by Ian Hunter
Well, it turns out the whole family has come round to inspect their new member and if they were appalled by my appearance they didn’t let on. We had dinner downstairs in the basement which is made much more use of here than in England. Trudy’s dad had had a couple of walls knocked down and the basement is a huge area housing snooker and table tennis tables, a rifle range, and a frame with a net attached to it. You throw the ball and catch it at whatever angle it happens to rebound at.
Kevin’s bedroom is rigged out like a capsule. He can lay on the bed and press a button which will make anything in the room go up, down, open, close, turn on or off. He was on about an electrical course he’s taking and by the look of his room he won't have much trouble. He's also got rifles on the wall on a rack.
A couple of hours later John’s sort of hanging around while I’m still playing with Kevin's rifles and I think it’s time to go before Trudy‘s mum kicks me out again. We say our goodbyes as I probably won't see them again for quite some time, and John rips us back to the City Squire.
The rain has stopped and we stop in to say goodnight to Stan on the way to our room. Stuey rings up while we’re there and he says he’ll come round and pick us up and take us to David’s hotel to hear some of the tapes he’s just been doing. Thirty minutes later Stu stands in the doorway looking like one of the Mafia; dude suit, fedora, wide tie, and large collar brimming with typical Stuey-style enthusiasm. Some guy Charles is in tow who’s an out-of-work sound man and sings with a group in Ohio and has a Bowie hairdo so he's got to be a hanger-on, or somebody’s boyfriend. You never know nowadays, do you?
We left Phally and Elaine having a row and just walked back to the Warwick. It was cold but not unbearable and a guy in a dressing gown and pyjamas was buying groceries in a deli. Up to the 18th
floor and my first meeting with David in a little while. The room’s long and adjoins a bedroom and the window overlooks 5th Avenue. He’s got a tape machine, a stereo, and a moog sprawled around the floor and large room-service tables are everywhere. It’s about 2 a.m. Angie's still up and is wearing a silver Japanese dress. Spider Trevor Burton looks tired, his elongated side boards hang unsprayed. Stu arranges himself neatly in a cottage chair and Tony and Melanie wander in on their way back to their own place. David looks surprisingly well. He's got a Japanese bell tent top on with huge bell trousers and clogs. He’s really into Japanese clothes at the moment.
He plays Drive-in Saturday, a beautiful song which grows on you. It’s Dylanish and it’s got a hell of a chord run down. He says he's putting it out as the next single. A new version of Dudes on the next album is a possibility if David's satisfied with the final mix. To be honest, I much prefer our version. This seems too slow and he's done it in a lower key. The sax sounds good in the hookline though - flows right through it. He talks about his plans for the new album. He’s calling it Aladdin Sane. It’s also the title of the fourth track he played which hadn’t yet got a vocal, but sounds great anyway. He’s really got the saxes back together again now and talks of using four saxes when he gets back. Three altos and one bari, and they've all got to wear white wide-lapel suits and have Mafia frizzled hairdos with glitter stuck on. He stands there describing it and his eyes are six months into the future already. He’s holding up well under pressure. No sign of a crack-up anyway and he talks enthusiastically. This supreme self-confidence shouldn't be confused with ego. It’s great to see someone so positive. Guy Stevens told me that to think positive was the all-important clue to success and Bowie’s a walking example of this. People tire about 4 a.m. and there's only Tru, Angie, David and me left. Lenny Bruce Live at Carnegie Hall plays on the stereo and Angie shoves it off, as she's determined to eat. We get into a cab and go back to 7th Avenue to eat at the Stage deli. It‘s an average looking place, but the food and 24-hour service is excellent. David and I then get down to talking about Mott. Both of us fighting to get a word in as we both talk a lot.
We finally split about 5:30 am. Bed calms our tired limbs about 6 and it seems like five minutes later that the phone rings and Stan is banging on the door.
Monday, 11 December 1972
It's 10 a.m. and Trudy wearily packs my bags as I stagger round trying to dress myself. I try to take in images of Queens on our way to La Guardia but it’s no use reader. I'm too tired and all I can see are huge blocks of flats and shops and people starting another week. A Boeing 707 stands waiting to take us to Fort Wayne. Fort Wayne is in Indiana. A small place for a gig but not too far from Detroit where we fly tomorrow. We have to stop on the way at Cleveland though, and all eyes watch Mick anxiously. He’s liable to make the first half of the journey and not the other. Poor bugger, it’s really doing him in and nothing is worth that. He sticks it out though, and we reach Fort Wayne about three in the afternoon. It’s a Midwestern town which has grown out of an area once alive with Indians. There are three rivers here and the Indians used to live near the water so as to fish for the tribe's food. Somebody told me Fort Wayne was the first French fort in America in the old settlement days but I couldn't swear by it as I didn't get any local history pamphlets.
Fort Wayne doesn't have limos at all and the one that does turn up has come all the way from Indianapolis to take us around. A bit bloody daft really, but I suppose it looks good. We check in at the good old Holiday Inn. I'm in 201 and I don't even have time to powder under my arms before the sound check.
The place is called the Embassy. It's your average 2 and a half thousand seater cinema-type place and the billing is strange. There are four bands on - Storm (from Mississippi), Bull Angus (from New York), Flash (from London) and us from Hereford. Arguments over billing have led to Flash being top on the posters with us underneath, but outside the theatre we are on top. Probably the promoter being nice and keeping everyone happy. Flash are big here; much bigger than they are in England. They've already had a hit single and album, and apparently were great at a festival in Indiana earlier on in the year - hence their rebooking at the Embassy. Of course we kick up because they would never headline in England and that goes to show what pushy fuckers we are. I make no attempts to deny it. Anyway, may the best man win - that's what I say.
Very funny sound here, small and dead on stage. Pete's grizzling because the only way he can get a decent bass sound is to have the amp on full treble and only half up; and he can't hear himself. A string on the H guitar goes. Everybody’s playing their own little things and altogether it's a bit of a nonner sound check.
The promoter cheers us up, telling us a club is staying open especially for the bands after the show. Storm’s going to play there and we can all have a blow if we want to. Back to the Holiday Inn and we’ve got two hours to get ready. A meal is followed by hair washing and shaving etc. And I try my suit trousers on. Trudy’s Mum fixed them for me and they fit really tight now. I‘ll have to play knock-kneed to keep them from splitting again. I wish we could just wear jeans. I'd feel much more comfortable.
Back into the limo, down to the gig and Bull Angus leap around like we used to in the good old days of '68 in Aylesbury. Trouble is, they give too much away - just as we had a habit of doing. Wine, beer and groupies are in abundance. Me and Mick lock ourselves away with the guitars in a little room. The heat and the cold are both here depending where you happen to be and the tuning fluctuates accordingly. My new string needs pulling and hitting so I can god rid of the slack before we go on.
Finally Jupiter comes on the tape and on we go to 1,700 people. Some have heard of us and we get quite a shout when we go on. Our act is laid back a bit and after the initial impact they settle down. The sound is considerably better than the afternoon check. Apart from Mick's Echoplex which plays him up a bit when we go on, the gear runs smooth. Bob, the light guy, does wonders with the inadequate lighting system. The people are really good, the atmosphere relaxed, with none of the tension found on the American coasts. We're a bit tired and perhaps it shows a little, but we go at the end and One of the Boys and Angeline does the trick. We
walk off to moderate applause and Phil unlocks the dressing room door for us. I'm half undressed when we realize the moderate applause has grown and grown and it keeps going for four or five minutes. GREAT! Get back on to a great reception and we do Dudes well (sometimes the harmonies are dodgy) and straight into Honky Tonk which finishes the set off nicely. A great gig. I can‘t tell you about Flash. We were discussing changes in the act right through their set so I just can’t say. It was a good discussion. So many end up in arguments, but this one was fruitful. For instance from now on at a sound check Phally will play a G and Pete, Mick and me will tune up in turn so no one puts anyone else off. Other points are settled and we pool what we've learned so far about audiences on this tour. We also discuss what must be done on the next, and all important, all headline tour.
The other Stan who drives the limo wanders in and we all nip back to the hotel to drop off the stage gear before going to the Zig Zag Club. Perhaps the name of the club's a tribute to my mate Pete’s magazine which finds its way slowly round, hand to hand. The best way - word of mouth - the best publicity you can get. The Zig Zag is dark. About forty tables in a low-ceiling square room which has a little alley running off the main room for beer, sandwiches, the gents, and the manager’s tiny office. I sit with Mick in a corner and people start wandering over. One in particular knows all about us and plies us with questions. He‘s a big fat guy with glasses and he offers me a downer which I accept as I don't want to drink too much.
Next thing I’m staggering all over the place and a kid who is trying to question me gets me in the tiny manager's office. It’s no good. I'm all at sea and start mauling the manager’s dog around and it hates me. After two narrow escapes from its eager jaws I think fuck this and lurch back into the main room. My questioner is now my helper and responds to my urgent request by pushing me quite forcibly to the nearest bog. My fly was half-way down when Stan swings through the door, chin jutting dangerously.
‘Who’s this bloke? Who are you, come on who are you?’
‘Take it easy man, I just brought the guy to the john, that’s all.’
‘Well, I'm watching you, I'm watching you very carefully.’
Stan's nose seems almost to be touching my helper's chin now, and he just stands there gaping back.
‘Look man, the guy wants a piss.’
‘Then why are you with him?’
'’Cos he can’t fuckin’ stand up!’
‘Oh, well just remember I’m watching you mate.’
Stan stalks out, Mick's hat on his head, convinced the guy was going to take liberties and my poor helper shakes his head in disbelief.
‘Shit man, I’m only trying to help.’
‘So’s Stan, mate, so‘s Stan.’
Out through the bog door, and I'm thinking clearly but my body's all wrong and I knock tables all over the place. I can see Mick and Pete fiendishly jamming on stage. It sounds good so I decide to join in. The drummer’s good too, whoever he is. Lee's impassively watching and Stan, having downed his fifth beer is now definitely looking for a fight.
I knock about six people over on the way to the stage. Fortunately, they seem to be in the same state as me and just laugh. And now I'm at the organ. Mick’s up the other end and it’s the inevitable 12-bar in G. It does go on. Jamming bores the arse off me, but it whiles away the hours. I can never understand how the long-suffering public can put up with it, but there must be reasons, there's a lot of people who love it. It’s like cricket to me, great to be playing, but boring to watch. We once jammed for five hours at Upsala in Sweden with Fairport just to get our own back on the crowd. Pompous bastards.
We keep messing around. I’m on Hefner Bass now (remember when they called you a capitalist pig if you actually owned a Hofner) and Pete Banks is up there trading solos with Mick.
I warble through Cadillac, an old Vince Taylor number and then have a go, and I mean a go, at Red House. I can’t sing blues in the accepted fashion, but it gives Mick and Pete Banks a chance to turn out some nice notes. A word of praise for Bull Angus’s organist who really got it on, and then it was all over and what was left of the crowd stamped and applauded. I must admit it does do you good to get out of the tight arrangements we work within now and again. I dunno, I'll have to think about jamming some more maybe.
Anyway, we must have been dragged out then because the next thing I know I'm in bed and it's 5:30 am.
Tuesday, 12 December 1972
These early flights are a bastard. Stan gets up at 11 a.m. for the plane to Detroit. He says it's the only one and I don’t believe him, but I can’t be bothered to check it so I just sling my gear in the cases and a porter takes them down to a waiting limo. I feel like death on wheels and my breath stinks even though I've brushed my teeth twice today. The trees opposite my first-floor window are covered in snow, the ground a pool of ice. Slush and snow and the other Stan, the driver of the limo, bangs ice off the boot with a wooden stick. He's already got the engine going but it's backfiring bad temperedly and I don't blame it.
Weary heads wander in and out of rooms. Mick's missing. It's only 170 miles to Detroit and he's gratefully taking the advantage of a bus ride instead of the dreaded plane.
We're flying Delta today. The airport’s very small (just like the one at Jersey) and we have qualms as we gaze across the hazy runways. A couple of United Airline jets stand forlorn, their engines covered with what look like huge plugs – similar to the caps on Smarties tubes. A petrol tanker with a skirt of icicles and the grey mist shrouding everything.
The airlines, as usual, won't commit themselves but we meet up with Flash again and the singer's saying something like they’ve been stranded there since 10 a.m. We decide the airport's closed but have breakfast anyway, just in case our plane happens to turn up. Stan gives up and goes off to get the money back, and then to ring the Greyhound station. Looks like we‘ll be travelling with Mick after all. I nip in the bar and have a drink with Flash. They seem really nice blokes and we talk of this and that. They're on their way to Kentucky and they don't reckon they're going to make it. They’re trying to work out if it wouldn't be better to forget about Kentucky and head for Lexington where they play the day after. If they try for Kentucky and get stuck halfway, they might miss both the gigs instead of just the one. This time of year, when the weather is bad, a lot of kids are disappointed as you can’t sue anyone because of the weather, an act of God as the saying goes.
Fortunately our gig in Detroit isn't until Wednesday. It's now Tuesday, so the three-hour bus ride is only a minor irritation. Stan comes into the bar and we say our goodbyes to Flash and wish each other luck.
It's 3 p.m. and the bus is due out at 4. A young hairy comes up and says there is a nutter in the next room who says he hates all hairy groups. He’s going to do all kinds of things to us so we stick together just in case. American nutters and English nutters are a very common breed, but you never know over here what the silly sod might have under his sweaty little arm-pit.
Seats in the waiting room have arms-attached with 6-inch T.V.s; if you have a long wait, you put your bread in and pass the time away (how many times have you sat for hours staring at the walls in your local bus depot). I don't see why this idea hasn’t been taken up in England. They must pay for themselves a thousand times over in the long run.
The bus is coming in from Evansville which is the other end of Indiana, and what with the weather being so bad, we're quite relieved when it gets in only 30 minutes late at 4:30. These guys that drive the Greyhounds really know how to get through no matter what. We load up the cases, no porters here, back to reality lads, and it does us all a bit of good. Mick arrives having been able to sleep all the time we sat at the airport and Pete and I still feel like dead ducks. I don’t know how Stan's bearing up - he seems to have a second wind. I‘m having trouble trying to find my first. We get on the bus and Stan entertains us with his cassette (it has no outside mike and an automatic level). All you have to do is switch it on so you can get imp
romptu conversation from anybody on tape without them even knowing it. Mick moans about his voice; he never realized he talks so quickly, but Stan‘s all proud saying his diction is improving and we all agree to keep the lad happy. In point of fact, Buff is the only one who talks really well. The rest of us, me in particular, are very lazy in our speech. I don't see what all the fuss is about anyway. It’s dark now and I get a double seat and recline them both. The old afghan is my pillow and I semi-doze all the way, getting up only twice - one to get a candy bar - and once to have a fag in the bogs at the rear of the bus. (You’re not supposed to smoke on the bus.) The bus is nearer 1 hour than 30 minutes late, and it’s a very jaded mob who stagger off the other end in downtown Detroit. Now I don’t know if they’re colour conscious here but the porters refused to port and the cabbies refused to cab.
‘Look here, mate, why won’t you take us?’
‘That guy will take yuh, man, no sweat.’
‘That guy won’t take us. Look, you can see the guitars, man. We’re musicians, we’re not into all this crap.’
‘I’m hip to that, man. That man will take you, no sweat.’
‘I only just got here - it’s not my problem, man, ya hear.’
One spade, a huge old guy who didn’t give a fuck, told us he'd take three of us, but refused to look at us. Other cabbies stood and watched and he ignored them as well. I’ll swear I saw the world on that man’s face. Stan finally got another guy - some Greek or Cypriot - to take the rest of us and an old Negro spat as he passed. A young Negro ran up and showed us watches and rings and then ran off when a patrol car cruised round the corner. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife - the same in the cab - you could just feel the hate in the air. These fuckers don't care what you do - you are white and that’s it.
