Warwick is a mammoth affair, and two poached eggs, bacon and toast is adequate for my needs. None of us are too keen on the hotel, and we discuss moving to a nearby Holiday Inn tomorrow. We finally decide to give it 24 hours as Tony, David, the Spiders, Dai Davies, Mick Rock, Stuey, Pete, Robin and all the Bowie entourage are coming in. They're doing Pittsburgh tonight and are expected early tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got a feeling they‘ll want to move too as room service is only until 10:30 p.m. (which is unforgivable here), the phones are up the creek and the T.V.s are bad. Well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. Bowie is doing a ‘walk on’ with us tomorrow night and then he follows through with three nights at the same theatre. One good thing - it’s supposed to be great acoustically. See ya. . . .
Wednesday, 29 November 1972
Here we are, Wednesday afternoon in Philadelphia on a grey and overcast English morning. Trudy wakes me up, looking beautiful, in a $100 green suit she has managed to con out of her Mum and Dad. Lee comes around and Stan is doing his usual panic bit. Nobody really is in the mood and his arm-waving and shouting are subdued somewhat by several slamming doors and early-morning cries of ‘fuck off’. We sign a form for a radio station who want to record tonight's concert and put it out next Monday. Me and Tru cross Walcott Street and wind up walking down Chestnut Street - me on my never ending quest for pawn shops, and Trudy putting up with my mania sensibly. Nothing doing. Not a hock shop in sight and we get down to Market and 11th Street and read a sign that says, ‘On this spot Thomas Jefferson drew up th
e draft for the American Declaration of Independence’ - it’s a parking lot now. Cute how they destroy what tradition they have.
Walking back up Chestnut Street we find a place called the Record Museum. My God I know a few people who would go mad in this place. You name it and they have it - all on original labels and all costing 65 cents. Not bad when you consider a new record costs 10 and something in England. They're still new records, some have been here for years; others I expect, although original recordings, have been repressed and the labels ‘forged’.
I know the couple I was given, Jerry Lee Lewis's Whole Lotta Shakin, and Little Richard’s The Girl Can’t Help It were originals - on Sun and Specialty respectively; the guy also gave Tru Carly Simon's new record which is her current favourite. I say we were given them, because the bloke knew me from Mott and gave me a catalogue too. The catalogue is unbelievable. All I can say is I bought 31 singles and God knows how many Mick and Pete will have. I know Mick wants the whole of Rick Nelson and the Buffalo Springfield output and that’s about 25 before he starts looking through everything else. Pete will go mad - he always does. I‘m still frantically underlining masterpieces in the catalogue at the hotel, when Stan starts hassling for the sound check – a necessary evil when you are short of time. We whisk through the evening rush to up around 65th Street and there we are. Top of the bill in America for the first time! There are just over 2,000 in a 2,500 seater and that's pretty good, considering the gig was just put in last Friday - only five days ago! Things start moving faster. Pete and Robin, Bowie's sound men turn up shattered from an all day’s dash, but immediately throw in their lot for tonight’s show. They don't get paid by us - they just do it because they want Mainman to be a family. They are inspiring, and what can you say about two blokes like that - they've got a night off and they sweat their balls off with us instead. Dick, our sound man, is getting into yet another P.A. while Phil’s busily building a ramp as the theatre has a Rainbow-style orchestra pit which has to be crossed to keep contact with the audience; Ritchie slinks round - the ever present scowl. His last nickname’s not going down too well - ‘Snail Shit’ - but he knows we love him. He’s been there from the start and he’ll be there at the end.
