by Ian Hunter
It's one of those days in which nothing happens at all so let me skip to about 6 o’clock in the evening when we find that Stan's got us tickets to the Jethro Tull, Roxy Music concert at Madison Square Garden. You‘ve probably heard of this place; if you can imagine Wembley Pool only twice as big, you‘ve got the picture. We all meet in the lobby at 7:15 and Pete says he’s tired because he’s walked round looking for guitars all day, and Buff’s not bothering either, so it's me, Tru, Phally, Elaine, Stan and Mick for the evening out. Phally, me and the girls pile into a yellow cab hailed for us by an oilskin-covered doorman. He stands out in the middle of the rainswept street madly gesticulating and blowing his whistle. Other whistles can be heard from rival doormen and the avenue is alive with the chords of sirens, cars and whistles.
Straight on down Broadway, past Allied Chemical (where you can get a very thin Daily Mirror if you get up early) and about half a mile on down to the Garden. I give the cabby $2 and we run under the cover of the foyer. Dozens of escalators, lifts everywhere, makes you feel very small. You clutch your ticket in amongst thousands of kids all jostling to get in. We sway through with the crowd to the ticket gate. On the way, people shout the sale of T-shirts, photos, and tickets; others shout they want tickets. Tower D - Gate 14 - Seat 35A; there are so many numbers on this fuckin’ ticket you’ve got to be an accountant to work it out. Up three escalators and finally we find the gate. A health-food bar is opposite the entrance and I notice coconuts with straws in them. Avoiding this stall we pass onto the next, and I felt distinctly unhealthy buying ‘a pack’ of Marlboro cigarettes for 70 cents. Incidentally, you must buy cigarettes by the ‘pack’ here; if you ask for 20 Marlboro, you'll get an incredulous look and a carton shoved in front of you. Upon explaining that you really only wanted 20 actual cigarettes, abuse will be hurled at you, and you won't forget the next time. I haven't anyway. All the lights are on and the Garden is about half full of people who all seem to be walking about. It’s a raunchy atmosphere; everybody shouting including doormen and security guards, but it feels good and I don’t get that uptightness you sometimes get at venues. The theatre is like a huge rectangle, people high in the gods and below on the floor. On stage the usual pandemonium is in full flight. The P.A. is stacked high above on scaffolding; only two columns on the stage making it better to see. A roadie talks through one of the mikes to the guy on the panel somewhere at the rear of the front audience area. A huge fat man directs which coloured panels should go into the lights above. A guy hangs precariously following his instructions. This is where it all happens and I look at the middle of the floor expecting Mohammed Ali to be jogging around somewhere at his old gig.
The first frisbee is thrown and a cheer goes up in the audience. These little saucer-like plastic throwing toys are always thrown at American concerts along with wafer thin plastic rings and balloons. This doesn’t happen much in England. I remember we once threw 200 out at our gig at the Albert Hall in London. Not knowing exactly what to do with them the crowd promptly hid them under their pullies as souvenirs of the event. Four or five college kids sit excitedly next to us shouting madly if somebody throws a frisbee a long way. The applause varies according to the length of the throw and often winds up in cackles of laughter if some poor unfortunate gets it on the head whilst looking another way.
Stage lights flash on and off. A moog farts obligingly denoting it is working and an electric piano blares out a pot pourri of notes from the horny hands of a roadie. Finally, right in the middle of the chaos, the promoter, the young and well-respected Howard Stein (we worked for him in Porchester a couple of years back) calmly announced, ‘From England, Roxy Music’.
A reasonable cheer went up, signifying the crowd didn't really know who the hell Roxy Music were. Eno looked like a Spider and Bryan Ferry like a Dracula-type Presley. The first number was a complete mess and Virginia Plain was ruined by the bass refusing to work until about half-way through the number. Right away you knew that Roxy never had a Sound check. By the time the sound was right they were wilting under pressure although I thought they held on extremely well. To my mind doing Madison Square Garden without a sound check is like Marc Bolan fighting Joe Bugner for the English heavy-weight title. Roxy tried, did their best and failed - through no fault of their own.
You can't tell an audience why they failed, it’s one of those things. They paid their money, they want a show. But what can you do when they are still putting lights up for the headliner when you are on? What can you do when the sound guy you totally rely on hasn't a clue what you are about? People are jumping about distracting you from your job and the headliner’s fanatical fans howl abuse, not because they dislike you, but because they are impatient to see their heroes. Roxy passed like a vague irritation before the mainliner and I for one know that in two years’ time those same people will be lauding them. Tonight, though, it will be of no consolation to the band and many a gig like this will give them sleepless nights before they eventually break through.
The lights go up and it’s the interval. Stan flies off with Howard Stein backstage and comes back with backstage passes. I really want to console Roxy but I don't know them, so adopting correct procedure Stan goes up and inquires first. This saves any embarrassment. Maybe they never heard of us; maybe they don't like us. Maybe they want to be on their own, or maybe they don't want to know - it takes all kinds. Stan comes back and says for us to go up and we pass through the security guards to the backstage area. Well-dressed gents, huge greasers (I don’t know why) and assorted groupies, all in their garnished uniforms of the night.
Out through the back curtain into a land of folded up boxing and wrestling rings, huge canvas rolls, fire apparatus, wagons and pipes and air-vent tunnels. The crowd noise grows faint as Stan leads us through a door and along a tunnel lined with photographers, managers, agents, record people, their women and the like. We pass the door marked ‘Jethro Tull’ and opposite a little way down we come to Roxy's dressing room.
It's full of people. Photographers, writers, hangers-on, managers (the same ones who used to manage ELP and Tyrannosaurus Rex a few years ago). The bass player comes over straight away, seems nervous and talks about a variety of things. He says he saw us at The Temple and he met me at a party at the Kensington Hotel but I swear I’ve never been there but he swears I have, so I might have been. Mick talks to the guitar player (as usual) and the sax player comes over. They are really polite, shy and extremely nice people. Eno smiles everywhere, his gaily painted locks, make-up and stage dress still intact. Poor bugger doesn't get a chance to change, with us lot around. We get offered champagne but I have a coke instead and I feel sorry for Bryan Ferry. About three people are talking to him all at once. He tries to answer politely while probably feeling quite sick inside about the gig. I’d love to sit and have a chat with him as his voice is really good and I just like the ideas he has, but it’s bloody hopeless. Apart from a brief five minutes exchanging pleasantries it’s all over. Photographers trying to get them here, there and everywhere - together and individually.
I have a quick chat to their manager, he's a pal of Chris Blackwell’s and I know him slightly. Then I whisper to Trudy we ought to get out. Our presence only adds to the hordes of people and they need a bit of space to breathe. Back through the curtain to the side of the stage. We can faintly see faces in what were our seats so we decide to stay put. Jethro Tull are half way through their particular brand of magic to a now-capacity Madison Square Garden crowd. The balance is beautiful, the dynamics perhaps the best ever by a rock band when utilized in Tull's intricate arrangements of which Ian Anderson is mainly responsible. Anderson is a master of the art, the complete musician. Showman goblin music played by goblins, evil, delightful, cheeky and tongue in cheek, yet spot on musically. I'm not keen on the weather forecast bit of the act. The rabbit and gorilla don't particularly impress me either, but the rest is faultless. Tull are beautifully set on a little branch of the tree of rock ‘n’ roll. No comparisons can be made an
d their music is entirely their own. Their influences are either cleverly disguised or they are a prototype of their style. You can't say too much more about Tull. They fully deserve the acclaim they get and that's unanimous - they're just one of the greats, full stop.
Like all posers I decide we must leave before the end of Tull’s performance to avoid the rush. We signal to Phally and Elaine still somewhere in the audience and they slip out with us. Stan and Mick are lost somewhere in the crowd. Just before moving through the barricade of the backstage area, a hand touches my arm. Martin Barre says hello whilst the drummer pounds his solo. Martin is one of rock ‘n’ roll’s nice quiet lads. He's always so modest it’s painful and if you say Tull is great he gets very embarrassed. He's always overawed by everything and only wants to sit and talk guitars with anybody interested. Tea is his only weakness, he always wants a cup of tea. He asks about Mick and asks me to tell him he'll ring him later.
Out we go, down the escalator, and finally, after a couple of wrong turns, out into the rainy street. Straight into a cab and up to the Haymarket again. Old habits die hard and here we are again, shepherd's pie and wine. Well we know this place and feel safe here; nobody bothers you and the service is good. The wine is a bit expensive this time around though: $1.25 for a small glass - should have brought my own.
Back to the hotel, no guards to stop us and relief as we get into bed with a bottle of Budweiser and a packet of nuts. C.B.S. have an ‘In Concert’ on and by sheer luck we see Chuck Berry, the Allman Brothers, Poco, and Blood, Sweat and Tears. The new singer sounds good with B.S.&T. Poco are 10 times better than I expected them to be and the whole show is dedicated to the Allman’s bass player, Berry Oakley (included on the film) who died recently in a motor-bike accident.
Tab Hunter follows, fighting the Indians in a typical western movie which nearly sends us to sleep. Then on to the one o'clock movie - Marilyn Monroe and Richard Widmark in Don’t Bother to Knock which woke us up again. It was good. And that was Friday.
Saturday, 9 December 1972
Good morning Saturday, or should I say good afternoon as it’s 2 p.m. and New York is dry contrary to the forecasts of a wet weekend by the various weather reports. Nobody rings so Tru and I wander through the streets around Broadway. All the cinemas, niteries, restaurants, liquor stores, drugstores - you name it, it's all here. A huge Soho. Porn everywhere; they have papers called Screw and Swinger which don't even give you a hard-on, they’re so graphic. Who wants to see an l8-inch square fanny. Like a cock they are pretty unsavoury when viewed in the cold light of day. Most hi-fi and stereo shops here sport Sony and Panasonic, very popular radios and cassettes. Gone it seems are the days when Japanese goods were considered a joke. Now they make shit-hot stuff - and at competitive prices.
Plastic nude models front a nudie bar and eager New York Puerto Ricans laugh as they peek through a hole in the curtains. We get back to the City Squire and I find Stan lunching with Pete in the restaurant. Buff and Mick are up in 508 doing a Circus interview and I complain to Stan I'm being ignored. Nobody rang me, and all that shit.
He tells me he has been given various free records from C.B.S. and again we're going to do the classic Mott record picking routine. This consists of the records available being stuffed under the bed sheets and then one or the other of us picking blindly at whichever album you feel first. Unknown records are treated cautiously by the recipient. Known lousy albums cause the rest of the group to laugh at the unfortunate new owner and a good album brings cries of delight from the chooser and groans from those who’d hoped to find it. When the albums are all gone from tmder the sheets a brisk bargaining session takes place and like a zombie I wind up with two Poco (both the same) and Edgar Winter's new album. Never mind, I can always flog them to Brian in the North End Road if I don’t like them.
Angela Bowie rings up arranging a tentative party with Bowie, the Spiders and ourselves after David finishes recording but it's not certain, just a maybe. David rings Mick too, to find out how Roxy went. He never misses keeping up the tabs on the competition. Tony's out Christmas shopping with Melanie and it's been decided that Stuart and Zee, David’s heavy men, will now accompany us on the remainder of the tour, owing to the St Louis incident.
Penny Valentine in Sounds showed her ignorance when confusing the reasons for David having Zee and Stu on his tour. They are not supposed to protect him from over zealous fans, they're just there to keep him from maniacs who haunt him every time he visits the States. Today I took a walk to the Sam Ash Music Store and on the way a guy asked me if I'd like to jam in the Village. I politely (and I mean politely) declined. He then changed from a groovy guy to a complete bastard. ‘You ginger headed cunt, who do you think you are? A big-headed English bastard musician. You’re all cunts!’ Well it's cunts like me that make these pricks stand to attention (a seasoned cunt’s answer). Acid freaks stare at me and I don’t know what is going through their minds. All sorts of scenes I can’t handle. I’m not a heavy, I just sing - all hail Stewey – the sooner the better. I just want to stay nice and sane. I don‘t need all this. God knows what old Rod, Elton or Jeff go through. Perhaps we're all right where we are; forever on the way up.
I should mention the American press here by the way. It’s full of appreciation. It‘s been 100 per cent. If there’s been a bad one then I didn't see it. A Fusion I bought today had a great write up as did Rolling Stone, the L.A. Times and others. Makes a pleasant change from the English press.
Have you ever heard of a telethon? These are marathon television programmes which run all evening and all night designed to raise funds for one deserving charity or another. Tonight it's the Sickle Cell Telethon. Sickle Cell is a disease which affects mainly little black kids who get it when very young. It's something which prevents the cells forming in the proper way; it causes grave illness and even death. A slim-line Aretha Franklin co-hosts the show and will be here on Channel 9 for nearly 14 hours. What happens is stars come on this show free of charge; a phone number is continually shown on the screen (212-985-9940) and all the stars that perform on the programme, when not performing, sit and answer the phones whilst pledges pour in from all over New York City. They also continually announce the money coming in, citing the pledger‘s name and address. Money comes in from all over. Quantities vary from $1 to $5,000. At this time, 12:05 a.m. they’ve managed to cajole $56,000 out of the NYC audience. I can't for the life of me think of a better way of raising money. People, even if they don’t want to give, can’t resist hearing their name mentioned. It’s ‘in’ to contribute, and for whatever reason they give, they do give, and unfortunate children benefit.
Acts come and go. Some you've heard of and some you haven't. It’s nearly an all-black cast. Most notable of all was a double act by the name of Nick Ashford and Valerie Simpson; watch out for them. I get a feeling of envy watching this show as it's an almost all-black community show and I’m white and I feel left out. They say some blacks have tried to dye themselves white; well I knew a few white musicians who’d dye themselves black, if they only told the truth. Now it’s $62,400 and Ferranti and Teicher take the stage and the piano sound is really good, considering it's a live show. Half a minute. I’ll just count the channels; 9, 11, 2, 4 (Johnny Carson), 5, 6, 7 and back to 9 again. An extremely good selection, all in colour but all plagued by commercials which are really annoying at times. They come without warning at all. Just flash on, unlike I.T.V. in England where they do at least show you the title, and then fade to a commercial. Ferranti now bows his head over the keys and plays West Side Story’s Somewhere. Ah, wonderful memories of Jim Proby immortalizing this song. The ace punk of all times. His own worst enemy, so what. P. J. Proby’s the greatest - he's a fuckin’ pirate in this world of drudge. Wherever you are P.J., the world needs you now. My God, England was the worst place to pull your stunts. I don’t think you ever really knew that. In England all the extroverts are cunts and all the introverts (no matter how stupid, false, and generally fucked up they ar
e) are the nice guys. See Jim, we are the products of one of the most civilized societies in the world. In other words, if someone cuts your tool off, stop up the blood before you go to the hospital - it might offend someone.
The telethon has now linked up with Chicago. Chicago grossed $1,500 in the first ten minutes, and the total is now $70,000. No phone call from Angie or David so Phally and Elaine are going out to eat you know where, you know what - so see you tomorrow. Love me.
P.S. United Artists just contributed $2,000 - where are you Columbia?
Sunday, 10 December 1972
Well Sunday's ‘family’ day. We stop in bed only getting up about 4 p.m. to get ready to go over to Trudy’s place on the Island. I only thought it was going to be dinner so I just shoved a country-style shirt on and wore my jeans. They used to have studs in them but I got fed up with them and ripped them out. Now there are little 1/8 inch holes all the way up both outside legs of the jeans. Slinging on my afghan, Tru and I wait for Phally and Elaine (they are coming too) and then we all go down to the lobby to wait for John who is picking us up in the Merc.
Hillside Boulevard is, I suppose at a guess, American hard working but reasonably well-off upper middle class. A very wide road, the houses set a little way back off the road and mostly wood fronted. Greens, lavenders and whites are pre-dominant house colours, plus the usual brick-built residences. Christmas is near now and they have competitions every year for the best lit house. Kevin, Trudy’s youngest brother, has been working for two weeks solid on the lights for the house and you could see it half a mile away. Looks like a Swiss cuckoo clock. The Americans have an uncanny knack of making all adult things extensions of children's toys. Everything is attractive on the eye as everyone was once a child.