by Ian Hunter
I must get Tru some earrings for those ridiculous tribal holes some idiot stabbed through her ears when she was a child. She insists on keeping them open. Perhaps she believes them to be some sign of fertility or something. We live in the Middle Ages. People will laugh in 100 years time.
Rico the promoter amazes; he’s really been good what with loaning us cars gratis and seeing we were generally O.K. We load into three of his cars and head for a boys’ club building - used more for basket ball than gigs. The place holds about 4,000 and he’s already sold 2,000 in advance, so it should be good.
The stage is a wood and scaffolding affair. Edgar Winter's lights shoot up out of their travelling crates at the back and both sides of the stage being about head high. Another band called Eggs Over Easy are opening, but as far as I can see, we're the only ones sound checking. I've never known echo like it. The whole place rattles on half volume and my voice comes back after about three seconds. Guys wander round with T-shirts, the word ‘FANG’ inscribed, presumably either the P.A. people or the security, and it all seems quite together. We try three numbers and then call it a day. The crowd will deaden the echo and we’ll just have to adjust as it happens.
Back to the hotel in an ancient Plymouth Fury and we have one and a half hours to get ready. Mick wanders off then rings Stan to say he's found cheap guitars in a shop up the road and I'm off like a bullet. I arrive to find him holding an immaculate Melody Maker which he just bought for $70. Some blokes. Fanatically foraging around I find an old Epiphone Melody Maker and also one of the newer Gibsons, two pick up Melody Makers. I get these for $60 each. Incredible.
The guy can see we’re interested and he pulls out a wooden fitted coffin-type case from the back of the shop. It’s covered in dust and built of wood with an old Wells Fargo label on it. Opening it we see an immaculate Martin and have a guess what’s on the mahogany block inside? ‘C. F. Martin - New York’. That makes the guitar at least 130 years old and it's immaculate! He won’t sell it but if he did sell it he said he’d charge about $325. To the right person that guitar would now be worth up to £1,000 or more. Bloody hell, we sweated - the serial number of the case had ‘20’ on it, and for all we know that might have been the 20th model of that Martin ever made.
Excuse me while I dream.
Time was flying by. The guy that ran the shop was eccentric to say the least. I even had to go down to his cellar to find cases for the guitars. He wouldn't. He threw in a couple of leads and packets of strings as well, so I got a great deal. Forty minutes left before the gig and I hurriedly washed, shaved, and rubbed my flowing locks with Knights Castile, I've run out of shampoo.
We go like madmen getting ready in time so Stan won't shout, and finally make it only to be met by super-cool Stan saying, ‘Take it easy, the gig’s running late. You've got 30 minutes.’ I ring room service for a beer and a bacon and lettuce sandwich. The T.V. show is the new Bonanza. Little Joe magically becoming big Joe and small brothers appearing in mysterious fashion.
At the gig it is packed. They’re chanting, ‘Mott.’ Thank Christ, they know us. Eggs Over Easy have just come off and as we change the stamping becomes louder and louder. It's great to listen to. You know they're determined to have a good time and they want to see you. A roar goes up as we enter the backstage area and Dick shoves on the Jupiter tape. (Pete recorded Jupiter on a cassette once. We played it over the P.A. at a rehearsal and it sounded so good we've used it as an introduction ever since.) Bang, and in, Bob working the lights industriously and no major problems. The whole gig is great in a sweat rock sort of way and Mick’s volume switch on the Esquire is the only thing that causes any trouble. He swops to the new Fender Strat he’s just bought and it all goes off great. We finish on Angeline and a healthy old din keeps going until we saunter back on. They've all stood up, what a feeling. I hope I never become immune to scenes like this. Dick told us after the gig that the sound wasn't too good, but I think the people couldn’t have dug it more than they did anyway. It was a bit like a school gymnasium gig - that’s about the nearest I could get.
Peter, Buff and Phally want to go straight back to the hotel, but Mick and I prefer to stay and see Edgar Winter. Lee and Zee kick up a bit and they're right, but I just feel like loosening up and Buff and my room is in a bit of a state, and I don’t feel like facing it yet. A young kid gets through the security net and gives me a couple of photos he took at the Tower Theatre in Philadelphia and it turns out he’s been a fan of ours for two years and we enjoy him enjoying us. I wish press had been there to see the light shining in this kid’s eyes. O.K. we're not big yet, but we are his heroes, and no one, including the press, have the right to reduce us in the eyes of a kid who's as happy as he is. We made his day and he made ours.
I slipped out to wish the Winter group a good set, and the guitar player said he dug our set (pause for piss-take by readers). A roar told us they were on and it was flat out rock ‘n roll all the way. Edgar still extending his vocal chords to ridiculous heights in Tobacco Road. I don't believe how thin Edgar Winter is. He and his brother, you can almost see through them on a clear day. Unfortunately, I was happy, and when I’m happy I want to relax, and then I drink. Mick had wandered off somewhere, Lee was arguing with a radio station rep who wanted an interview:
‘I’m sorry, the boys would love to do interviews, but Mr Defries will not allow it.’
‘Who's Defries?’
‘Don’t you know Tony Defries?’
‘No.’
‘You will.’
Meanwhile I sink my sixth beer and feel at ease with the world. I wander out and sneak to the back of the hall and watch Edgar Winter scat singing with the guitar player. They certainly know how to move. I wander back into the dressing room and ladies hang around. When will they ever learn?
By the time Mick. Zee, Lee and me get back to the Hilton it would be reasonable to say that I’d gone completely. All I can remember is rowing with Mick and then making up. Smashing Stan's door in because he wouldn’t answer, and generally making a complete prat of myself. I must have finally shut my big trap about four and dozed off. The next thing I knew it was 1p.m. today, and Buff is shouting, ‘50 minutes to get ready’, into my brain.
Thursday, 21 December 1972
There’s only one thing to do, straight into the bogs and turn on the cold shower. Well, it probably weakened my heart but it woke me up. One multivitamin, one vitamin-E pill, one Alka Seltzer of Lee’s and one Winston fag and I was ready to pile my dirty clothes into the over-loaded suitcase and head for the lobby.
Buff’s already been out and bought some records. He finally got the L.P. of old rock hits he wanted and he even bought our single. A tribute to Columbia - even we buy our own fuckin’ records. Phal seems quiet, Mick O.K. and Pete a little depressed. He sees a saga developing over the gig in Memphis. There's been too much trouble over flights and it’s too near Christmas. All the airlines are in chaos and if we miss Christmas at home the natives are going to be restless - not to mention the girls and relatives.
Scranton looked beautiful this morning. The bare trees, and the snow on the grass reminds me of Dr Zhivago when Omar Sharif was on that train. Small houses and you feel you could handle Scranton, it’s small and doesn’t overwhelm you.
They’re very proud of the airport too. It’s being renovated to accommodate the larger planes. A huge board in the tiny terminal building tells exactly where the bread is coming from. It’s a DC9 and the weather is bloody awful. One of those blind flights through the fog en route to Allentown, 25 minutes away. I feel uncomfortable and pull the little blinds down over the two windows to my left preferring to pretend I’m not here. My previous night’s folly has left me muggy and I try to sleep, but I'm too hot and apprehensive. Although it was a short little flight and the takeoff and landing were good. I didn't feel safe somehow. A man reading a newspaper saying, ‘11 killed in Chicago air crash’, didn't help either. We landed in Allentown and Mick’s off like a shot. Phally follows and Zee
and Stan take off in pursuit. We're supposed to sit tight and take off again for Washington D.C., but it looks like Mick’s had enough, the fog’s done him in, and Phal for that matter. They won't come back on. Mick’s nerves are shattered completely, and we just sit there not knowing what to do.
Stan makes us stay on and we take off for Washington minus Zee, Mick and Phally. The same again; fog all the way. Things are getting a bit chaotic now. Ritchie and Phil get a message to Stan that they've broken down as well, and the plan now is for them to team up with Zee and Co and try to drive, bus or train it down to Memphis.
They’ve got about 30 hours and Memphis is 1,500 miles away.
Safely down again at Washington and Stan starts to ring again. First the office; Zee rang in and said they met up with Ritchie and are in some garage somewhere in Pennsylvania and what should they do?
Tony says carry on to Memphis. If Mick knows we're there he may still fly so's not to let us down, but I don’t think it's a question of letting us down anymore. If the bloke’s that bad, and he can't fly, that’s it. He has our sympathy.
Pete's all for going home and then we find out Zee, Mick and Phal are heading for New York. The chances of doing Memphis become even slimmer. Mick is probably already thinking if he can just manage that last flight he'll be home. If he comes to Memphis that means three more flights and he knows he may not make it. Still, perhaps Tony can talk to him when they get to New York, even bring them down himself. Tony's extremely calm, never panics and he might quieten him down a bit.
If that bloody plane had gone straight to Memphis today that would have been it, we'd have made it. It's such a shame. We're really big in Memphis, bigger than in Cleveland. They've even got a police escort to go with the limos at the airport. Either that or there's trouble there, one of the two. So there you are reader, you know as much as I do - rock‘n’roll labourers after the golden fleece. We've got the same chances of making the gig as winning the bloody pools, and you can win the pools on a Wednesday night in the safety of your own home. Still, rock's like a drug and I’m an addict. I'll still be here when I get my pension, if anyone will have me. Mug!
On the bright side, Memphis is Memphis. Elvis’s famous house is here somewhere with the notes on the railings. You never know, we might just possibly get to see it, but I doubt it. My life-long ambition, to meet Dylan, was set back again too. I’d probably freeze if I ever did anyway, so what's the point. By the way, I missed a free meal writing this last lot down. My scribblings are written all over sundry pieces of paper all stuffed in a little black bag. I hope Tru can decipher it all when she comes to type it. I can't even read my own writing three days after.
A hat looms two seats in front and English football results show Stan how his beloved Hereford United are faring. Outside it's beautiful, the wing a navy blue against the slightly lighter blue of the sky and then the dusty blue of the clouds beneath. Little patches of vague yellow where they are at their thinnest signifies lights underneath and then we sink down into the clouds themselves. How I hate this racing through blindly. Ah, the clear light of Memphis below, thank Christ. It's been a long day; I didn't think we'd make it.
Through the terminal and sailors call us gay as usual. I hesitate to do one of our repertoire of standard answers to idiots because there are about 40 of them and we're in the South now.
Two guys meet us, one has a girl and I'm sure I'll get to know their names as they’re running the gig. Stan supervises the baggage (it's all here, Phal’s and Mick's as well) and then out to the limos. Three of them and Memphis City Police to boot. I just couldn't believe it. Stereo blaring in the limo, an old black guy singin’ along in the driving seat. Two police motor bikes out front, sirens going and lights flashing. One bike draws back to the second limo, takes a bottle of wine offered, has a huge swig and gives it back - the other motor-cyclist has a bottle of bourbon stuck in his belt. Through the lights, one bike blocks the traffic and the other speeds us through on down into the centre of Memphis. All I can tell you is that it’s 8:30p.m. now and dark, it looks a bit like Texas. Sirens still wailing we swerve into the forecourt of the Downtown Motor Inn. If only Mick and Phally had’ve been here, what a welcome. Posters shoved in our hands and the Dudes commercial comes appropriately over the radio. I wonder if old Elvis is listening. They promise to show us his house sometime. It‘s on the other side of Memphis. On guess where? Elvis Presley Boulevard. Wonder if they'll ever have Hunter Terrace or something like that in Wembley.
They insist that we go to a party now at the promoter's house and they're so nice we agree, but God knows what it'll be like and I’m totally knackered. Pete seems to have woken up though, and Buffs happier. Stan loved the police riders and he’s wide awake and in a silly mood. His hat at a jaunty angle and he's gone. Lee’s grinning away too, so we might as well relax and enjoy a bit of that southern hospitality. Don’t ask me what my room number is - they're all the same now. I've got fifty minutes to become a dude.
And southern hospitality it was. Bourbon on the rocks - and a few smokes too; me playing the piano dreamily at five in the morning in a beautiful house belonging to Mike, one of the organizers. The house had a dark blue Light plus fairy lights from a Christmas tree, and outside a candelabra's lights reflect in the window and a small statue of Christ is just visible from the garden. A bar in one corner of another room and the limo driver transformed to barman - the police motor-cyclists were relaxing now. Various ladies drifted around and when I asked one for an ashtray she pointed to the obvious place. Too obvious for me. I settled for a chat with a young guy and a lady, they were really nice. Rock was there; he plays for Joe Walsh’s group, Barnstorm, and is a character straight from the Colorado Hills outside Boulder. He told me Walsh has been studying karate and broke a foot so he's not due in until later. Earlier Stan got in touch with Mick and things look slightly better. Mick was feeling more together and they had booked stand-by flights for the 8:40 in the morning. This means they can only get on if there are cancellations. It looks better, but it's still distinctly dodgy. One thing, if Mick does get on the plane he can't get off. It’s non-stop to Memphis. We'll see anyway. We're all back safely. Bed now and Dick Cavett is having one of his better shows with Jack Lemmon and Bobby Fischer the chess champion who turns out to be a real entertainer and very down to earth. I’ve heard great things about Beale Street so I'll investigate and find out tomorrow. Meanwhile - sleep. Oh, I’ll just go and get an ice-cold Coke. (Take note all you shit English hotels who pride yourselves on service.)
Friday, 22 December 1972
Well it’s 11:30 on this Memphis morning, the date of our last gig on this tour and my writing is almost done. A visit to Stan’s room reveals no new information on the whereabouts of Mick, Phal, Zee, Ritchie, Phil and Dick. It’s asking too much to imagine they'll make it, but miracles do happen. We decide to go Christmas shopping and Stan, Pete, Buff and me stride out on a brisk Tennessee winter morning. Straight down about three blocks - Beale Street. The street blues songs were written about, and it's rumoured the street where Chuck Berry bought his first guitar. It’s a tumbledown affair. Pawn shop after pawn shop, cheap jewellers, hardware stores and barbers. Most of the pawns shops have the Japanese copy guitars in and very few Gibsons are around. When you do find them, they're expensive and I saw only one bargain, an old Gibson acoustic bass with the pegs coming out the back and a four figure serial number. It’s immaculate, but it’s too much trouble. I've already got four plus my own and I can't really afford the $150.
Back to Union Street and left up to Main Street and we're the only whites on the block and I’ve never been so relaxed in all my life. We split up and I wander into Goldsmiths (Memphis’ greatest store) and find a model of the Santa Maria galleon on the top floor. I decide to buy it for my Mum and Dad, and ask the woman to pack it well — it's got to go a long way. While I’m waiting a young girl comes up.
‘Gee, it’s great to see a real person.’
Sorry?’
‘It’s great to see a real person man. I mean I feel like crawling up foetal.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, you know all these freaks buying all this trash. Wad‘r'ya gettin'?’
‘A galleon.’
‘A what?’
‘A galleon! A ship.’
‘Oh, great.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You really did me man. You wanna know something? I’m gettin' married - ain't that something.’
‘Great. How old are you?’
‘21’
‘You look younger.’
‘I know. I’m not younger, I‘m 21. You playin’ at the concert tonight?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What's the name of your group?’
‘Mott the Hoople.’
‘Gee, I'd really like to go but I gotta work in this store until midnight. It would be real nice if I could see you later - am I imposin’ on ya?‘
‘Well the thing is we've been invited out after the gig so we'll be pretty busy. Anyway, I don't think you should be seeing me. Your boyfriend will get angry if you’re getting married soon.’
‘Oh, that's cool. See that’s what we do round here once in a while to get the presents together, make some good money.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well, I gotta serve now. The lady's got your stuff ready.’
‘Oh yeah, right. Merry Christmas.’
Grabbing the galleon, which has now grown to the size of a tea chest, I scramble out of Goldsmiths and stagger down Main Street. Black dudes stare at my boots. Some of the guys look incredible, and I never saw more beautiful women. It’s all clothes and music here. Older women scurry by, shopping bags full of toy guitars and dolls for the little ones. I curse the zealousness of the packers, the bloody box weighs a ton and I'm sweating in my old afghan. (It’s not old actually, it’s new.) Back to the hotel and dump the box. Stan’s going to hate me for the size of this thing. He’s got to carry it.