London (AP) Americans – brace yourselves.
In the tracks of the Beatles, a second wave of sheepdog-looking, angry-acting, guitar-playing Britons is on the way.
They call themselves the Rolling Stones and they’re due in New York Tuesday.
Of the Rolling Stones, one detractor has said:
‘They are dirtier and are streakier and more dishevelled than the Beatles, and in some places they’re more popular than the Beatles.’
Says Mick Jagger:
‘I hate to get up in the morning. I’m not overfond of being hungry either.’
From Keith Richard:
‘People think we’re wild and unruly. But it isn’t true. I would say that the most important thing about us is that we’re our own best friends.’
More than the others perhaps, Brian Jones likes clothes. He puts his philosophy this way:
‘It depends on what I feel like really. Sometimes I’ll wear very flamboyant clothes like this frilly shirt. Other times I’ll wear very casual stuff. I spend a lot of my free time buying stuff.’
Then he adds:
‘There’s really not much else to do.’
Misgivings about this first trip to America were by no means all on America’s side. The Stones took off from Heathrow airport on June 6 almost as unhappy about the whole idea. They knew only too well that when the Beatles had reached America four months earlier, it was on the strength of a single lodged firmly at the top of Billboard magazine’s Hot Hundred. Their own first US single, Not Fade Away, coupled with I Wanna Be Your Man, had, since its mid-May release, barely scraped into the Billboard list. Only Andrew Loog Oldham remained unperturbed. The Beatles, he reminded them, had taken two years and three flop singles to ‘break’ in America. Oldham believed he had the contacts and the nerve to make things happen a lot faster than that.
The Rolling Stones were to be launched in America, not as r & b iconoclasts but – in the subtitle of their US debut album – as ‘England’s Newest Hitmakers’, overtly exploiting the craze for British pop which the Beatles had started and which was now too great for even the Beatles to satisfy alone. In this so-called British invasion, the Stones were following some of the groups they most despised – Herman’s Hermits, Billy J. Kramer, the Searchers. ‘Everyone we really hated seemed to be doing far better in the States than we were,’ Bill Wyman remembers. ‘They’d had a number one record, done a good tour, good TV. We’d got nothing like that to look forward to. No wonder we were depressed on the way over.’
What few newspaper reports of their coming had appeared in America all picked up from the line from Associated Press – that the Stones’ chief characteristic as a group was barely believable ‘dirtiness’. The only exception was Vogue, a magazine then under the inspired editorship of Diana Vreeland. Vogue devoted a full page to David Bailey’s portrait of Mick Jagger, looking upward from his penny-round collar with big-eyed, schoolboyish winsomeness. ‘To the inner group in London, the new spectacular is a solemn young man, Mick Jagger,’ Vogue reported. ‘For the British, the Stones have a perverse, unsettling sex appeal, with Jagger out in front of his team-mates … To women, he’s fascinating, to men a scare … quite different from the Beatles, and more terrifying.’
The scene at John F. Kennedy airport, when the Stones landed on June 2, was all too obviously an attempt to recreate the Beatles’ famous touchdown four months earlier. A crowd, numbering hundreds rather than thousands, screamed somewhat wanly as a bevy of girls came forward to greet the arrivals, accompanied by four symbolically shaggy Old English sheepdogs. The screams were over well before the Stones entered the terminal, watched by US Customs and Immigration officials whose thunderstruck revulsion suggested them to be irregular readers of Vogue. That first walk down the synthetic red carpet unloosed, on every side, a cry which would be repeated in scales of horror and derision throughout almost every state in the Union: ‘Why dontcha get ya goddamned hair cut?’
With no hit single to their credit, the Stones merited scant promotional help from their US record label, London. It was left to Andrew Loog Oldham to whip up a rather pallid semblance of the Beatles’ celebrated imprisonment inside the Plaza Hotel. The London Daily Mirror, next day, was persuaded to run a story that the Rolling Stones were barricaded inside their – much less grand – Manhattan hotel for fear of girls with nail scissors, threatening to cut off lumps of their hair. The tale was rather spoiled by an agency picture of Brian Jones strolling down Broadway in a loose silk shirt and sleeveless bolero but producing no more public reaction than any other freak encountered at noon in midtown Manhattan.
For the Stones’ American TV debut, Oldham could arrange nothing grander than the Les Crane programme, an obscure talk show transmitted in competition with the Late Late Movies, whose semi-somnabulistic host contrived such penetrating questions as ‘You guys all dress different – how come?’ ‘Because we are all different persons,’ Mick Jagger answered in the lisping public school accent he had adopted for transatlantic use.
Worse was to come in Los Angeles two nights later, when the Stones appeared on Dean Martin’s Hollywood Palace TV show, sharing the bill with circus elephants, acrobats and rhinestone-studded cowboys. As the show was pre-recorded in separate segments, the Stones could not know that Dean Martin’s script was full of ponderous attempts to be funny at their expense. ‘Their hair isn’t long,’ quipped the crooner. ‘It’s just smaller foreheads and higher eyebrows …’ ‘Now don’t go away, everyone,’ he pleaded humorously as the show broke for commercials. ‘You wouldn’t want to leave me with these Rolling Stones, would you?’ Later, introducing a trampolinist, Martin quipped, ‘That’s the father of the Rolling Stones. He’s been trying to kill himself ever since.’
The West Coast pop fraternity, by contrast, provided good friends and still better object lessons. As protégés of Phil Spector, the Stones were received as VIPs in what was, after New York, the world’s recording capital. Spector’s advice to Oldham at the Not Fade Away session had been to get the Stones with all speed into an American recording studio. In addition to touring, they were booked for a session at RCA’s Hollywood studio and, later in Chicago, at Chess Records, the self-same studios used by Chuck Berry, Muddy Waters and virtually every other blues master they had ever idolized.
A good friend on the West Coast was Sonny Bono, soon to find fame with his wife as Sonny and Cher, but at this time merely an energetic music PR and promotion man. ‘Sonny met us at the airport in these way-out clothes – striped trousers and scarves and bangles,’ Oldham says. ‘The Stones had never seen clothes like that before. When Sonny opened the boot of his car, there were stacks of records in there – about a thousand. That blew our minds as well. In England, you never saw the records like that, actually on their way to the punters.’
From the West Coast, the Stones embarked on what was not so much a tour as a series of random one-nighters, booked by Eric Easton in London, often with no knowledge of the event, the promoter or the venue. Their first American performance, at San Bernardino on July 5, was in an old-fashioned pop jamboree, sharing the bill with Bobby Goldsboro, Bobby Vee and the Chiffons. Here, the omens seemed promising. They easily outplayed their competition and finished their show fronted by kneeling, crash-helmeted police to fend off hundreds of entreating arms. ‘It was a straight gas that night,’ Keith remembers. ‘The kids knew all the songs and sang along with them. Especially when we got to Route 66 – they roared out ‘San Bernardino’ like a football crowd.’
That euphoria was to be short-lived. At the Stones’ next date – a ‘teen fair’ in San Antonio, Texas – they were required to play standing on the edge of a water tank full of trained seals. In a 20,000 capacity arena, only a few hundred seats were filled. The London Daily Mirror reported that the Stones had been booed – although an acrobatic act and a performing monkey on the same bill were both called back for encores. The Mirror quoted a local seventeen-year-old’s scornful remark about the ‘New Beatles’: ‘All the
y’ve got that our school groups haven’t got is hair.’
In Omaha, Nebraska, the arrival of the New Beatles was taken ludicrously in earnest. The Stones were met at the airport by a squad of twelve motorcycle cops and delivered, with wailing sirens, to a 15,000-seat auditorium where approximately 600 people awaited them. ‘We couldn’t see it at the time, but all that was really doing us some good,’ Keith says. ‘In England, we’d been used to coming onstage, blasting off four numbers and going. America, that first tour, really made us work. We had to fill up the spaces somehow.’
In New York and Los Angeles, the Stones had seemed wild enough. In the American Midwest in 1964, their effect was literally traumatizing. Incredulous revulsion, on the faces of policemen, town sheriffs, hotel clerks and coffee-shop waitresses, greeted them wherever they went. ‘I’ve never been hated by so many people I’ve never met as in Nebraska in the mid-Sixties,’ Keith says. ‘Everyone looked at you with a look that could kill. You could tell they just wanted to beat the shit out of you.’
* * *
The bright spot of their journey was to be their recording session at Chess Studios in Chicago. Oldham had been determined not to waste this precious opportunity on run-of-the-mill r & b material, and had succeeded in finding the Stones a first-class soul song to record at Chess as their next single. The song, It’s All Over Now, had already been a minor hit for its composer Bobby Womack and his group the Valentinos. The publishing rights, Oldham learned, were controlled for Womack by his business manager, a New York accountant named Allen Klein.
Chicago was all but poisoned for the Stones by the spectacle of themselves on the Hollywood Palace TV show, recorded a week previously. Even after doing the show, they had not realized the extent to which they had been just fodder for Dean Martin’s boozy jokes. Jagger was particularly outraged that they should have been set up as stooges, and at once telephoned Eric Easton in London to scream at Easton for having booked the spot. In fact, as Oldham said, the Stones probably gained fans as a result of Martin’s behaviour.
Next day, they arrived at Chess Studios, on South Michigan Boulevard. As they walked in, so did a black man with a chubby, kindly face and a small Oriental moustache. ‘It was Muddy Waters,’ says Bill Wyman. ‘He helped us carry our gear inside.’
Two formative days passed at Chess, under the supervision of Ron Malo, a house engineer responsible for some of the greatest work ever recorded by Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley. What Malo had done in the Fifties for Berry and Diddley, he now did for the Rolling Stones, cutting back their native looseness and disorder, focusing tight on the essentials which they themselves still could not see. Under Malo, for the first time, they played, not as a scrabbly rhythm section but in the broken-up style developed by blues masters who had sung and played lead guitar simultaneously. The first few seconds of It’s All Over Now, with Keith Richard’s bass tremolo growling like the bark of a large dog against Brian Jones’s country pizzicato, represents the start of the Stones as, above all, an irresistible compulsion to dance.
No less formative was the mood of the song itself: a lyric about losing love, sung by Mick Jagger with a triumphant and delighted sneer, released at last from the tedious affair and its tiresome ‘half-assed games’. Perfectly in counterpoint with the fang-sharp sound, that callow voice grimaced its poison-pen phrases, uncertain – as it would ever be – whether it spoke as victor or victim. The mimic was becoming his own man at last.
Muddy Waters dropped in frequently to talk to the Stones during their session. So did two more of their great Chicago blues idols, Willie Dixon and Buddy Guy. The bluesmen were naturally full of benevolence towards the young Britishers who had given their songs a new lease of life. Later on, even the great Chuck Berry came in to inspect them. Rock ’n’ roll’s poet laureate, though not best known for charity towards young musicians, thawed considerably in the light of the composer’s royalties the Stones were earning him. He praised their version of Reelin’ and Rockin’, stayed to watch them work on an EP track, Down the Road Apiece, and invited them to visit his nearby estate, Berry Park.
The session concluded, the Stones euphorically called a press conference outside the Chess building on South Michigan Avenue. Several dozen screaming girls turned the occasion into a riot which ended only after a senior Chicago police officer strode up to the Stones and snarled, ‘Get outta here or I’ll lock up the whole goddamned bunch.’
They had been back on tour only a day or two when Phil Spector, in New York, picked up his office telephone to hear Mick Jagger’s voice, speaking from a hotel room in Hershey, Pennsylvania. ‘Everything here,’ Jagger moaned, ‘is fuckin’ brown!’ The Stones that night were performing in a town named, and largely decorated, in honour of its principal product, the Hershey chocolate bar. ‘The phones are brown,’ Jagger wailed, ‘the rooms are brown, even the fuckin’ streets are brown …’
The tour’s last weary leg through Pennsylvania and New York State was interrupted by some cheering news from home. In Record Mirror’s annual popularity poll, the Stones had pipped the Beatles as Top British Group. Mick Jagger had been named Top British Group Member. The Beatles held their lead only in the Year’s Best Single category, She Loves You winning narrowly from the Stones’ Not Fade Away.
With the release of another US single, Tell Me, and strategic plugging of their ‘England’s Newest Hitmakers’ album, the Stones, at long last, seemed to be penetrating the consciousness of teenage America. The tour ended in New York on a definite high note with two concerts at Carnegie Hall, scene of the Beatles’ triumph six months earlier. Both concerts were promoted by Murray ‘the K’ Kaufman, the influential New York disc jockey whom John Lennon had first introduced to the Stones (largely to get the egregious deejay off the Beatles long-suffering backs). Thanks to Murray the K’s promotion, the Carnegie Hall concerts were each an immediate sell-out. At the first, Stones fans started running wild before a note had been played. The police forbade the Stones to close the show as planned: instead they were forced to appear halfway and escape during the first interval.
Their return to London, just as America was waking up to them, struck converts like Murray the K as perversely ill-advised. The truth was that Oldham could not afford to keep them, or himself, in New York a minute longer. Oldham had already calculated that, for the whole tour, he and the Stones would receive earnings of approximately ten shillings (50p) each. The story for the British press was that the Stones were returning – £1,500 out of pocket in air fares – to honour a booking, made months earlier when they weren’t famous, to play at the annual commemoration ball of Magdalen College, Oxford.
At Heathrow, they were met by a hundred girls and a bevy of newspapermen whose interest was now something more than perfunctory. To one reporter, Keith ingenuously showed the handgun he had bought in America, he said ‘as easily as candy floss’. Mick Jagger was met by his girlfriend Chrissie Shrimpton and on enquiries about how he felt at having been placed sixth in Record Mirror’s Best Dressed Pop Star list. ‘It’s a joke,’ Jagger replied, speaking in a cockney accent once again.
It’s All Over Now was released in Britain on June 26. Advance orders of 150,000 copies put it instantly into every trade paper’s Top Ten. Within a week it had risen through the Merseybeat barrier, to challenge and then displace that summer’s big surprise hit single, the Animals’ House of the Rising Sun.
The organizers of the Magdalen College ball were therefore not a little astonished when, halfway through the night’s open-air junketings, it was reported that the Stones had turned up as arranged and were bringing in their equipment. Even the Beatles, generally honourable about bookings, had, the previous year, accepted £500 to play at Christ’s College May Ball and had then failed to appear. The Stones’ fee had likewise been settled months earlier when they were still only semi-famous. None the less – for reasons never fully apparent – they insisted they must keep their word. It doubtless weighed with them that a major blues artist, Howlin’ Wolf, was also du
e to appear at the Magdalen event, and that they ought not to give ground to its other main pop attraction, Freddie and the Dreamers.
The writer John Heilpern was one of Oxford University’s few dedicated Stones fans who purposely crossed the floodlit college lawns, uproarious with patrician cries and steel-band music, to the marquee where the Stones were setting up their equipment in a mood of evident disenchantment. ‘They were all deeply pissed off about having to play,’ Heilpern remembers. ‘They’d been booked to do an hour, so they managed to spend at least the first forty minutes tuning up. Brian Jones already looked zonked out of his mind. There was a sense of vague leadership from Mick Jagger. When he started, everyone did. At first, they didn’t try; they were hissed and booed, which obviously delighted them. Then, all of a sudden, they all snapped into it.’
It was a moment, for Heilpern and many others, signifying the start of what would one day be termed ‘the counterculture’ but what, that night at Oxford, seemed more a question of class turned upside down. The surly, middle-class boys, playing American r & b, were patently a new aristocracy, just as the dinner-jacketed throng, jigging up and down before them, would become part of a willing new proletariat. The noise spread, through the canvas walls, across grass strewn with debs and duckboards, drowning the steel band. More and more young men in tailcoats, clutching girlfriends and champagne bottles, came in to hear the Stones, and dance.
PART TWO
FIVE
‘MY CLIENT HAS NO FLEAS’
Until the 1960s, the Berkshire industrial town of Reading was one of the quietest, most boring places to be found in the entire British Isles. Its only notable architectural feature was the grim Victorian prison where Oscar Wilde was incarcerated and wrote his famous Ballad of Reading Gaol. Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit factory, itself rather resembling a prison, wafted rich, jammy scents over a drab redbrick townscape whose only other notable literary appearance was in Patrick Hamilton’s comic novel Mr Stimpson and Mr Gorse. Reading was the very last place on earth one would have looked for an Austrian baroness, let alone the girl fated one day to become Britain’s most notorious scarlet woman. Yet there they both were, living in modest Millman Road – Eva Sacher-Masoch, the Baroness Erisso, and her daughter, Marianne.
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