by Rick Wakeman
The stewardess came over to our seats and told us that special arrangements had been made for our safety and would we please accompany her to the front exit door of the plane?
When they opened the doors, there was pandemonium. Later reports put the crowd at 100,000 people. There was a parade of sleek black limos right next to the side of the plane, each with two or three besuited security men in dark glasses standing by an open door, a veritable cavalcade waiting for Funky Fat Fred and myself.
We were guided into the nearest limo and as soon as we got in a security man asked us for our passports and papers. We didn’t go anywhere near customs or passport control this time, but instead were whisked straight out of a side exit to the airport and headed off to Rio. Even more insanely, when we got close to Copacabana Beach the streets were lined with even more people, shouting, holding up my records, waving banners and flags. It was pure madness. I will own up to loving every minute of it. I mean, who wouldn’t?
It turned out that El Globo, the media company backing the whole venture, had a virtual monopoly on the newspapers and radio and TV, and so had been plugging the events almost ceaselessly for weeks. I also learned that they’d invited other big bands from Europe to play there, but no one would go. So it was one of the most anticipated music shows in Brazil for years. Then someone showed me the equivalent of the Melody Maker charts and my records were at numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5. The biggest and best symphony orchestra and choir had been confirmed for the show as well, so this was going to be about as big as it got.
As we drove through the city I enquired about the indoor venue we’d be playing and what it was like, if the capacity was known and so on.
‘It’s at least 35,000 at each show each night, Rick. You are playing two shows a night for six days. They all sold out months ago.’
OK, so now I knew that we did have a following in Brazil.
We pulled up at the hotel and there was an armed guard waiting to escort us from the limo into the foyer, again for safety reasons. When we got to our rooms there was an armed guard posted outside each door and we were not allowed to leave under any circumstances. Although I’ve played in some fairly popular bands, I’ve never really considered myself a pop star and I certainly haven’t felt my life has been impeded in the way that big pop stars experience such things. But in Brazil I could understand some of these problems. As you know from my antics in Poland and Moscow I’m pretty adept at slinking off, but in Brazil I just couldn’t go anywhere without being escorted or without detailed military planning. My minders had their reasons, though, as I would later find out. If I wanted to go to the pool, they would say, ‘When, exactly? And for how long? And who is going with you? And who might meet up with you while you are there?’ They even cleared certain areas of the pool. And when they asked us these questions, it always sounded so comical when I’d reply, ‘Well, I might meet Deal-a-Day or Funky Fat Fred, if he isn’t too pissed.’
Let’s take a quick diversion to the pool before I continue my tale. It was like a United Nations mission just getting to a sunlounger. Finally, on one afternoon I made it to the pool and was very much enjoying relaxing in the sun and sampling the local alcohol.
Suddenly this very English voice says to me, ‘Hello, Rick, how’s London?’
It was Ronnie Biggs.
There, in a nutshell, is one of the very odd aspects of being a public face, of so-called celebrity – or perhaps notoriety, I should say in my case. People who are complete strangers know you and, if they are equally high-profile, you know them. Yet actually you don’t know each other at all, you are indeed complete strangers. It’s a forced intimacy that is really quite odd. Sometimes if it’s a fellow musician or, in my younger days, a very beautiful actress, then it’s very handy. But when it’s Ronnie Biggs, it’s really rather peculiar.
‘Hello, Ronnie,’ I said jovially.
‘How you doing? Can I join you for a beer?’
This trip was rapidly becoming something like a surreal dream. There I was, sitting by a pool in Brazil, visibly armed security guards watching my every move, supping on a beer with Ronnie Biggs, Great Train Robber and escaped prisoner! We talked about jolly old England, football, the government, all sorts. Then I said, ‘Do you miss England, Ronnie?’
Just as the words left my beer-drenched lips, an absolutely stunning Brazilian woman sauntered past us wearing a thong bikini and with her bosom heaving and glinting in the heat of the glorious sun.
I looked at Ronnie, Ronnie looked at me, we both looked at the girl and he said, ‘Yeah! Of course!’
We chatted some more and he revealed that he was really looking forward to the shows. I said if there was anything I could do to help re tickets etc. to let me know. Ronnie smiled and said, ‘Well, actually, Ricky, I have got a few friends it would be nice to look after . . .’ and as he spoke he pointed at some other sunloungers which were occupied by some ‘friends’. All English, mostly Londoners and obviously not on holiday. I burst out laughing, and so did all the guys.
Over the next few days, we chatted regularly. He spoke about music, sport, even the Great Train Robbery on occasion. He was a very articulate man and very interesting and it was fascinating talking to him. It reminded me of a bygone age when entertainers, police and criminals all dovetailed together. It still goes on to a certain extent, of course it does, but back then there was a certain interlinked dynamic between the underworld, the showbiz world and the legal world.
Anyway, one day Ronnie asked me if I would do him a favour. He’d recently divorced from his wife and she was now living in Australia. Ronnie asked if it was possible that the next time I played Down Under I could deliver her one of my albums. I said, ‘Of course!’ And some months later, I did exactly that . . .
The funny thing was that the police and Special Branch must have been watching at some point, because a few days after I landed back in Blighty I got a visit. Two men asked me what I was doing in Australia and when I said ‘on tour’ they replied, ‘And did you give anything to anybody?’ That was when I cottoned on that they had obviously been conducting surveillance on Ronnie’s wife.
I said, ‘I’m a musician. I was fourteen when the Great Train Robbery took place – do you think I took a day off school to help them out and hid the money in my satchel or something?’ To be fair, they laughed. They asked me why I had been seen meeting Ronnie Biggs’s ex-wife.
‘Because I’d been asked to deliver a copy of The Six Wives of Henry VIII in person.’
They laughed some more and left.
Back in my suite at the top of the Rio hotel, there were so many rooms it was hilarious. It was bigger than my house . . . which was pretty big itself. It was absolutely barking, it truly felt like a Beatles experience.
When it came to the shows we had to be smuggled out, do the soundcheck under tight security and then be smuggled back to the hotel. The orchestra down in Brazil was absolutely sublime. One of the great things about that mini-tour is that we still hold all of the indoor records for those places. We were doing 35,000 a night but that level of capacity was clearly so dangerous that, fairly soon afterwards, limits were put on of around 18,000. So no one can ever come close to our crowd figures!
The unattached members of the band were also having a whale of a time, and found themselves ‘attached’ very quickly and very easily. I distinctly remember opening a linen cupboard in the hotel only to find one of the band in flagrante with a Brazilian woman I’d never seen before. And all he said, as cool as you like, was, ‘I’m looking for a clean towel, Rick, and this kind young chambermaid is helping me.’
‘Well, she won’t find a towel where she’s looking,’ I said.
During the course of those few days, I absolutely fell in love with Brazil and its people. They were so warm – they didn’t always have much but they couldn’t give you enough. They smiled and they loved music. Most restaurants had tambourines or small instruments on the tables and when the house band started playing everybody just jo
ined in. They don’t walk anywhere, they just seem to dance. The food was fantastic, the people were just so happy and they were so pleased that we were down there. We were having the most wonderful time.
But just when we thought it couldn’t get any more bizarre, we had a message one day saying that a very important ‘someone’ had come to see me. Security came up to my room and I was escorted in silence in a private elevator downstairs. I was taken to a small room and when I walked in, there, sitting in front of me, was one of the most famous Brazilian international superstar footballers of all time, Rivelino.
I didn’t know what to say, I was so shocked. The Brazilians are all football nuts so it was a great privilege to even meet him. The whole of Copacabana Beach was filled with goal posts and I saw some of the greatest football in my life played on that sand. If there was a spare bit of ground they’d be kicking around a ball . . . or dancing, or singing or playing.
He’d brought a translator with him and through this man he said he’d heard I liked football. I told him, ‘Very much so.’
‘I hear you have a football team with your band and your people,’ he enquired.
‘Well, we do have a kick-about now and then, for fun, yes.’
‘Well, would you like to play a game while you are staying with us here in Brazil?’
‘Yes, that would be fantastic!’
At this point I was thinking we might sneak out into the hotel car park and have a ten-minute knockabout.
‘I will arrange it all,’ he said, via this translator. ‘We will contact all the press and work with the stadium to organise the match . . .’
OK, so this wasn’t going to be in the car park outside, then . . .
‘. . . And I will get a team from the press together for the match at Fluminense Stadium.’
This was the Brazilian equivalent of playing at Old Trafford.
He explained that the match would have to be played close to midnight as otherwise the heat would simply be too much for us Brits. With that, he made his way out. I could hardly believe it, bearing in mind that I was just thrilled to meet the man himself. The day before, they asked us if there was anything we’d like and we said it would be really nice if could get a team strip. No problem. Then I asked if we could go to the ground in a proper team coach, which again they said was no problem. Come the evening of the match, we were half pissed by the time the coach arrived, having a fantastic time.
I figured that, playing so late at night and being a bunch of British rock-and-rollers versus a team made up of the media, it would be a quiet bit of fun, like one of those games played behind closed doors.
On our team coach was a man called Roberto from El Globo. As the coach weaved its way through the thronging crowds of Rio, I chatted with him and asked him why there were so many people out late at night. The place was swarming.
‘Oh, they are going to a football match.’
These Brazilians, eh? They love their bloody football.
‘Really? Brilliant, who’s playing?’
‘Why, you are, Rick.’
The coach pulled up at the stadium and there were 30,000 people there, a capacity sell-out.
At eleven o’clock at night.
It was nuts.
Then we caught sight of the numerous TV crews who were all covering the game live from pretty much every angle. By now, nothing surprised me.
We went out there and had an amazing time. The press had some really useful players – I think some of them had even played professionally at a high level with the glittering Brazilian leagues. We had a couple of tasty players too – one guy called Toby had even had a trial for Carlisle (or maybe he had been on trial in Carlisle, it was one way or the other anyway).
We lost 4–2 but I never actually got to hear the final whistle. With about ten minutes to go, a Jeep suddenly roared onto the middle of the pitch. Then these huge security men leapt out and grabbed me, lifted me off the ground and virtually threw me into the back, at which point the Jeep thundered off the grass and drove off out of the stadium.
‘What on earth is going on?’ I asked, not unreasonably.
‘We’ve just had a kidnap threat against you.’
I was safely back in the hotel in what seemed like minutes. Kidnap or no kidnap, I didn’t care, I’d had the time of my life.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, we did get paid.
Well, only a little bit, but no one was counting.
Mervyn Conn would have been proud.
EPILOGUE
Remember Igor, my friend from Russian security who helped me smuggle two illegal military uniforms and $2,000 out of Russia? Well, fifteen years later I was at Heathrow Airport when I saw a man in a queue whom I swore I knew. I caught his eye and he walked over with a huge grin on his face.
It was Igor.
After we’d said hello, I asked, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Well, my country is changed now, the Wall has come down and everything is different. My job is no longer existing, so I work in senior position for government airline to seek out new airports to operate from and to look for new routes that might be possible for Russian people.’
‘Fantastic, Igor, what a job!’ I enthused. ‘What sort of places are you researching?’
‘I just back from Bermuda and now I fly to Barbados. No good for airline, but for me, is good,’ he said with a smile. ‘And you? What have you been doing?’
‘Oh, crikey, well . . .’
My mind filled with thoughts of Paraguay, Deal-a-Day, Portugal, heart attacks, cars, breeze-blocks, Snow White, Rupert the Bear, Funky Fat Fred, vintage champagne, Peter Sellers, my nan and Che Guevara . . .
‘Oh, all sorts, Igor, all sorts.’
We chatted for a few more minutes and then Igor’s expression turned a little serious.
‘Rick, can I ask you a question?’
‘Anything, Igor.’
‘Did you know how much trouble you could have been in over those uniforms?’
‘Yes, I did. Thank you again for all that.’
‘And do you still have the uniforms, Rick?’
‘Yes, I most certainly do.’
He explained that, ironically, since the Wall had come down and so many military jobs had become obsolete, the uniforms were now freely available at markets all over Russia.
‘Is ten a penny now, Rick.’
I laughed and said, ‘Igor, can I ask you a question?’
‘Anything, Rick.’
‘Do you still have the vinyl records I sent?’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘Even The Yes?’
‘Even The Yes. The vinyl, they came to me very fast and I thank you, Rick.’
‘Well, since CDs came in, they’re ten a penny too.’
Is good.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It is actually impossible to name everybody who has contributed to my life in one way or another, and therefore in turn have contributed to many of the adventures I relate in this book, but a few do deserve a special mention, as without them I may well have walked through completely different doors in the music and entertainment industry.
Firstly, two men, (both sadly no longer with us). Oscar Beuselinck was the greatest showbiz lawyer you could possibly wish for and he certainly influenced and helped me greately as indeed did David Moss, who was my accountant for fifteen years up until the mid-eighties. David fought valiantly throughout this period to inject some financial sense into my head, but eventually admitted defeat!
Brian ‘Deal-a-Day’ Lane, was the epitome of rock ‘n’ roll management and I could quite easily write a book on him alone, but he probaby wouldn’t be happy with some of the chapters!
Jerry Moss and the brothers Ahmet and Nessui Ertegun were the greatest bossesof A&M records and WEA respectively and the likes of which will never be seen again.
On the Grumpy side of things, I really must acknowledge my great friend Stuart Pebble, who was the genius behind the Grumpy Old
Men television series.
I could probably fill this book with names of people that perhaps I should have acknowledged, but if I listed them all, then it wouldn’t leave any room for the stories that many of them played their part in, and so, if you are somebody reading this that feels they should be included in the acknowledgements . . . then I acknowledge you!
ILLUSTRATION CREDITS
Section 1
Rick at the Festival Hall, 1974 © Mirrorpix
The Strawbs, 1970 © Michael Ochs Archives/Gettyimages
Rick portrait © GEMS/Redferns
English rock ensemble © GEMS/Redferns
Yes, 1976 (top left) © GAB Archives/Redferns
NME front cover, 1974 courtesy New Musical Express
King Arthur on Ice concerts © Jonathan Player/Rex Features
Lisztomania © The Ronald Grant Archive
Lisztomania © Everett Collection/Rex Features
Rick and horse © Michael Putland/Retna
The cast of King Arthur on Ice © Mirrorpix
Rick in No Earthly Connection cape © Andrew Putler/Redferns
Section 2
Rick playing chess © Neal Preston/Corbis
At the keyboards: top © Ian Dickson/Redferns, middle © Adam Pensotti/Rex Features, bottom © Fin Costello/Redferns
Rick and Eric Sykes © Jules Annan/Retna
Rick on a tractor © Keith Butler/Rex Features
Yes © Fotex Agentur GMBH/Redferns
Sydney Entertainment Centre © Bob King/Redferns
Rick in a submarine © David Corio
Yes, 2004 © Mick Hutson/Redferns
Photographs not listed are from the author’s personal collection.
While every effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright material reproduced herein, the publishers would like to apologise for any omissions and will be pleased to incorporate missing acknowledgements in any future editions.
INDEX
The following items may be used as a guide to search for information in the eBook.
