by Ian Hunter
The sound check is great. The place is like your average ABC and everything’s working but the organ which eventually farts into life and passes Phally’s hypercritical try out.
Back to the hotel. We’ve only got an hour, and Trudy flies out for hamburgers and orange juice while I shave, shit and shampoo. She’s great in a crisis. Tony's in now with his lady, Melanie, and Sue (Bowie’s hair-dresser) shouts hello. She's with two other blokes in David's entourage.
David and Stuey (his bodyguard) and George (photos) are on their way from Pittsburgh in a yellow cab as something went wrong with his car. He's running late if he wants to introduce us. The adrenalin builds - I'm ready, and meet the lads in the huge sombre foyer. Into the limos and up to the gig. Security police pull back barriers (big time - great feeling) and straight in the back door. The dressing rooms are O.K. - the bare essentials - mirrors, chairs, a bog and a couple of aluminium dustbins full of ice, beer, coke and wine; a system which English promoters never quite adopted. I wonder why.
Brownsville Station, the support band, are already playing and they’re cashing in a bit on the current glam, fag rage. It’s a bit upsetting to watch guys who you’ve played with before (we were in Chicago and New Orleans with them), who were hard driving and straight, turn poovy. Perhaps the manager’s been working hard on them - it‘s time they were getting the gigs now. Good luck to them.
It seems all these acts have never seen David perform. David is David; when he goes on stage he is a complete natural, and his act is totally valid - he doesn't pretend, but dons a cloak. He’s the only one who'll come through because he is himself and the talent is there. To see ordinary performers trying to imitate the extraordinary is the original sellout. Tasteless and temporary, I hate the lack of intelligence and cheap generalization in bands like these. They tend to clog the media, making it appreciably harder for the real artist to achieve recognition and validity.
Back in the dressing room. A low-level embrace between Trudy and Melanie (they are both the same size and get on well). Tony’s happy. The ever present cigar in hand; two young guys are complaining about the lack of outlets for Philadelphia rock bands - I sympathize as I always have. Geography‘s got a lot to do with the make or break of a group. The crowd is restless now. Brownsville are off and chants are dimly heard from the dressing room. David, Stu and George appear just in time. Embraces all round - we haven't seen each other for three months and David looks tired but great. Looks like he's not been eating again; he's the only star I know who regularly suffers from malnutrition. The charming, disarming, urchin from Brixton who never misses a move or a point. Innocence, cruelty, the nearness yet the distance, all the qualities of the star he is - only he knows what he pays for this coveted title, but I've sometimes caught glimpses of the sadness.
Anyway, it’s great to be together again and out he goes to a thunderous welcome. He comes off shaking like a leaf, and on we go to the final deafening crash of the tape. He‘s watching and sussing all the way through. It will be him tomorrow night. Half of him’s with us and half with the audience. Come to think of it, that’s the way I am. Mick does a blinding solo in Ready for Love and all doubt disappears after Angeline - it‘s the feeling, ‘We've got ‘em.’ Off we come; beers go down in 30 seconds and then the wait for the right time to go back on. We hurriedly confer and decide to do Dudes and then Honky Tonk Woman. The chaos rises higher as Mott becomes six – David throwing out the harmonies with Mick and Pete. Dudes finishes, we acknowledge the guy who wrote our half-million seller, and then we finish on our own. A great gig - not a thing to moan about. That’s two in a row - I can't believe it! Back to the hotel now and David, although knackered from his trip, troops down to the local all-night hamburger café with our lot. Tony puts Al Jolson on the jukebox. We talk of the tours - the eternal problem of Ziggy being Ziggy and Mott being Mott. There’s always media confusion which has to be handled delicately. I tell him of the groups we’ve seen and he enthusiastically speaks of the New York Dolls - loves their attitude, and he’s even more convinced about Iggy. Recording too, is discussed; the relative merits of various studios, etc. Anybody who thinks musicians work barely an hour a day is a mug. I’ve worked 16 hours a day for Mott since Mott’s creation; so have Mick, Pete, Buff and Phally. Mott has been our lives; our love-life centres around it, inconveniences and long separations are demanded by it. A day can be ruined by a 10 minute interview or photo session, and 100 per cent co-operation is required at all times. Attitude is a big word if you really want to make it. In a group you’re a diplomat, nurse, confidant, taxi driver, labourer, electrician, tailor, designer, and a few other things I can't mention, before you even get on stage.
It may look flashy, but it’s over and you are finished before you know it - if you aren't already broken by one thing it will be another. They come and they go is the old saying, and you see it. Eyes. Record companies’ eyes, promoters’ eyes, agents’ eyes, media eyes - they are all watching for that slightest slip - which will get around like wildfire. If this sounds like self pity, it's not meant to - you have to be realistic, and the rock business is a dirty business full stop.
Thursday, 30 November 1972
Well, my first American train ride the 10:15 express from Philadelphia to New York. We missed the 9:45 Metroliner so we have stops on the way. lt’s a grim, grey day and the slag heaps of New Jersey rush by for 90 minutes - wrecked cars piled 30 high, swamp, waste, construction sites, a timber yard, sidings with Rock Island Line, Canadian International, Canada Pacific, and North Western wagons standing by. Into the tunnel of New York's Pennsylvania Station and a cab takes us to the City Squire - a nice place, but busy, situated on 51st Street and Broadway. Trudy is off to Kennedy Airport to meet Elaine.
We check in, walk out and it’s Christmas on Broadway. Snow falls lightly and Phally and me dodge in and out of cinema foyers avoiding the wet. Police sirens bring back memories of earlier visits - they’re so loud you hear them clearly in my 17th storey room. Phally is on the 7th. Broadway in the dusk – I think it’s great but a lot of people would tell you different. Gaudy and flash, the Orange Julius, drink kiosk on the corner, reminds me of Larry Friedman’s second-hand guitar store. I mentally check the prices at Larry’s so I can ring Mick in Philadelphia, and recite them dutifully.
By the way, you’re probably wondering why the hell Mick's still in Philadelphia and it's all my fault. Excess wine, women and song are taking their toll so I'll put you in the picture. See, after the gig at the Tower Theatre, Phally and me came to New York the following day. Phally’s bird, Elaine, flew in from England and we had to meet her in New York and take her to Trudy’s place where she’s staying for a holiday. Mick, Pete and Buff, being country lads at heart, have decided to stay in Philly. The next gig’s on Saturday at the Palace, Providence, Rhode Island so John (Trudy’s brother) will take me, Trudy, Phally and Elaine and we’ll meet up with the rest of the band at the hotel prior to the gig. Got it? Far out!
Old movies flicker through your mind. Hollywood stars shopping in the snow on Broadway in Christmas films and strange enough in this frightening city we feel safe.
Into a hamburger joint and friendly Italians, larger than life, pursue a non-stop comical conversation with a very old regular. They are trying to get him a job at Macy's as a Santa Claus. The old fella laughs away enjoying the only company he’s probably got. And the guys behind the bar know it, bless ’em.
Phal has a mania again - when will it end. This time he's gone berserk over a cassette recorder and insists on stopping at every cut-price hi-fi store that speckles Broadway. Finally, we go in and he gets the one he wants for $69 which magically reaches $89 with accessories. A non-stop hysterical barrage of salesmanship, and a TV goes from $125 to $75 dollars in two minutes. We manage to get out alive but then Phal’s forgot to get a receipt so we enter the madhouse again for a further 20 minutes of hair-raising talk which leaves me exhausted and Phal elated. Like Stan, he loves panic - I wish Stan could have been there,
he'll be sorry he missed it.
So here I am and I haven’t seen my lady properly for nearly two weeks so who knows when I’ll write again. Think about me about eight tonight. Phal, Elaine, Trudy and I will be eating shepherd’s pie and drinking good wine at the Haymarket on 8th Avenue, and I'm really looking forward to it. See you. P.S. Batman's on the telly.
Friday, 1 December 1972
We decide to go out walking. Meeting New York is rather like meeting Cassius Clay head on and then slowly finding out he is really a nice bloke.
We cut through to 8th Avenue, the porny one to upper classes of N.Y.C., but sometimes convenient for end-of-day businessmen. It also has numerous pawn shops which have guitars or at least used to have guitars. Now the Japanese imitations abound and are of fancy prices. Friends tell me some of the Jap copies are good, but to us in the band the old originals are the best and finding an old Les Paul Junior in a junk shop is the equivalent of a stamp collector finding a Penny Black. Trouble is now the pawn shops are hip. One asks $200 for a Melody Maker and we walk all the way out of the shop laughing.
We turn left into 42nd Street which is even dirtier. Handcuffs, masks, whips and all are on sale here as are the inevitable books and vibrators. Tru’s gazed at lasciviously and you get the feeling she'd be raped on the spot if I weren't here. Up the top end we are nearing Times Square - the huge convergence of buildings which isn't really a square at all, and it's getting so cold now we seek the warmth of a yellow cab. The driver is about 60 and came from Poland 52 years ago. He thinks I’m Australian. On down town to 8th Street and 6th Avenue, 8th Street takes us through the West Village and I conjure up the inevitable dream of seeing Dylan riding by on a bike or some- thing but no such luck. The icy wind again, and we cut across to Bleecker Street. The legendary Bitter End and groupies’ paradise Nobodies. We wind up in a bar called the Dugout and have a drink and something to eat. This was where Trudy and I had our first date a couple of years ago. We thaw out over beer, shrimp and broiled chicken. After being warm again we find it's twice as cold outside, when we eventually brave it, and so we get a cab back to the hotel for a rest. Dick rings; the roadies are in town en route to Rhode Island where we play tomorrow. Nothing new to relate except Buff’s had a tooth out in Philadelphia. I don’t envy him. My fear of dentists is almost pathological. I get up the courage to get there about once every two years, and then it's a full-scale operation.
We get restless watching Batman and Batgirl and all the other late afternoon shows so we go out again, and, not trust ing the wind, we get a taxi straight away to Lexington and 62nd Street where Iggy buys his quite amazing stage gear. The place is called Skin Clothing - only a little shop and for some reason the young guy in charge locks the door, opening only when somebody tries to get in. We chat on a while about music and he says he’s got a tape with Freddie King on one side and Jeff Beck on the other and that's all he plays. I order a black leather one-piece which he’ll have to make so he takes all my measurements. The idea is that I do the design then ring him from wherever I am and describe it in detail. A dodgy procedure but there is no other way when you are continually on the road. It'll be a miracle if it works out, and I've also got to find $175-200 which is going to take some doing. We take our leave and at a little chemist on Lexington Avenue I get some new shades for $8. The last pair have finally bit the dust but they were loyal and I appreciate that.
We walked back across the avenues then turned left down 6th - the buildings, 30-40 storeys line up on either side. It looks like a bus queue of giants. The weather is more peaceful now. Elaine’s dragged Phally off to see the Empire State Building and I wonder how they are getting on. It was nice to see the excitement in Elaine - it’s her first time here. Have you ever ridden on a bus from London Airport and tried to explain something of the sights to excited tourists? I always get a kick out of it. It’s like watching somebody’s face when they get a present.
Well tonight I meet Trudy’s parents. Johnny, her brother, is coming in to meet us. I’m really very bad company at this sort of thing, but I'm hoping my manners stay intact as her Mum and Dad have been good to us in the past. My emotions are usually quite uncontrollable and I have to rationalize with myself continually. Wish me luck because I'm going to need it. It's six o’clock now and John’s picking us up at seven (he must be O.K. - he’s got a Martin) so I think I’ll have a shave.
Well it's all over and Trudy‘s Mum was a delight and her Dad was easy to talk to. Younger brother Kevin regarded me as the enemy and I came away drunk. Trudy’s Dad kept saying, ‘Get him another beer‘, and he could have adopted me willingly by 11 o’clock that night. I had pre-arranged with Phal to ring me at 11 just in case I needed to get out of trouble but in the end I became so engrossed in conversation with her Dad that her Mum had to practically kick me out. Anyway, nuf said, the evening was painless and, like a visit to the dentist relief flooded me as John sped us home in the Merc.
A bacon sandwich for me, chicken salad for Tru and a pint bottle of 7-Up from the 24-hour deli across the street led us into deep sleep-oblivious to the never ending sirens which speed all too often to their usually tragic destinations.
Saturday, 2 December 1972
Saturday found us awake at 11 and as John was coming at 12 to take us to the gig we had to hurry. Me like a lady in front of the mirror trying to make myself look like a pop star, and Tru making up an inch from the mirror her head encaged in those vulgar curlers peculiar to the American female species. Dozens of arguments have proved fruitless and so this Martian-like creature delays my morning ablutions in her position on the toilet seat in the bathroom in front of the mirror.
To get to Rhode Island is pretty simple. Johnny U-turns (to his disgust) back to the Long Island Expressway and over the Throgsneck Bridge into the Bronx. Huge blocks of flats make you wonder about the gangs there. Out onto Route 95 and straight to Providence about three and a half hours away. You never know mileage here, it’s always given to you in hours. Into Connecticut and the New England area; names like Colchester and Shrewsbury crop up, English names everywhere. The scenery is dull and ordinary, more or less like the Black Country to look at.
We discussed the relative expense involved in a trip like this in America and in Britain. Here they have no road tax as such but instead you pay yearly for the number plates - £27.75 in John’s case (it goes according to the weight of the car). On top of this you continually pay freeway tolls - 25 to 30 cents a time, so if you travel a lot and have no expense account it can hit you hard. The one saving grace is that petrol here is cheaper. The Mercury was fully tanked (14 gallons) for about $8 (approximately £3.20). In all I think your average American who works and takes the birds out at the week-end is better off.
The weather (by the way) is really mild - contrary to what I had been told it was like this time of year. We had a quiet meal in a restaurant and then down to the Porchester Palace where we were supporting John McLaughlin.
Now the Palace plays a small but memorable part in Mott’s history. It was here on a previous tour we did a walk-off after 10 minutes. We’d not had that all-important sound check that day and hadn’t even been billed outside the theatre. When we got on the sound was awful and instead of getting better, it got worse as the guy in the sound box got more and more stoned. In short, I’d thrown my guitar across the stage (an upside down Firebird at that!) and stormed out. This had produced chaos; we refused to go back on and no kidding, our treatment had been so bad that the promoter had paid up in full. So here we are again, and it promises to be another bummer. Putting us on the same bill with McLaughlin isn’t a great idea. On the one side rock ’n roll and on the other rangeless sounds and never-ending two-chord jams from brilliant but misguided musicians.
There were about 2,700 people in the 3,200 seater and we went on first about 8:30 to good applause. Now the sound wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either, slightly blurred at the front but clearing as it got to the back of the hall and was pretty good on the balconies.
All went well until just after Ready for Love when I started to hear spasmodic cries of ‘play music’ and ‘fuck off’. It came from only a few people to the right of us and I could dimly see them waving their arms about.
This lot were definitely not here to see us. I made a brief statement to the effect that they were stupid, narrow-minded bastards and we launched into
Sweet Jane. This went down well too, but I had to silence the hecklers again while Dick tried in vain to get a good grand-piano sound. He didn’t, and the audience had to put up with a very loud vocal and a very quiet piano throughout Seadiver. Applause again and onto Angeline. We must have been two-thirds of the way through when the music suddenly stopped. I was at the front without guitar, singing with a hand mike. What the fuck was happening? Buff was of his drums, white faced, and Pete was swearing through his mike. Phal looked bewildered and Mick shouted something about a bottle hitting his guitar. I jumped off the stage. Buff was right behind me, and Ritchie leapt from the side. Instinct led me to pointing fingers and a guy ran from his seat hurriedly collecting his coat. I screamed at him, ‘Who was it?’ and he pointed the guy out before running for cover. The bloke sat back in his seat. Search spots swooped over the now standing crowd and he looked squarely at me as I swore at him. I knew it was him so I let him have it - right between the eyes. The crowd erupted and Mick started the beat again. I ran back over the rail into the orchestra pit, flash bulbs popping all the way, and climbed back onto the stage . . . rip - my trousers split - oh no, not now! - Quick, I squatted on my haunches and sang the last verse in that position pointing to the area of the incident. We finished and the whole crowd were up – what an ovation! Fuck ’em. Nobody gets an encore after a bottle’s been thrown. The promoter’s going mad (he’d given us a guitar-shaped cake in good faith). The police want Mick to press charges but he won't so they take the guy outside for a once over. And fucking right too. Had the bottle been a couple of feet higher and it would have been Mick’s face.
