Genevieve, I think, is a perfect time-capsule movie, made in the fifties, in England, in color. It was all about the London to Brighton Run in cars from before the First World War (or thereabouts). John Gregson and Kenneth More play the leads, with two English roses for company. Of course, it’s all impossibly proper and nobody gets really angry. They say things like “Oh, that rotten blighter” instead of “I hope your next shit’s a hedgehog.” The cars were gorgeous, and I drooled when I saw it as a kid at the Top Hall Cinema in Dunston. (My mother would not let us go to the Bottom Hall, because the men’s toilet was always ankle-deep in pee and you’d walk in there and squelch out. There was definitely a nutty smell in there.) The music for Genevieve, by Larry Adler, a harmonica player from way back, is the only thing that grates—apart from the cars’ gearboxes. Give it a watch—it’s dead easy on the mind and the eye.
School for Scoundrels is not a movie about cars, but it’s the cars that steal the movie: Terry-Thomas’s Bellini and Ian Carmichael’s Swiftmobile. Alastair Sim also stars in this must-see movie about one-upmanship. My favorite part is when Ian Carmichael’s character, Henry Palfrey, goes into a car showroom called “The Winsome Welshmen” to buy a car.
Dudley Dorchester (a salesman): “She takes the eye, doesn’t she, sir?”
Palfrey: “She certainly does. Can I hear the horn?”
Dudley Dorchester: “Gentleman wants to hear the horn, Dunstan.”
Dunstan Dorchester (another salesman): “Of course he can.”
Palfrey hits the horn and a noise like a whole troop of Coldstream Guards farting at the same time roars out. However, on the second go, it sounds more like a squad of snails farting. Dunstan rallies immediately: “I’ve got a temporary flex in there. It’s an old type of exhaust horn that runs on helical friction—way too complicated to explain. You either know or you don’t.” The sweetest bullshit I’ve ever heard.
It’s a wonderful film, very funny, and we still talk about it in the band. “Hard cheese!” was Terry’s line in a tennis match with Carmichael. Listen: buy it, watch it, it’s priceless. Well, that’s not entirely true—it has Dennis Price in it, too.
So, all in all, cars and movies are a bit hitty-missy. Usually, if it’s a film about cars, it doesn’t go so well, but if it’s a movie with great cars in it, sometimes it does. I guess it’s like turning sixty—every fart’s a fifty-fifty.
My favorite car film of all time is The Fast Lady, starring Stanley Baxter, Leslie Phillips, James Robertson Justice, and a gorgeous young Julie Christie. But the main star is a 1930s Sports 34-50 Bentley. Phillips is the used-car salesman trying to get tight-fisted Scotsman Baxter to buy it in order to impress Christie. It is hilarious, as is the line “We used-car salesmen have our honor, you know.” When he sees Julie Christie for the first time, Phillips comes out with the immortal words: “Ding, dong!” James Robertson Justice is the girl’s pompous father who won’t let Stanley take her on a date unless he proves he can drive the Bentley correctly (he used to race them at Brooklands). The scenes of this beautiful car getting mixed up in hill-climbing and chasing bank robbers are so well done that it kinda blows out the window my theory about car movies being so-so. You must buy this movie: it is so well shot you can almost smell the leather and engine oil. And oh yeah, he gets the girl!
Chapter 65
Donald “Duck” Dunn
THE BLUES BROTHER
Duck was born in Memphis, and he’s a bass-playing legend. Now, this book’s about cars but, you see, Duck was in the movie The Blues Brothers, and that has one of the daftest car chases ever. Hundreds of crap Chevys and Ford police cars getting smashed up, and nobody cares, unlike in The Italian Job, where Jags are thrown off a cliff and everybody cries.
Duck and Jerry Wexler had worked together many times. And I enjoyed their company many times at my house. One time, Duck said to Jerry, “D’you remember the first time we met?”
“Yeah,” said Jerry. “It was while you were recording ‘Midnight Hour’ with Wilson Pickett. I ran in the door and said, ‘Stop what yer doin’! There’s a new craze going ’round New York called the Jerk. Duck, I want you to jerk every third hit on that bass. And that’s how ‘Midnight Hour’ came to sound like it did.’ ”
“Hmm,” said Duck. “That’s right. Jerry, did you ever meet Elvis Presley?”
“Yeah, dumbest white man I ever met,” said Jerry. Honest.
Well, Elvis did like Cadillacs . . .
Chapter 66
Notes from the Front Line: Wilkes-Barre
It is Sunday, October 26, 2008. I’m sitting in my hotel suite in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and I’ve just finished a gig—well, a dress rehearsal—with three thousand invited guests flown in from around the world. I feel fit, and I think the band have done a good job after six years off the road. I have just been told Black Ice, the album, has gone to number one in every country that has brains, Britain included. I’m sixty-one, and it’s the first time ever in my life I’ve been number one at home and the U.S.A. at the same time. Our expectations for Black Ice were optimistic, but we never thought it was going to be number one in thirty-two countries in the space of a week. In the studio, it was probably the shortest amount of time we’d taken to do an album.
I’m happy because I’m sitting having a glass of wine with Nick Harris, the man who put me through the pain barrier to get me fit enough to perform in front of AC/DC, the meanest, rockingest sons of bitches ever put on this earth. He’s also been one of the most important Formula 1 driver fitness gurus of the last ten years, and I met him when I did that pile-of-shit show The Race. I had asked him to get me as fit as an F1 driver. After he’d laughed for a full three minutes, he said he’d give it a go. He certainly did give it a go. When I came ’round in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, I said, “How did I do?” And he said, “Y’know, not bad, but I think we’ll crank it up to ten minutes tomorrow.” Welsh git.
But I gotta tell you, it worked, I felt great at the gig tonight. And now, after that message about being number one in the U.K., well, I’m happier than y’know what? I’m not even going to try to be funny. This is too good a feeling to waste.
* * *
P.S.: Nick assures me he does not shag sheep! Yeah, right.
Chapter 67
The Godfather of Music Transportation
THE KIND OF CAR ROYALTIES GET YOU
In 1972, we formed the glam-rock band Geordie. We signed to Red Bus Records. We were excited. Fame and fortune awaited us. We would make our mums proud, piss off the teachers who’d said we wouldn’t amount to anything, and, oh yeah, there would be loads of birds to shag.
Our transport at the time was a six-wheel Transit Diesel. It was noisy and uncomfortable and very damp. You also risked being squashed by an avalanche of amplifiers every time you braked.
Our first record, “Don’t Do That,” went into the charts at number twenty-seven. Not bad for a first try. Red Bus said we needed a new van. We couldn’t afford one.
“Don’t worry, my boys. You’re family now. We’ll get you one—and a new car as well,” they said.
True to their word, they got us a Ford Granada 2-liter V4 and the van of vans, the godfather of music transportation—the Mercedes.
Sweet Jesus.
It was more luxurious than any car I’d ever owned. As soon as we had transport, we began to argue. Who was going to drive it when we were off the road? Then, of course, we found out that Red Bus had done a deal with Mercedes and we had to appear in an ad. We also learned that we were to be put on a salary and had to pay back every penny. I never did make any money with Geordie. I was stone-broke when I left, but at least I’d driven a Mercedes.
Chapter 68
Geordie Defty
STILLETOED SHAGGER
Of all the drummers I’ve worked with in my life, Geordie Defty is definitely the most memorable. He was as mad as a March hare, especially when you mentioned Jaguars. He was a skinny lad, always smiling. Great drummer. And a world
-record shagger.
He had some strange habits though. Wearing his wife’s stilettos under his bell-bottoms was one, and when he sat down to play, you could see the buggers. He must have had a nice turn of the ankle, because the workingmen’s clubs would be ringing with the wolf whistles.
Geordie was never down.
Me: “How’s tricks, Geordie?”
Him: “Smashin’!”
Me: “Eeh, it’s awful about that MP found with a rent boy lost up his arse for a week.”
Him: “Smashin’!”
Everything was “smashin’!,” even moldy cheese sandwiches: “Mmmm, smashin’!” If you asked how good a drummer he was, he’d say, “Fuckin’ brill!” There was never the remotest chance of him getting tongue-tied. But it was Jaguars that made Geordie’s vocabulary expand like the elastic in Long Dong Silver’s underpants. He had an enormously used XJS, with more bumps and grinds than a stripper on ecstasy. His eyes would widen and his Rod Stewart hair would get Roddier when asked, “How’s the Jag runnin’?” “Mega!” he’d scream. “Friggin’ MEGA! It’s mega groovy, mega cool.” We would just leave him in the dressing room, talking to himself, a distant “mega” dying away in the background.
Someone told me he now has a wedding-car fleet. And they’re all Jags.
Chapter 69
The Tyne Tunnel
SHE CROSSES HER LEGS SO YOU CAN’T GET OUT
I want to sympathize with every poor sod who’s ever been stuck in a tunnel at rush hour. The Blackwall in London or the Lincoln in New York, it has to be the worst driving experience ever. Like shagging a fat bird who crosses her legs so you can’t get out.
The Tyne Tunnel was years out of date the day it opened. With only two lanes, it was designed for misery. All it needed was one breakdown, and the whole bloody thing ground to a halt. I swear it was easier to go ’round the long way. Forward thinking was never a great strength of local planners.
However, the Tyne Tunnel holds special memories for me. In fact, when it was opened by the Queen in 1967, I was part of the honor guard that lined the tunnel every ten paces. A surreal image now, but it happened. It was also at the roundabout, just before the tunnel entrance, that I had the fright of my life. I was driving my old Austin 1100 with my daughter Joanne, who was five years old at the time, fast asleep in the backseat, when the back door flew open and she rolled out. I heard the door shut again and turned ’round. I was minus one daughter. I screeched to a halt, leapt out, and ran back. And there she was, lying in the road, thumb in mouth, and still fast-asleep. Phew, that was close! How lucky were we?
In those days, no seat belts were required, or indeed asked for, and child seats were very expensive and not mandatory. Somehow during the turn, Joanne had bumped against the door handle, unlatched it, and executed a perfect roll. She was absolutely unmarked. Amazing.
Chapter 70
Brands Hatch
SUPERGLUING YOUR ASS TO THE WALL
In 1973 or ’74, all the bands that were riding high in the charts at this particular time were invited to Brands Hatch to race. The list included Geordie. The public were going to be there to watch. We all had to go to the race school first and learn how to drive. The cars were Formula Fords, small, open-wheel racers. This was it, this was what I was born for, not that sissy singing stuff. This was my stepping stone to a Formula 1 drive. Boy, was I going to show ’em?
Then I hit a brick wall. It didn’t happen. I was slow, I wasn’t anything. It was like Kate Moss saying, “Come to bed, big boy!” and you realizing someone had Superglued your arse to the wall. Brian Gibson, our drummer, was much faster, and I was sad, hurt, and unbelieving.
Later in life, I realized I’m a slow learner. That’s just the way it is, but I’ll never forget that disappointment. You got to learn to learn slowly and gracefully, and slowly you become faster, and slowly you become faster than the people who were faster than you at the start, when you were slower. So one day you will overtake the slow bugger who used to be the fast bastard . . . Hang on, I think I’ll have another whisky. I think I’ll drink it slower than the first two.
Chapter 71
Haggis
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MICROWAVE IT
Somewhere in France, in the year of 1997 or thereabouts, AC/DC were in a crapadelic English touring bus. “All fur coat and no knickers” is how my father would have described it; posh as anything on the outside and absolutely impractically useless on the inside. But I digress. We were tooling along, nobody saying much, doing band things, listening to music, reading stick mags, learning the art of crocheting used condoms, anything to keep our minds occupied, just guys picking their noses, scratching their balls, scratching their arses then smelling their finger to check that it was their arse they actually scratched.
I was hungry. There wasn’t much in the fridge—the food had run away a long time ago—but I, genius that I am, remembered that while we were in Edinburgh, I had bought a “boil in the bag” haggis and had got it through customs by telling the guy it was for my medical-theory night-class homework. Now, how to cook this amoeban-looking meaty thing that comes from some part of an animal so terrible that they had to call it “haggis”? There were no pots and pans—how would I cook it? Microwave disasters were legend on tour buses, so I figured I’d boil it in the kettle. Brilliant! I put it in and sat and waited. The element in the kettle melted the bag, and the whole fucking lot blew all over the ceiling, the lads, and everything else. Oh, how the boys laughed at my little accident, but they didn’t mind one bit. Mind you, those last three kilometers into Paris tied to the front of the bus got a bit nippy.
Chapter 72
The Biggest Winning Margin Ever
FROM PEKING TO PARIS
Growing up, I’d see old magazines, usually in the dentist’s and doctor’s waiting rooms, that told of great adventures in the early days of motoring. Drivers with names like Lord Percy d’brain Damargee would drive from places like the Horn of Africa to West Bromwich. There were headlines like “Across Australia in an Austin Ruby by Cloive and Sheree Adelaide Smith.” Fascinating stuff to fill a schoolboy’s head. Featuring a brave and daft bunch of car nuts.
But in 1907, a French newspaper offered a prize for a race from Peking to Paris. That’s 9,500 miles. And you’ve got to remember there weren’t any roads worth motoring on once you got out of Germany. They actually got five entrants—not many, I admit, but there were only about fifty cars in the whole world then.
One of the entrants was Count Borghese, an Italian “count” who would drive the huge Itala. Think of the stuff you’d have to pack: goggles; gloves; a waterproof coat; one box of underpants; a year’s supply of oil from Mesopotamia; food; guns so you could shoot more food; beads for the natives; camera and tripod; and film the size of a New York sandwich. I mean, this was 1907. Everything was in its infancy. They had to cross mountains, deserts, bloody Siberia—and you can only imagine what the locals must have thought when they saw these exotic beasts coming through.
Count Borghese had a secret plan, though. He took his chauffeur and a journalist. I hope the chauffeur didn’t do all the driving, but the journalist did write it all down and took the photographs. These guys were real pioneers. It took some balls to dodge bandits and dodgy tribes just to race a car. The count came first, and it took him two months. The man who came second didn’t arrive for another two and a half weeks. Forza Borghese!
Chapter 73
Notes from the Front Line: Minneapolis
Oh no! Nick Harris is coming. He’s stopping over on his way back from Malaysia, where he’s been working with the Formula 1 drivers, and he wants to give me a going-over in the gym. I want my mother!
I have got a cunning plan though. The day after the LA show, we had tea with Ozzie and Sharon, and they were saying that Ozzie’s starting a tour soon and he wanted to get fit. They asked who I was using. I told them, so now maybe I can get Nick on Ozzie’s case.
Ozzie’s gonna love me!
Chapter 74<
br />
Scientologist Dave
A SPOOKY FUCK
Dave Robson was a fine-looking boy who played bass guitar in Geordie II. I remember Dave because I can’t remember what he drove, which makes me suspicious of him. He disappeared for a couple of months and returned a scientolembollokgyst or scientologist. Whatever.
“Dave, what shall we start the show with?” you’d ask, and he’d say, “Really.” “Really what, Dave?” I’d respond. “I understand,” he’d say. “Dave, what the fuck is wrong with you?” “I am copacetic with your concerns, but things will be things, Brian.” “Oh my God, he’s turned Injun.” He’d just smile at you all the time and go, “Mmmmmm!” Dave had started to sound like an engine that was out of tune with the world, his band, and most mere mortals. He was a spooky fuck.
Things went downhill from there. It was a shame, because the band was one of the best I’d been in. But playing in social clubs wasn’t really good for anybody. The audience told you to shurrup in the first set, and then there’d be bingo as the main act, then us again. Nasty little concert chairmen would shout at us to “get back up and do the songs we want or you’re dead.” One night in the dressing room (I use the term loosely) of a nasty club called Thornley Close, Deke said to the concert chairman, “Is this wallpaper flocked?” and the chairman replied, “No, kidda, it’s good for a few years yet.”
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