by Ian Hunter
And so on to Pete. Given a week’s holiday he still gets to rehearsals two hours late, and we have them a quarter of a mile from his place in Hampstead. Two cats, Pam, and a one-roomed junk shop and he’s as happy as a pig in shit. Selfish to the point of obscenity, we’re all hip to the bugger’s every little move and Pam's sussed him too, so now he relies on outside help. Pete would let you wash him, feed him, entertain him, clothe him and put him to bed and that would be the end of a perfect day. I must admit here in all honesty, I’m a bit like that myself too.
It's Pete though, who's perhaps kept us together more than anyone else. He’s solid as a rock, always sunny, no matter what sort of mess he’s currently in and he always tries to keep the egos up. He doesn't read the music press and spends bread like there was no tomorrow. Pam’s just as mad - they're a crazy pair. When I think of Pete I think of kindness, gentleness, eccentricity - a complete upper in every way; and I appreciate him all the more because I know the kicks he's taken in the past.
Well, that’s the band apart from myself, and I’m the writer so you’ll have to make your own minds up, but I would like to mention the central core of the thing that is Mott the Hoople. His name is Stan Tippins and even the name, as most of his actions, are subject to strange excursions. Chiffon, Tilkins, Timkins, Rippof are but a few of the aliases credited to him by various inns and other forms of hostelry we have visited throughout the Western world. Funny, it never seems to happen to anyone else.
Our managerial fortunes tend to vary weekly - according to Hereford United Football Club's results. Many a cross-country dash has been made by Stan and Richard Weaver to give Hereford their support before racing to a provincial Mott gig. Stan knows directors, players, coaches, etc., and I believe his ambition is to have a bungalow situated behind the north end goal mouth and to be a groundsman for his heroes. Stan told me once he’d sung ‘To be a penguin’ at school for three years, before he found out from his sister it was ‘pilgrim’. He’ll also proudly talk of his Dad (a Basil Brush fan) who possesses a very loud voice, beating even Stan. Stan maintains that his father stood on a hill in the country just outside Hereford and shouted - he was heard four miles away. He's English through and through (keep the buggers out) and loves arguments, panic, rows, chaos and bull-shitting. He is also responsible for starting rumours. (According to him, Mary Hopkins hasn’t got a rectum - she’s too pure.) He also uses his powers of invention. Once, having been told an imminent gig was to be poorly attended, he promptly passed the rumour around that Mick Jagger was turning up. The gig was well attended. Need I say more.
Former singer with Mott, he shows no animosity towards me (I'd have gone mad) and has probably more loyalty to the band than the band has. He handles all the money carefully and we feel we can really depend on him. Long-suffering Sue, his wife, puts up with him, his madness, eccentricities, illnesses - from a runny nose he can force himself into a state of pneumonia. I could go on about Stan forever. Suffice to say he was with us at the beginning and he'll be there at the end. Stan you’re beautiful - and you’ll be so fucking embarrassed when you read this.
There we go, Las Vegas, Nevada - twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule and soon we'll start our descent. No fanatics on board, so it looks like we won’t be stopping off at Cuba. If you’ve never flown it’s difficult to describe. I wish I could take you all with us just to see the pleasure on your faces. Mountains, canyons, rivers, ridiculously long roads, and so straight, I wonder who uses them. See what I mean about fleas? You feel like a midge looking at time, and time's laughing at you.
During flights to the States you get all kinds of forms to fill in - customs, immigration, etc. I've now got to get into that, so excuse me for a while. Almost there - we’re almost there! A bit of sun in November never did anyone any harm.
Well it’s amazing. Seems like five minutes ago I was giving my flat keys to Miller Anderson's sister, Chris, and here we are slowly cruising down beyond the mountains to the flat land and the sea of L.A. It lays before us, flat as a pancake. Orderly lines of houses, factories, etc. I can even see dinky toy cars moving up and down tiny criss-cross lines which meander on into the haze of the north and San Francisco. The wheels make the plane shudder slightly as they drop and there is an eerie silence as the giant tumbles downward.
The roads are larger now, it's a grey afternoon in the stars’ back yard. Now I have to write quickly as the altimeter is beating me. The city looks dusty - L.A. is supposed to be 60 miles across. Sixty miles of freaks, stars, pretenders, and dollar worshippers - here we come! Toy palm trees, a baseball stadium, the dinkies become real cars. We're low and still no airport. You get that ‘Will we hit the runway’ feeling about now. Some American airports are frightening.
Down, down, down - we’ve landed - our American tour begins!
Oil containers, radar towers, Delta, Shell, Castrol, ‘Fly TWA - L.A’.
Captain welcomes us to the U.S.A. We’re taxiing up now to the terminal, then immigration, then baggage. A feeling of relief and Mick’s happy. It's all over - at least for a couple of days.
All goes reasonably well. A Cadillac limo meets us at the airport and a guy called John Porter is the driver. John has a fetish for drag acts and tells us all sorts of stories. Apparently Sly Stone always has to have a limo wherever he goes. When he hits a small town where there are no limos, the roadie (who catches an early flight) goes round undertakers hiring hearses. He's right in the middle of telling us about a row he had with Neil Young when a car draws alongside and a beautiful spade chick smiles - there's two of them. John's out of the limo quick as a flash and drags the one chick in. The other one, I think her name was Beverly, is driving so he tells her to follow. So there she sits in our car with this other car following. Nobody knows what to do as, sad to say, we've all got steady chicks, and we’re all feeling guilty, not off the plane five minutes and we’re already pulling. Forget it. Not worth it. Who needs it when it jumps in your car. We get to the hotel and ditch them in the lobby.
Now I wish a few of those conning bastards in England would come and pick up on American hotels. English hotels are really something. They can ruin your day.
For a start, we're pretty big in England. We use 4-star hotels which are the equivalent of glorified bogs. Oh, the foyer is groovy, but by the time you get to the sixth floor its beginning to look like Bradford railway station. The slobs that run these dumps really think we’re long-haired hippies. You know, pockets full of shit and cases full of nicked ashtrays and towels. So they either patronize you or call you into the office and quietly tell you any trouble and we’ll call for the fuzz. In the dining room they take the piss first and the order second. We don’t tip on principle. Most places haven't got room phones, TVs or anything - you‘re supposed to get high on Radio 3 and the Bible. Misery and boredom. I sometimes wish we went to the old boarding houses, six to a room. I remember once putting a door under Ritchie’s undersheet, and he didn’t even know it - tramp.
Now, let me tell you about American hotels, specifically this hotel. We're on Sunset Boulevard, at the Continental Hyatt House. My room is as follows: two double beds, air-conditioning, a window overlooking the Hollywood Hills, table, two armchairs, full-length mirror, colour T.V. (with eight channels), a bathroom with toilet, bath and shower, a desk and stool, six different lamps and wall-to-wall plush carpet. This is my single room. There’s also the phone on which you can get practically anything. Services listed include nightclub, coffee shop, barber shop, alarm calls, room service, garage, drinks, boutique, church, Hertz Rent-a-Car, laundry and valet, news-stand, taxis and travel tickets. You might think from this it is an expensive hotel, but it's your average 4-star equivalent - and Christ what a difference!
Back to the group. It’s the Hollywood Palladium on Friday and then the L.A. Coliseum on Sunday. The Palladium’s a downer because we’re opening the show. A late gig, it was unavoidable as we only decided to do the tour a couple of weeks ago. The Coliseum should be better. Sly’s topping t
he bill with Chuck Berry, then come five name bands (We’re one of them) and then about ten others. Still, we're fuck all here so I suppose we should be thankful. Incidentally, to set things straight our new single All the Young Dudes is a hit record here and the album is in the lower part of the charts. We feel we’ll know that we're a large name band after maintaining this for at least 18 months. Anyway, Bolan and Slade didn’t do too well so perhaps we'll fare better.
It’s funny really - we're neither big nor small in America. There’s thousands that haven‘t heard of us but then again there’re thousands that have. If you want a rough comparison (and really I ain't too good a judge) I'd say we’re about the same as the Velvet Underground were. Sort of a cult band. Now to be a cult band is great, our followers are fanatical in their support. I suppose that’s why we're here. We‘ve had enough messing around. It’s about time Mott started thinking about money. We won’t be kids forever. Come on America, take us in out of the cold. We’re trying hard to catch you but you’re so fucking big.
Anyway, a couple of papers have been on the phone. We refer them to Stan as we don't really like doing interviews at the moment, ain’t got much to say. There’s a good write-up in Circus, I must get it tomorrow.
There’s a famous club in L.A. which you may or may not have heard of called the Whiskey A-Go-Go. I rang them as we’ve got nothing to do and there’s a couple of bands on every night, sort of like the Speakeasy in London. They know us, so we get in free and we have a table booked. The girl said the best time to go is around 11:30 p.m. - for the second show. The question is, will we stay awake. A bit of arithmetic tells you that 11:30 here is about 7:30 a.m. in England so we'll have been up quite a while. Perhaps that’s why I'm in this business. I thrive on the odd hours, the unknown places and the things that can happen. Guess what! What’s My Line was on Channel 9. Takes me back to Gilbert Harding and Katie Boyle. Well, into the bath and get rid of the travel sweat. Talk to you later.
Well, I don’t know what the time is exactly, but it's somewhere around 11 in the morning English time. I've now been up for 25 hours and I can still manage a few lines. Now this bloke Lee met us at the airport and he's looking after us until our manager, Tony, gets in from New Orleans tomorrow afternoon. Lee's great but his genders are a little mixed up. We talk about it as I don’t want to embarrass him if it should come to it. So it was with Lee that we sallied forth to the Whiskey - at least the rest of the band did - I dozed off watching T.V. and finally made it to the club about 1:30 a.m. L.A. time.
In a yellow cab all along Sunset Boulevard I can see huge hoardings - unlike Britain, groups are billed here in a big way. Probably since Terry Knight took that huge space in Times Square for advertising Grand Funk Railroad. Huge ads for Roxy Music, West, Bruce and Laing, Sly Stone, and If (who have already disbanded) pass us by as we weave our way down about a mile to the Whiskey. Now if you were born and bred in Shropshire like me, you’ve got to watch the Whiskey. People here are into so many games that when people are really nice to you, you blow them out just in case. Watch no one spikes your drink! Watch no one touches your arse! Watch the dose-ridden chicks - that's if you’re interested.
Jill comes over - she might be genuine, but who knows. At least she works at the club so some degree of sanity is maintained. She's cute, buys me a drink, but she smells of onion and I upset her a little by giving her a breath freshener. I was only being nice. Some typical acid-high-type frizzied-hair looner asked me my name and says I have a funny accent. Pete's doing his strong silent bit, and Mick's past caring. Ritchie smiles contentedly on tequila and mandies, and Buff, Phal, Phil and Stan sleep soundly at the hotel. We'll take the piss unmercifully tomorrow.
There's two bands on. Mom’s Apple Pie, whose main claim to fame is an album cover of a chick’s cunt which has been banned. Terry Knight (former Grand Funk member and manager) making mountains out of molehills again. The other group are really beautiful. The Fabulous Rhinestones play laid-back funky music and I’m in the palm of their sticky hands. On top of this, one of my all-time-favourite bass players, Harvey Brooks is with them. Some of you will remember The Electric Flag.
I feel pleasant and Lee, who's proving to be really together, gathers Mick, me and a friend of his and gets us back to the hotel. Lee tells us gory tales of L.A. gay bars. The Blue Angel is a club where this two-ton drag artist stabs 14-year-old boys. It takes all kinds.
I'm trying to find out what time it is but the operator doesn’t answer, so fuck it. There's a horror movie on Channel 10. English and mundane. I think I’ll drop a mandy. Oh, just a mention about the food here. The names have different meanings. A sandwich is a full-scale preparation, not the type you eat out of a lunch-tin at dinner time. A salad is two bits of lettuce and half a tomato, but order a chef salad and you get the works. They have a way of making it look better to the eye than it tastes on the palate. Coloured paper and tiny tassled tooth picks adorn the plate leaving hardly any room for the food. Water is always iced here, and usually the orange juice is the real thing.
Somehow your body knows you've changed countries, you spend hours heaving on the bogs. There‘ve been more than a few aching British arses since the bands started coming over. Still, you get used to it eventually. It’s Harvest Festival Day tomorrow, they call it Thanksgiving, and I think I'll go and see the footprints of the stars Ray Davies talks about in Celluloid Heroes. I just heard he's putting it out as a single. I hope it's a hit, it deserves to be.
Thursday, 23 November 1972
Well folks, you won't believe this, but it's the 23rd November and I’m sunbathing on the roof of the hotel. My lily-white body naked, but for Woolworth trunks. On Thanksgiving the town is quiet and peaceful, and Spanish-style villas slope down the one side of us. The flatness of this huge city lies on the other. It’s been a long day. For some unknown reason we were all up at 8 a.m. and decided to check our bearings. We are, so the map says, situated in West Hollywood. So, taking the equipment lorry out of the car park at the rear we turned right and headed up past the dreaded Whiskey to the famous Beverly Hills area. Here we parked at the perimeter, commercial vehicles aren’t allowed today. We started to walk along Sierra Drive. This is the part of Hollywood where the majority of stars live and it has to be seen to be believed. Ritchie, Phil and me sat on the corner of Lorna Vista and Usher Drive just taking it all in. We saw lime trees, olive trees, poplars, palms – you name it. Automatic sprayers click on with the air-conditioning and start to spray over beautifully tended lawns, and the morning papers lie strewn, waiting for Rita Hayworth to pick them up.
Way up on a hill above the entrance to Greystone Park we can see cacti. We try to reach it but stop exhausted half way. The houses could be Spanish, Italian, or Mexican in design. They are all low and the hallmark of poverty is a three-car garage. Cars are everywhere. The usual combination being a Cadillac, Rolls or Bentley and a cheaper Ford of some type (junior’s runabout) and a Volkswagen for the missus to wreck. Talking of shops, there are none. One pictures huge fridges and bars piled high with champagne and Rothmans. The architectural designs on some of these places are really something. Some are shaped in semi-circles with gravel and rock roofs. Magic eyes stare at you from the trees and dogs growl and red pillar-box alarms duly alarm you. There are brilliantly coloured flowers; I don’t know the names of them but I can dig ’em and all types of moss and fern. Huge gates compete for elaborateness. Was that Jane Russell I just saw in a Fleetwood? Rubber plants and other large-leaved climbing ‘things’ almost cover the windows giving those inside much-needed privacy from the daily bus-loads of sightseers - and us. An amazing house at the top of a hill to our left looks just like a modern Parthenon. Cord, Wallace, Doheny, Sierra and Chris are just a few of the drives and alleyways we tramped looking for stars to come out and play, but the lazy bastards must still be in bed. They even paint the fire hydrants a bright silver here. And so, somewhere inside, the occupants sit. Probably with the bedside T.V. on and wanking, the mirrors arranged neatly ar
ound them. It's Beverly Hills on a quiet Thanksgiving morning, 78 degrees; it must be one of the most beautiful suburbs in the world. It makes Wembley look silly.
The sun is high now, really hot. Having been weaned on English winters it feels like cheating sitting here cheerfully burning. We truck back to the Hyatt.
Just one more thing about the hotel I forgot to mention: it rates as another example which ought to be copied by those idiot English hoteliers. As I walked through the foyer there's a picture of a guy with long hair. Underneath a caption says - ‘Treat this man with respect, he may have just sold a million records.’ Right on!
Out onto the patio and in the distance I can see mountains with snow on ’em and I keep wondering why, if it’s so hot, why the fuck is the snow not thawing? Must be part of life's rich pattern in Film City.
Up on the roof I sit with Phally and Stan. Phally keeps on about how his underpants embarrass him, but he's too tight to buy swimming trunks, and Stan rambles on about some American bloke who just came up to the pool, flung all his clothes off and leapt straight in. He swam frantically to the other side, then jumped out and fainted on the spot. I put my foot in gingerly - it's bloody cold! There’s a Hertz clock on the wall that says three minutes to 1 p.m.