Ian Gillan: The Autobiography of Deep Purple’s Singer

by Ian Gillan

  Sammy was from Melbourne, and he was short, busy, very charismatic and very much wanting to be associated with me, to the extent that he ‘blew out’ the rest of the band. Remember, we’re looking back to early Purple days, when Jesus Christ Superstar was so big, and I’d of course recorded the lead part. So, in Sammy’s book, I was definitely somebody to be seen with, and once, when the press were advancing towards me, he extended his arm up towards my quite distant shoulder and said in this unmistakable Aussie twang (and with a husky voice), ‘Hey, boys, this is the greatest singer since rock was invented. In fact he’s the greatest singer in the world!’ He then paused, looked up at me and said, ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  Sammy was truly amazing, and so enjoyed the visit by these three great bands from the UK that he told us he’d added another show, on one day’s notice! Not surprisingly, because nobody knew about it, only about a hundred people came along, and it then turned out that the deal had been made with cash upfront. So, when it wasn’t there, Manfred’s manager phoned Sammy from the hotel, asking for payment before the band left for the venue, and this caused Sammy to get very indignant. He just didn’t like being thought of as a crook, and so he arrived with his cohorts, whom he left around the hotel lobby, before taking a couple of them upstairs to give Manfred’s manager a serious hiding. The noise was unbelievable, but the hotel refused to do anything about it, until I thought enough was enough, and walked in to find Sammy almost having a heart attack with rage, as they beat shit out of the manager.

  Fortunately, it happened that Sammy liked me (aside from the Superstar bit), so, when I said, ‘Hang on, Sammy, this isn’t very good for your image,’ he backed off. Sammy also paid on the upfront money, we did the show to the handful of punters, and flew out a little after. I believe Sammy later died of the heart attack he must nearly have had in the hotel room, but that was my first introduction to Australia, and I’ve gone back there as often as possible.

  Back to the Perfect Strangers tour, and in 1985 nothing so dramatic happened during that visit, and so we moved on to America, where arenas were booked and sold out, with extra dates added, and where we apparently ‘out-earned’ every artist that year, except Bruce Springsteen. That leg of the world tour was simply huge, and driven along similar lines to the Black Sabbath visit I’ve talked about, and had so much respect for. However, where this tour was so very different was in the fact that I was with my own people now, and playing to audiences who were glad to see Deep Purple back. The tour schedule began at Ector County Coliseum in Odessa, Texas, and went on to include:

  January

  19th Amarillo, Texas

  20th Wichita, Texas

  24th The Summit, Houston, Texas

  25th Reunion Arena, Dallas, Texas

  26th Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center, San Antonio, Texas

  28th El Paso County Coliseum, El Paso, Texas

  And so it continued: Arizona, San Diego, Colorado, St Louis and Kansas. Deep Purple have always been a working band, and the tour went through to the end of March, when we flew into Canada for shows that took in Montreal, Quebec, Toronto and Vancouver, with more added almost at the last minute along the way. It was incredible, and we apparently took $7 million for that section alone!

  With the tour finally grinding to a halt, what else to plan for but another album? Except that I ‘accidentally’ made two, and here’s how that came about!

  Roger and I had started preparations for what would become The House of Blue Light, only to discover that Ritchie wasn’t really interested in listening to us. After trying out a couple of studios, we ended up back at Stowe, Vermont, where we set up in the Playhouse, but got a disturbing feeling that this one was going to be a struggle. There was no spirit, no cohesion, and it reminded me of Rome 1972, when we made Who Do We Think We Are and where Ritchie vetoed ‘Painted Horse’, which he hated.

  Now, for The House of Blue Light, we had first developed ‘Mitzi Dupree’, the story about my airline flight from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City, next to seat 3A, and were at the point of adding a lyric to the rough backing tracks we’d made. However, when it was presented to the band, and as with ‘Painted Horse’ before it, Ritchie hated it so much he refused to record it, which means that what you hear on the album is the original demo!

  This sort of thing used to piss me off big time, until I began to realise it’s what Ritchie seems to get off on. So Roger and I set up camp in the Playhouse, working in a tiny room with no windows, and in no time at all the walls were covered with bits of paper, song titles and lyrical themes, as we kept ourselves busy trying to turn arrangements into songs. It’s an arse-about-face way of writing, but there it is – what else can you do?

  Well, the question’s rhetorical, because, for one thing, I went to the pub in Stowe to enjoy the company of Richard Hughes. It was where we used to spend many a happy hour, sometimes at work, and sometimes not! The House of Blue Light was far from finished when everybody packed up and left, so Rog and I took the mobile and parked it at the back of his house in Greenwich. There, away from the Prince of Darkness, as Ritchie is affectionately known, the mood lightened, and we made some progress: ‘Mad Dog’, ‘Bad Attitude’, ‘The Unwritten Law’ and ‘The Spanish Archer’ were all finished in Roger’s basement studio, with the aristocratic Russian/Canadian hippy-cum-teddy bear of an engineer, and the amazing Nick Blagona, helping to make it happen.

  Take a look at these dirty hands

  Take a look at this face, these blazing eyes,

  Do you see me as a broken man,

  Tell me are you really that blind…

  Other songs on the album were ‘Call of the Wild’, ‘Hard Lovin’ Woman’, ‘Strangeways’, ‘Dead or Alive’ and of course, ‘Mitzi Dupree’, all of which Roger took to Germany to mix; and, after he was done, his condition was fairly described in terms of ‘brains like scrambled eggs’!

  I’ve already made comparison to this album against Who Do We Think We Are, and, you know, it’s a funny thing but, if you look at a top athlete or, in fact, anybody at the top of their tree, their wizardry seems effortless, while others struggle to emulate them. And it’s the same with Deep Purple. If the chemistry isn’t right, if the spirit isn’t there, then an album can sound like a struggle, and I think The House of Blue Light and Who Do We Think We Are fall into that category, while albums like Deep Purple in Rock and Machine Head show a band at ease with themselves.

  And so came the day when the final touches had been put to the mix, and our work was over. I looked at Roger and said, ‘You look fucking drained!’ He said he was, so I came back with, ‘I tell you what. I’ve got an idea. Let’s go and make a record!’ Well, he just stood and looked at me totally dumbfounded, so I followed it up with, ‘Look, Rog, we’ve just finished a record, and it’s like a bad fuck.’ So we got hold of Nick Blagona, and took off for the Caribbean to write and record something joyful: Accidentally on Purpose. No sooner had we arrived at the AIR Studios Montserrat than we immediately settled into a good attitude, and started this by arranging for a little ‘inspiration’ to be delivered. Once it had arrived, and with the marijuana duly shaken out on the table and fashioned into a pyramid, I said to Roger, ‘This is going to be a great album!’

  We went and put down the acoustic and bass to ‘Dislocated’; then we had some food, before climbing into our cars – Hillman Avengers, I believe – to go and find our way into town, and a bar called the Plantation, which we walked straight into, and continued, without a pause, upstairs. The first thing I noticed on arrival was a fan turning slowly, and, when I say slowly, I mean its rotation was very, very slowly. It was also very hot and sultry, the floor was layered with dust and the shuttered windows did little to help ease any discomfort. And then my eyes picked out this very large Teutonic sort of woman, swaying about on her stool and about to fall off. Gallant as ever, and with no lessons from the past remembered, I instantly went over to steady her, but everybody said, ‘No! Go away!’

  It was obvio
us that there were a number of expat types sitting around, and so we just watched what was happening until, finally, she fell off the stool. There was a huge crash, said dust flew, and, as we moved to pick her up, two or three guys pushed us away, while some of the others were seen to be setting their diving watches, and looking down on her.

  After what seemed an eternity, they started going, ‘No … No … Now!’ at which moment watches clicked, and they returned to the bar, leaving her on the floor. They were all roaring with laughter, and then a couple of them hauled her to her feet, and she was taken home. It turned out that she was some kind of travel agent who’d settled out there, and that every Friday she’d turn up at the bar, get completely wrecked and fall off her stool. The lads had picked up on the fact that, due to her large and independent breasts, when she crashed to the floor, her bosom would continue to move for some considerable time afterwards, until they settled down, so to speak. So the Friday night wager was on just how long it would be until all was calm and still, and, on the evening of our arrival, I believe the winning time was forty-five seconds!

  With order restored, I moved across to the bar, and ordered drinks from this guy, who had this immaculate Oxford accent. He greeted me with, ‘Hello, my name is English!’ to which I replied, as so many must have before me, ‘Would you mind telling me why you are called English?’ It turned out that English had been sent to England to secure a fine education, after which he became a barrister, and went about his profession. However, while he was walking through Lincoln’s Inn one miserable January morning, a thought crossed his mind along the lines of, ‘What the fuck am I doing here? I’d rather be back in Montserrat, my home, serving rum punch!’ So he jacked it all in, returned and started working behind the bar, getting drunk, smoking a little and occasionally writing, usually for people who needed legal advice such as in letters. And, yes, that’s right, English was as happy as … well, English!

  Since the volcano disaster, I’ve often wondered what became of English. He was such an inspiration – I mean, what a fine life choice to make, from being a barrister in London to serving B52s to visitors on that wonderful subtropical idyll. So we smoked a little, and then Roger said he wanted to get back, and I offered a lift to Nick as well.

  Now, Nick trusts me to drive with care – I drive slowly – and so we got into the car, rolled a couple of large ones, and off we went. The whole moment was so fantastic, as we cruised along, saying how great our new song was going to be, and playing with the melody – ‘dang de clang, dang de clang’ – until very suddenly we happened upon a cow lying in the middle of the road. In fact, it was fast asleep with its back to us, so, after a polite pause, I tooted the horn a few times, then leaned out and coughed, finally to call, ‘Excuse me, but I need to get home now!’

  Well, it reluctantly got up, gave me a baleful stare, stepped to the side, and looked at me as if to say, ‘Sorry, pal, be on your way, then!’ I thanked the beast most kindly, let out the clutch, and we continued – ‘dang de clang…’

  Everything was fine for several minutes, and then I happened to glance at Nick, who’d gone very pale (despite the dark!) as he looked past me, and out of the window.

  ‘Nick, what is it?’ I said.

  ‘Look,’ he replied in a hushed voice. So I turned to look, and there was our friendly cow walking along, and now overtaking the car! As Nick will confirm to anyone who needs to know, I’m a very slow driver!

  Ears are screaming

  Vase a leaning tower

  On my plate at the party

  There was no party

  There was no suitcase

  There was no back seat

  There was no car

  Dislocated, dislocated, dislocated, dislocated.

  About half the album was done in the Caribbean, but we had to stop to pick up on the tour with Purple. Although The House of Blue Light would not set the world on fire – it was released in January 1987 – it still did good enough business, hitting No. 10 in the UK and No. 34 in America. The tour had also started well, and was continuing as such; in fact, it got better, although Rog and I decided to travel by bus, while the others flew; the idea being that we’d be better able to continue our writing for Accidentally on Purpose that way. So we just cruised through the countryside, took in the scenery, partied when we felt like it (and when the opportunity arose) and slept it off in the bunks. There was no rush, no airport lounges, no irritating packing and unpacking; it was the only way to go!

  Chet King flew up from the Cayman Islands to spend a few days with us. He loves his rock ’n’ roll, and on one occasion he picked up the internal phone in the toilet, poked his head out of the door and said, ‘Can I call home from here?’

  ‘Who wants to live in a telephone box?’ was the reply. Well it was a pretty odd exchange, but I picked up the guitar, and the song ‘Telephone Box’ was born. It sounded good on the radio a year or so later. And ‘Lonely Avenue’ also sounded good in Rain Man, the Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise movie.

  Again with Purple, we did a show at Phoenix, where the band were now performing at their very best. However, Ritchie threw his guitar in the air and temporarily forgot where he put it. Too late, he reached into the ‘spot’, mistimed his catch, and broke one of his more important fingers! The tour had to be cancelled, and Roger and I went to Minot Sound Studio in New York, and then the The Power Station, to finish our wonderfully personal project!

  We brought in some great musicians, including Doctor John, Randy Brecker, Joe Mennonna, plus the exquisite Vaneese Thomas, and we’re still chuffed with the results! However, due to politics (or whatever) at Virgin, the record was almost completely unsupported. The managing director at Virgin/Ten was Richard Griffiths, and his enthusiasm had been fantastic, right from the beginning. He’d really stuck his neck out for us but, sadly, he left the organisation just before release, and so it floundered in the market.

  I have to say that everybody I know who has a copy of Accidentally on Purpose, tells me it’s their favourite; and, of all the records I’ve made, it’s the one I play the most. As for Roger, well, he has been an inspiration to me, and the nearest I’ve ever had to having a brother. I love him.

  I may be crazy but hear me well

  Don’t want you ding a linging on my bell

  Communication is a good thing

  But I like to let the mother ring

  There’s no extension on this line

  I’ve lost your number tear up mine

  Who wants to live in a telephone box…

  Accidentally on Purpose was released in 1988, and is a clutch of songs: ‘Clouds and Rain’, ‘Evil Eye’, ‘She Took My Breath Away’, ‘Dislocated’, ‘Via Miami’, ‘I Can’t Dance to That’, ‘Can’t Believe You Wanna Leave’, ‘Lonely Avenue’, ‘Telephone Box’ and ‘I Thought No’.

  Once Ritchie’s finger had mended, the Purple tour picked up again in Europe, but the spark had gone, and tensions were back! There was an incident in Italy, when I said at a press conference (in reply to a question about why the routing was so strange), ‘The problem is that our manager, Bruce Payne, is a dickhead!’ or something like that. It was a cruel remark, born out of frustration, and partly because I think I’d just heard Paicey say he never went near his drum kit between tours. It got me thinking, It’s all going down the tubes again; but I apologised to Bruce, and guess I’m forgiven. Bruce Payne is actually a very funny guy, and we’ve been together long enough now to have learned the ropes – at least so far as we’re both concerned.

  As the tour struggled on, there was a dressing room incident towards its close – in fact, after a UK date. I had a cold, and was sitting quietly, when Ritchie burst in, eyes blazing, and with a china plate in his hand, on which there was spaghetti, which someone had smothered with tomato ketchup. He charged over to me, and said, ‘Did you do this?’ But, without waiting for my answer, he smashed the plate into my face as if it were a custard pie. I slowly stood up, and he started dancing around me, fists raised,
saying, ‘Come on, then. Come on.’

  ‘I don’t want to hit you, Ritchie,’ I said, and turned away to go to the bathroom to clean up. Once there, I cried with rage and frustration, and said to myself, ‘I quit’; except I instantly changed my mind because I realised how pleased he would have been. It was downhill all the way from that moment, and the next album, Nobody’s Perfect, would complete the three projects we’d committed to with Polydor Records, and it included stuff we’d recorded live on our tour: songs such as ‘Perfect Strangers’ (California, May 1987), ‘Hard Lovin’ Woman’ and ‘Black Night’ (Oslo, August 1987), ‘Lazy’ (Phoenix, Arizona, May 1987) and even ‘Hush’, which was taken from a jam session at Hook End Manor (Hook End Recording Studios) in 1988! Although my views on this kind of project are well known, I still approached it with a positive and ambitious approach, saying, ‘Let’s make this as good as we can!’

  However, when we took the material into the studio at Hook End for post-production, the difficulties became very obvious. OK, you can use a studio to make bum notes come out right, but other issues, which are more problematic, need to be addressed. For example, what happens when the tape runs out in the middle of a song, or when there are crackles and screeches? We didn’t seem to go into this project with an absolute will to make a great live album, otherwise I suppose we’d have taken more than one tape recorder!

  There was another scenario, where the band wanted to use a lot of the Made in Japan stuff, but add newer songs, to show how we had changed; but, sadly, it was clear that we’d hardly changed at all – we’d just become more slick, and adding ‘Hush’ was (for me) the strangest decision of all! Nobody has yet owned up to that idea, although I did try to get it across that Rod Evans could have done a much better job than I managed with the newer version. An original is always best!