by Greg Kihn
As the afternoon turned into evening, and evening turned into late evening, and late evening turned into early morning, the Stones finally went on. But, they had misjudged the situation. The audience at this point was too tired to react and the Stones seemed to force their performance. The set sounded flat compared to the Who. The band was clearly exhausted after a full day of shooting. Overall, it was not a particularly good performance, and the Stones ultimately decided to put it on the shelf.
Brian had fun hanging around with the other musicians. Most of the groups had to make do with tiny dressing cubicles, except the Stones and John Lennon. John had demanded and got a full-size star’s motor home plus another room in which his supergroup could tune up.
Brian and Bobby ran into John backstage. He was with the tiny Japanese conceptual artist everybody was talking about named Yoko Ono. Bobby, as close as he was to John, had never met Yoko. In fact, John had become somewhat reclusive since he and Yoko had been together. Old friends dropped away; he stopped calling people. Such is often the case with new lovers; the rest of the world seems to fade into the background. They prefer each other’s company to old friends and colleagues.
John hugged Brian. “How’s it goin’, mate? How’s your love life?”
Brian responded with a moment of stoned confusion. “Why? What have you heard?”
John leaned in closer and lowered his voice.
“Whoa, slow down. I haven’t heard anything. Why are you so paranoid? Brian, we need to talk.”
John Lennon led Brian and Bobby to his motor home dressing room. Yoko followed silently by John’s side. Once they got inside, Yoko surprised Bobby by locking the door. She looked at Bobby and blushed.
“So John won’t be disturbed,” she said in a tiny little teacup voice.
“How about the rest of us?” Bobby wisecracked, but Yoko didn’t get it. “I’m here, too.”
John put a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Okay, what’s going on?”
Brian cast his eyes down. “The rest of the band hates me, and I’m in serious danger of getting fired from the group.”
John shook his head. “You’re in danger of getting fired from the group you started? Ha! Fuck them. You should quit right now, right here today. You’re the star of that band. I tell you what, let’s make a deal: you quit your band and I’ll quit mine, and we’ll start a supergroup. We can have anyone we want.”
Brian smiled. “That’s incredibly kind of you, John.”
“I’m serious. You have your whole life in front of you, and you can do whatever you want. You’re a great musician, man, act like it.”
“Sometimes I feel like giving up …”
“Shirrup!” John spat. “That’s loser talk! You’re the original Rolling Stone. Don’t sit around waiting for the ax to fall, quit now. You can start a new band anytime you want. I’ll help you. We can play all the blues you want.”
“Thanks, John. … I don’t know what to say.”
“I saw the way they treated you.” John nodded toward the door. “They spit on you. I don’t like that. You should see the way my guys spit on Yoko. They treated her like a dog. You have to take the bull by the horns, Brian. Fuck the Stones and the Beatles; they’re yesterday’s papers. Let’s form our own group and get back to the roots.”
John’s treasonous words hung in the air like a battle cry. He didn’t care. He spoke bluntly.
Brian smiled. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Bobby changed the subject. He said to John, “Brian bought a country house. Cotchford Farm in Hartfield, Sussex. The former home of A. A. Milne.”
“Christopher Robin? Winnie-the-Pooh?”
“Yes,” Brian said. “The place is magic; you must come visit once I’m moved in.”
“We can rehearse there in complete privacy.”
Someone knocked on the door. Yoko answered. It was Eric Clapton. “Sound check, lads.”
In the end, BBC never aired The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus. The Stones thought their performance was flat. The Dirty Mac never appeared again, John soon changed their name to the Plastic Ono Band.
Erlene and Cricket arrived in London with three-year-old Winston. Bobby cried when he saw them. He knew Cricket was miserable in London, but they wanted to stay together through the Brian Jones crisis as much as possible. They had decided to move back to Baltimore as soon as things calmed down for Brian. Clovis and Erlene had also changed their plans. Now they intended to live together in London during her pregnancy. Once the child was born, they would return to Baltimore. Erlene needed to stay close to her man. She was convinced that Eleanor Rigby had passed a message to her, and as long as Bobby and Clovis stayed with Brian, nothing bad would happen.
The next morning, Clovis and Bobby drove down to Cotchford Farm. Brian had already parked his Roll-Royce there and had installed his latest girlfriend, blonde Swedish dancer Anna Wohlin. Anna was protective of Brian, and unlike Anita, they got along perfectly. Brian banned all drugs from his property. He even went so far as to search people coming in. From now on, it would be nothing stronger than alcohol. Anna busied herself in the kitchen, and Brian fussed like an old lady. The house rejuvenated him. The spirit of Christopher Robin lived in every nook and cranny. It revitalized him.
Cotchford changed Brian almost overnight.
“I feel like I’m finally home,” he said. “I never want to leave this place. I’ll stay here until I die.”
He showed Bobby and Clovis the room that he wanted to rebuild into a recording studio. Clovis checked it out, measured a few things, and pronounced the studio absolutely doable.
He had just enough room to install a multitrack board, and an Ampex 16-track tape recorder in the control room, and still have room for the studio itself. Brian suggested Clovis steal microphones from Olympic Recording, but he refused.
“It would wreck my karma,” he said. “It’s taken me a long time to get it right.”
“That’s why I love you so much, Clovis, you are a righteous dude.”
Clovis grinned. “Ain’t no big deal. … If I steal something from the studio, before the day is over, someone will have stolen something from me. That’s how flat my karma is right now.”
Brian said, “Can you put together a budget for the studio? I have no idea what’s it’s going to cost.”
“No problemo, pardner. I’ll give you a price for the equipment, and a price for the construction work. Shouldn’t be too bad.”
“Bobby, have you had a chance to develop the pictures from Joujouka?”
“I have to take them to a lab that specializes in custom low-light exposures. It’s going to take a little extra time and cost a bit more money. I haven’t had a chance to drop off the film yet.”
“Can you get started on that?”
“Sure, just as soon as I get back to London.”
“You can all stay here at Cotchford for the time being, if you like. Tom Keylock is coming down tomorrow to hire the general contractors to carry out the renovations. The main thing is the studio; let’s get started on that first.”
Anna Wohlin entered the room with a bottle of champagne on ice and several glasses.
“A toast?”
Anna poured the champagne. They all held their glasses high.
Brian’s voice sounded happier than it had in years. “To Cotchford!”
“To Cotchford!”
“Home of Winnie-the-Pooh!”
“Now the home of Brian Jones.”
Skully met Renee at their secret rendezvous in a darkened pub in Camden Town, London. He was nursing a pint as Renee walked in wearing tight jeans and a black plastic trench coat. She was incognito tonight, dressed to travel, dressed to kill.
She sat down next to Skully in a corner booth and spoke in low tones.
“Brian just bought the A. A. Milne house in Hartford. It’s a
perfect setup.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I have directions. We should go down there and check it out.”
“Look, there’s no rush right now. I say we watch and wait.”
Renee nodded. “What happened to Spangler?”
Skully dropped his voice. “I don’t know. He disappeared. I think the Mafia got him.”
“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”
“I mean he’s missing. Hasn’t been to work in over a week. Nobody’s heard from him since he returned from London.”
“You think the families got him?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He was always making deals with them, they were getting sick of it. Live by the sword; die by the sword.”
Renee lit a cigarette. Her smile was feline. “He was a weasel anyway.”
“He had no idea who he was dealing with.”
“He knew. He just thought he could get away with it.” Renee changed the subject. “You know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about you.”
“What’s to know?”
“When are you going to tell me who you work for?”
Skully smiled. “You’re curious little bitch, aren’t you? What does it matter?”
“I have to know who I’m working with.”
“Believe me. You don’t want to know.”
“Come on, Skully. Don’t you think you owe me? You made a lot of promises.” She touched his face. “Don’t you remember, baby?”
Skully whispered, “I’ll tell you once, right now, but you’ll have to swear never to bring it up again. This information must never get out. Do you swear? If it does, we’re both dead.
“I work for a secret organization called The M Group. That’s all I can tell you.”
“The M Group? I never heard of them.”
“That’s why they’re secret.”
“Is it a government agency? Like the CIA?”
“No, it’s a private group.”
“And why do they want Brian dead?”
Skully frowned. “No more questions.”
Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had been talking for weeks about firing Brian from the Rolling Stones, the band that he founded. Things had changed. He wasn’t contributing anymore. The incident with Keith and Anita broke his heart. Life on the road was impossible. And of course, there were the drug busts. Brian felt pressure from every quarter.
The Stones had a major tour coming up. Beggar’s Banquet had reestablished the band, and now it was time to take it to the people. Touring had never been more important. Not only did it provide a much-needed cash flow, but it stimulated record sales, and that was the kind of promotion they needed. The Rolling Stones brand had been tarnished by the weak response to Their Satanic Majesties Request, a train wreck of an album with only one weak hit single; the overproduced “She’s a Rainbow.” Brian had warned them to get back to their roots. Now Beggar’s Banquet had righted the ship.
Brian couldn’t get a visa to tour in the United States or Japan. Keith and Mick had kicked around every idea they could think of. Eric Clapton had volunteered to take a leave of absence from Cream and join the group temporally until the tour was over. Other guitarists volunteered. Mick and Keith had their own visa problems, but their lawyers were working hard to clear the slate.
Unbeknownst to Brian, the Stones had been jamming with a hot young guitarist from John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers named Mick Taylor. They could bring this guy or that guy, but neither wanted to hire a temp. The only answer was to fire Brian Jones and move on. But Brian’s roots were deep. He started the band, he named the band, he chose the members, he selected the material, and he booked the early gigs. Brian’s fingerprints were all over the Stones. It would not be easy to replace him.
Mick, Keith, and Charlie drove out to Cotchford Farm to confront Brian. Firing Brian would be the most difficult business decision they had ever made. They took their time driving, mulling over what they would say. They’d have to choose their words carefully because Brian was as sensitive as a bad tooth.
The Rolling Stones new manager, American publishing mogul Allen Klein, put together the parting deal for Brian. Brian would continue to receive his share of the royalties for the albums already recorded, he would also get a one-hundred-thousand-pound settlement payment and the sum of twenty thousand pounds yearly for as long as the Stones continued to exist and make money.
Allen and the rest of the Stones avoided saying that Brian had been fired. The official press release said he was quitting the group due to “musical differences.” That sort of whitewash always made Brian angry. At least let the truth come out, he thought. Brian didn’t care if he was fired or quitting, it was all the same. He just wanted the nightmare to be over.
Mick, Keith and Charlie walked into Cotchford with the weight of the world on their shoulders. Brian knew instantly what they were up to. He’d been expecting it. One look at their faces and he could tell. What they had to do wasn’t easy, but so much bullshit had built up around the Stones that it was suffocating them. They all knew what had to be done. There was a cancer growing on the band, and it had to be cut out.
Brian led them down to his parlor and listened to what they had to say.
Keith got right to the point. “Brian, you’re out of the band, cock. You’re fired.”
Even though Brian expected it, Keith’s words still came as a shock. Brian felt numb. It was remarkably like the day Keith stole Anita and left Brian on his own in Morocco.
Brian felt his ears ring. This was the moment he’d been anticipating, and now it was here. For a few seconds, he couldn’t hear them. It all sounded like gibberish. Ever the businessman, Mick went over the settlement payments with Brian. Brian couldn’t concentrate. One hundred thousand pounds, twenty thousand pounds, what did these numbers mean? They had computed Brian’s worth to the Stones, and there it was written down on a piece of paper? Brian felt like crying. The irony was almost too much.
Mick seemed to be the most motivated among them; he did most of the talking. In a hurry to get through the sacking, he lost a little of his compassion and started to sound cold.
Brian felt confused. Mick made it seem like Brian wanted to quit, like he was unhappy with the band and wanted to move on. But that wasn’t the case at all. He was being sacked.
Brian tried to pay attention, but it was like listening to lawyers instead of musicians.
Mick and Keith claimed they owned the rights to the name Rolling Stones. When Brian objected, they decided to sort that detail out at a later date. First things first, Brian had to be jettisoned before anything else could happen.
They spoke for a while, Brian becoming more quiet and withdrawn with every passing moment. When at last they left, Brian said good-bye and put on a carefree face, but he was dying inside.
Brian watched them drive away. His last sight was Charlie Watts’s look of discomfort as he watched out the back window.
I am no longer a Rolling Stone, Brian thought. After all these years, the dream is over.
The next day, the newspaper headlines read: BRIAN JONES QUITS THE STONES AS GROUP CLASHES OVER SONGS!
Brian had the London papers brought to him every day and he followed the story. He read them again and again, tears forming in his eyes.
What a load of shit, he thought.
Fans were flabbergasted. No one outside the Stones had any idea.
Chapter Twenty
The Vox Teardrop
In the days that followed getting fired, Brian fell into a profound funk. His life had revolved around the Stones for as long as he could remember. Without the band, there seemed no reason to get up in the morning.
Brian thought about the financial settlement. The more he weighed it, the more unfair it seemed. One hundred thousand pounds didn’t seem like enough money after generating millions. Bobby sa
t down with Brian on several occasions and tried to explain Allen Klein’s memorandum of agreement as best he could, but Brian understood little. Inside him, bitter resentment grew. He was no businessman, but he knew what was fair.
Clovis and Erlene stayed at Cotchford with Brian just to keep a watchful eye on him. John Lennon called often. Dust Bin Bob commuted from London two or three times a week, splitting time between running his store and living with Cricket.
Friends called Brian every day, trying to encourage Brian to play some music, but now that he was out of the Stones, his inspiration had temporarily dried up. Jimi Hendrix, Denny Laine, Alexis Korner, John Mayall, Eric Burdon, John Lennon, his phone bubbled forth with the cream of the crop of London’s best musicians. But Brian was nonplused. He needed some time off.
Tom Keylock hired Frank Thorogood to do the renovations on Cotchford Farm. Frank had worked on Keith’s Redlands Estate and even though Keith was less than thrilled with the quality of the work, Tom hired Frank to work on Brian’s house.
Frank hired a trio of unsavory day laborers, known only as Johnny, Mo, and Dave, from nearby West Withering. Clovis called them the Pep Boys after the American auto parts store: “The Pep Boys! Manny, Mo, and Jack!” There was classic sight gag about the Pep Boys matches. The English guys never got it until Clovis showed Brian and Bobby the infamous “Pep Boys Match Book Trick.”
Clovis explained that he learned it in juvenile hall after being arrested for stealing cars as a youth.
“Please, show us!” Brian begged.
“Okay, Brian. Just for you.”
Clovis had a brandy snifter full of Pep Boys matchbooks from a friend who worked in one of the stores back in Baltimore. The trick required a Swiss Army knife and a standard book of cardboard matches.
The front of the matchbook showed three caricatures of the Pep Boys bowlegged with oversize heads. Clovis made tiny slits between their legs and pushed the three matches through so that it looked like each Pep Boy had a giant red-tipped penis protruding from the front of their pants. For the grand finally, Clovis lit the three matches. The Pep Boys’ dicks on fire!
