Peter Grant: The Man Who Led Zeppelin

by Chris Welch

  Although an acting career was attractive, there were few roles in the movies or on TV for an overweight south Londoner. In later, less restrictive times, he might have become a star of such people friendly soaps as BBC TV’s EastEnders, or – more probably – as a villain in one of the endless series of cop shows. Either way, it’s unlikely he would ever have progressed beyond the realms of a character actor, a sort of south London Wilfred Hyde-White or even a George Cole who wouldn’t bolt when danger loomed.

  Following his experience as a stagehand and bit part actor, Peter hit on a more practical way to remain in show business. He invested in a couple of minibuses and used them to transport variety acts around British US air bases, where home-grown entertainment was in great demand. He often drove The Shadows to gigs and even the popular comedians Mike & Bernie Winters.

  Recalls Warren Grant: “Dad started off doing minibus driving and transporting artists around. He had already worked as a stagehand, pulling the curtains, sweeping the floor and acting as a bouncer. It was all good experience for him.”

  This is confirmed by Peter’s friend, the former Dire Straits manager Ed Bicknell: “He once told me the reason he got into the music business was because he owned a minibus,” he says.

  Driving the minibus was to lead directly to Peter becoming a fully-fledged tour manager. It thus became his exacting task to look after, cajole and protect the wild and reckless American artists who visited Britain in the wake of the rock’n’roll explosion. Bill Haley & The Comets and Elvis Presley had caused a sensation with hit records like ‘Rock Around The Clock’ and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. British youth was smitten with the new music.

  The fans might never be able to see Elvis Presley ‘live’ on stage, but at least they could see Chuck Berry, Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran. For many, this exposure to the American stars of Fifties rock’n’roll would spark a lifelong musical obsession. It certainly paved the way for a whole generation of British artists, including The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, who would emulate their heroes and in turn provide the raw talent for the rock boom to come.

  One of the biggest British pop promoters of the day was Don Arden. Business colleagues and musicians knew Arden informally as ‘the Al Capone of Pop’, a title which suited his hard man image. After acting as a leading rock’n’roll impresario he went into management and handled such groups as The Small Faces and ELO with considerable success. However, in the early Sixties he specialised in bringing in many of the American stars and, together with agent Colin Berlin, put them on touring package shows. A pugnacious businessman and former singer, Arden provided the prototype for Grant’s own hard-nosed style. Not that a man who had survived National Service and professional wrestling needed much tutelage in streetwise tactics. However, as he later acknowledged: “In 1963 I got my first big break. That’s when I began working for Don Arden, from whom I learnt a lot. He brought Bo Diddley over to Britain and I was his tour manager.”

  There’s no doubt Grant took his cue from Arden, who showed him how a tough reputation could be almost as effective as the use of real force in dealing with people and situations. Don evidently regarded Peter as an apprentice, a useful man to have around, and taught him the ropes out on the road. Explains Arden: “If there was a cheque to be collected I had to make him aware that sometimes the promise of a cheque was broken. I gave him a list of people who were good, genuine promoters and a list of those who really weren’t to be trusted. There was one thing Peter learned from me. If you don’t like somebody, let ‘em know from the first bell baby. And he did that pretty well.”

  Peter’s background in such a wide variety of casual jobs had taught him about the flow of money, most especially the swift exchange of cash and the ways it can be subverted, delayed and – more importantly – grasped permanently. Peter Grant would always have a healthy respect for cash, the wad of notes at the end of the line that found its way into his back pocket, where it stayed. Adds Mickie Most: “He always made sure a contract was honoured … and he had a very good head for figures.”

  Don Arden hired Peter as tour manager for the cream of visiting American talent, including The Everly Brothers, Little Richard, Brian Hyland, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Gene Vincent. The task of looking after them would provide a wealth of after dinner stories for Peter to relate with many a deep-throated chuckle. The late Gene Vincent was undoubtedly his most difficult customer. Compared to him, Led Zeppelin were like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Grant recalled later: “Gene was a bit of a loony. He used to drive cars at me.”

  The black leather clad singer from Norfolk, Virginia, USA was born Eugene Vincent Craddock on February 11, 1935 (just two months before Peter Grant). Gene was always a special hero to British rock’n’roll fans, with Teddy Boys flocking to see him for the manic intensity he displayed in The Girl Can’t Help It (1957), the first Technicolor rock movie. When Gene Vincent & The Blue Caps performed their classic hit ‘Be Bop A Lula’ there were screams of delight and riots in the cinemas.

  When Vincent arrived in Britain in the flesh, he proved to be an anguished soul, whose life was ruled by pain. A former despatch rider in the US Navy, he had suffered severe injuries to his left leg in a motorcycle accident in 1955, which left him permanently disabled. The story goes that he’d had too much to drink one night and on returning to base, instead of stopping at the guardhouse gate, tried to ride under the barrier. The bike slid from underneath him and he smashed his leg. It was pinned back together, but he had to wear a calliper for the rest of his days. One of his greatest British fans was the late Ian Dury, who clearly empathised with Vincent’s condition as well as his music and dark, brooding image.

  Although Gene Vincent was deemed too working class and tough for American tastes, he became one of the biggest drawing artists in Europe and remained so until the advent of Beatlemania in 1964. He was prickly and prone to violent outbursts. Excessive drinking didn’t help his temper, but he needed drink to dull the pain of his injury and overcome stage fright. Peter was not the first British tour manager to fall foul of the curly-haired, pinch-faced Vincent.

  Hal Carter was tour manager on many early rock’n’roll package shows, working with Vincent and Eddie Cochran and later managing British singer Billy Fury. Although he enjoyed life on the road, Hal does not have particularly happy memories of his time with Vincent. It was Hal’s job to look after Gene on behalf of promoter Larry Parnes and he travelled hundreds of miles with them by coach to the various draughty theatres where the stars were expected to perform.

  In the early Sixties Britain lacked many of the comforts taken for granted in the USA. There was virtually no air conditioning, no central heating and no McDonalds style fast food restaurants. Credit cards were unknown, the black and white TV service was limited to two channels which closed down very early by American standards, shops shut at 5 p.m. and pubs and hotels were closed by 10.30 p.m. or 11 at weekends. Finding a bottle of Jack Daniels was a huge problem and there wasn’t much either Peter Grant or Hal Carter could do to cheer up the miserable young American visitors. Hal remembers Eddie Cochran wailing: “Goddam – I’m never going to get home – I’m gonna freeze to death in this country!”

  Carter describes Eddie as ‘a lovely guy’ but he confesses he didn’t like Gene Vincent at all. Says Hal: “I never really liked him – he used to upset Eddie a lot on tour. Gene drove me crazy and made my life a misery at times. I was a young tour manager trying to make my way and he wouldn’t listen to anything I said. Whatever you said – he’d disagree. In the end I thought he was a wicked, self-centred, selfish, evil man who treated his women very badly. I know this upsets his fans when I say this. Don’t get me wrong – he was a great performer, but I had no time for him.”

  Hal gives an example of Gene’s erratic behaviour that finally led him to walk out on the star. “He used to carry a knife called ‘Henry’. It was a sharp, pointy switchblade. One day we were on a coach coming back from a gig in Ipswich. He was going crazy, shouting abuse a
t everyone. He went up to the young bass player with a group called The Beat Boys and sliced the front of his suit off with his knife. Just ripped it to shreds.” Another member of the party was Hal’s friend the late Henry Henroid, who pulled Vincent off the terrified kid. Carter was sitting next to singer Johnny Gentle, trying to ignore the scene.

  “Just at that moment Johnny said something that made me laugh. Gene flew up the aisle of the coach and put his knife up against my throat and said: ‘I’ll teach you to laugh at me.’ I said – ‘Gene, we’re not laughing at you, we’re just having a conversation.’ He then ripped my shirt with the knife. Well when we got to Dartford, the next big town before London, I said to the driver, ‘Stop here at the lights, drop me off and take him (Vincent) to Marble Arch.’ I jumped out, the coach drove off and I never saw him again. I’d had enough.”

  It was shortly after this episode that Peter Grant took over Hal’s job as tour manager for the dreaded Vincent. Hal’s advice to Peter was: “If Gene plays up grab him and put one on him.” He was impressed when he learned later that if the singer was being difficult and wouldn’t do a show, Grant would “grab him by the throat and push him on the stage”.

  On the other side of the coin, Peter was quite fearless in the lengths he went to save his artists from manic fans and – quite often – from themselves. On one occasion he was alleged to have disarmed Vincent when the singer went on a drunken rampage, waving a loaded gun in a house in Brighton. When he was in Italy he was said to have flattened no less than six Italian policemen, trying to protect Little Richard from harassment.

  Journalist Keith Altham was a young writer on Fabulous magazine when he got to know Peter Grant. Keith has vivid memories of Grant in action, when he was still developing his firm but fair, no nonsense management style. “Peter was working as a tour manager for Gene Vincent when I first met him,” recalls Altham. “I remember going on a trip with him in 1963. Gene was always billed as ‘Direct from America’, although he had been living in England for three years. You got more kudos if you came from the States in those days. He was doing gigs up and down the country and Peter was charged with keeping him sober. That was quite a job in itself. Vincent had a hollowed out walking stick, which he filled up with vodka or whatever else he was drinking. Peter didn’t know about this for ages, but as soon as he found out, he confiscated the stick. Yet Gene was still going on stage pissed and Peter couldn’t understand it.”

  Grant locked Vincent in his dressing room for two hours before the performance. The tour manager alone had the key and nobody else was allowed in. “Then Vincent would stagger out of his dressing room and go on stage, pissed as a parrot! He had been bribing a member of the road crew to go out and get him a bottle of brandy. He had put a straw through the keyhole of the door, so he could drink the brandy, through the straw.”

  During the trip, Peter told Keith about all the problems he’d been having with the troubled rock legend. “We’ve got him in pretty good shape tonight, because we’re doing a double header. We don’t get the money unless, when the curtains open, he’s physically there on stage.”

  This clause was written into the contract, obviously introduced after a series of ‘no shows’. Meanwhile, Grant, Altham and the entourage arrived at a hall in Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire. Recalls Keith: “Gene was pretty good on the first show, which was early in the evening. He was travelling with his wife, who was also American. We got on the coach for a while between shows and as we got on board a fight broke out between Gene and his wife. Vincent got hold of her by the hair and was banging her head on the coach window. Peter heard the screaming and fighting and his 23 stone bulk came waddling down the centre of the aisle. He separated them both and said, ‘What are you doing? I’m trying to negotiate the fees with the promoter.’ ‘Oh, gee, sorry Peter …’ He calmed them down and went back outside the coach to carry on talking to the promoter. Then the fight starts up again. But this time the roles are reversed and the wife has got hold of Vincent’s hair and is bashing his head against the window. Peter comes down and separates them again and there’s lots of crying and sobbing. Eventually we take off for the second concert.”

  Unfortunately the row had deeply traumatised Vincent. He found a bottle of vodka and downed about three-quarters of it without Grant knowing. He then decided he’d go down the coach to where Peter was sitting across two seats and inform him that he was unable to do the second performance. He only got about half way when he fell and trapped his good leg between an aluminium support pole and the seat.

  Altham: “There was a scream of anguish and his leg started swelling up like a balloon. Peter got up and, rather like Hercules, bent the pole in half so Vincent could release his trapped leg. By this time he literally hadn’t got a leg to stand on! One leg was in irons and the other was swollen up. So Peter had to find some way of getting him on stage for the next show. Gene’s saying, ‘I can’t go on, my leg hurts!’ We got to the gig and I went out front to see what would happen. The curtains were drawn and then the compère came out and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from America, the king of rock’n’roll, Mr Gene Vincent!’”

  The curtains opened to reveal Gene strapped to a microphone stand. Peter had rammed a tripod mike stand up the back of his jacket, which was holding him up! He gets as far as singing ‘Bebop a-FUCK!’ and he fell straight forward onto his face. He splatted his nose on the stage and there was blood everywhere. Two roadies came out and carried him off like a pig on a spit, completely unconscious. And Grant says to me: ‘I’ve got the money Keith, because he was there when the curtains opened.’”

  A few years later Keith bumped into Peter Grant again at Ready, Steady, Go!, the Friday pop show transmitted live from TV studios in Wembley. “He and Mickie Most were big pals. Mickie came into the dressing room and said to Peter: ‘I’ve just got a brand new MG sports car. It’s brilliant. You must come and have a look.’ So we all went out to see the lovely new Red MG sports car. ‘Very nice, Mickie.’ He climbs in and fills the entire car. He’s got the steering wheel in front of him and Mickie says: ‘Well, what do you think Peter?’ ‘Very nice Mickie. How do I take it off?’”

  Peter liked to recall his rock’n’roll touring days with a fondness mellowed by time. “I remember the sax player Tubby Hayes used to do all that farting and setting light to it. And when Gene Vincent did some Sunday concerts with Emile Ford (the popular West Indian singer), he used to paint Ku Klux Klan signs on Emile’s dressing room door. We did a lot of bus tours. From The Everly Brothers to the support acts, we were all packed on the bus.” The coaches used to leave from the side of the London Planetarium near Baker Street and they’d head north, to a land of cheesy digs, beans on toast and freezing cold dressing rooms.

  The Everly Brothers in particular retained a fondness and respect for Peter that lasted for years. When they heard of Peter’s death in the Nineties, they were touring Britain at the time and, saddened, they dedicated a number in their set to the man they fondly remembered as ‘the best road manager we ever had’.

  Spicy it might have been, but it wasn’t a lifestyle that Peter intended pursuing for long. He had a driving sense of ambition and deep-rooted desire to exploit every fresh opportunity. The Arden itinerary took them to Newcastle. One night, Bo Diddley’s maraca player Jerome and Peter Grant went out to an after-show gig at a local blues club. When they saw a hot young band called the Alan Price Rhythm & Blues Combo in action, the visitors were impressed. Grant later claimed he immediately signed Alan’s band to a contract and became their booking agent and co-manager with Mike Jeffrey. “They were rather successful after they changed their name to The Animals!”

  They became one of the first British bands to emulate The Beatles’ success in America, hitting number one there with ‘House Of The Rising Sun’ in 1964, two months after it had reached the top of the charts in the UK. The song was produced by Peter’s pal, Mickie Most. Peter told Melody Maker’s Michael Watts in 1974: “At that time I was making a de
al to bring over Chuck Berry and that was the blag, to get The Animals to sign with the agency. They wanted to do the Chuck Berry tour and they also wanted to record.”

  The Geordie blues fans hero worshipped Berry, but Peter Grant would confide in later years that the man who created ‘Roll Over Beethoven’ and ‘Sweet Little Sixteen’ could be “a pain in the arse”. Nevertheless he knew The Animals would be impressed if he could arrange for them to work together. Recalled Eric Burdon: “We were all happy to find that Peter Grant had been appointed our tour manager. What a guy! He looked like he was ten feet wide and six feet tall, but he was very gently spoken and we all loved him.”

  Peter quickly established his credentials with The Animals when, displaying enormous bravery, he faced down a gunman threatening the band during an overnight stop in Arizona. He wasn’t so gently spoken when Eric turned up late for a gig in England. Eric had driven to the venue alone in his brand new TR6 sports car. As the rest of the band glared at him, impatient to start the show, Peter Grant strode over and said icily: “Where the fuck d’yer think you’ve been?”