Rockers and Rollers: A Full-Throttle Memoir

by Brian Johnson

  Where was I? Oh yeah. The Citroën Maserati SM was a beautiful creation that came straight from Hell, if you were unlucky enough to own one. Think about it—Italian and French engineering together. That’s like Spaghetti Boulogne, Fettucine Escargot, Pizza Provençal . . . or the Leaning Tower of Eiffel. It just ain’t gonna work. There are many tales of breakdowns and engine meltdowns, of electrics not connected to anything electrical. My mate Walt Bohren spent thirteen years trying to sell his, and when he did, the buyer didn’t make it to the end of the street. Having said that, it is quite stunning to look at, usually standing still. By the way, anyone out there that thinks I’m looking—bugger off!!

  Chapter 58

  Hurley Haywood

  KEEPING YOUR HEAD HORIZONTAL

  Hurley Haywood was a legend among racers, five times winner at Sebring, Le Mans winner, and a true gentleman.

  I was at Daytona, for the first time driving the Lotus Cortina, and it was qualifying day. I was a little nervous, I’d never driven on a banked circuit before, thirty-eight degrees, and I was told not to try to compensate by trying to keep my head horizontal to the world, but to the track. (It’s okay, I didn’t understand, either.) Hurley was driving for the Brumos Porsche team owned by the late, great Bob Snodgrass, who was alive and racing at the time. Bob was a big lad, but boy was he quick.

  Watching Hurley drive around Daytona was a treat, silky-smooth like he was on rails, never a mistake.

  The poor soul was walking past our pit, when he walked over and stood in front of the Cortina, a slight smile on his face. I sat there looking, not knowing whether I should introduce myself, trying to think of what to say. For instance, “Hi, my name’s Brian,” or “It’s a ’63 model,” or something cool. What came out surprised even me: “How about codriving with me in the enduro?” Shit, I said it out loud. Christ on a bike, he’s gonna think I’m nuts. “Sure—what time you going out for practice? I’d like to get the hang of this thing,” he said. Remember, this was the guy who’d hustled 962 Porsches at Le Mans and was quicker than anyone else.

  I couldn’t believe it. I told Thomas, who didn’t smile even more than usual. “What have you done?” he said. “He’s going to laugh at the speed difference.”

  He couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d asked a big-breasted Bantu woman for a blow job. Out he went, Hurley Haywood in my Cortina. He did a few laps and over the radio we heard, “Yeehaw, now this is real rock ’n’ roll.” I asked Hurley what his fee for driving would be. He said it was the most fun he’d had since he was a kid. I paid him in wine (a case of Chablis Premier Cru!). That night, Hurley, me, Bob Snodgrass, Jim Clark’s widow Sally, Brian Redman, and all the guys drank Hurley’s wage packet. Tax free!

  Chapter 59

  The Memphis Belle

  THE NOISE THAT WILL LIVE WITH ME FOREVER

  In 2003 or 2004, I was at Sebring. I was sitting eating lunch in between my practice laps, and the track was quiet for an hour. During that silence, I heard a noise that will live with me forever. It was the sound of four Pratt & Whitney engines that lived in an airplane called the Memphis Belle, the first B-17 to last twenty-five missions in the Second World War.

  And then I saw it. God, it was beautiful! Khaki has never looked so cool. It flew low, very low, circled the racetrack, and landed on the runway next to the track. I dashed over in half-pint, the little car we had for scooting ’round the pits, got out, and just, well, stopped. By now, you’ve probably realized I do a lot of drooling. Stick a B-17 bomber in front of me and I’ll fill a bucket. This thing is, to me, as beautiful as the Avro Lancaster.

  There, standing talking to a small group of people, was a tall, thin man. It couldn’t be . . . ? It was! It was Robert Morgan, the original pilot from the war. I’d seen him in a documentary made about the last mission. I ran over and asked for his autograph. He gave me a photograph of the original crew and signed it. He was softly spoken, and genuinely embarrassed by his celebrity. I wish there were more like him. I take my hat off to him and all the boys who flew and died in these wonderful aircraft.

  Chapter 60

  Concorde

  SITTING ON TOP OF MOUNT VESUVIUS

  The band was in New York City, and we had to get back to England to shoot a video, but we only had three or four days to do it, then get back to the States to continue the tour. “Right,” said the management, “we’re going Concorde.” What!! Ah yeah, the thing you just watched in awe, too expensive to build, too loud for the Americans, and, of course, too beautiful and too expensive to fly in. At airports where they landed, 747s and DC-10s would taxi up behind them and sniff under their tails. Honest! I’ve seen it.

  I was an excited puppy that morning, off to JFK. We arrived at the airport and were immediately separated from the ordinary people. The girl who took us to the “Concorde Only” lounge was gorgeous; the girls behind the desk were stunning; the maître d’ had a nice arse—well, that’s what the guy sitting next to me said.

  Aw man, this was it. There was no boarding call, and no babies, not one, anywhere. There weren’t any fat people—oh my God, brilliant! Then I heard some cheeky git say, “Oh no, just my luck. There’s a Geordie gettin’ on.” The stunner came over and whispered in my ear, “You can board at your pleasure, Mr. Johnson.” Now, I could have taken that the wrong way, if I wasn’t a gentleman. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a gentleman, and made what I thought a brilliantly lewd comment. She smiled and moved on—I think she must have heard it before.

  I boarded. Wow, it’s a little smaller than you think. Very cigar-tube, tiny windows, pretty narrow seats, but who cares? You’re only on for three and a bit hours. The goody bags were brilliant: Concorde Parker pen, Concorde socks, Concorde diary, Concorde stationery, Concorde condoms—imagination ran riot . . .

  Oh, buckle up. Here we go. Jeez, I didn’t realize how high up we were. “We’re number one for takeoff, ladies and gentlemen.” We started. The sound of those Rolls-Royce engines was meganormic. It was a sensation I’ll never forget—more power under my bum than I could have dreamt of. It was like sitting on top of Mount Vesuvius just before it blows, and saying, “This is a handy place to take a shit.” Then it started shaking more than I fancied, and we were off. Holy shit! This is rocking, this is fighter-pilot stuff. Off the ground, can’t see much. The wing’s so big!

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Concorde. My name is Brigadier General Huffington St. John Hertfordshire. I’ll be ably assisted by able-bodied Seaman Higgins, who’s my batman, and my copilot Harry Thompson, who’ll be doing the flying. I’ll be providing the fruity voice. We shall be passing over the slow, ordinary aircraft below. We shall be going through the sound barrier at Mach 1, and then on to Mach 2. You will feel a slight push in the back as we go through the sound barrier.” The sound barrier—aw, man, I’d forgotten about that. We watched the Machometer. It hit one. It felt more like softly broken wind than the sound barrier, but hell, we’d done it. Then up to two.

  The food came; it was beluga caviar, great! Caviar butties are one of my particular favorites, especially with a bit of Daddy’s sauce on. I was just getting stuck into my classic French crème brûlée and fourth glass of Chablis when I heard, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now traveling faster than a bullet from a gun.” Immediately I wanted to go to the toilet. A trigger point? I’m not sure.

  The toilet on Concorde was exciting as well, but that’s a whole other story. Certainly the closest I’ve come to taking a dump in space. Thank God it wasn’t weightless. Back to my seat: food gone. “Sorry, sir, but we’re preparing to land.” What? I could still see space through the window. We were at 55,000 feet in the air; the sky was black. I was just on the edge of space—now that’s got to be some kind of record for a kid from Dunston. Down we came, and landed with a hell of a bang, I must say. Phil said he thinks it was that that knocked his hemorrhoids back up.

  Into Heathrow: three hours, one and a half minutes across the Atlantic—unbelievable! Our big old Daimler Princess pic
ked us all up, and off we went to our hotel in Central London. But there was a traffic snarl-up on the M4—it took us three and a half hours to get to our hotel. Bugger!

  Chapter 61

  The Anal Intruder

  THE TERRORIZING OF AC/DC

  Sit down, children, and I will tell you a tale of terror. Are you sitting comfortably? Right, I’ll begin.

  Many years ago, AC/DC road-crew tour buses were frightened places. No man could sleep, for fear gripped them all (well, fear and copious amounts of cocaine). During the night, a dark, shadowy figure would slink from bus to bus, looking for sleeping crew members. He was known as “The Anal Intruder.” No one could catch him, for he was fleet of foot. No one could recognize him, for he affected a mask with two eyeholes cut in it (but some suspect this was just an old pair of knickers from the groupie he’d just shagged). He wore a cape of scarlet, and had a mouth that salivated constantly (some say it was just old Guinness froth). And on his hands he wore welding gloves. Why? you wonder. You’ll find out. He’d leave his tadger out for all to see. Some say it was the size of a blind cobbler’s thumb. This thing, this gnarled one, this spam javelin was there for fear factor only.

  The Anal Intruder’s modus operandi was to board a bus in the dead of night, having waited until the bus lookout fell asleep, which they always did. He would then prowl the bunks until he found a crewman sleeping on his side, then, with a mighty sweep of his left hand, he would lower their underpants, and, with a terrible gleam in his eyes, he would insert his middle finger in the welding glove right up the crack of the man’s arse. Then he would cackle and shout, “You know you love it!” Another cackle, and he’d be gone. The crew would scream like girlies, but they could never catch him.

  So now you know. It’s not all shagging and having fun on tour buses.

  We never suspected anyone until one after-tour party with all the crew in a huge steakhouse in Texas. All the boys had ordered surf and turf, steak and lobster, seven- or eight-pounders. Walking to the toilet was one of our boys, with a lobster inserted into the crack at the back of his arse. To entertain the other customers, I smiled over and said, “Hey, mate, are your hemorrhoids playing up?” He laughed and said, “Yeah! You know you love it.” A deadly silence fell over the restaurant. It was that voice, the voice of fear, and he was one of our own: Robbie bloody McGraw! The Irishman who is none other than one of the best sound engineers in the world—he’s worked for McCartney, Clapton, U2, and many more. Well, Robbie’s eyes widened as we rushed him as one.

  The next morning we heard from the doctors that they’d managed to get one of the claws out of his arse, but that getting the other one out was gonna sting a bit. But they gave it their best shot. And they told us that Robbie’s eyes had permanently crossed during the night.

  Chapter 62

  Accident-prone

  UNSAFE DRIVING

  Dave Yarwood was rhythm guitarist in my first band, The Gobi Desert Canoe Club. To say Davey was unlucky would be unjust. To say he was accident-prone would be bang-on.

  One of his adventures happened in North Shields. We were driving around in a Morris Minor van with some gear in it. Dave turned right, down one of the steep hills leading to the Fish Quay. On the way down, we saw a wheel bouncing along the road. The van lurched onto the brake drum and down we went, screaming like big girls until we hit a wall at the bottom.

  The tie rod had expunged itself from the spring bob, which initiated metal fatigue, incurring loss of wheel. . . . Well, that’s what the mechanic told us. (That’s why I love the photos in the end papers so much.)

  Another adventure was when Dave was driving a much bigger truck. We needed gas, so he pulled into a garage. Dave said, “Hold on, I’ll get closer to the pump.” He pulled forward, then reversed. He hit the pump and it fell to bits in front of our eyes. We’d been screaming “STOP!,” and he’d just smiled at us. Now we had a problem: Dave wasn’t insured to drive. Ken Brown, our banjo player, said, “Get out quick and tell ’em I was driving.” That was a cool move, because Ken had the world come down on him: the police, the garage manager, and then his old man when he got home. We were banned from the garage for life.

  Davey was—and still is—a lovely guy, very quiet. Things just happen when he is in the vicinity. I am happy to report that he is now living in Toronto—where he works for a company called the Mining Safety Authority. He’s their Director of Mine Safety!

  Chapter 63

  James Dean

  WERE DIRECTORS SHAGGING HIM?

  Whenever you see a photograph of a late fifties Porsche Spyder, you think of James Dean. He looked a bit of a moody lad. I think he was only in about five films, every one a wrist-slasher, classically rotten. I think the directors must have been shagging him because, God!—the endless silent close-ups saying absolutely nothing. I mean, Paul Thompson is a gabbler compared to this fella. But everyone said he was a genius.

  Ah well, he had good taste in cars, if not film scripts.

  Photographic Insert

  My mum.

  Little fella.

  The one and only Wolseley. Me at the wheel.

  Me and Alan Johnson and sis Julie.

  Early dreams of a car designer.

  The first passport.

  The Parsons letter that led to my engineering apprenticeship.

  My first business card.

  Another Wolseley.

  Triumph Roadster.

  The Citroën DS 23.

  Half-pint (Vespa 300 cc).

  In the band Geordie.

  Hungover.

  Backstage and onstage with AC/DC.

  The flight simulator where anything could happen.

  My old man.

  Party time with my wife, Brenda, and siblings Kala and Joanne.

  The Lotus Cortina Mk1 at Road Atlanta.

  At race school with a Formula Ford.

  Inside the Cortina, my first race car.

  The Royale RP4 brought me first place overall at Sebring.

  Indianapolis Nascar training.

  The Pilbeam racer, a lot more tit for your bang.

  First big win: Pete Argetsinger at Sebring.

  Chapter 64

  Cars on Film

  THE MOVIES THAT GET IT RIGHT

  Movies about cars have had mixed success. Steve McQueen’s Le Mans sounds like a beautiful idea, but it just didn’t work on screen. James Garner in Grand Prix is better, if a bit daft, the actors all pursing their lips and narrowing their eyes to get an extra 5 mph to overtake each other. The modern classics are Bullitt and Vanishing Point, but they don’t really work for me.

  Then there’s Herbie, the VW Beetle with a heart. The first one was cute, then the films just got boring as the original idea ran out of ideas. Bonnie and Clyde is canny, with all the car chases and Faye Dunaway trying to get Clyde to shag her—what was wrong with him? How about Where Eagles Dare, with Richard Burton driving that red Alpine bus and getting chased on the mountain roads? Brilliant stuff! And Laurel and Hardy’s Model T that just fell apart as they drove off? John Cleese, in Fawlty Towers, beating the crap out of a 1100 Estate, shouting, “You vicious bastard, start!” is still the funniest moment for me. I know how he feels. I’ve had cars like that, and it does get personal.

  The Great Race is another cracking movie that has great characters in it and makes me laugh. Then there’s Monte Carlo or Bust with Dudley Moore, Peter Cook, and Terry-Thomas, all brilliant, and the great Eric Sykes playing Perkins the Butler—doing Terry-Thomas’s dirty work. I even saw Graham Hill in it. The same people brought us Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines, with a lot of the same characters. I watch these movies about once a month to get my fix.

  Duel was an early movie directed by a young lad called Steven Spielberg and had no script as such, just a story about a car being chased by a dirty big truck with “Evil” written all over it. It was a gas tanker, rusty as a sailor’s balls, and you never saw the driver—this is a cool movie. It still keeps me on the edge of
my seat.

  AC/DC did the soundtrack for a movie called Maximum Overdrive, by Stephen King. The film was about all things engined taking over the world. We flew to the Bahamas to record it at Compass Point Studio, where we’d done Back in Black. And there to meet us was Stephen King himself, who both wrote and directed the film, and Dino De Laurentiis, the producer. We saw the rushes and came up with the song “Who Made Who,” which still rocks. Stephen liked it, but Dino couldn’t stand it, which is just as well, because we couldn’t stand him. It was about 85 degrees outside, and he arrived at the studio with his coat draped over his shoulders, dark glasses, and the obligatory starlet . . . Mind you, she did have lovely titties. The movie wasn’t really a success. In fact, it hardly saw the light of day. But now it has a cult following and no, that’s not a typo—I did mean “cult.”