by Ian Hunter
It's 7:30 now and the sound check leaves us in the hands of the Almighty. We’d just gotten switched on for it when 4,000 people invaded the front stalls leaving Mick amazed, stranded half way through Ready for Love. Needless to say, Stan panicked and a poor second-in-command whose name is Rob takes everything he says with shrugged shoulders. There‘s a dispute between Bloodrock and ourselves over second billing. Now this may seem petty, perhaps flash, to the reader, but illusion plays a large part in the game of rock ‘n’roll and any guy in a band will tell you this is an important facet. The rows I’ve been through over billing in my life must be in treble numbers, and the result about 50/50 depending on where we were and how big we were. If you are expendable, if you've got enough bread to carry out your threats and fuck off, that counts too.
I chatted to Mick Fleetwood who was very shy but extremely nice, and a couple of musicians from Heckstall Smith’s group including the man himself. They’re opening every gig because Dick doesn’t want to use Mayall and Hiseman as stepping stones. We wish him luck.
As I said, the promoter’s not here yet. Still selling hi-fi’s in his stereo shop somewhere, so we don't even know now if we'll go on. The brrrrr of the hairdryer signifies Pete’s drying his hair before applying that silver stuff which will stink the room out and I’m waiting my turn. Just had a grilled cheese sandwich and orange juice with Stan, Phal and Mick. Buffs had a letter from home saying Disc’s called us a one-hit wonder. Silly bastards. Buff’s camera lens is missing so he's a bit sad, but he’ll come out of it himself. You can't sympathize with him or he gets more angry. Tony’s flying in with Melanie from New York, but I haven’t seen them yet.
Hangers-on bang on the doors and we have to be rude. If you just say hello you are subjected to endless conversation which leaves you behind your schedule. When you do finally get them away they turn nasty anyway so you might as well do it straight away. Chicks knew our names, but then again they make that their business. I should imagine it happens with every group.
One reporter in L.A. told me he'd seen girls asking me exactly the same questions as they’d asked Bolan a couple of weeks before. Well, at least I’m in good company. The adrenalin starts to build; that excitement we get at every gig no matter how big or small, top of the bill or bottom. It will be a sad day when it's not there anymore.
Thursday, 7 December 1972
Well it's now 5:15 p.m. and I’m sitting yet again on T.W.A. going to New York City in seat 14B. Things have slightly altered so now I'm going to tell you (as much as I can) what really happened yesterday.
We got to the gig last night and it was absolute bedlam. As was expected, Dick Heckstall Smith opened, and then absolutely nothing happened for over an hour. The crowd was really hostile and backstage it was a deadlock. Bloodrock were refusing to go on before or after us. Fleetwood Mac didn't want to end the show but Bloodrock wouldn’t either. The arsehole promoters hadn't got a bloody clue, they just stood there hopelessly. Why do these silly sods promote? They'd given Bloodrock a second-on-the-bill contract and we had an identical one. Bloodrock would not budge an inch and neither would we; finally we gave in at the time we’d originally planned to do and went on. The poor kids had waited so long because the promoter was totally ignorant, or extremely snidey and just let the incident occur.
What with no sound check and all the hassles back stage, we went on pretty miserable. If ever a gig should have been pulled out, it was this one. Tony just wasn’t sure of the procedure on down-the-bill acts and let it happen. We went on even though we shouldn't have. The sound, although good out front (as we found out afterwards) was terrible on stage. We slowly dissolved in front of a curious but non-committal crowd. Two spots comprised the entire lighting system, Bloodrock not even allowing one of their lights to be used. And the spots careered crazily around the stage missing most of the points in the music. We bravely carried on, me waggling my arse in a none-too-hopeful attempt to attract a few females. What an act. I felt like a prostitute - it was nothing to do with music. It was a professional con, forced on us by circumstances, and we hated every second of it. Angeline fared well and we finished with One of the Boys. A good ovation but stamping died too quickly for a reappearance, and we trooped angrily back to the dressing room. The atmosphere was electric. We can’t stand bummers, especially those not our fault. We’d sold out on the gig and it left a horrible taste in our mouths. We all knew now it should have been a walkout. We would have had every right to, but it’s too late now. We played.
Tony says it's totally his fault - his first experience of a terribly disorganized gig in the States and he finally decides that things will have to change.
We try to discuss it seriously and Bob C., a light man who’s watching us and getting ready to light the five or six other headliners we have to do, gives us the benefit of his considerable experience. Big Bob reckons on him going out early with Ritchie the next day to Springfield to check out the lay of the land. If it's at all dodgey Tony will cancel it altogether. By now Bloodrock have actually gone on and we have a quick look at them before leaving. They are going down about the same as us. I like the singer’s red velvet trousers with the squiggly yellow line down them, but that’s about all.
I turned, and at the side of the stage the little assistant guy was talking to a couple of at least 50 chicks who were hanging around. As a parting gesture, as I passed him I whispered, ‘That's what happens when you treat your groups like shit.’ I walked onto the ramp, happened to turn and saw him waving his fists egged on by the girls, who'll agree with anything and anybody. I walked back and calmly shouted, ‘The people you work for are a bunch of utter cunts,’ into his face.
‘What?’ came a yell. And five guys, one I knew as a promoter, ran over. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘You're fuckin’ useless; you shouldn’t be allowed to run gigs.’
‘You fuckin’ jackass, get out of here. Go on, get out you fuckin' jackass, you jumped-up cunt. Your group sucks. Get out before I put a hole in yuh.’
‘Bollocks, you load of fuckin’ idiots - you fuckin’ idiots.’
The little one came first, first pulled back, and I squared onto him. He held back and the promoter came up near – really near. He threatened and I just stood there facing them. The blood had gone from my face and my lips were quivering. Tony pulled them away as calm as ever and they waved their fists and yelled. All I could shout was ‘fuck off’.
We walked down to the lower level. There were no bottles anywhere. My lips were twitching and I was in that cold rage you get when nothing could hurt you. Tony just took me out and we got in the car without exchanging a word. I don't know what he must have thought; I knew what I thought though. I knew I had been what the guy said I'd been. A jackass. I knew the group had been bad, but I also knew that the pathetic apology for a promotion by complete idiots was the reason. The band had missed the whole episode, Tony and I being the last out of the Convention Hall and now they all ached to go back. The police were there now. The streets were silent as we travelled back to the hotel. How was I going to get rid of the rage? As Pete and I lay on our beds, we talked of the suspicious disappearance of Wishbone Ash's equipment from this same town, which put them into debt again and caused them to break off their tour half way through. The mirror in the room broke at the top from my badly aimed ashtray. Pete expertly finished the job off with a tumbler.
Stan rang for another meeting with Tony. This time in his suite on the 21st floor. And so up we troupe for a rambling discussion - getting slowly to know Tony better, and he us.
He’s decided not to Out go three or four suspect gigs straight away, and instead he wants us to speed up the act for the all-important headliners.
Good news from Cleveland where we're doing a three – thousand seater. 1,000 seats have already gone by mail order without the gig even having been advertised. It stands a great chance of selling out. Detroit is also selling well. It’s on these gigs we must concentrate. We'll take second
or third bill only on proven, up-front, well organized gigs. Last night had been a lesson in a way, and could prove to be a valuable one.
Mugs. Never again. Go and hit a wall, but don't play at any cost. It'll do more damage in the long run.
The meeting over we go down to Mick's room. It's about 3 a.m. in the morning and the room is packed. Fleetwood Mac turn up to see this guy Ed's guitars. Mick rang him earlier and asked him to come. Various ladies hang around but get pretty much ignored in the quest for Ed's guitar bargains. He’s well known in group circles and well respected as a purveyor of musical instruments for English bands. We've met him before in various towns. He buys continually around the pawn shops and then goes to where the bands are and sells them. Mick Fleetwood grizzles a bit about going on late and I don’t blame him. I just hope he didn‘t think it was us who fucked him about. They soon leave and various other people slowly follow. I've had a mandy and try, somewhat the worse for wear, to get Ed's double pick-up, upside-down Firebird down from $300 to $250, but he just won’t have it. Mick eventually gets a small Gibson amp for $60 and Peter gets a bargain, a 1941 D-18 Martin Concert in beautiful condition for only $130. I have no luck at all convincing Ed that $250 is a good price and off he goes into the lift with his friends, covered in amps and guitars. Pete and I return to our room and survey the damage. It looks like the Armada’s been through it. Fuck it. My eyes sag heavily; it's 5 a.m. and we may be going to Springfield later today.
But that was yesterday; now I'll get onto today when we almost missed our flight to New York.
The radio wakes me at ten. There’s a cold chill in the room. The temperature is zero degrees. I pull my coat onto the bed and huddle back into that nowhere snoozing land. Twelve o'clock comes and Stan rings to say the Springfield gig is off. Bob C. and Ritchie think it’s as bad, even worse, than last night's mess. Tony suggests we go to New York instead and do a few interviews which are outstanding so we set 3:45 in the lobby as the leaving time for the airport. Room-service coffee takes ages to come and then, about one o'clock, Pete realizes he has no case for the Martin. We ring Mick; the pawn shops are open, why don't we go for a quick shuffle. Trouble is Mick's just ordered breakfast so it’s about 2:30 before we eventually get a cab. Franklin has nothing, but a lightning dash back to Larry Birds gets Pete a $5 case. It‘s great for the price – a black one which looks new. The time is tight though, and the cabby joins in the spirit of the thing speeding from one pawn shop to another in case of that bargain. Bingo! A shop called Ace discloses from somewhere in the backroom of junk, a clean long case. He opens it revealing a shining Fender Jazz bass in immaculate condition. The guy says he won't mess around, he’ll quote his lowest price and that’s that - $125. Pete's in like a shot. Borrows $70 from Mick and another 25 from me as he is, as usual, broke. With the guitar safely in his sweating paw we joyfully enter the taxi. A great buy - the feeling an antique dealer or a stamp collector gets when finding something valuable at a very low price.
A clock on a building lights up 4:06 in bulb letters and we are almost back at the hotel when Pete discovers he’s left behind his T.W.A. bag containing his various walking-about accoutrements. Sullen moans of ‘You fuckin’ idiot’ have no effect on him and he cheerfully redirects the cab back about 40 blocks to Ace. Mick and I sit in the back glumly. Stan's going to bollock us for this. We may miss the plane, and Buff hates it if he’s kept waiting. We get back to Ace. The bag is where he left it and Peter tries to ring Stan to no avail while I rush to make a last-minute appeal for a Gibson Melody Maker. The guy’s sticking at $100 and I think that’s $10 to $20 too much by Detroit prices so I decide to leave it. Mick says I did the right thing, and we speed downtown. A couple of cardboard cartons hit the car from a small gang of jeering Negroes. We got away just in time by the look of it. Back, once again to the hotel, the limos are waiting, one for us and one for Tony, Mellie, Lee and Stan.
We speed to the airport and I'm still marvelling at how we managed to catch the 5:l5 to New York. If it hadn't been for the new search regulations, I think we'd have missed it, and that would have meant another day in St Louis as the other planes are flying out full. I wouldn’t have liked that. I'm a bit petulant with Tony about the promoter. I can't forget it - I don't suppose I ever will. But he assures me that neither David or we will do a gig for him again. Nuf said.
And now my ears are beginning to pop signifying our slow descent to La Guardia, New York’s domestic airport, and I've forgone chicken and roast spuds to write this lot down.
Ah, the lights of New York City. It seems like returning home after doing a gig in Manchester. How many lights down there? It would take a lifetime to count them. The plane's a metal ball, cruising up the groove at the side of the largest pin-ball machine in the world! Above the dark blue of the darkest drinking bar.
Elizabeth, Newark and over the river to Manhattan. The Statue of Liberty and we might turn in over the Yankee Stadium. Everybody in the world should see the world. It should be made compulsory. The kids from Bradford, Newcastle, Liverpool, Sunderland and all those northern towns whose only buzz is signing on Wednesdays and Fridays may never get to see the sight I see now and I’m woefully inadequate at translating it to paper. Whoops, a bumpy landing, but a safe one and I've got to go. See you.
Now American hotels are expensive, a single in this place (which is really a double, but only one person is booked) is going to cost you $30, so what we try to do is smuggle Trudy in to save a bit of bread. It's all paid for by the travel agency as are the air flights, but Stan’s got to settle up at the end, and obviously the band shouldn't pay for somebody’s lady.
Trudy and I have wine and shepherd’s pie at the Haymarket with Phally and Elaine, and we return to the hotel via Times Square. I must compliment Winston fags on their huge sign in the Square. This bloke’s smoking away and real smoke comes out of his mouth and forms rings in the crisp night air. The temperature here is about 30 degrees. It’s a funny thing about the cold here; it's a dry, clean sort of cold, and providing you're not out for too long, it's not unbearable at all.
Anyway, we go back to the hotel and it’s one of ‘those’. Now most hotels are groovy. You're paying a lot of bread for a room so they turn a blind eye if any ‘guests’ happen to drop in, but not this bloody place. You get the feeling a $10 bill will solve the problem but fuck them, they overcharge anyway. The thing is they're being funny about letting the ladies in and this can ruin a good Haymarket meal. Indigestion creeps up on me! Only one way. All great statesmen have used it to great effect throughout evolution. In a word bullshit’s required – and plenty of it. We storm the desk.
‘What is this, a bleeding kindergarten or something? How old do you think we are, 15?’
‘I’m sorry sir, but we have a new general manager here; he won't let guests up after midnight unless they register.’
‘Fuck your general manager. Ring my manager, Stan Tippins, we're leaving, the lot of us, first thing in the morning. This is disgusting. The lady is my wife and Lives on the island with her parents while I'm working here, so what are you implying?’
‘Look sir . . .’
‘We’re not looking anywhere, I'm ringing Stan . . .’
‘Nuts.’ [This time we’re at the internal phone.]
‘SIR! JUST A MOMENT.’ We return to the desk.
‘Look sir [he calls me sir, he thinks I’m a twat], just sign your (ahem) wife in and then it’s O.K. No extra charge at all.’
‘Oh, well all right - that’s different.’ [Cough, feeling like a twat now.]
‘But don’t forget, sir, no ladies can stay the night, all night.’
All fuckin’ night - forget it. He's just got to say that so he can say he said it - but I think it’s O.K.
Up to our room, watch a Bob Hope film then try to watch a Bing Crosby film. Finally move Tru’s sleepy head over gently and nip up to switch the T.V. off. It’s just about 3 a.m. and I wish that episode hadn't happened - it means we've got to watch out. If it happens
again, I think we’ll either register properly or move to another hotel. It makes Tru look like a scrubber, and I'm not having that – NO WAY...
Friday, 8 December 1972
And now it’s raining, ‘like hell on a fire engine’ as Stan would say. The open curtains reveal a huge block centre, at least 50 storeys high with a red neon ‘Grants’ stuck on top. A masterpiece of understatement. ‘Hotel Edison’, ‘Hotel Madison‘, ‘-otel -aft’, (that’s all I can see) and more immediately opposite, an 18-storey office block with girls busily working type-writers and a man looking straight at me watching if I'm looking at him. Neither of us can tell, as we can't see each other’s eyes.
Down below Crescendo is playing on the right of 7th Avenue. ‘Off Track Betting’, ‘Jack Dempsey’s Bar‘, ‘Chock-full-O-Nuts’, buses, taxis, hundreds of those huge American cars (which look as normal here as they do abnormal in England). I can see one of those Volkswagens with Cadillac radiators that they are selling at the moment. Immediately below, two fountains, one of which is drained in front of a huge 80-storey building with no name. Rain everywhere and people scurrying. Christmas is in the air. A block across and a few streets down is where I wrote Angel of 8th Avenue — looking at Manhattan three years ago, after a very drunken night at ‘Nobodies’ in the Village.
