by Ian Hunter
I may sound a bit like Malcolm Muggeridge here but life’s to be lived, not avoided; Get yourself out on the street, mate! We didn’t play last night. This is getting ridiculous. The promoter was clueless. We got there at the designated time and slipped in the back door (The Metropolitan). Stan says a quick sound check and out in the car again to a hotel next door where the promoter is laying on food and Wine. We got on the stage and kids were running everywhere about 200 of them. Already 1,200 tickets have been sold and there’s more queuing up. They break a glass door and surge in. Stewards try to hold them at the gate but one by one they're slipping through. Stuey and Stan go out to lend a hand and we start tuning up. The entrances are bulging with heads and someone says over the P.A. if they don’t calm down there’ll be no show. NO USE. They continue to fight to get in and Stuey brings us off stage. There's no one supporting us except two local lads who look very scared folk singers. Phil says if we don’t go on they are going to riot and wreck the gear. A chick comes up.
‘Jeez, I’m high - I know you from the park last time. Gee your band is fantastic, what‘s your name? You remember you told me to be quiet.’
‘Oh yeah, how's it going?’
‘Fine man, finnnnnee! You all stayin’ at the Holiday Inn?’
‘I don't know, ask Stan, with the hat on.’
Stan told her to get out before he knocked her out and another bloke gave Pete a cloak he’d made and we made for the back door. Blokes blocked the exit and a foot and arm came through. Stuey pushed the arm and kicked the foot and four guys shoved us into the car. Tony said, ‘Off you go lads,’ and back we came to the Sheraton. Stuey said they might come looking for us so we all stayed in Mick's and my room and Mick and I gave birth to a song called I Can’t Git No Breakfast in Texas which may or may not ferment. We mucked around watching T.V. It was about 1 a.m. and no room service so it was pretty boring as we know each other well. We'd seen John and Yoko earlier, also Stevie Wonder. Roberta Flack and Sha Na. Na. We discussed the merits and faults. Presently people wandered in. Stan, Stu, and Tony returned from the hall with expenses paid by the promoter in accordance with the contract. Lee had walked from the gig losing Zee and Richard Cromelin (a reporter) somewhere on the way. They eventually came and the room was pretty crowded. Two extremely large ladies one white and one black, the latter with the hugest tits I’ve ever seen, sat at the bottom of my bed, and two very suspect young gentlemen with dyed hair and more than a touch of colour in their cheeks, sat quietly - content to be there.
Mick had a clothes sale as is his wont now and again. All of a sudden he’ll empty a huge pile of stuff onto the bed and the bidding commences. Richard Cromelin buys a top, Lee buys a jacket, and a pair of snakeskin boots and Zee also buys a jacket. I get a shirt and a pair of good pants off him and Zee gives me a pair of clogs with laces that I've had my eye on for a little while. He won't take any bread at all and I’m embarrassed but grateful.
We discuss promoters with Tony. You see, over here everybody is given a contract of the conditions under which we will play. They stipulate the size of stage, piano and organ in tune, time for the roadies to set up the gear and the all important sound check. Well, they always sign the contracts but a large majority of them don't even bother to check the clauses therein and they get you there by bullshitting how wonderful you are, how people are really waiting to see your band, how great the clubs he'll take you to after are, and how expert the groupies are. You get there and usually the piano and organ will be there but maybe one Leslie cabinet instead of two. The stages are usually good but because of bad organization somewhere along the line the sound system isn’t even up and by the time it is up it’s time to let the kids in. Now this guy has broken the contract and he knows it and he’s known it all along, but he’s sure you'll go on: (a) because you’d seen the kids and you can't let them down; (b) because he can be very nasty if you don't go on.
Tony's policy now is: (a) the band don‘t even go to the city unless pretty sure of the gig and if they do get there they still mustn't gig unless everything‘s arranged down to the last five minutes for a sound check. In this way the band doesn’t see the kids and feel rotten and (b) if people want to get nasty with Tony, then he gets nasty back and has ample help to do it.
This evens the whole thing up, making the band as hard as the promoter. Obviously you suffer on a few gigs. One hears lurid tales of promoters announcing the group have ripped off the kids and he’s innocent of the whole thing. The band is always the mug and we've been trying to alleviate this situation. We want to play to audiences, we love to play anywhere, anytime, but the audience and us must have the best sound possible so's they can get into it and we can too. It may seem hard to walk out as we did last night, but those kids would not have known of the problems involved and would have judged us on a very bad sound. The Rainbow comes to mind. My God the sound was so bad I nearly fainted with embarrassment. So fuck it, I hope it gets around soon that if the rider isn't fulfilled we don’t work. The sooner the better for everyone.
By the way, all we got for those two days wasted in Texas was $1,000. That’s about a third of what it cost to get us there, back and hotels, etc. See what I mean - mugs.
The green has left us far behind and Michigan is ready for a white Christmas. I hope Mayor Daley doesn’t cancel this gig as he did the last time we were here with Johnny Winter. The engines are quiet so we cruise inwards and downwards to Chicago. O’Hare Airport is one of those. You can wait an hour sometimes more just to land.
I’ll admit it, I don’t like Chicago. A guy can say good evening here and make it sound like an invitation to duel. It looks so innocent and cute down there, but that's just a snowy facade. I never walk the streets in Chicago. Maybe it's my paranoia, but you can stick it. The sooner I’m in Cleveland, the better.
We're on with The New Riders of the Purple Sage tonight, and I’ve never seen them so that’s something to look forward to. We’re going down. A pilot missed the runway last week killing a fair few people on board. Ice on the runway - solid ice everywhere, but the sky’s blue. How can the sky be blue when it‘s six degrees out? Pass other airline buildings - Northwest, Continental, Eastern, United, one small Ozark (sorry, three small Ozarks), T.W.A., A.A., and finally into Delta. No ice here and up goes a Jumbo like a huge bullet headed eagle after its prey. The portable gangway concertinas into the front left side of the plane and people stand in a row like sheep and try to read what I’m writing. Up the gangway and through the sea of ever staring straights. Turn right and head down the gangway for the baggage - one hell of a walk (I eye a wheelchair but as usual I daren’t) and then I rip into the news-stand but they've no music papers and nothing particularly horny either. Back down the main corridor and left again down an escalator and a short walk to the Delta baggage area. I’m writing this and watching for my gear on the rollers. My desk is a Chicago newspaper stand sporting copies of the Chicago Sun Times, and Chicago Today in their ovens, 10 cents for dailies and 30 cents for Sundays. This baggage area's like any other and I can see my bags.
Bloody hell, it’s enough to freeze your balls off! Icy cold darts through jeans, through your legs and out the other side. The limo isn't allowed to stand, wait, stop, load or unload or anything else so he’s gone round the back and we amuse ourselves daring the cold. Some loader cocked my suitcase right up. The handle’s gone and the hinges too. It’s 4 p.m. already and I’ve got to get another one from somewhere before the shops shut. American baggage loaders are notorious. I complain to the Delta man. He more or less says it's a wreck anyway, but gives me a bit of tape which proves hopelessly inadequate. Here's the car and on into Chicago. The Holiday Inn at the side of the lake next to the lake tower where we stayed the last time. I remember having a row with a bird at the side of the lake and watching dead fish float by - that was 18 months ago. We’re all on the 18th floor. I’ve got the single today, 1802; it overlooks the lake which is undecided as to whether it should ice over or not. At the moment it's half
and half. Lighthouses flash in the distance and in the foreground a modern low block is outlined in a square of yellow lights.
Phally and I ring Trudy and Elaine. They go back on Wednesday and I make arrangements for her to pick me up at the airport on the night of the 23rd. Mainman’s having a small party with David, the Spiders and us, everybody who’s made the latter part of ’72 successful. That’ll start to happen as soon as we get into London on the 9:45 flight. Then everyone will split for a well deserved holiday before the New Year and (we hope) the year.
Tiredness is beginning to show. The soap spews its suds all over bottles in my toilet bag instead of sitting neatly in its box. Dirty socks get stuffed in with clean ones and one tends to wear one’s underpants another day longer. Bags appear under my eyes and it becomes more of an effort to do anything. My dreams tend to be more evil of late. I‘ve always killed someone and am on the run and I always wake up before I’m shot, but I dream of a murderer and it’s pretty bloody awful. Drama.
Drama too, at the sound check. New Riders said if we sound checked more than two numbers they were going home and the promoter said he'd cancel the gig if they did. We conceded and then they tried to get us to go on before the folk singer, Eric Anderson, who would get the mood going for their quiet C.W. approach. This we wouldn’t agree to and that was O.K. in the end. The two numbers sounded bad and we all came back to the hotel somewhat jaded. Talcum powder had spilt all over my brown leathers and the arse was split so I spent half of the three quarters of an hour we had to get back to the theatre doing them up. Quick hairwash and shave and Stan was banging on the door: 7:45, time to go. Eric Anderson was on when we got there and I liked him, but it’s going to be difficult for him. James Taylor, Cat Stevens, the syndrome is saturated and it’s difficult for a folk singer to captivate. He did well, however, and got an encore.
The promoter laid on wine and sandwiches and the hospitality was good. The Chicago Auditorium is a beautiful place and the feeling is good, but somewhere between an encored folk singer and the New Riders I think we might die. My doubts proved groundless though, and apart from the high hat-stand freaking Buff, things turned out well. We did a long and lusty encore - went back on but just felt like rocking and we didn't do Dudes just Honky Tonk and the audience was great. We worked with the crowd at the end . . . ‘Give me, give me, give me the honky tonk blues’. It was a gas of a gig overall. Thank you. C
Chicago don’t forget us. We left during New Riders’ act and the slide player was absolutely great. I turned from the stage to leave, Stuey was hustling, and I’ll swear I saw Jeff Beck; in fact I know I saw Jeff Beck but he was engrossed in the slide player too so I left it at that. Mick got a standing ovation for his solo in Ready for Love and under the circumstances we couldn’t have done better.
The film White Christmas is on with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye and Rosemary Clooney. Tony enthuses about a building here where people apparently live and die. It's the largest apartment building in the world and it is totally self-sufficient. Entertainment, shops, all services, you never have to leave the building all your life. Salute the first generation of battery hens and, of course, Defiries would like some of the action. As we drove back that evening we saw it. A frightening monster which sways three feet from side to side in the north wind. 50-storey office blocks mathematically leave their numbered office lights on to effect huge Christmas crosses, even our own Holiday Inn sports a huge cross. I never dug Christmas much. I only wish I could get into it like the commercial picture it is supposed to be. Poor old self-pitying me - an envious agnostic. To me it's just hassle but to some it’s really beautiful, relaxed, quiet family time and I'm jealous as hell for not naturally feeling this way. I think it’s mainly because I have two children whom I don’t see very often and T.V. makes Christmas a kid’s day and I feel such a bastard. Still, I suppose it’s soon over. Sorry to drag reader, but I'm writing what I’m thinking at the time, and red wine takes its toll and it's valid because everyone gets pissed now and again. It’s a release from this shithouse game we’re in. See you tomorrow.
Sunday, 17 December 1972
Another foot of snow fell last night. Somebody said it was zero and the Cleveland area is reported to be getting between three and seven inches of snow. The Cleveland airport has in fact been shut now for two days. United Airlines having already spent $60,000 keeping passengers in Chicago hotels. There is a waiting list of God knows how many people and they're all in pretty bad moods. The check-in desk resembles a dole office. The occasional shaking fist and loud words being exchanged between harassed businessmen and earnest young men on behalf of their flying machines.
I'm sitting on the plane now and I don’t know how it happened but we're in first class again. Stan shepherded us to the second class compartment and then stated dramatically that there were no seats and it was all over. A dainty young fellow (we were surrounded by the buggers) who serves the drinks heads us back again and owing to some mix-up on the company’s part, we’re first class. Far out, as long as they don't charge us the extra. The plane slowly reverses out and the young man is making me a bloody mary, I ask for a tomato juice and that’s the nearest he's got - the little devil.
The hostess goes through the routine, ‘These are your magazines, please take them with you.’ A chick goes through a fictional air hazard - fasten your seatbelts, don’t smoke, if we crash bend forward with your head on a cushion between your legs. (You’ll go quicker that way.)
The engines build and the young fellow has now changed from his grey suit to a dashing tartan type affair - a flashing smile from even teeth - silly twit. Out along the length of runways leading to the big one - it looks like Siberia through the porthole.
I'm wondering if Ritchie, Phil and Dick are going to make it in one piece. If they broke down in this weather in a secluded spot there's no telling what could happen. I just can’t see tonight's gig happening, but we’ll all try for it. Already we’ve lost Bob the light man, Zee, Lee and Stuey. Tony‘s here and Stan and the band. Buffin was naughty last night and we’re all ashamed of him, he’s apprehensive about the outcome. An Aztec Hereford baby would be really something special. Still like the young ’uns to have a good time now and again. Oh ar, long as they keep the noise down.
In Cleveland we're staying at a Hotel Sheraton again, and I fluke a single room owing to a balls-up at the desk - my lucky day. Mick, Buff and Phally go down to eat. I follow for something to do even though I'm not hungry and we bump into a couple of guys from Dr Hook who are supporting us tonight. I congratulate the singer on his incredible vocal on Sylvia's Mother and Mick tells them about their film which we saw on Top of the Pops. "They’d never seen it and they didn't know they got to no. 2 in the charts either. They said they're coming to England and Europe late February/March and we say we'll see them later. Nice easy-going guys. I have a feeling they'll be good on stage. Mick says Phil told him that the New Riders had a bad time last night in Chicago. C.W. isn’t exactly the ace music in that city anyway but I won’t forget that steel player in a hurry. I’m a bit tired. It’s 3:30 p.m. and a black guy is on T.V. saying how the Cleveland police bully and maltreat blacks. He says Cleveland’s east side is one of the worst criminal areas in the country. That’s nice, we’re right in the middle of it. It's rumoured that Columbia Records are going to wine and dine us this evening, but I'll believe it when I see it. Still, Dr Hook are Columbia's too, so it would make sense. The sound check was late, but the roadies did a hell of a job getting through from Chicago when lorries lay strewn all over the place on the way along the roughly 250-300 miles journey. Dr Hook have already had a sound check and apparently they're a bit like the New Riders. The titles of their songs are somewhat rude, one’s called Let's Ball and another is worse, but I forget it now. Stan, my informant, is inclined to exaggerate anyway, and I wouldn't wish to credit them with titles hyperbolized in Stanley's wonderful but mangled head.
We had about an hour at the gig - only rehearsed two numbers, the rest was g
etting little things fixed. Dee Dee and Daria turned up, our earliest fans from the first tour. We met them in Cincinnati on the day Iggy walked on the people's hands. They both look just the same. Daria is slightly heavier owing to the recent appearance of a baby called Justin who's now six weeks old and thriving. She didn’t want to know the father, she just wanted the baby, and she’s 20 now so I suppose she knows what she's doing. Anyway, we only had an hour 20 minutes so we scooted back to the Sheraton for our respective toiletries.
8:15 saw us shining in the lobby and a real buzz was on - the place is a sell out and Tony even sent down his own tickets to help out. By the time we got there they’d sent 200 away on top of that so at last we're playing - like an English gig - where everybody knows us. Wine and beer but no food, the tight sod. We arse about the dressing room in good spirit. The current game being who can photograph Stuey, who has an aversion to cameras. We're getting changed and Pete brings in his leopard-skin boots, the first reserve. I get a fit of the shakes. They're expecting a lot tonight and I hope we can live up to it. Stan comes down for us; up a few stairs and we hear the roar as the lights go down and the intro music plays. We'll have to get rid of this intro thing altogether, it's too long.
Here we are, sea of faces. My bloody mike’s not working - run over to Mick's, first fuckin’ number and my mike’s off! I feel big - Sucker moves along great, Mick painfully twists notes through his solo. Everybody's happy. Biffo threshing away and Phally quietly smiling. Pete's got his eyes shut under that mane of blue silver hair and Mick, as always, looks slightly perplexed with the whole procedure. They stand up when I announce Ready for Love and applaud again when Mick starts to sing. I can't believe ‘em, and they give me encouragement too as we start Sea Diver. Mick's and my voices are both a bit rough. Constant changes of climate and time irregularities have left us slightly weak and vulnerable to sore throats, colds, etc. Mick gets through Ready for Love O.K. but I fluff on a note in Sea Diver. I do a little semi-scream and a laugh to get myself out of it, hoping the crowd understands. Angeline wasn't as good as usual, but One of the Boys was great – about the best we've ever done it. Goodnight everybody, thanks for comin’ and up went the roar as we trooped off. We're all jumpin'. It was definitely about the best we could have pos sibly done and it sounds like it was good enough. Grab a quick beer. Stan says don’t do Dudes but we feel we have to.
