Right now, in California, I was after the most humble of US licences: a single engine landplane (as opposed to seaplane) licence, which would allow me to fly around day or night as long as I stayed nowhere near a cloud and avoided other aircraft, objects and people by use of the Mark-I Human Eyeball, two of which are fitted to this human unit and fully serviceable.
I equipped myself with maps, or ‘charts’, as my instructor insisted I call them, and a circular computational slide rule from the Second World War, plus pencils, Plexiglas rulers calibrated in nautical miles and a protractor to measure angles.
Ever the master of pragmatism, the US conveniently published all of the questions on their database for the written examination. Ever the model of free enterprise, books were available with the answers to all thousand-or-so questions, along with worked examples of weight and balances, navigational, technical, aerodynamic and regulatory problems.
I imagined people with brains the size of planetariums who didn’t go out very much constructing these books, which now, of course, are all available on the internet as interactive instruction programmes.
I spent early evenings and sometimes late evenings with my head down, bashing through the syllabus and practice paper after practice paper. The pass mark in the exam was 80 per cent, and it was conducted by computer, which created a bespoke test for each individual. The inconvenient truth was that it was possible to cram for the test and scrape a pass. It wasn’t my intention, but it was nevertheless a possibility.
My strait-laced but laid-back instructor started to quiz me as we progressed through our flying, to simulate the test. The winter weather in Los Angeles can be surprisingly unhelpful. Coastal fog, three-day deluges and mountain-wind effects can all conspire to scupper the most determined schedule. If it rained I did groundschool; if it was foggy I must admit to a fascination since childhood: what daydreams and apparitions could it contain? I would eat breakfast at the Spitfire Grill by the side of the runway and watch the rolling tumbleweed of sea mist curl around the control tower as the airport sat in eerie silence. It was then that ghosts appeared. The ghost of the Douglas Aircraft Company that built the DC-3 right here in Santa Monica.
The airfield was originally known as Clover Field, and aviation started there in 1923. Just offshore lay Catalina Island, with its airport perched atop the fog when it rolled in. Over the mountains to the north was the Mojave Desert, scene of The Right Stuff and still home to mysterious spooks of its own, including US Air Force base Plant 42 at Palmdale airport, with Lockheed Martin and the infamous Skunkworks.
I loved the desert. When I obtained my licence I would often hire a plane and fly out to near Joshua Tree or Apple Valley. If it was early enough in the morning, the silence after cutting the engine was deafening. My breathing was the loudest sound. The effect on the mind was like dragging a rake across a disordered patch of sand or gravel. The desert seemed to soothe and calm the tempestuous mind that always bounced off the inside of my cranium. It was not inspiration; it was exhalation and nothingness.
I soloed my first three landings at Mojave airport. My instructor said I had been ready 10 days before, but the landing traffic at Santa Monica was always ridiculous, sometimes up to 20 aircraft in the circuit at once. So we delayed until our first cross-country flight, which was to Mojave.
I remember him being very quiet for the whole trip. We landed and the engine was still running as he opened his door on the Cessna 172.
‘I’ll be in the control tower watching,’ he said. ‘Three landings and then shut down in front of the tower.’
I was on my own at last. To be honest, it was quite anticlimactic. I would have been far more emotional had I soloed after six or seven hours back in Kissimmee, where they cut the tail off the shirt you were wearing and pinned it to the wall when you went solo.
Conditions were ideal – no wind, enormous runway – so I shut down in front of the tower and completed my checklists. Solo meant I could, after a couple more trips to different airfields with my instructor, fly solo cross-country flights on my own. In fact, it was a requirement, including one solo flight of 240 nautical miles in one day with landings at three different airports.
I was approaching my flight exam. The examiner was booked and I felt confident. My written exam was passed. I just had to complete seven more hours of cross-country solo flying. Saturday afternoon, the skies clear of cloud, was a glorious trip to Palm Springs and back, roasting hot on the ground but a little chilly at 9,500 feet on the way out. One more trip would do it, so I planned to fly to Las Vegas and back on the Sunday with an early start, leaving plenty of time to get back before sunset.
The first time you are really scared in an aeroplane is a memorable event, and I have never forgotten that Sunday. I have had other situations since then when I could have been as scared, or maybe should have been, but this one experience acted like a kind of vaccine for the soul. Be afraid and be scared, but panic will kill you, not fear.
The clear blue sky, the calm wind and runway 03 at Santa Monica airport beckoned. I was the very first person to start his engine that Sunday morning.
The weather in Las Vegas was benign, and I decided to fly along the mountains that topped 8,000 feet before turning north through the Cajon Pass up into high desert, some 3,000 feet above sea level.
The take off was smooth, the sky deserted and I quickly picked up a radar code with a helpful controller who would advise me of any other traffic. Uncle Sam was watching over me.
I climbed to 7,500 feet and it started to get cold as I paralleled the snow-capped peaks, heading out over Ontario airport and towards San Bernardino. Shortly before turning north into the jagged gash that was the Cajon Pass, I felt the tail of the aircraft rock from side to side, then a couple of bumps under the belly, which knocked the nose upward. I levelled the wings using the control column and steadied the tail by exerting more pressure with my feet on the rudder pedals.
‘Any reports of turbulence?’ I asked Uncle Sam.
‘Nope.’
He sounded bored. Not much going on at 8.30 a.m. on a Sunday morning. The bumps continued. This was becoming tedious. I took a quick look on my chart. I would descend 2,000 feet to 5,500, and escape the lumps and bumps that were disturbing my otherwise perfect day.
I thought I would tell the controller – not that he was controlling me – and I did detect a hint of uncertainty in my voice as I announced, ‘I’m just descending 5,500 feet to clear this turbulence.’
‘Okay.’
Now he really sounded bored. I started a gradual descent and the rocking ’n’ rolling stopped. As I approached my chosen altitude I opened the throttle and started a gentle left turn in the Cajon Pass. Below me lay the speckled grey hills and interstate arteries of California, rail and road, climbing the steep incline from sea level to the plateau 3,000 feet above.
At that precise moment a sleeping giant awoke. Invisible but tangible, it seized the back of my aircraft and twisted it like a wet towel, smashing my head from side to side in the cockpit. Next, a giant invisible fist smashed the top of the wing and pressed down, forcing me into my seat as I realised that the altimeter was unwinding rapidly and I was going down.
I raised the nose and applied full power. I looked at the vertical speed indicator: it was pegged at over 1,000 feet per minute down as the vicious brute smashed at the tail upward, downward and sideways. The wings rocked as I fought with the control column to keep them level. My nose was high and I heard the bleep of the stall warning system telling me that any further nose-up and I would lose what little lift I had left to fight the monster crushing the small piece of tin that was my life-support system.
A momentary calculation as I looked ahead at the rising terrain: it was at 3,000 feet; I’d started at 5,500 feet and was going down at 1,000 feet per minute or greater – with full power. My hands were slick and I could feel sweat dripping from my armpits and dribbling down my chest. I could see the headline: ‘The fool who thought he could fly’.
At this rate I had maybe two minutes to impact . . .
I forced myself to grip my terror, and I squeezed it really, really hard. I had my fear by the throat in one hand, and with the other I thought to crash the aircraft somewhere survivable, so I’d better start looking below. The whole area was swathed in power lines. Great. Electrocution or decapitation – both best avoided. And then . . . the evil giant relinquished his grasp, to be replaced by mischievous angels.
My ears popped and I swallowed to clear them as my tiny machine was borne heavenward on invisible wings. The altimeter was rising again and the vertical speed indicator was pegged at over 1,000 feet per minute upward. I pulled the throttle back to idle – to no effect. I was being tossed upward like a feather and I was drifting over to the other side of the V-shaped pass. The entire cycle had lost me 500 feet, and as I approached the top of the ridgeline again, the whole rollercoaster started again. Down I went, full throttle; up I went, throttle at the idle, all the time losing around 500 feet as the ground came up to greet me with each iteration.
Finally, I staggered through the pass and out into the high desert with about 1,500 feet to spare. I still had another two-and-a-half hours of flying before I got to North Las Vegas airport. Somehow, I made it.
I landed in Vegas and bought an omelette and chips. I was so shaken up I thought I might just give up. I was sick to the pit of my stomach, though luckily I am not one to decorate the toilet with good food.
Out of the Frying Pan
‘Tears of a Dragon’ was the big track on Balls to Picasso, and most of it was done at Goodnight LA Studios. Of the various other tracks, most of them sounded emasculated, and that was just a product of the people involved. I didn’t feel any closer to a new beginning, except when I worked with Roy Z, who enabled me to be myself as opposed to overthinking who or what I should be. Gradually, the pendulum was swinging back to more conventional rock ’n’ roll, but I loved the rhythmic nuances that Roy and the Tribe offered, the sheer groove that was available.
One thing was clear to me. The word ‘cathartic’ was starting to apply to the entire process, and flying was amplifying my reality. I had written a song called ‘Original Sin’, which was about the relationship between me and my father. It never made the album, but it’s one of the darker songs from the Keith Olsen sessions. I felt quite guilty about the chorus. Maybe it was just me feeling sorry for myself; maybe it was too cruel.
Tell me father where have you been
All these years, in original sin
I saw you each day, we had nothing to say
And now it’s too late to begin
Whatever the result of the song – good, bad or indifferent – it was those words that made me wonder what I was doing in Iron Maiden, given the way the albums were going.
I spent my days in a strange mixture of euphoria and uncertainty. One morning the LA Times lay strewn around the floor, most of it disposable advertising supplements, and I managed to locate the bits pertaining to actual news and opinion. ‘Thought for the Day’ was a feature I seldom noticed, but on this day I read it. It was a quote from the writer Henry Miller: ‘All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without the benefit of experience.’
So at that moment I decided to leave Iron Maiden. You can blame Henry Miller.
You’d imagine that for such a potentially life-changing decision I would have made a plan, but, whether from naivity or just plain enthusiasm, I hadn’t.
Rod Smallwood came round to the studio in LA and I played him some of my material.
‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news,’ I said.
Rod shifted in his chair and started to look a trifle uncomfortable: ‘What’s the bad news?’
‘Well, the bad news is that I feel I have to leave the band, so I thought I’d tell you first.’
‘What’s the good news?’
‘Well,’ I began brightly, ‘now you have a whole new solo artist to manage. You’ll find another singer for Maiden. It won’t be so difficult. There are plenty of them about.’
He didn’t look convinced.
‘Shall I tell Steve?’ I asked.
‘No, no. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll deal with it all.’
And, of course, he did deal with it, in exactly the way you would expect of one of the best managers on the planet. I still don’t know what he told the rest of the band, but I’m sure his mind was already spinning damage limitation and making plans to avoid a rock ’n’ roll Chernobyl in the media.
The two live albums released in the wake of my resignation were not the finest in our repertoire, and the second, A Real Dead One, seemed almost prophetic in retrospect. Nevertheless, my departure was stage-managed so as not to disturb the delicate equilibrium between perception and reality.
I would do one last tour, followed by a one-off TV special featuring an illusionist called Simon Drake. I happily agreed to be sacrificed in an Iron Maiden at the climax of proceedings, blood gushing out of my mouth as the spikes penetrated my body.
Just to make the point, the cover of the single, ‘Hallowed Be Thy Name’, featured yours truly being skewered through the chest while being toasted over the fires of hell like a long-haired marshmallow.
Not exactly a flying start to a solo career, but then again people who left Iron Maiden had traditionally fallen quietly into obscurity or been reduced to karaoke-style nostalgia. What happened now was entirely up to me.
Balls to Picasso had limited success. In retrospect it should have been a much harder and heavier album. Much of this could have been achieved if Roy Z had produced it, but out of caution Shay Baby was given the honours. It was a little too early to throw Mr Z into the pot headfirst. I think Maiden fans were variously angry, confused and many other emotions as well over my departure.
As the old military adage goes: ‘no battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy’. The nearest war going on was in Bosnia. I was about to have that first contact.
Into the Fire
The phone rang at home.
‘How would you like to do a gig in Sarajevo?’
‘Isn’t there a proper shooting war going on?’
‘Oh yeah, but it’s all sorted by the UN. You’ll be fully protected. It’s all planned out.’
We weren’t protected, there was no plan and the bullets were real, but fuck it, we went anyway.
Metallica and Motörhead supposedly turned it down. I’m not surprised. If I had been their manager I would have done too. I didn’t exactly tell my manager. In no way did what happened resemble what was supposed to happen. What did occur became one of those events that changed the way I viewed life, death, other human beings – and traffic lights.
I got a band together and we loaded up 500-pounds of equipment onto a 737 and embarked on a military charter flight to Split, in Croatia. The aircraft was half full of soldiers who looked at us with faint disdain. They were paid for putting themselves in harm’s way; we were getting paid zero. It was winter in the Balkan mountains. I bought a rucksack. I wore my army boots on stage anyway, plus the old Swiss Army greatcoat I had worn for the video of ‘Tears of a Dragon’. Underneath, I had my old smock from my TA days. Lots of pockets, nice and warm, plus a woolly hat. I shoved a bottle of Jameson whiskey in for good measure. I thought a bottle might go down well with our organiser. His name was Major Martin and he had his own rock show on Radio Z1D, which was a local station still broadcasting in Sarajevo itself.
The plan was to arrive in Split, don flak jackets and blue UN helmets, jump in a Sea King helicopter, fly to Sarajevo, do the gig and come back. Job done.
We got as far as Split. I saw the helmets and jackets piled up in a corner of the arrivals hall. A Colonel Green met us, and no, this was not a game of Cluedo.
‘Are you chaps the British rock band?’ he said.
It was one of the more obvious questions I have ever been asked. I nodded.
‘Well, sorry, but you have to go home. Here are your boarding p
asses.’ He brandished out return travel documents. We would be going back on the same aircraft that had brought us.
‘What if we don’t go?’ I asked.
‘Next flight is in one week,’ replied the colonel. ‘In any case, there are no spare helicopters and the weather is bad. Also, the UN have got wind of it and Akashi doesn’t want to upset the Serbs.’
Akashi was the UN envoy with a reputation for appeasement.
Colonel Green walked away, obviously busy with more important things than a bunch of crazy long-hairs wanting martyrdom.
Outside were row upon row of white-painted UN trucks and armoured cars. This was a major military base as well as a civilian airport. I was sure we would start getting in someone’s way very shortly.
A cameraman from a Reuters news team walked over. They had been hanging around in a corner of the tiny arrivals area.
‘I am Bosnian. This is bullshit. We can get you into the city,’ he said.
At the risk of invalidating the little or no life insurance that any of us had, I engaged in further enquiry: ‘Go on.’
‘There is a tunnel. A secret entrance. We can get you in. It’s how we resupply the city.’
‘Okay,’ I said, slowly turning the wheels in my mind. ‘How do we do that?’
‘I am friend of President Izetbegovic. I call him and get permission,’ he declared proudly.
He started putting loose change together and squeezed his body into a tiny phone booth, chatting away intensely for a couple of minutes. Finally, he put the receiver down.
‘Well? What did he say?’ I asked.
‘He’s not in right now. He’s busy.’
I looked at our small pile of gear, at the ragtag band of faces and a terrified Roland Hyams, a publicist who had thought this was going to be like Glastonbury without the chilled Chablis and yurts.
What Does This Button Do? Page 21
