by Tyla Pallas
Now here I was in Tucson, walking down the main street I spied a guitar shop, I say shop, I walked in it was like a guitar warehouse, an affordable guitar heaven, old Gibson’s galore, I didn’t know where to look, what to touch, what to play. Then I found her, The Guitar with no name. Of all the ones to pick I picked a late 1940’S Arch body F hole sweetheart that sang a pretty tune when I strummed her strings, be them a bit rusty and in need of a change. I played her for the rest of my time there, and she lives with Eli and Lauren in Chicago, because the name of the store I bought her from in Tucson Arizona was ‘The Chicago Music store!’ I wrote some cool tunes on her, most of Bloody Hell Fire and some of Quinquaginta. She sleeps in the windy city awaiting my call.
Three days I spent in Phoenix, and so I did a bit of painting. I wont repeat my painting on the walls by mistake story for I fear it lurks somewhere within these pages.
After Arizona I took my life in my hands and hoped in the hire van, now with seats and all humans together, be it on top of the gear, no not top gear, on top of the gear. I opted for the suicide seat up front next to SC Pete.
-Yeah man Nikki Sudden used to sit just where you are man, he’s read and then fall asleep until we got to the showman.
-Well Pete that’s not saying much is it? He’s dead.
He died in the Chelsea hotel in New York back in 2006. Last time I saw and spoke to him was on the Dogs Alice Cooper slot in 2002. He was still going on about giving me the idea for Last Bandit, like a little kid. And funny thing was I’d made a Treasure chest of wood to home my Lullabies for tough guys album in 2000, which had a track Treasure Island, and he released an album titled Treasure Island in 2004. So we laughed it off as lateral thinkin’
Of my time in Chicago I managed to get a copy of his last album, ‘The Truth doesn’t matter’ of all he released it was my favourite. He left on a good note. Up there somewhere with his brother Kevin ‘Epic Soundtracks’ knocking the Angels hearts about.
And so we rode into Hollywood, to play the Knitting Factory. It was the New York Knitting Factory that was to be Nikki’s last show. I was hoping this wasn’t going to be mine.
Far from it as I’m still here be it five years later, but a bloody hell of a lot wiser, I think Fatherhood, Parenthood shoots that into you pretty quick, while all you childhood memories come flooding back. It’s a strange but wonderful feeling. Noncomparable with other senses like those light bulb moments. In my case writing a song or creating a piece of art.
Just when I thought I knew it all, I find out I know very little. Or not as much as I thought I knew.
The first time The Dogs played Hollywood it was at ‘The Club With No Name’. Its was towards the end of a solid month of touring the US so we were as you say a little worse for wear. It had been quite a trip. Starting off in Boston, then up top Canada, then back down to New York and across through Chicago, weaving south and down on to Texas and to LA. To see most of the US is quite a daunting thing, to see it in a month is madness, all the info thrown at us was hard to swallow, brain and stomach wise. Back then I really didn’t know what to make of it all. Ever since I could remember I had loved everything about America, the cars, the films, the music, everything seemed to come from the US and it was always so cool. So imagine my shock when I landed there to see loads and loads of Japanese cars and come across a load of, well what can I say, narrow minded full of themselves arseholes, or in their own words ‘assholes’. The ones we didn’t get into fights with we felt sorry for. Years later I realise that most Americans never ever leave America, if they do travel it to the same place every year, basically they never wander far from their state of birth. The ones that do like the rest of the world may have something to offer the world other than bigotry and bullshit. Don’t get me wrong I think about 20,000 or so, going on record, book and art sales Americans get what I’m about, it’s the other trillion I’m worried about, am I being a bigot ere now? ah well anyway there we were in Hollywood. We were travelling in one of those big Florida coaches having a blast. We did an interview or two before the show as was the norm those days. I recall talking to a red headed girl while our support act Mother Love Bone were on. They weren’t really my cup of tea so I was at the bar chatting here n there, next thing I know we are on. The gig was fine and we made our way back out on to the bus and I was asking my guitar roadie Deptford John if he had seen that red head I was talking to before the gig. He went back in the club and found her and bought her back to the bus. Meanwhile there was a bit of talk going on as to the fact that Axl Rose from Guns and Roses had been at the show and somehow got himself thrown out and beaten up which had somehow involved the wing mirror from our bus and his head. I tried to find out what had happened but he had already left. Then Deptford John came out with the fact that Axl had tried to get up on stage for what reason I had no idea, maybe to stage dive, have a sing-along, well then apparently he had called John an asshole, which is funny cause John was a GNR fan, but he said he didn’t recognise Axl, so he was thrown out and duffed up by the security or something. Well for whatever reason Mr. Rose to this day can not stand the sight of me, shame really as I hear he likes art.
That’s very nice of you young man, we’ll have that.
It was a late Autumn eve Jo Dog and my good self had been sampling the fine ales of the Sun Inn, in Barnes, London, located just on the right past Olympic studios. Drinks provided courtesy of our record company via our Manger at the time Mr. Brandy well. Now this back bar was a hive of celebrities from radio, to TV to Film and of course the music biz, as well as de frocked priests amongst others. Christopher Lee would pop in for snifter at lunch, as would that fellow of to the manor born, as well as heads of big US labels such as Motown, in fact we’d been introduced to and even managed to get Paul McCartney to get the round in one afternoon. Me and Bam had just come back from our first US tour, so we were full of it, on a roll, You could tell Macca was just excited for us, a splendid fella, he even remembered me a few years later when I was involved in a War Child art event - put together by Brian Eno, that was quite a nice surprise, as I don’t really mingle in those circles. But anyway there we were me and Jo, when who should pop in the pub, none other than Alan Price, one drink led to another and before we knew it he had invited me and Jo back to his place round the corner for a jam, his living room was full of Hammond B3s Fender Rhoades at a wild guess and one acoustic guitar, which me an Jo took it in turns to play, well somewhere over the next few hours Alan commented that we, well probably Jo played that ovation better than he ever could and suggested we take it home with us. No sooner said than I called a taxi and we bid good night to Mr. Price. The very next day, our manager was on the blower to us trying to track down the Ovation. Apparently Mr. Price had given it away by accident! I never did know what happened to it but I’m sure Steve got his hands on it, as I once remember swapping him my 1979 Telecaster for a pair of Black Fizzy Jeans a scarf and a skull ring he’d made out of melted down pewter candle sticks. I also lost a Hofner Senator 50’s guitar (story to follow) and one of my Fender Twin amps along the way, maybe it was Karma, what ever sorry about that Alan, no hard feelings eh?, You did after all say, its yours take it!( In Geordie) And if I’m quite honest I’m not a big fan of Ovation guitars, they are impossible to play if you’re sitting down, the rounded back keeps slipping off your lap!
While on the subject of guitars… (Note. Geordie accents here, way I!) As I mentioned earlier on with regards to the back bar of the Sun Inn in Barnes amongst the congregation of actors, voice over merchants and blokes who ‘ad the plans to wot they woz gonna do wiv Battersea powa stashun was a defrocked priest, who went by the brilliant name of Brian. I liked Brian, we told jokes and drank Guinness and whiskey. He had apparently been de frocked and shunted out of Ireland for what he described as a misunderstanding amongst the locals in the village somewhere near Dublin, or was it Cork, anyway ’I’d shagged all the housewives he openly admitted with his boyish grin. I think he must have married into money cause
it wasn’t an still isn’t cheap to own a house in Barnes. Anyway during a lunchtime drink I had mentioned that I had seen this beautiful Hofner Senator Guitar at a second hand shop in Paddington for a snap at £250 but was lacking the readies to purchase said item. He then informed me that his missus, the Boss wanted the house tarting up with a slap of paint and that he would get her to employ me for £250, Simple task. It wouldn’t take longer than a few days. So we had another drink and shook on it. Next lunchtime we met in the pub, had a few liveners and walked up to the house, where we had a few more liveners and at this point Brian pulled out a beautiful Martin acoustic. He showed me a few chords and in fact lent me the guitar which I took home that very day, and not having even picked up a paintbrush I just remembered the chords he had shown me, but not in the right order, but because I couldn’t I managed to reassemble them into a song which I called ‘How come it never rains’. Next day same plan, but this time we managed to get a few windows stripped with the help of a blow torch. As I couldn’t get to the tricky bits we decided to remove the windows, which had sash chords, which for those of you in the dark is a method involving weights inside the window frame allowing the windows to move freely up and down, or not if the rope was rotten, as it was in many London Houses I bloody lived in. Anyway out came the windows along with these whacking great big lead weights, we laid the frames down on the carpet. What we didn’t take into consideration was that the blowtorch had heated up the lead weights and when we placed them on the carpet they burnt dirty great grooves in the carpet. Brian suggested we said nothing to his wife and he would cover them somehow when we had finished. I don’t remember doing a lot of painting but I do remember just drinking a lot of whisky and him telling me story after story, and once he’d paid me £250 I didn’t feel like painting anymore so he had to get Don, an up an coming music mogul and professional painter and decorator in to finish off the job, who I hear got the blame for the burnt carpet.
I got the Hofner, but somewhere along the line misplaced it near Hampton Court. And Brian got his Martin back once I’d had the headstock replaced as it had a tiny accident whilst in my company, but it was my girlfriends’ mom who knocked it over!
My Dad has never quite grasped the concept of what I do.
-Who writes all the music then? He asked me.
- I do. I replied
- But you can’t write music.
- No I can’t write music down on paper Dad, its in me head.
- Well how the hell can the other members of the band see what’s in your head then?
- Well, I show them
- That can’t be a pretty sight eh?
- Who writes all the words then?
- Me, and the others some times, and yes we do write them down.
- What you singing about then? He asks
- Everything Dad, everything!
- Blimey, here I am in my Eighties and even I don’t know everything, How old are you now 29?
- I don’t mean I know everything Dad, I just write about things I see, hear, and read, you know?
- So you can’t write music but you write the music…are you making a living out of it? No chance of you getting a proper job then, in the near future that is eh?
- No Dad, I wont be getting a proper job in the near future.
I asked me mum what she thought of our (The Dogs D’amour) debut performance on Top of the Pops back in 1987. She said, Yes very good, but you could have tucked your shirt in, it was all hanging out at the back!
And upon asking my niece’s who was their favourite singer was I got the reply, Michael Jackson of course! Serves me right eh?
I’ll never forget the time, my sister Tricia, niece Niki, and my Aunty Gladys came down to see us mime at the Radio 1 road show in Swansea. After our slot we all went back to the hotel for a quick drink. No sooner had I finished my drink when our radio pusher said we had to leave to get the train back to London. Goodbyes were said and off we were whisked into the sunset. Us long gone drinking warm British Rail beers and vodka in the 1st class carriage to Paddington, cut to the hotel bar in Swansea where my family are just finishing their cups of tea and pop than the waitress comes over and hands them the bill for the lot, including our alcoholic beverages, £20 in all. Remember this was 1989, so in today’s money that’s about £500 or thereabouts. Tricia didn’t have any cash so Aunty Glad who was always dishing out fivers coughed up. On the next table is the radio 1 DJ Mike Read, and he pipes up, ‘that’s typical Rock Star behavior to leave your family with the bill!’ They did see the funny side to it, and I did give Aunty Glad the £20 when I saw her next, with which I think she promptly paid for our pub lunch and gave me a fiver for sweets.
Nothing could have prepared me for India. I had read one hell of a funny book called ‘Are you Experienced’ by William Sutcliffe, I think was his name, I sat and read it in one sitting and laughed until my sides hurt. I would recommend it.
So lets start at the beginning of my adventure. It all came about when my mate Fiona Long Tattooist and cat woman and Corgi owner said to me she had a spare ticket going if I fancied a trip to India, all I would need was spending money. Sounded like a good deal, an I said I’ll get the Visas as I was staying in London, should be a breeze. I set my alarm for 6 am as I intended to be at the head of the queue. I got there just before eight am to find out the Indian Embassy was shut due to it being Gandhi's Birthday. Next day same plan, I got there just before 8 to find about a million people already queuing up, and most of them were...well Indian. I was in the queue for a while when a kind old Indian fella told me, Indian people love queuing, you should come back at 12 noon and you see it will be empty. So I did, and it was, except I got a little ticket and told to come back at 2 pm as it was now closed for lunch. So I went and did likewise and while I was about it after reading an article in the Times Style section about the difference between paying £30 and £100 for a haircut, I decided to track down a bloke who works from a room above a pub in Berwick Street. All I could see was a door up the alley next to the battleship. I knocked on it and as I did a bloke came out the pub cleaning a glass, I assumed he must work there so in enquired. Do you know of a bloke who cuts hair around here? And as if by magic standing in the street was the bloke who cuts hair, dressed in a Crombie. Suited and booted. Very Lock Stock.
I’m just off over to Mayfair to trim a client, is 2 o‘clock any good? He asked. No I’m off to the Indian Embassy, how about 4 ish?
Agreed.
Enroute back to the Embassy I found a nice little French Bistro had a carafe of Beaujolais. When I got back I found it was seriously busy and it just seemed like chaos, but somehow within a couple of hours I’d got both our Visas glued into mine an Fiona’s passports. Result! Now then off to Berwick Street for a £30 cut n blow.
-Marilyn Manson is a really nice bloke, My missus is designing his wedding. I spent a few days with him in ‘is hotel suite drinkin’ then he gets the call his car’s ready so he just bungs in his plastic eye slaps on a bit of lipstick an he’s ready. Diamond geezer! My newly found barber informed me.
That was the last time I ever paid to get rid of something. Visa’s sorted, Manchester airport ere we come! I had done absolutely no research into where we going to be staying, all I really had in my head was curry and being between residences I had rather a large bag of clobber with me, mostly winter clobber I might add. Why I decided to take it with me to India I have no idea. After several pints of the black stuff we boarded the plane, again not thinking about the fact that I was now going to be on an 11-hour flight with one stop off in Bahrain. Plus we were drinking the duty free on the plane, naughty naughty, well the Monarch airline staff weren’t the friendliest and the seats if your’e taller than 5 foot ain’t exactly comfortable. But it was basically a time transportation experience, cause had this been in the 70’s everyone on this plane would have been on a package tour to the Costa del Sol, had it been in the 60’s we would have all been on a sharabang to Blackpool or be heading to Butlins. It w
as a working class outing to India, everyone was thinking about curry. Lager, curry and sunshine. Paradise all rolled into one long month. Perfect. We all pilled off the plane in Bahrain and went straight to...guessed it? Yes the bar, we barely had time to finish our pints when it was time to board again. A few more hours and we reached our destination. Goa. Walking down the steps of the airplane the heat of the early morning hit me full on, I removed my leather trench coat, suit jacket and un did my scarf, then I removed my wooly gloves and started filming the ‘no filming allowed’ sign on the runway. It’s a working airforce base so only two commercial planes are permitted to land and take off each day, though with the amount of people backed up onto the runway queuing to get through customs, it seemed to take for ever, I think its that when your waiting in such lines, as with the embassy every minute seems like an hour, so 30 hours later we’re on the sharabang to Butlins, Goa. All our bags were slung on top of the coach, with no restraints and a few Indians up there for good measure, with the traditional wooden cage of chickens. I think they must be good luck charms. Lots of ‘oooohhhh, look an elephant!’ could be heard, including myself. We made a few stops along the way to drop off other holiday makers at the various destinations until finally we reached ours, again a few hours and we were shown our rooms, and then as it was 11am in the morning we all headed to the bar of the complex. Cocktails, beers and sun cream made an appearance. I decided I needed to go and buy some sandals and some lightweight shirts. As I walked around for those first few hours I was greeted with smiles and shouts of undertaker! I assumed this was due to my attire before holiday wear was found, but no it continued after. I later found out that the locals thought I was the American wrestler; ‘The Undertaker’ I didn’t know how to take that as a compliment, or as an insult. I just laughed it off and of course due to my bandana, dirty white shirt, tatty waistcoat and cutlass I was often referred to as Pirate! I didn’t mind that one, ha! Ha! And so we went about our business of being on holiday in India, well Goa, most people who’ve done the whole India thing basically laugh at Goa as just well, for instance visiting London, and then thinking you’ve seen all of Great Britain. When in fact you’ve only seen everyone else from all corners of the earth visiting London, lets face it London is fack all like the rest of the UK. So ere we are, curry for breakfast, lunch an dinner, and we’re loving it. Jumping in an out of putt putts for a few pence, buying lots of tat and drinkin beer an smoking pot! warra life!
