by Ian Hunter
The gig here is off and Houston was too, but that one’s been sorted out so it looks like this wasn't a wasted journey after all. Stan’s just told us Tony is giving us all a Christmas bonus of £200 each so everybody has a good meal in the restaurant.
Phally’s overjoyed, he can pay his electric bill and have the lights on all over Christmas. Buffin’s playful and Mick’s just coming off the mandies that he takes to help him fly. Pete just sits there pleasantly fucked, and I feel the same. Everywhere you go now, hotels, airports, stations - they all play carols through lousy sound systems. I couldn’t decipher which was which in Detroit. Tony says we’ve sold 1,000 tickets in advance at Houston. It's a 2,000-seater, so it should be about three-quarters full on the night. Incidentally, there were 1,875 last night at Detroit. Bob, the promoter, was pleased and says it will be full next time.
Well it’s 12 midnight and in 517 Johnny Carson is doing one of those forgettable shows he sometimes does. I don't wish to slag him, but it does seem to be a plug service. People come on, recite where they are playing, what albums they have out and then tell J.C. how wonderful he is and everyone is happy. Tonight Ed Sullivan is a guest. You‘ll remember his legendary show which ran for 20 years - 24 with the radio show he did before. His future gigs consist of showing the best clips of his old shows and Carson asks questions like, ‘Is there anything you feel you missed in life?’ and, ‘Was there anyone you missed interviewing?’ as if the guy’s life is finished and he doesn't even twig it. The whole thing stinks a bit. Somebody says talk shows are an art form but all I see is a mutual-admiration society listening to each other’s achievements and smiling smugly as the Hollywood audience dutifully applaud. I get sick of it and Dick Cavett’s better for me on Channel 8.
Mysterious phone calls come with regularity from the ladies of the lobby, but we’re tired from last night's binge. Phally screams. The salad they brought him has got Danish Blue cheese in it, but he tortures himself for the sake of his appetite. For the fourth time this week, I swear never to drink another beer - I didn't touch a drop today. I rang Trudy earlier and she said that Pete Frame was in New York for a concert review and rang her, but he’s already gone back - it was a quick job. He said Solveig was in season, but they sprayed her rear with some stuff to kill that sexy smell which brings the male dogs running. (Pete’s got two males.) I'm sure she’s going to fall though. Trudy, however, insists she's too pure. At least Saucer is a tom.
Friday, 15 December 1972 10a.m.
A bell rings continuously waking me up and my bleary eyes wander round the darkened room just for something to do, chancing on the blinds, and what do I see but strong rays of sun forcing their way through - hurray. I leap knickerless from bed, thrust the glass door aside and stand facing the elements naturally. A beautiful awakening is mined by an icy, windy Chicago-style blast which nearly knocks me senseless and I write these few words from the safety of my bed - it looks nice though.
It’s bloody awful sharing a room with Phally. You have to sit all quiet and not put the telly on or he moans at you for waking him up and making him ‘ill’ for the rest of the day. This group amazes me. We go out and get pissed all night, get in about six in the morning and they all wake up about three saying they're ill. Anyone else would ruefully rub their head or guts and complain of a hangover, but this lot are ‘ill’ thereby disclaiming any responsibility for their own condition. Stan always says flatly his legs have ‘gone’. When asked where and why he either can’t or won't elaborate - they've just ‘gone’ and that's it. Ah well, the Houston flight is at one. The phone will ring at 12; it’s now 11 so another hour before I can legally switch the T.V. on. Perhaps I'll have a quiet shit or something. Pity we don’t have more time. There's some good pawn shops here and in Fort Worth, not far away.
Speaking of pawn shops. Did I ever tell you about the time in San Francisco I bought the Maltese Cross, since immortalized in Disc, Melody Maker, Sounds, NME, etc. Trouble was they didn’t bother to take photos of me — just the cross. It was funny that day in the pawn shop.
MICK: ‘Look at that fuckin’ guitar.’
ME: ‘What is it?’
MICK: ‘I don't know, but it's amazing.’
ME: ‘I've got to have it.’
MICK: ‘You've got to have it.’
ME: ‘How much do you reckon?’
MICK: ‘Could be anything between $100 and $250.’
ME: ‘I’ll go to 300. I’ve got to have it.’
MICK: ‘Yeah.’
ME: ‘Eh, excuse me, can I have a look at the white cross guitar?’
MAN: ‘No.’
ME: ‘Er, why not?’
MAN: ‘Cos I’m busy.’
ME: ‘But is it for sale?’
MAN: ‘Yeah.’
ME: ‘Well, can I have a look at that cross guitar?’
MAN: [He’s on the phone.] ‘Look you get that fuckin’ stuff’ through the fuckin’ customs or I’ll bust your fuckin’ head, I don’t care. . . . You get it. . . . Look you sly son of a bitch . . . you get your ass down here with that fuckin’ stuff. . . .’
ME: ‘Ahem - cough.’
MAN: ‘Look, will you come back some other time, I’m busy.’
ME: ‘But I want to have a look.’
MAN: ‘Have you got any fuckin’ money?’
ME: ‘Enough.’
MAN: ‘You wanna pay $100 and I'll get it off the wall?’
ME: ‘Yes.’
MAN: ‘O.K. then.’
He waddled round the thin corridor between counters and hanging merchandise, pulled the cross down and laid it on the counter. I couldn't believe it. It was well made, the neck being the only problem. It needed ironing, there just wasn't enough holding it on.
MAN: ‘You Wannit?’
ME: ‘Does it work?’
MAN: ‘Of course it fuckin’ works, whaddaya think I got here, a junk shop?’
ME: ‘Got an amp to try it on?’
MAN: ‘No, trust me; it’s O.K. Look, you wanna guitar right? I give you the thing for nothin.’
ME: ‘Give it me for nothing?’
MAN: ‘$75, that's fuckin’ nothin’. Look, I thought you were bums. O.K., I feel bad, got trouble with the Canadian customs. Give me the money. I'll give you a case, you won't believe it, it shouldn't be allowed this case it's so good. C'mon, 75 cash 3 tax. You're pros, you know, it’s a good deal.’
Mick and me think, well the shape of it is good and it looks good and he’s a conning bastard but we'll take a chance - I've got to have it.
ME: ‘O.K.'
MAN: ‘O.K. O.K., where you guys from, Australia? . . . oh, London, you in a band? What’s the name of the band? . . . Mouser Hoop - Hell, I can't say that thing. What's that again? Hey, that’s a fuckin’ name man. Hey Laura, these guys from England. I was there in ’43. Peterborough - you know Peterborough?’
And that was that. I took it to try at the Fillmore that evening and it worked - not well - but encouragingly enough to know I would eventually get a sound. Albert King was intrigued:
Where d’ya git that son of a bitch?’
‘In a pawn shop.’
‘That’s a mean guitar man, that’s a mean son of a bitch - how much did ya pay for it?’
‘$75.’
‘How much do ya want for it?’
‘Got to keep it Albert.’
‘Yeah, that's a mean evil son of a bitch.’
Of course there’s more to San Francisco than the Fillmore West, which was never as good as I had imagined and nowhere near the Fillmore East. Across the bay there’s Sausalito, and the mountains; Alcatraz, the former prison is there too. When I was there some Indians were squatting in it - mainly for publicity in their fight for a well-deserved better deal. It stands to the left of Sausalito, and Angel Island to the right – heaven and hell within seeing distance. Angel Island is a sanctuary for birds and the like.
The drive to the airport is short and sweet. We glide down Mockingbird Lane and houses that looked sad yesterday come
alive today under a clear blue sky. Terminal 64 is really a funny sight. All-American boys stare at us in amazement - you'd have thought they'd seen something resembling a hairy by now, but apparently they haven’t so we stare back. Alien creatures from the same planet - pathetic.
Straight on the plane. This tinie Branif do a superb two-tone blue job paintwork and I'm quite put out by the tastefulness. I like ’em horrible. Stuey sits to my left, Buff, Phal and Stan behind, Zee and Lee together. (Zee bought 12 of the Kennedy postcards I told you about - he can’t believe them.) Pete sits on his own, one seat back. He's still ‘ill’. Mick brings up the rear. Today he's taken nothing and looks much better for it. Mind you, the journey is only 40 minutes. Dallas lies about 250 miles north of Houston, which itself almost makes the coast. We should arrive about 3:30/3:45 p.m. so we'll have most of the day to mess around. The days have gone really quickly for me, what with the gigs, the travelling, and this book, serial, article or whatever it is. Pawn-shop day today. The gig doesn't start until midnight and the sound check’s at 11:30 p.m. so that gives us until the shops close. I've been farting about with my trusted Echo too, got to get some songs together soon. Another single and album should be in the pipe line around February. The thing I really miss is my old upright piano in my flat at home. Run downs are easier to find on a piano and bass lines can change the sound of a chord. One thing about the States, it kicks you up the arse and you can usually get inspiration for songs here - one way or another.
Songs - now they're something else. You don’t have to just write them, you’ve got to arrange them, produce them, mix them, cut them and process them. The chances of getting exactly what you want are virtually nil but let’s start from the beginning.
I write a song on maybe the guitar or the piano. The first thing is to convince the band that it’s good. My way is to piss about with the song at a practice or a sound check - if it’s good someone will pick up on it. Usually Buff or Pete will say ‘What's that?’ and lean over the piano and then nod approval. If this doesn't happen I usually chuck it out unless I'm certain sure and then I push. Having got the band’s approval I hang on to it until we get some time in the studio.
Now the studio can make or break the song. Some twat engineer reading Reveille can put you off your stroke and he may not even try for a good sound on bass and drums - that pisses Pete and Buff off for a start. Having bumbled through this drama we then endeavour to get a. back track down. This is usually bass / drums / rhythm guitar and forms a kind of musical skeleton on which to build the song. Most studios have 16-track machines. We use six tracks for drums (six mikes on the kit) and one or two on the bass, the rhythm is usually one track and can be taken out. It's only in to keep the song rolling in it’s early stages. I then take a 7½ -inch tape off the back-track home and listen to it for a few days on my Revox tape recorder. This way I can work out arrangement, what further instruments I wish to dub on, etc.
Then we go back in and finish it off to the best of our ability. Various amps are used to get the right guitar sounds and Verden can experiment on organ sounds. I’ve never yet experimented on vocal sounds but I mean to in the future. The various echoes can enhance your voice. David used a first repeat echo on All The Young Dudes and it made my voice sound infinitely better.
Finally you get all the instruments down on the 16 tracks and then you have to mix. The producer, in our case Bowie, tries to get the best of everything on the tapes together so the song sounds at its best. He and the engineer then record the combination and we sit back and listen to see if it could be made even better. Sometimes the first mix is the one, other times you might remix 10 or 20 times before getting it how you want it. Unfortunately studio and mixing time are expensive and so you nearly always have to compromise a bit and you feel the song slip away owing to the limited time. The better companies like C.B.S. try to make it as easy as possible for you time-wise but even they have one eye on the clock unless it's Dylan or Simon and Garfunkel. They know they’ll get their money back off these people.
Having got the mix you then have to cut the song. This means converting the tape on to disc. It might sound easy but more than one group have lost the crispness and presence of an album on the cut. Again it's down to the engineers involved. You have to hope for the best and again it costs a lot of bread. They talk about frequencies being too high or low, of limiters and other technical contraptions of which I have no knowledge. I wish to fuck I had. See you sometimes get albums that jump on various tracks. This can mean the cut was done too high and it can really mess an album up.
O.K., so you've recorded, mixed and cut. Next stop the processing department of the record company you work for. An average working guy who doesn’t even know you doctors up the final master disc and sticks it into the press. This master is the gear that makes the ruts in the record and a bit of shit or some other technical hassle can fuck up 5,000 albums before you even know it. All the group press is geared to a certain date line. Adverts in the musical papers, interviews, radio plugs, T.V. appearances, etc., so the company have to let those 5,000 shitty copies into the shops. Hence the irate letters from album buyers you see in the Melody Maker. I remember on our first album a number called The Road To Birmingham was put on the album instead of Rock ‘n Roll Queen. We didn't even know about it until after the release. They changed it after the first 5,000 copies.
Ah well, a little info to while away the hours. There's a million other hassles but it would be draggy to list them all. This has been just a brief outline. Any would-be recording stars reading this - good luck lads - you‘ll fucking need it!
It's about 6 p.m. now. We left Dallas an hour late and got right down, straight in and bumps all the way. Even the pilot said he shouldn’t have done it but he was behind schedule so he thought he’d give it a bash - charming. We loaded our trembling bodies into the limos and paraded into Houston.
It’s a clean town, and apart from downtown, it's a low town. I don’t like high towns, low ones suit me better. The limo driver, a huge lad, boasts about the new Continental Hyatt. To me it looks like a dark brown German concrete fortress left over from the last war. Heroes have travelled to the moon after living near here and they no doubt got pissed on the sly in downtown Houston bars, trying to forget all about it. It's a particularly revolting thing to be a hero in America.
Our hotel is a Sheraton and we don't mess around when we arrive. Cases into the rooms and then downstairs and into a cab. Unfortunately we have to sit and wait for twenty minutes. Stan kept saying he was coming and when he did finally make it we only had 30 minutes pawning time left. A mad rush to the Market Street area revealed a couple of good Gibsons and a Strat, but all were too expensive when taking the customs into consideration. We missed half the shops anyway (because of you know who) and on top of that we wound up with fuck all and Stan bought a suitcase - just what he wanted. The case being the cheapest he could possibly buy, it will bust as quick as the last one did.
Stan and Buff get a cab back and Stuey, Mick, Pete and I decide to walk. The wind blows fiercely and we pass a sign on a dilapidated mission hall which says, ‘Man, come visit us and thou shalt verily learn to dig.’ Down the street a little way, two giant searchlights beam alternately across the sky. A lot of traffic, but the air's still clean and we get back to the hotel feeling quite breezy except for Pete who says the wind has blown right through his head and his eardrums and throat hurt. We split up, Pete preferring room service, Mick and Stuey to a coffee shop across the street and me to room 214. I just stripped off and weighed myself - 162 pounds it says. That’s one pound more than when I got here. Some bloody slimmer I turned out be.
Texas is bigger than Britain by the way, and this is where they say ‘all’ even if there’s only one of you. The view from the window is just as it is in Manchester or Sheffield, your average light show. Perhaps if I have a hot bath I’ll get rid of that pound.
Saturday, 16 December 1972
I’m now sitting on a. Delta 707 heading
for Chicago. The weather forecast for Chicago is 6 degrees and 25 -miles-per-hour winds – far out.
I never will understand why they put so much ice in a glass of Coke. Actually it could be they don't like giving too much of the stuff away. My top lip’s numb and that’s what happens everytime - it’s like going to the dentist.
Zee and I sit like two bibbed babies, trays binding us to e seat and napkins all over the place. Because of a flight mix-up we’re flying first class (my first time kids) and there’s a bit more room. Me and Zee are sitting in the front seat and I'm having pilot fantasies. Mick’s flattened out across the corridor mandied to the hilt and Phal sits behind. It’s just occurred to me that a lot of you don’t know about mandies. As I’ve said before they're rock ’n roll sleeping pills. Certain doctors - some . . . . , quacks, some progressive - know that a musician’s life ain’t exactly 9 till 5. They also realize the pressures involved. They will give out prescriptions only after examining you and determining that the tablets aren't doing you in. Me and Mick get ours on prescription from a guy in Harley Street who knows we need instant sleep now and again and he also knows we're intelligent with them. Mandies can be dangerous if taken in large amounts with alcohol and have caused deaths in the past. In short I take them when it's late and I'm not tired owing to awkward flying schedules and I also take them to calm my adrenalin down. Adrenalin can keep you up all night prior to an important gig. Mick’s different, you know by now how he hates the planes and so he takes a couple to make him doze off and forget about the flight. You want to get high? Take a couple of mandies, or even one, with a bottle of Hirondelle, but take a bit of advice, I've been through it. It's a fucking mug’s game. Use your loaf. Nobody ever made it stoned. They might have looked stoned but don’t kid yourself. They were together enough when it came to making it.
