by Ian Hunter
I walk back out, get my guitar in the darkness and turn to a sea of lit matches and lighters - it looked incredible from the stage. They did it in the big 10,000 seater for Bowie and God knows what that must have looked like, I can't remember ever doing a gig, apart from a festival, where the crowd did this. An old campaigner, nothing can shock me, but I must admit, I had a lump in my throat. It looked great.
Dudes was done well and they loved it and then Honky Tonk and it was all over. All I can say is I’ll never forget that night. It reminded me of Croydon a lot, sort of kids - eager and keen. I think Cleveland is the best city in America for rock ‘n roll music at the moment, but that's only in my short experience. Bill, a local radio DJ here who can claim a large part of the credit for bringing our records into the public eye in Cleveland says the city swings and we agree that it should be kept a secret so as the Cleveland kids don’t get bogged down with too much media and too many bands becoming apathetic like perhaps New York or San Francisco.
We all retire to a restaurant somewhere (I was too tired to find out where). The C.B.S. party is now tomorrow night so tonight Mainman treats us handsomely. Tony taking the captain’s place at the top of the table and looking not unlike Bluebeard with his recently acquired frizz. His crew is generally getting pissed in a relaxed atmosphere. Back to bed, the hallway on the sixth floor is like Piccadilly Circus. I courteously avoid the attentions from both a black lady with red hair and a young man whose dreamy eyes caressed my genital area. Pissed out of his brain, his eyes two short cuts and I wished Lee was here he’s so good at handling this kind of an attack. Finally abed, I put a quarter in the bed vibrator and pass out having only used 10 cents’ worth.
Monday, 18 December 1972
I have that rich feeling you get when you’ve had a good gig the night before; if you’ve had a bad one, it's very hard to live with.
Some bloody bird woke me at 8 a.m. (I forgot to put the ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door) and since then a road has disappeared and my ears are singing to the song of the drills. It's about midday and the drills are on one side, drama sob on the T.V. in the middle, chambermaids banging around on the right. The noise is almost claustrophobic. I might as well have slept in the lobby. I ring up Tru and tell her the latest and she's well pleased. I can hear bloody Christmas carols now on top of the other noises, this is unbelievable. Well, it's later than I thought, 2:45 and Tony wants a Godfather meeting at 3 then he'll go to New York to see Mellie who's flying in today from San Francisco. Stan is already in a state of panic about Memphis. The last gig, a week away or less and Clair Bros, the usual P.A. people we use have now closed down for Christmas leaving us in the hands of some company Dick hasn't heard of and if their sound equipment isn't up to it, it’s a long way to go for a bum gig. On another gig in Scranton we’re supporting Edgar Winter, and I don’t like the look of that one myself. We’ll just have to wait and see.
I scramble around and get down to the second floor, Parlour C, which is a small conference room in which we're about to have a small conference. Lee sends down for coffee and we’re all here except for Mick who's disappeared. Mainly the discussion involves efficiency. How the crew can work even quicker than they are working, too much time wasted between numbers, notes are taken down. We need a ramp for orchestra pits. A better system of communication between P.A. and stage. Clothes to be changed, slicker. Guitar changes (if need be). Rehearsals are discussed too. See the tour we’re on is really a last-minute affair and we’d have liked at least three weeks to improve the act for the States. Normally before a tour of this nature you know exactly when you’re flying out and arrange accordingly.
It's really best to rehearse in England. It means you're not away so long and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper too. Fees for rehearsal rooms here are astronomical, not to mention the extra money that would be spent in hotels. Remember when you’re touring you've got to keep your place in London paid up as well.
Normally we’ll rehearse a couple of weeks in a small studio like A.C.M. in Kings Road, this costs about £1 an hour. The third week we like to use a proper stage, somewhere like the Sundown at Edmonton. This runs us about £40 a day. It's a lot of bread but if you get your set off really good and you're really confident in the performance of the numbers then it's worth the bread.
We really must have more warning next time. It's good to do the job as painstakingly as we can. If the show’s well rehearsed you can really work at putting it across. The ‘putting it across’ bit being almost as important as the music these days.
All in all the meeting takes two hours and proved everybody’s really concerned in a concentrated effort for the next tour. Momentum is really picking up. We are now trying to make it and everybody in the group’s got to pull together on that final run home, and with a bit of luck, we just might do it at that.
Tony's flight for New York comes increasingly closer so we pack up and Mick, who's just got back, takes us all round to Sam's Pawn shop on 29th and Prospect. The Columbia guy here is really nice and offers Ritchie his car. Me, Buff, Mick, Peter, Phally and Ritchie all pile in and wander down there. Prices are again a little high, but Phally and Pete both buy solid Epiphones for $110 - which is a good price if you want a good guitar to practice on at home.
I vaguely look for something for Trudy, but all I can find are golf appliances, film apparatus, fishing tackle, guns, swords, and she wouldn't really appreciate a set of drills.
Anyway, it’s 7:30 and we’re back at the hotel, with time to kill. I wander into the restaurant and decide to eat with Phil, Ritchie and Dick. I meet Dennis, Ray and Jay from Dr Hook briefly too while I’m waiting in the restaurant. 45 minutes later, I'm still waiting and the soup still hasn't appeared. If this bird wants a tip she’s going about it the wrong way. She’s German, hardly speaks English and most of the ordering is done in that pidgin English one uses when in Europe if one doesn't know how to speak the local lingo.
A few birds are hanging around. One’s got ostrich feathers hanging out of her sweater making her look like an almost plucked scrawny chicken.
In all, the meal takes 90 minutes and I don’t leave a tip. A tip here is 10 to 15 per cent of the bill. In this case the bill is $5.10 (approx. £2) but I’m not leaving bugger all. When it did come it was very average. A small piece of steak, a baked potato and a salad which consisted of one-eighth of a tomato and a load of lettuce with cheese dressing. Forget it, Sheratons are on the way down.
9p.m. it's party time, but nobody is ready. Phally thrashes chords out on his new guitar and Mick plays around on a little Silvertone he got for $20: Pete assumes an almost acrobatic angle in the sink to gargle, Buff’s wandering and Stan’s bustling nowhere. Finally at 10 the first load departs. Lee, Zee and Stu are already there. Buff, Pete, Stan, Dick, Ritchie, Phil and myself make up the first lot. John the limo driver will go back for Phall and Mick.
The place is called the Grog Shop. We walk through a large club room. A small band is playing and I try to say hello to the R.M.I. player but get blown out. Fuck you. If this is it I'm off back to the hotel! It's half empty and piss-takers abound. Then Lee appears from somewhere and directs us up some stairs - along and into a crowded room, full of inquiring glances. We bravely walk the gauntlet. I do polite flashy-teethed hellos and cop a brandy and a huge onion in case I have to talk to somebody - this is mostly a businessman’s excuse for a piss up.
Record people, promotion, distribution, press, local radio, that type of thing and the proof of the pudding was when Dr Hook got up to do a small but excellent set and were drowned by the babble of voices. Birds everywhere, moving, on the make continuously - what the fuck am I doing here? ‘Stan, let’s go!’ Stan has the light of a merryman in his eyes and is on the way as they say. Stuey’s smoked too much and he's past it. Zee runs around and eventually Lee, Zee, Buff, Mick, Phally and me are ready to go. Out the front door to the limo which has conveniently disappeared and we are left standing there like lemons for 25 minutes waiting for a cab. T
hat fucking limo service wants to get stuffing. The money they charge, and the bloke’s not there when you want him!
My guts have that empty feeling; a bad taste is in my mouth and wind is caught inside me, and I wish it would come out - either end will do. I take a mandy, sip a beer and fade away to a Tom Courtney film which looks good.
Tuesday, 19 December 1972
Well, I'm sitting on a Vista-something engine-prop plane, there’s fog outside. I’ve got my chin out, and I don’t like it. Thirty-five minutes of ‘don't like’ taking us from Cleveland to Pittsburg. Then a two-hour wait before another short flight to Scranton. This morning was as normal, the only unusual thing that happened was that while Dick was making a phone call Mick walked in with a pair of scissors and cut the flex. This was quite odd, nobody said much about it and he sellotaped it back together again. Mick, by the way, is travelling by lorry today with Phil and Ritchie, and we have the pleasure of sound man Dick, an excellent lad, who takes his place on the plane.
I’m still not liking this flight.
Scranton‘s a definite now. Rico the promoter's been on the phone quite a bit, we seem to have jumped in popularity there. Stan couldn’t get limos so the guy (who is also a second-hand car dealer) loaned us three of his free of charge. Bloody hell - let’s get down and out of this thing. Stan's reading Playboy (we always wait for Buffin to buy it, then borrow it). Buffin’s reading the airline magazine, as is Phally; Dick's behind with Pete and I can’t see Zee or Stuey.
I just found out that Stuey went back to England early this morning. No wonder he was so stoned last night. Lee has nipped to New York, but he'll be back tomorrow for the gig. Tony’s sitting Scranton out and we'll see him in Memphis for the last gig. It's been a great little tour, so much better than I expected.
Well, here we are, Pittsburg Airport - grey, miserable usual type of place and we decide to eat in the airport’s V.I.P. restaurant for once. Now the restaurant is a different scene altogether. All the waiters are dressed to kill and the head waiter is hip to any language you want to talk. I wade my way through liver and bacon (Phal’s current obsession) and half a bottle of Chianti (my dad's all-time favourite). We become increasingly aware of a group of women at a table across the empty bar opposite who are talking in exceedingly loud voices. O.K., it's Christmas soon, some office must have just broken up for the holidays, but then they start to make rude observations about Pete’s hair and eventually one of them, a peroxide blonde who no doubt has left her long-suffering spouse at home, staggers across.
‘How d’you git yer hair that way?’
‘Same way you got yours.’
‘I wouldn’t be seen out on the street like that!’
‘You're ugly.’
‘Now young man, no need for rudeness.’
‘Go away.’
Back at the table the blonde has a spate of giggling and rams the table cloth in her mouth. We find American women from 35-45 exceedingly loud - mouthed, stupid and coarse. No Englishman would stand for them. Insults are exchanged between them and Pete and Buff; and Pete and Buff leave with Phally and Dick. Zee and I are a little behind.
Waiter: Your meal O.K. sir?
Zee: Your whores have big mouths.
Waiter: Those ‘whores’ just spent $400 on food, sir. I suggest you check your dime tips and then pick them up and take them back to England with you.
Me: Wait a minute now, wait! How much of a tip on $8?
Waiter: About 1.40.
Me: Well I left 1.25 because I was told that was correct.
Waiter: Well we don’t want it. Take it away.
Me: Listen you fuckin' midget (a lighted cig hits him) if you want to fuck those slags it's your affair - let ‘em wash you in dollars. We see bastards like you every day. Why don't you go and marry a fuckin’ dotte?
Cashier: I think you should apologize.
Zee: Apologize for what? To whores? Fuck off.
Me: You’re all a load of fuckin’ twats.
By the time we're half way down the hall, an irate waiter shouts, ‘They're not whores. They're not whores.’
I scream to the contrary. You'll never know how much these loud housewives are whores. They're unbelievable, absolutely sickeners and a good laugh was had by all.
Into the chemist for vitamin E and some Revlon makeup, purchased to hide our masculine shaving blue. A chemist with a huge cigar stares accusingly (take the cigar out of your mouth you cunt - you're a chemist).
By this time the Chianti has taken hold and I've got to stay awake. If I sleep now, I won’t be tired this evening and Scranton doesn't exactly sound like Las Vagas. I'm on a second plane, but owing to the wine I don't know what type it is. I have to finish now as the hostess wants my table up.
That was the roughest landing yet. We came in too soon and had to spurt up again before landing bumpily, but it's O.K. now. We're not in Scranton exactly but half way between Scranton and Wilks Barry.
Wednesday, 20 December 1972
First a couple of things I forgot to tell you before about the Columbia Party. Stanley got slightly merry and according to Buff walked right up to the plucked chicken and put his face about two inches from hers. Stan has a kind of questioning belligerent look that transfixes you and she just stood there not knowing what to do. Apparently they were in this static position for about 45 seconds then Stan screamed, ‘onions’, and walked off.
We can't think of a security bloke for the next tour as Stu will be with Bowie. We need a hard man just in case of trouble. Actually it's not only punch up trouble you encounter on these tours - it's more people who pester the life out of you. The fans are great. They're polite and realize you’ve only got so much time on hand but these fuckers who continually harass you are a real pain in the arse.
They'll follow you from city to city, they'll ring you hourly. Sometimes they plead with you to see them, sometimes they're nasty because you won’t and threaten you and the daft thing is they're mainly blokes. Not only faggots either. There’s a breed of guy who just loves being with musicians. He’s usually sadly lacking and hangs on to you for a bit of reflected light. He’ll never take no for an answer - you can explain till you're blue in the face and ten minutes later he’s forgotten. He tells everyone he knows you. Tries to lay chicks on the group name. Never has bread and the horrible thing is you feel such a twat having to blow him out all the time. He trades on your pity and uses ‘loyalty’ to cover up for anything he can get on your back. Open your door, he's there. Go for a swim and you meet him three feet under. Go to a club and there he sits pretending he's with you and making you look and feel an idiot. Brings some slag up to be introduced and you play his game because again you feel sorry for him. ‘Fore you know it he's running your fucking life. Dylan had it with Weberman. A guy called Wayne was my shadow. Oh for a heavy man. A few well chosen words and that would have been it.
Try keeping stray kids out of a sound check. You can’t unless old muscles is there. He doesn't have to do anything he just has to stare. Nip in a red-neck bar after a gig in Texas or New Mexico you won’t last five minutes without your heavy. You'd be amazed at the amount of people who still hate long hair. Especially if there's bread attached. Jealousy still abounds too. No bloke likes his bird eyeing other fellas and musicians don’t have lilywhite reputations. No, taken all in all, you need a heavy man, no doubt about it. Promoters can be bastards too, remember the St Louis gig?
Stan can't think of anybody with brains, because brains are needed more than brawn, and I can think of a couple of guys but they’ve settled down now, their long-suffering wives finally having gotten the upper hand, and I don’t want to upset any families. Jimmy Taylor, for instance, from Northampton was a wild man and very clever with it too. He never turned on me once, but I saw him at a gig with his wife not long back and he's got a house now and she's a gas. The gigs are only for five weeks anyway, and he might just get excited enough to get restless again but I wouldn't want that for him or her. There's not much family fun in
this type of life. It takes a special kind of woman to put up with it. There are very few of them around, and even when you’ve got a good one - the very nature of the job, and the time you are away, last-minute alterations, the obvious temptations, the odd hours and the ups and downs, can cause endless arguments which are usually pointless and end up in stalemates. The very things that attracted the girl to you in the first place become threatening to her when she’s your old lady. They used to call them skiffle widows - I don't know what they call them in this trade, and I take each day as it comes. I find women a necessary evil. I've had more trouble in my short life because of women than anything else and I'm sure they suffered even more; but I’m a ladies’ man, I have to have a good woman and even though Trudy can be a huge pain in the arse at times - I'm fucked if she’s not there. She fills my gaps in and I like to think I do the same for her. I’ll probably get into a row for writing this.
It's about 1 p.m. and the maid just gave me towels and Buff's still asleep. Stan and Dick seem busy next door, and soon I'll venture out into Scranton. The town was once the whorehouse of America or so I’m unreliably informed, but somehow it seems peaceful now. There’s a little square outside over the window. The grass is covered in snow, covered in footprints. The umbrellas are up and one memorial is dedicated to the soldiers and sailors of 1861-5. Another memorial just as austere, says MEN, and the whole town looks like Germany which is what it is I suppose, a mainly German settlement.