A Stray Cat Struts

by Slim Jim Phantom

  9

  Where’s Me Pepper Suit?

  George Harrison always liked me. He was a smart, thoughtful, worldly guy. He didn’t suffer fools and I’m sure was immune to bullshit, so I was pleased when I realized he genuinely liked me. There had to be more to it than my initial obnoxious charm. We hung out a number of times, and with a cat like George, you tend to remember them as little life markers.

  We met in 1985 at the rehearsals for the now-legendary Carl Perkins and Friends TV special, “Blue Suede Shoes: A Rockabilly Session.” It was a show done by Stephanie Bennett for Channel 4 in England, and it turned out be one of those rare things that you just do and it winds up having longer legs than anyone thought it could.

  Dave Edmunds, longtime Stray Cats producer and influence, was putting together a band for a show honoring the musical life of Carl Perkins. With Dave at the helm a few years before, Lee and I had been the rhythm section for a version of “Blue Suede Shoes” that was on the soundtrack for the cinematic triumph Porky’s. We did “Blue Suede Shoes” in one take. When we were finished, Carl said, “I’ve done more versions of that song than you boys have had hot meals, and that’s the best one ever!” We wanted to believe him. The night was young, the studio was booked, the song for the movie was in the can, and the gear was there. Dave just rolled the tape all night. I have a copy of it somewhere in a giant box named “Cassette Hell.” I’m pretty sure Jeff Lynne came by and played piano.

  Carl was a supercool, humble, original rockabilly pioneer. We were longtime fans. He had come to see the Stray Cats a number of times in the past, and we had played together before. Once was at the Grand Ole Opry, which was a milestone for us as rockabilly kids. I remember hiding all signs of partying from Carl back at the hotel, not really knowing or understanding that he had seen it all before. So when Dave was putting together the band for the Carl Perkins TV show, he called Lee and me to be the rhythm section. We brought Earl Slick with us. He strummed an acoustic; it was good to have him be part of it.

  The rehearsals and show were in London. We turned up at the rehearsal studio and watched George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Ringo Starr file in. I had been around for a few years, had a couple of hits, and was comfortable to hang with anyone, anywhere. But this was the Beatles. I was a Beatles nerd, and this was a little different. Those guys introduced themselves and were very nice. They’d all known each other since the ’60s and had all sorts of memories and shared experiences, so during the breaks, they kept to themselves in the English super rock star section of the room. I played the songs, and everyone seemed to like it. On the third day of rehearsal, I worked up some nerve to talk to George. I’m always the icebreaker, class clown, used to being the cool guy, but like I said, it was the Beatles and a little different this time. I also wasn’t drunk in the daytime, so you’d think I have been a little smarter with words. So I walked up to George and said, “Hi, George. It’s Jim.”

  “Hello.”

  “Whatever happened to Pete Best?”

  A very puzzled look from George. “I haven’t thought about that guy in twenty-odd years.”

  “Erm, that’s cool. Great to see Carl, huh?”

  “Yeah, great.”

  I thought I’d lost him. It was a stupid question. You had your chance, and you blew it. I didn’t usually care about anything like this, but I was feeling like a fool who was trying to fight above his weight. I couldn’t hang here. As I was walking away, he called, “Hey.” I looked over, and he gave me the famous Beatles nod/wink with a thumbs-up. Suddenly I was in A Hard Day’s Night. I felt much better.

  I think George had an instinctual feeling for situations like that. I’m sure he’s had more people say more stupid things to him than anyone. We had the rest of this day and then the show the next. I didn’t want to be awkward. He knew it would’ve kept me thinking for two days and wanted to put my mind at ease. It was a very kind, sensitive act with just a simple gesture. I know this now, but at the time I was just relieved.

  It took some years to figure it out, but meeting someone whose work you admire can be daunting. I still meet fans all the time, and I try 99 percent of the time to be just plain nice, a little engaging, and let the stupid questions roll off my back. Because it is a big deal to meet the Beatles, and on a smaller scale the Stray Cats, since both were more than just bands with a song that was on the radio; they were more meaningful to those who really dig music. I think George, like me, behind all the bluster was a little uncomfortable with it and didn’t like hurting anyone’s feelings. There is a softer way to suffer fools that’s ultimately easier on you, too. I think he saw that in me and felt a kindred spirit and thought he could help. For him, it took two seconds and a nod/wink; without saying anything heavy or uncomfortable, we had a moment. It was a delayed lesson that I learned that day from George.

  The show was a special filmed in live time. There was a small studio audience of rockabilly types who danced and sang along and listened to the quieter moments. Carl Perkins was endearing, and the songs are some of the best rockers ever. He and George did a duet that was touching; you could tell that George really loved him, musically and as a person. I’ve heard that George hadn’t played in public in five years and was maybe a bit nervous. We did a campfire-like circle where everybody sang and played acoustics. Ringo and I shared tambourine and shakers and hammed it up. He’s my biggest influence, and I should have been more intimidated, but he’s a drummer, so I related on that level, and we got along immediately. Rosanne Cash was on the show and sang like a bird. Eric Clapton was his brilliant Slowhand self on rockabilly songs, too. He and George were pals, you could tell. Britt was at the taping with me, and she sat with Olivia Harrison.

  After the show, everyone hung out for a while in a TV station greenroom and had a drink, and that was that. Since then, that particular show has become a classic cult favorite. It gets shown on British TV every year during the Christmas season, and I’m always asked about it and feel like I was part of another quirky, great rock-and-roll happening.

  Since the show was in London, Britt and I stayed at our little house in Chelsea. About a week later, Olivia called Britt to organize a dinner. I guess they had planned it during the taping and were following through. Dave Edmunds and his wife, Leslie, joined us, too. We met at a restaurant near where they lived in Henley-on-Thames. The people seemed to know George, and it was an easy dinner. We talked about rockabilly, cars, pop culture stuff. Now that I sensed he liked me, the floodgates opened, and I asked George all sorts of questions about Beatles trivia and minutiae. He was happy to answer. I think he knew I was actually interested, but he answered in a tone that suggested, “Why do you want to know this? Why do you care?” He always referred to the Beatles as the Fabs. I thought this was amazing inside jargon.

  After the dinner, he and Olivia invited us back to their house. We must have taken one car and left ours at the restaurant. Driving up to Friar Park was an experience in itself—I had never really seen anything quite like it. There were huge iron gates and a sign that reminded me of a bureau de change at an airport. It had little flags from each country with a sentence next to the flag in the corresponding language. The last one was a USA flag that said, “Get your ass outta here.” We drove on a leafy paved road past a good-sized English country–looking house.

  “Wow, that’s a nice place,” I said.

  “That’s the gardener’s house,” George answered.

  We drove past another two or three houses: the swan keeper’s cottage, the rose keeper’s cottage, a caretaker’s lodge. All of these were as big as our little house in West Hollywood. When we drove onto the gravel driveway, the main house appeared through the hedges and fog. It looked like Buckingham Palace. The foyer had a museum-quality model in a glass case of the grounds and houses. It was a magnificent, regal-looking place perfectly decorated with everything you’d expect with a cool vibe.

  The girls walked around to look at the kitchen, and George said to me, “C’mon, I’m going
to take you on the silly boot tour.”

  I gave my standard answer to George: “Erm, okay, cool, yeah, great!”

  We went up some stairs to what was like an attic. The room was mostly empty except for some antique carved wooden armoires that lined the walls. I kept thinking this was what Louis XIV’s closets must have looked like. George opened the first one and showed me the leather jackets that the Beatles wore in Hamburg. That led into the collarless suits from The Ed Sullivan Show, which led to an array of all the mod colorful “top gear” from Carnaby Street. He had all four Sgt. Pepper suits and a story with full-on Liverpool accent and impersonation.

  “Paul calls me the other day and says, ‘Where’s me Pepper suit? ’ave you got me Pepper suit? I’m doing a video, and I need me suit; I can’t find it.’ I says, ‘Paul, I’ve had it for twenty-odd years. A couple of more days won’t hurt now, will it?’”

  This is a private, never-before-heard scene from A Hard Day’s Night. All I could think of saying was “You mean Paul McCartney?” I didn’t; I just smiled and nodded, listened. I had my free swing with the Pete Best question. I was honored to be the one that first heard this story.

  There were some more closets and crazy clothes. Then we came to a huge pirate’s chest on the floor. It was right out of Treasure Island. George got on the floor and opened it. It was filled with shoes. The ski boots from Help! were in there, the fuzzy Tibetan boots from the Let It Be era, everything. He was throwing them over his shoulders; it was raining shoes and boots. From the bottom of the chest, he pulled out an original pair of Beatles boots. They were battle-tested ones—worn out, worked in, not an extra pair.

  “Here, take these,” he said.

  “Erm, okay, yeah, great.”

  “Wait. Give ’em back.”

  I handed them back. George produced a ballpoint pen, scribbled in them, and handed them back.

  “Well, read it.”

  Inside one, he had written, “To Slim Jim from Fat George,” and then signed his name.

  In the other, he had done a perfect forgery of Ringo’s signature. He told me they often signed each other’s names. One of them would sign four signatures, and then it would be a different one’s turn. A picture with all four different people having signed it could be rare. More inside stuff. He also said, “If you ever need money, sell them! It’s just a pair of old boots.”

  I came home with a pair of silly boots and a few original buttons. What a night! It could have been just that, a great story and souvenir.

  A few months later, the phone rang back in LA.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Is this Slim Jim from the Stray Cats?”

  “Yes,” I answered, slightly annoyed, thinking someone was playing a trick on me.

  “This is George from the Beatles.”

  “Erm, yeah, cool, great. Hi, George!”

  He was in town and called to have dinner. Britt and I met him with a few others at a restaurant and had a fun evening chatting away. This type of thing would happen every now and again over the next ten years. One time he was staying at the Bel-Air Hotel, and I went over to visit him, and we drove around in my 1961 Corvette smoking a joint. All the while not saying anything particularly heavy. I always walked away feeling like I had hung out with a pal, but then a few years later remembered something he said each time that was very wise and perhaps meant to teach me something in a nonaggressive way.

  One memorable night was when Dave Edmunds played the Palace in Hollywood. Brian Setzer, Bob Dylan, Jeff Lynne, Duane Eddy, George, and I were all in the balcony watching. There is a perfect dressing room rock pic in existence of this night. Everyone is drinking a Corona and looks cool. It’s not always important to have the hard proof, but in this case it’s a good one.

  The last time I saw George, we bumped into each other at a recording studio owned by Dave Stewart, where I was doing a session and he had an appointment. He came into the session and made it a point of saying hello to me. He picked up a guitar and strummed a little. We went outside and had a nice chat. When I went back into the session, I felt some pride and got a bit of “Wow, man, you know him?” from the other musicians and the engineer. “Oh, George, yeah, he’s my buddy,” I answered coolly. I was still feeling special. George did have that effect on people.

  Then George got sick, and I didn’t see him again. It’s too sad, and everybody knows that story. I still get weepy if I think of it. After watching the excellent documentary Living in the Material World, I learned that it turns out George had a similar relationship with quite a few people all over the world. He would just call and made it seem like you were the only one he did this with. Finding this out made it even cooler to me, like being in an exclusive club where you didn’t know who the other members were.

  A few years ago, I went to a gig that my son, TJ, was playing drums on. He was in a band that was opening up for a band with George’s son, Dhani Harrison. I watched proudly, as always, while my son nailed his gig. I stayed and watched Dhani. He sang and played great. I, of course, noticed his strong resemblance to his dad. Afterward, I told Dhani that I’m sure he hears it all the time, but his dad and I were pals in our own way. He said, “Yes, I heard him mention you.” I introduced him to my son, and there’s the circle.

  10

  Lemmy

  A typical night off in London in 1981 would usually start with going to a gig. There always seemed to be a show, and I quickly got used to just walking straight in. The Nashville, Golden Lion, Fulham Greyhound, the Venue, Hope and Anchor, Hammersmith Palais, Hammersmith Odeon, Camden Palace, Dingwalls, the Lyceum, and the Marquee in Wardour Street were the main places. The Clash, the Pretenders, the Specials, Motörhead, and Madness are memorable ones. Someone you knew or wanted to know seemed to be playing every night.

  We were admired and respected by all the bands in town. The Cats seemed to be the one band that everyone in tribal London could agree on. The fashion and music from the original American rock and rollers has never gone out of style, never will. A T-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots will always be the official uniform of cool. We were young enough to put a colorful new spin on it. The Cats had that basic look down and mixed it in with a lot of the current trends in London, creating our own style. It was embraced by all the trendsetters of the time. Since we were Americans and not bound by any official membership to a tribe, we could appeal to everybody. In the past, any attempt to revive the style and music from the ’50s had come out looking corny, and I’m not sure if the musicianship was that great. No one had really nailed it. We didn’t have a theory about this; we just instinctively knew it. We could all really play. The other two are natural virtuoso musicians; that was the bottom line. If you looked outrageous and did crazy things, it didn’t matter if you couldn’t back it up onstage and in the studio. If there was any doubt about the buzz going on around us, once anyone saw Brian play, all doubts quickly vanished. I could keep up and was doing something totally new on the drums. We also brought a few guaranteed hit songs and a louder, faster approach to rockabilly. It wasn’t a rehashing of some old records. We had a very funny New York charm about us, and I ably and happily represented us on the nightclub scene. I liked and felt equal to all these musicians and characters.

  After the gig, I’d usually meet Lemmy downstairs at the Embassy Club around midnight. I met Lemmy, the legendary founder of Motörhead, at one of the first Stray Cats shows, and we became fast friends. We liked all the same stuff and had a laugh right away. The Embassy, on Old Bond Street in Mayfair, was an oldie-worldie ballroom with a tragic faded-glory feeling around it. Miles of ornate, smelly carpet, thick Regency-print wallpaper, and chandeliers conjured up classic visions of 1930s prewar London. I once mentioned to a taxi driver that New Bond Street was still older than anything in my neighborhood in New York. He drove me around Piccadilly showing me all the stuff he thought I’d be into. London cabbies are an extraordinary breed. I’ve given them half the money I’ve ever earned in my life, and they’ve
given me a deeper understanding of the city and a few shortcuts that few Americans know. They have a complete knowledge of the streets and charming personalities, and all claim to have once been teddy boys.

  Everyone went to the Embassy. Rock royalty, punk rockers, drag queens, and Hooray Henry, country club types could all be seen drinking together at the downstairs bar. Drinks were pretty expensive. I never knew or thought about how anyone afforded anything, myself included. Like everything else at that time, it just seemed to happen. The place was owned and operated by Stephen Hayter, an openly gay, public school type who loved entertaining and the whole idea of celebrity. He let anyone he recognized stay after hours to continue partying. He was a bit over the top and flamboyant in a conservative kind of way. He dressed like a yuppie on his way to the golf course, but his speech and mannerisms were overtly gay. He was a character, and I liked him. I met Bowie on a quiet night there—Pete Townshend and Freddie Mercury, too.

  Lemmy loved playing the slot machines. He was an expert and connoisseur. There were two at the Embassy. We’d stand side by side until after closing and pour fifty-pence coins into them. The bartender had an unlimited supply of little sealed plastic bags with ten pounds’ worth of coins in each one. After each empty bag of coins and ten pounds I’d never get back, Lem and I would retire to the gents’ to refuel. As I took out my bindle, Lem asked, “What’s that?”

  “Coke,” I answered with a “What else?” tone.

  “Coke is for chicks. Do this!”

  I took a sniff of the crystalline powder off the tip of the buck knife he always carried on his belt. It felt like someone had shot an orange-flavored metal arrow up my nose and through the top of my head. I was frozen. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even blink. I made it back into the club on two frozen-stiff legs. Two regular-looking customers were at our machines, celebrating a big jackpot.