Eyes Wide Open

by Andy Powell

  I kept my cynicism in check and someone proceeded to roll some pretty strong hash spliffs, with which these young chaps had no problem partaking. Suddenly, in the midst of this pleasant stoned haze, there was a loud thud in the middle of the room. One of the two, who’d been standing, leaning against the door frame, simply passed out on his feet and fell like a sack of potatoes into the middle of the room, going down, thankfully, onto the carpet. After the shock of this we revived him with some water and promptly ceased the smoking. I believe that he and his buddy were actually starving or possibly dehydrated, and it was lack of food—plus, obviously, the hash and tobacco—that caused him to pass out.

  We eventually flew back to England where we had a couple of commitments. A live recording was scheduled at the Marquee Club as part of the club’s twenty-fifth anniversary. Then we headed over to Ireland and once again, just as had happened in St Louis years earlier, we had our equipment truck with all our gear on board stolen during the early hours of the morning. We were in Dublin. Luckily, this time the police were able to locate the truck. It had been abandoned by the thieves. We were relieved to find all our equipment still intact inside it.

  * * *

  By the time of our third visit to India, in 1985, Mervyn Spence was in the band. We advised him of all the various inoculations that he’d need against typhoid, diphtheria, and so on, and in addition he’d need to start the regimen of malaria tablets. Up until that point, on our prior trips, we’d avoided getting too many stomach upsets. The thing was to avoid drinking tap water, but of course there was always the risk of eating salads, which might have been washed in contaminated water.

  As was by now our custom, we landed in Bombay and played the usual sold-out show there, taking great delight in watching Merv’s reactions as India gradually worked its magic on him. Our old friend and promoter Vikram lived in a very nice part of the city where the houses were situated in walled compounds. He very kindly threw a banquet for us. As I explained, having grown up in London, where there are Indian and Pakistani restaurants on every street, it was curious to find there simply was not this same restaurant culture in India at that time. That being said, exceptional cuisine was most definitely thriving in the food served in people’s homes. It was a truly incredible feast and Vikram seemed to have servants for everything. I was astonished to see that there was even a gatekeeper, possibly one of the untouchables—those at the very bottom of the caste system—a man wearing a hooded cloak who lived in what looked like a wooden dog kennel next to the compound’s entrance, and whose sole job was to open and close the large wooded gates for any cars entering and exiting. At our hotel previously we’d numbly watched teams of women, arranged in lines like tea-pickers, weeding the lawns, one weed at a time. There was, in India, a job for everyone, it seemed.

  On December 15 1985 we headed up to Goa. I was personally excited to visit this place because it had been spoken of as a mythical place on the hippie trail by my fellow travellers in Morocco, all those years before. It was a former Portuguese colony, and we were delighted to see quite different Christian architecture and an altogether more laid-back atmosphere around the hotel that was found for us on the beach. The people there also had a different look. Some even had dark red hair. I enjoyed going walking in order to absorb the flavour of the place. Weirdly, down by the beach, as I walked by them, a group of musicians were singing and playing what sounded like sea shanties.

  Our show was a kind of homespun affair on a makeshift stage and it was fun to have a goodly number of Europeans in the audience, along with the native Goans. Later, relaxing back at the hotel, I asked some of the different hippies I met how life was for them there, perhaps ever the romantic, thinking of saving the place as a post-band bolthole. In actual fact, joining us there was my brother Len. He’d surprised the hell out of me with a phone call in Bombay earlier.

  ‘Where are you calling from, Len? I didn’t expect to hear from you while in India.’

  ‘I’m in the hotel lobby. Do you have a spare bed?’

  Len then travelled with us on the tour and his help was most welcome. After that he decided to stay on in India for a few months and literally befriended a man with an elephant, helping him secure work for the animal.

  We headed back to Bombay before our flight down to Madras. At breakfast, some members of our group were complaining of upset stomachs but Mervyn was nowhere to be found. Steve visited him in his room and reported back that he was delirious and in a terrible state and had had all sorts of ‘accidents’ in the night, the evidence of which was plain in the room. It was on another level. A doctor was immediately called, and it was announced that there was no way our singer was going to be fit enough to travel with us.

  The rest of us caught a flight on to the next city on our schedule. We had always enjoyed our visits to Madras. We were staying outside town at a place called Fisherman’s Cove, and our luxury hotel was situated on the longest beach I’ve ever seen. It was endless. Our entire crew arranged ourselves on loungers around the pool. All of us, to a man, had got upset stomachs, and we were alternately groaning and laughing as, one by one, each of us made hasty exits to our rooms for some relief from whatever it was that had taken over our feeble European constitutions.

  Once we were feeling a little better, Steve and I decided to go walk-about and headed to the beach. There was nothing there except little fishing villages dotted along the coast and simply miles and miles of perfect white sand bordering the vast Indian Ocean. After a couple of miles, walking in the hot sun, we were greeted by some tiny, very skinny men dressed simply in loincloths and turbans. They looked to be Tamils and were smiling broadly at us as one of them pulled a small package from the folds of his turban, offering us each a beedie, which was a kind of Indian cigarette. They were going out on a little fishing expedition in their dugout canoe, and it was conveyed to us by sign language that they would like us to join them. This was too great a chance to pass up so Steve and I squeezed ourselves into the flimsy little craft with its outrider. Our new friends started to paddle us out into the vast expanse. It was as if we were transported back to the Stone Age. Our hosts fascinated us—as we probably did them. They looked like Indian pirates, flashing broad grins all the time while paddling us out into the great unknown. What were we thinking?

  After returning us safely back onto the beach, our rowers were still all smiles as we watched, far off in the distance, a little girl come running toward us. As she got closer, one of the little men let us know that he was related to her in some way. Then the little girl slowed down upon arrival and took on a distinctly unhappy demeanour. She suddenly looked horror-struck and started sobbing in what looked like total fear, judging by the look in her eyes. Our guys were laughing uncontrollably at her. Steve and I were uncomfortable, trying to process these conflicting emotions—the distraught little girl and the laughing Tamils. Pretty soon we understood what was occurring. She had wanted to see what her older brothers were doing with these two strangers but when she got close, she became shocked and scared, never before having seen Europeans with their ghostly white faces and arms. Our appearance had literally shocked her, and she probably feared for the lives of her older brothers. The realisation of this really impacted Steve and me.

  The next day, after our show in Madras, we flew up to Calcutta in the north-east part of the subcontinent. The people there looked quite different from the southerners. They seemed way less laid back and busy, busy, busy. Driving from the airport was, again, like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Firstly, the interior of the bus itself seemed to have been completely rebuilt over the years, with everything having been replaced by makeshift parts. Even the original ashtrays, long since destroyed or stolen, had been replaced by new ones fashioned out of hand-beaten Coca-Cola cans. If this was the interior, what was going on with the engine itself? Health and safety regulations? Forget it.

  Pretty soon our senses were becoming overwhelmed. We passed by toxic pools of who knows what—quite b
eautiful, actually—where the water was every colour you can think of: brown, blue green, yellow, red. The whole perimeter of this city of around five million people seemed to be a wasteland, a toxic dump, on a level that I’d never before experienced. Sulphurous smells, rotting garbage—it was like descending into the pit of hell. However, once we arrived at our hotel we found the usual over-the-top luxury, while just beyond us rabid dogs, businessmen and women, rickshaws and beggars all mingled together in the usual Indian chaos.

  I decided once again to go walkabout by myself. I don’t know why but I was wearing a white shirt. Within twenty minutes it was filthy, just from the pollution in the air. I had the feeling that there was a more aggressive energy around me than I’d encountered before, but then the thought hit me that the brains of these poor folks were being ‘fried’ by the over-the-top levels of pollution. I was actually becoming fearful about breathing. It was that bad. At one point I saw five unfortunate souls roped together with the lead person ringing a bell. Were they lepers? I didn’t hang around to find out but headed back to the environs of the hotel. I’d already witnessed weddings and funeral processions out there on the streets, as well as seeing the results of child mutilations and dead beggars lying literally in the gutter as folks walked by, hands over their mouths and noses. Once more, I decided, I could use a rest.

  Our open-air show that night in the oppressive heat was received ecstatically by the crowd although during the soundcheck I’d nervously been eyeing the vultures that were circling above us, riding the thermals. Were they trying to tell us something? Was our precious career all going to end here, in Calcutta? I had to laugh to myself. At least we’d go out in some exotic style.

  It was the 21st of December. We needed to be home for Christmas. We made it to the airport only to find that there would be a substantial delay. I seem to remember us managing to get a temporary room somewhere after being told that the wait could be quite a while. Eventually, we got word that a plane was ready. We found hundreds of passengers camping out in the airport with what looked like all their worldly goods spread out around them on the floor. Boarding started, but in no fixed order, and it became apparent that the seat numbers on our boarding passes were of no use whatsoever. It soon dawned on us that this was a free-for-all, and that the only way we’d be getting on a plane home was to fight our way on—which is what we did. All of us made it to the seats, desperate now to be on our way. It was dusk outside.

  We took off, and after a refuelling stop somewhere in the Persian Gulf we started to experience what we thought was turbulence. The captain came over the PA to inform us that he’d had to shut down one of the four engines on our 747 and was now dumping fuel! We would be needing to find a place to land! An unscheduled stop in Kuwait was decided upon, and the plane touched down at the brand new airport in Kuwait City.

  As our motley crew of passengers filed off the plane and into immigration, we could see that our hosts were none too happy at this turn of events. The Americans and British were separated out to be pushed around and shouted at angrily by security guards wielding automatic weapons and demanding that we all surrender our passports. That was a no-no in our books, and one of the American businessmen obviously felt the same way. He protested at the sight of the women in the group having their handbags forcibly yanked off their shoulders as the authorities began rummaging through them. He was promptly brought to the ground by the butt of a rifle delivered expertly to his knees. Now we were scared. If I did not know it before, I now felt a sharp realisation as to our vulnerability when travelling overseas.

  Arrangements were made for us to stay overnight in what was one of the most elaborate Holiday Inns I’d ever been in, situated on the edge of the desert. We were told that on no account should we go outside but that we could use the hotel’s facilities and, with that, we were given food vouchers. Things were looking up. Outside, I could see that the only cars being driven in and out of this beautiful hotel were Mercedes and Rolls-Royces. The wealth was plain to see. The Arab men in the lobby (there seemed only to be men) were immaculately groomed in their white robes and headgear. That was all I could tell about our temporary location. After a good night’s sleep we were informed that replacement parts had been sent out for our plane, and that we would be on our way before long. We were reacquainted with our passports and were able to continue our journey home.

  As with other trips, and especially since it was Christmas, the culture shock on arriving home was intense. We were straight into the feeding frenzy that Christmas has become in the West. I felt disgusted by it all. It seemed pointless, all this forced present-buying, especially after the insane poverty I’d witnessed in India. It was all too much. It would, yet again, take me some time to put all our experiences together again in my mind. That would have to wait though, because a couple weeks after our return, Laurie Wisefield would decide it was time to leave.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHY DON’T WE?

  (1987–89)

  Not long after we fired Miles back in 1975, he was presented with the opportunity to work with his brother, Stewart, and his new band The Police. And then he got very entrenched with punk and several American acts that followed in its wake: R.E.M., The Go-Gos, The Bangles. He built a new empire. These bands in many respects suited his personality more than the fairly serious musos from early-70s Britain, where it was all about the music and maybe less so about doing whatever it took to become stars. When we were trying to come up with a name for Wishbone Ash, Miles’s suggestions had included Jesus Duck, Marty Mortician & The Coffinettes, and Wonder Warthog & The War Weenies. From these name suggestions you can see that he loved the overblown, crazy side of rock’n’roll. Thus, when the punk thing came along and he was managing various people in that world, it was really interesting for him, and a natural fit.

  The Police were the best of both worlds: ersatz punks, talented musos who managed to connect with the public in a big way through great songs and reggae-style grooves, courtesy of Stewart’s drumming. I knew Stewart quite well by this time. Pauline and I had been to the reception when he married Curved Air’s Sonja Kristina, and they’d visited our house. I’d been really pleased for him and the band’s success because I’d seen how hard he’d worked to achieve it all. I’d been to see The Police in New York when they were trying to make it, borrowing a friend’s Chevrolet Camaro to drive there. Stupidly, I’d only just returned from the UK and had been up for twenty-four hours. On the way home after the show, I fell asleep at the wheel, not too far from where I live these days, and had a very close call—a collision with another vehicle in the early hours of the morning. The other driver and I were both extremely lucky to have made it out alive. Naturally, a court case followed some weeks later, at which time I had to travel back to Connecticut from Florida, where we were recording. I had good representation, and the judge was lenient with me.

  By 1987, Miles’s period with R.E.M. and The Bangles et al was all coming to an end. So what did he do? He looked back on his career and he said, ‘Hey, I worked with some fantastic bands in the 70s—let me call all my old buddies up …’ He had a label called IRS Records at the time and he had this great idea—which we only found out after the event—to build his label catalogue up with a load more titles, increasing its value greatly, but artificially, in a relatively short time, so that he could then sell it. He subsequently did, to EMI, for something like £42 million: capitalism in its purest and most beautiful form!

  Around April of that year, Miles contacted Steve and me, independently, and he also contacted Martin Turner. He didn’t contact Ted because he couldn’t find him. He had this master plan of recording a bunch of instrumental albums using all the great guitar players he’d been associated with in the 70s. He had created a new label, No Speak, for the purpose. It was presented as a project: ‘Get together, guys. Do a reformed album—but it’s going to be instrumental.’ So that was a bit odd, but it was great to be back with the guy who always put the wind under our wings. It
was another adventure. When the three of us did finally come together and met at his family home in St John’s Wood it was agreed that it wouldn’t be a permanent reformation, just a one-off project. I think Steve and I were pretty firm on that point because we’d already invested a number of years with just the two of us as Wishbone Ash, with additional players brought in on a contractual basis. We’d managed ourselves and the band’s good name through the crisis of bankruptcy, and we obviously didn’t want to throw any of that away.

  There was always an easygoing feeling with Miles. I think we all got the fact that he was primarily interested in himself: a benevolent dictator who could create things and put people together along the way, producing events and situations by the sheer force of his personality. I don’t think anyone was pulling any wool over anyone else’s eyes. We always knew that working with Miles was always about Miles. But it was better to be associated with him than not.

  Happily, despite our acrimonious parting a few years earlier, the vibe with Martin was great. He was ready and we were ready. He’s a contrary character and, in my view, is prone to saying dumb things. There was so much of that going on in the period leading up to his leaving in 1980. He’d be purposely perverse in discussions, often ending up arguing against a specific point that he’d made himself fifteen minutes earlier. I’d come to realise that this was all a kind of smokescreen to gain or retain control and appear relevant. But there didn’t seem to be so much of this going on at this point in time, perhaps as a result of the reality of the situation. That is to say, he needed the work, as did we.