Ian Gillan: The Autobiography of Deep Purple’s Singer

by Ian Gillan

  ‘Ah, so you are in favour of drugs, then?’ he challenged me, and knowing Moscow had, and still has (I’m told) a growing and worrying drug problem. I tried to explain that the day you ask a Scotsman not to have another whisky, a German not to drink another beer, a Frenchman not to have another glass of wine, or even a Russian not to have another vodka, is the day I’ll ask a Jamaican not to smoke his ganja, a North African not to touch hashish, or a Bolivian not to chew his coca leaves. The arrogance of one society to judge the customs of another society as ‘uncool’ astounds me, but, that said, I’ve seen close friends come to grief because of drug abuse, and I do not condone the use of opiates, heroin, cocaine and the shit and pills the gangsters try to get people into. Nor do I have any intention of sticking a needle in myself. I also hate to hear of situations where food, drink or cigarettes have been interfered with. Once again, it’s a subject I can best deal with through my music, and ‘No Easy Way’ is an example of this, as I reflect on the tragic end of two friends of mine, one a hooker and the other a junkie:

  Little John took the easy way he said

  Bye bye to the light of day

  He didn’t need a gun at all

  He went flying and took a fall

  Little Ann took the easy way she said

  Take the money and run away

  Lie down and look away

  Save the money for a rainy day.

  Back in the USSR, we went to Yerevan for another four gigs, before going to Tbilisi for five more. The programme then continued across that huge territory of Ordzonikidze, Grozny, Nalczyk, Volgograd, Makhachkallah in Dagestan on the Caspian Sea, finally arriving back in Moscow for a return to London. At all venues we performed a number of shows, and tasted very many experiences as we performed in places no other British or American band had ever visited.

  Al Dutton was the tour manager, and Graham (Squiffy) Underwood also came along for what was one long drunken party, with many misunderstandings, but a lot of good shows! We took the ‘Gillan’s Inn’ pub sign that I’d recently had made, and the pool table came as well, just in case anybody became disoriented! We also took my spare washing machine, but, despite the attention to home comforts, there were several moments of personality clashes and grief, and Tommy and Al fell out quite early on. Still, the show travelled on, as we dealt with liquor by the crate, quickly running out of Heineken but soon finding Becks, so the convoy of vehicles could continue on its (mostly) merry way – a bit like a mobile brewery with some guitars on board!

  On one occasion, we’d been on the road for about eight hours when we came across the largest gathering of sheep I’ve ever seen; not even in Australia could a ‘fleet’ of that size be possible, and we had to drive dangerously close to the outside edge of a mountain just to avoid them. It also provoked much wailing from Scottish Ted, who kept saying, ‘There’s a lot of ‘doonness doon there, boss!’ – which, of course, there was!

  We were also in a region where it seemed strawberries, cheese, cherries, bread and, of course, lamb were in huge abundance, and Ted happened to be very keen on strawberries. He’s also keen on crates of lager, and on one particular occasion was sitting in the middle of the aisle, banging on about something or other in his thick native brogue. He then decided he was full up with strawberries and lager, and did what jet planes sometimes do in a crisis: they offload fuel. Well, in Ted’s case it’s called projectile vomiting, and he’s perfected it as an art form – except, as luck would have it, he performed the stunt over me, before going back to his crates to start all over again! The situation was unfortunate: first, because it happened just as we were approaching some town or other, where everybody seemed to know about our arrival, except us; and second, because it was (as ever) down to me to act as spokesman for us visitors – to show leadership, I suppose! Well, I’d been suffering from a bad cold for a little while, and had not slept properly for hours, on top of which I was unshaven and drunk, as well as wearing Ted’s vomit all over my smelly white shirt. And so our convoy drew to a halt, pretty much as American settlers used to do when confronted by a line of red Indians in the early days of the Wild West!

  Outside the bus, there were hordes of children and a multitude of wild-eyed horsemen on equally wild-eyed horses, all awaiting our arrival. While trying to focus on the reception party, I remember this guy galloping over with a huge horn filled with about six pints of sweet red wine, and, with cameras clicking and rolling, I was encouraged to down the offering in one go, as a symbolic gesture of friendship, in which challenge I was supported by my ever-faithful band, along the lines of, ‘Goo on, boss, goo on, boss’ ringing in my ears. With the cultural nicety over, I was then handed a bunch of mature roses, which I accepted by their thorny stems, just before my hands were tightly clasped together in a warm embrace of welcome. It was yet another arrival at which I regretted that the band were rolling around in the bus, making unintelligent noises, but mostly in a single Scottish accent!

  I feel so dirty

  I feel so dirty

  It’s all worked out

  You tell me I’ve been wrong

  I’ve got no reason to live anymore

  Nothing to do but curl up and die.

  We were escorted to the town, where, on arrival at our hotel, I realised we had a new problem as we confronted another quite serious difficulty. You see, when the band had poured off the bus, they were wearing shorts and T-shirts and, apart from the obvious fact they were drunk, they also carried reserve bottles. Well, of course the penny dropped, as I remembered we were in a community where there were quite a lot of Muslim fundamentalists. The situation then became even more confused, because of my known association with Jesus Christ of stage musical fame. So, although the local organisers hadn’t really heard of Deep Purple, they of course knew about Jesus, the great prophet, whom they held in the highest regard. And so I was received as Jesus, with my colleagues believed to be his faithful disciples, into which impressive CV translations my interest in carpentry had also found its way, and therefore cemented our authenticity, even to those who had doubts!

  It’s one of the joys of being a rock musician, and one who’s also willing to travel, that you can learn so much – from the sublime to the ridiculous! So in Russia, for example, if you are being directed to a particular place by car, you do not follow the lead vehicle: you lead it! And that can make for quite slow journeys, apart from the fact it’s also very irritating and confusing! Someone will open the door to a labyrinth, and usher you in first, so that you find yourself asking, ‘This way?’ with your head turning 180 degrees, and they say, ‘No, that way,’ until you somehow arrive at your destination, feeling very flexible! As I say, this for me is what rock ’n’ roll is about – taking my music, and trying to find new audiences and fans for it. And, of course, it’s sometimes difficult. After one show, Graham and I watched as twelve Russian soldiers debated how to move my travelling wardrobe from the dressing room to the truck. It’s not that big an item (actually, I suppose it is quite big, being designed like a flight case, with grips and so forth) but it’s been round the world many times without causing any real hardship to our roadies and crews. However, on this occasion it now stood between the soldiers, and there was much head scratching going on as to how to transfer it to the waiting vehicle. Whenever any attempt was made to make progress, the wardrobe would usually fall over, until Graham and I finally decided my clothes had suffered enough, so we put out our cigarettes, went over, and popped it onto the truck! Our feat brought no display of admiration – in fact, they seemed totally unimpressed – to which puzzle I was later informed that some military units are told that taking the initiative invariably loses wars, and so all decisions need to be ratified on a group basis!

  On occasions when great distances meant we had to fly, different things could also be daunting, as we discovered when we found ourselves aboard this huge aircraft (it made a 747 appear quite small), and we also seemed to be the only passengers in residence. I was still feeling unwel
l with a bout of flu, which seemed determined to stay with me for the duration of the tour, so, while I continued to shiver, the lads continued to also make themselves as unwell as possible, with copious amounts of vodka and whatever else they’d managed to find at the airport.

  After a while, Tommy staggered up and suggested I take a walk with him to the far end of the plane where there was a lift, which happened to arrive just as we got there. A female flight attendant of considerable dimensions invited us into the lift with her, and, as we travelled to the hold, she kindly massaged my private parts, before we reached the bowels of the plane, where there was a crew party in progress. Not only that, but they were all roaring drunk, as they socialised around an open-flame cooker, knocking back alcohol as if there would be no tomorrow, which in truth looked to be a very high probability!

  So, at 35, 000 feet, they invited Tommy and me to join them, Tommy coming rapidly to his senses when he fell against a loading door that hadn’t been closed properly, and we discovered was held together by two pieces of rope. Still, if the crew didn’t give a monkey’s, we did, and so the two of us returned upstairs, where I hoped to die!

  There were more elegant moments, and many occasions when we were treated with great respect. For example, at a Ministry of Culture do, I was invited to spend some time with graduate students, where coffee was enjoyed, before we were taken to watch a tapestry being made by three of their class. It was incredible to watch such brilliant minds and native skills at work, as the girls developed a piece that depicted Russian soldiers attacking Georgians, using only shovels as weapons. On its completion, I was told the work would explain a story that was based on an army unit returning from Afghanistan, where the soldiers had come up against a nationalist movement. However, their weapons were shovels not because they had lost their firearms, but because they had never been issued with them in the first place! The tapestry was sensational and memorable, because, in our Western civilisation (my favourite oxymoron), such an incomprehensible scenario would have been consigned to the vaults, while, with these tapestries, such a sad story would present a vital and poignant image for future generations to reflect on.

  The people we met during our travels were stunning hosts, doing what poor people do so often, which is to give much of their hard-earned money to providing hospitality to strangers and friends. And it’s into this alternative world that Bron, her sister, Julie, and their mother, Sheila, came out to provide a period of sanity amid the frequent chaos, and my wife and I did what some people find strange. In Tbilisi, Georgia, we got married again. Our first ceremony had been at home; then we married again in Vermont; but now, in the USSR, the idea for a third time came from some journalists sent by the Tass news agency.

  When we arrived in town for our big and solemn occasion, various things were put in place so the wedding could go ahead with dignity and celebration. There was no sign whatsoever as to who would be paying for it, or anything like that, until a gentleman from the Georgian State Orchestra came over and introduced himself, ending with, ‘Everything has been taken care of.’ After this, all that followed can only be described as astonishing beyond words.

  We were picked up by a horse-drawn coach and taken at breakneck speed through the town, where we were joined by riders in full regalia, who escorted us further onwards. There was much evidence of vast quantities of wine, which weighed down the horses considerably, and also a huge amount of sword waving and yelling went on, until we arrived at a building that resembled a medieval town hall in England.

  We were now kitted out in national costume, and, although B looked lovely, I did not! Strange as it may seem, my rock-’n’-roll personality doesn’t extend to every situation, and in front of my mates I felt embarrassed and a bit silly. However, any feelings of inadequacy were my problem, when all that was happening to us was a show of enormous goodwill and affection, for which words of thanks are also inadequate.

  Inside the civic building, there was the most beautiful music being performed, and our service was conducted in English and Georgian. We then signed a book, and, with my still-sober crew and band, we all left to the sound of music, clicking cameras and applause from our hosts and assembled well-wishers.

  Back in the horse-drawn carriage, we were whisked across the town with the now customary cavalcade, and arrived at the home of a traditional peasant family. Throughout the entire proceedings, a man named Kamal had acted as Bron’s father in the giving-away, and another from the community was my best man. Why not members of the band? you may wonder. Well, I’d been on the road long enough now to realise that none of my associates could be relied upon to respect the solemnity of the occasion, particularly with such honourable duties to cope with, and it was as simple as that!

  So our paternal ‘figureheads’ continued in their responsibilities as the feast began, and we were then entertained by a number of dancers from the State Dance Company. Hmm, I thought they were a bit good! The party then had to be interrupted so we could do our show in Tbilisi, but, as soon as it was over, we were brought back to continue with our celebrations. It was at this point, that my brilliant band gave in to their way of dealing with happiness, and I’d like to think nobody present that night will remember much about how it all ended.

  CHAPTER 13

  July 1990, and, as we came back down to earth, so we made plans to promote Naked Thunder in Europe, and tie in the release with yet another tour, during which our playlist would include ‘Gut Reaction’, ‘Demon’s Eye’, ‘Living for the City’, ‘Black Night’, ‘Puget Sound’, ‘Sweet Lolita’, ‘Nothing to Lose’, ‘Brazos’, ‘I Thought No’, ‘When a Blind Man Cries’, ‘Let It Roll’, ‘Knocking at Your Back Door’, ‘Speed King’, ‘No Good Luck’, ‘Smoke on the Water’, ‘Lucille’, and sometimes we’d include ‘New Orleans’.

  So, while the management were checking routing, dates and so forth, we used our time to get over personality problems and the clashes that had developed in the USSR. I also made myself available for promotion interviews, including one on the Friday Rock Show, and for signings at outlets such as Our Price in Newcastle and Nottingham, as well as wherever else the record company wanted me to go.

  Tommy’s poor relationship with Al had continued throughout our travels, and rows seemed to crop up over issues such as Tommy having been used to his bags being carried for him everywhere he went. I guess that’s how it’s been for just about everybody on the tour – we’d all had our roadies handle that sort of thing for us at some time or another – but, as an example now, Tommy would board the bus, having left his baggage in the hotel foyer, and the Ian Gillan Band tour just wasn’t that kind of thing. So Al got more and more mad with the musician, telling him to do his own dirty work. It all came to the boil at the airport, when Tommy left his bags at the check-in area, and drifted off to the bar, as if to say to Al, ‘You put them through!’ So Al just went up to him, gave him his tickets and made it clear that his bags were going nowhere, unless Tommy made them.

  On this occasion, I had two seats booked in the first-class section, and, on occasions when that happened, I’d offer the second one out on a rotation basis. Well, Al had had enough by now, and, as holder and distributer of the tickets, he decided to give the spare seat to himself! So we were in flight and chatting, which is to say he was letting off steam about Tommy, when the musician came lurching down the aisle, totally out of his brains, to announce he’d not be working with Al any more. In fact, to be specific, he announced that Al would not be working with him any more, to which I said, ‘Well, Tom, that’s a real shame,’ and I then asked what he intended doing, which puzzled him.

  After a pause, during which you could almost hear the brain ticking over, he asked what I was driving at, to which I said, ‘Well, have you anything lined up? As in something else to go to? Because, if you’re not going to be working with Al any more, I guess you’ll have to find another gig.’

  Tommy was stunned, and it needed me to tell him that Al was the finest tour manager
I had ever worked with, and there was no way I was going to lose him. Well, Tommy went berserk at this, and I had to put it on the line in terms he’d understand, given his condition. ‘Tommy, I’m going to punch you if I hear another word about this. I’m getting so angry, and you are so out of control that you’re within seconds of being popped on the nose!’

  Then, just to make the point, and in case he still had any doubts, I added, ‘In fact, if I even see you at the airport, I’m going to pop you on the nose; that’s if I just set eyes on you, and you don’t even say a word!’ And that was the last I saw of Tommy, until we picked up again in Brazil!

  I saw her phone number written on the bathroom wall

  She had a sweet reputation

  She had done it all

  She don’t worry bout the acid rain

  Because she’s made no plans

  For coming back again.

  Some touring is hard, particularly on the low-budget trips I like to do from time to time. But there’s a limit as to how much football you can all play, how many jokes you can tell – even how much you can drink; I suppose! We did shows in São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, Porto Alegre, Buenos Aires and Santiago, after which we came back to Ireland, before finishing off in Europe and the UK. The 1990 tour was a great one, although the album stiffed and actually cost me money. Still, I have few regrets about that period, although it hurt that the record company didn’t seem to share or quite understand the ‘rock ’n’ roll’ of what was going on. Indeed it never seemed to cross their minds that a perfectly good album might have failed because it was never in the shops, nor was it promoted; and so it came to ‘scapegoat time’, which meant that most of the blame for the album’s failure was laid at Steve Morris’s doorstep.