by Ian Hunter
The miracle has happened. Stan’s got everybody here once again under his wing. After a mad six o'clock dash to N.Y. La Guardia Airport this morning, they all got told to go to Newark, and finally because of the chaos as much as anything else, got here complete with the gear. Amazing!
I run down and hug old Ralpher, the hero. Phal looks pale and we’ve lost his guitar so he‘s upset as well. No sweat, Zee shoots off to the airport to get it from Lost Property. Phal still thinks we forgot it though and a tired row breaks out. End-of-tour strain can make you think you’ll never gig again, and we’re all starting to get a little annoyed with each other. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.
I really am knocked out to see Mick. He‘s eating and I nip off to a jeweller’s I saw before to get Tru a little gold bracelet with a little heart and tassle attached. It doesn’t cost all that much, but she said not to get her much as we’ve got other gifts to buy. Then I get back I bump into Mick and we go out again - me showing him where I’ve been. He finds one guitar shop we’d missed before, but there's nothing in there so we content ourselves wandering round a couple of cheap discount stores. Lighters are bought, Zippo style for 99 cents and I get a T-shirt which everybody has since laughed at. I don't know why; I think it looks good.
Mick buys a Tennessee T-shirt and odds and sods he always likes to decorate his Shepherd's Bush flat with. He’ll really be looking forward to seeing his girl Nina now, it’s been five long weeks and he’s a faithful old bugger. Pete's the same; God help Pam.
Saw this huge cop in one store; he must have weighed at least 20 stone, and his voice, I wish we'd have had a tape recorder. It was like gravel and deeper than anything I've ever heard before. Zee’s knocked twice now, and is starting to panic on the sound check. I must go now.
Christ. What a sound check. The P.A.'s weak and only one guy seems to know how to run it. The guy on the monitors doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. We’re all pretty down. A bad P.A. can really mess up a whole gig, and we're all knackered, especially Phal and Mick who've had about six hours sleep in the last 48 hours. Bob’s frantically (as usual) gesticulating all over the stage trying to get the lights together and union men take their time. Ten minutes to lower a back cloth.
There’s about 100 ushers out front staring - I hate that. Nobody should watch a sound check. You start bad and try to get it better. It should be done in private. Lee and Zee have disappeared, and Stan's only concern is us playing the numbers. So we do them messily and there’s no spark. It'll be better to night, but I don’t know how much. I still haven't finally checked the piano sound; that’s something I hate to leave to chance. Saw Joe Walsh wobbling around - the offended foot stuck in a large sock. He likes Mick‘s Esquire a lot. Rock was saying last night they used to do Thunderbuck Ram and they have a tape of them performing it in front of 9,000 people. We’d love to hear it, but it's back home in Colorado. From the way they describe where they come from, it must be great.
Well that’s great; that‘s fucking great. Here I've been telling you how nice people are and we've been done over.
Mick’s had $270 and his Panasonic tape nicked and Lee’s had a case taken full of camera equipment and his passport too. One wonders what more can happen to Ralpher. What a great way to do a gig. The police are on their way now. He’s saved up the whole tour to take a bit of money back home. Lee's tickets gone too now - he can’t fly to his parents for Christmas; he doesn't even have identification and you can‘t do anything without some kind of I.D. in America. The police arrive. One big, one little and take down what little they can take down. They check the trash cans, etc. And we remember three young guys, two white and one black, who sat watching us in the lobby as we left. Lee and Zee got back about 6:30, so they must have gotten in between 6 and 6:15. Quick work.
The police are nice, but really don’t seem all that bothered. The bigger of the two getting our autographs on an album. Christ, it gets worse. The hall's only half full - who was that prat who told us we were big here? We’re on a percentage and the Christmas bonus is supposed to come out of that. Looks like when expenses are paid we'll be left with fuck all. I've got $3.
Twenty minutes later - hold on - Phil just rang and said it’s three-quarters full and there's still a large queue to get in. Apparently the box office is very slow and a lot of people are complaining they can't get in quick enough to see Barnstorm.
Now you're not going to believe this, I'm pissed but you just aren't going to believe it. The gig was TREMENDOUS. We went down a storm; 3,700 people, and Joe Walsh went mad with us on the encores. Pissed and brilliant he was. Mick and him talking on stage. The only communication. Unbelievable - an amazing gig. Easily as good as Cleveland. The crowd were up all the way through and I can hardly write for the excitement.
Saturday, 23 December 1972
In the light of the following morning I still can only echo what I said last night - an amazing way to end a tour. There were actually 3,700 in and they went - they really went. So did Trudy‘s present. I deliberately took it to the gig so as to avoid having it thieved at the hotel, but somehow it went, what a downer. They all tell you how wonderful and all the bullshit, and somebody nicks your case. Then people wonder why we don’t like people backstage. Still it’s a drag, but I won't let it spoil my mood. Everybody was knocked out and exhilarated including Ike and Rich the limo drivers. Lee jumps around and Stan’s all excited drinking a bottle of champagne and refusing to give anyone a swig. Bob going wow and the promoters smile and talk about the next one confidently. Apparently the people don’t go mad very often now but when they do it’s a night to behold - believe me! Kathy from the Mainman office flies in to be on the last gig and loves it. Needless to say, the band's happy. It's all over, next stop LONDON.
By the time we left the gig it must have been 12:30 a.m. and by this time we’re all a little stoned and I beg Ike to take us over to Elvis’s place. Ike nods and we fly on through the night until we reach the legendary Gracelands, home of the king himself (his dad lives next door).
We get out at the gate (the one with the notes) and survey total unreality in the cool Memphis night air. One of his many cousins comes out and we ask boldly if we can drive up the little road to his place, but the guy's not having any. Elvis is in. He's been here two or three days, and he’s just got back from the pictures an hour and a half ago so they won’t let anybody near the place. The best he can do is open the gate so we can all get a clear view and he gives us a picture postcard. In my drunken state I decide this ain’t enough.
This guy who’s in the Limo with us draws the guard’s attention, putting his arm around him and pleading with him to let us in. Meanwhile, another guy pushes me in the back and I’m off up the left-hand walk, sliding behind trees, casually walking expecting any minute to be pulled back. Miraculously, the guards didn't notice, and I was wearing an afghan, so they must have been bloody blind and I just went on. A huge nativity scene stood on the grounds to the right of the house lit up. Blue bulbs outlined the driveway, and outside the front of the house were red, yellow, blue and green Christmas trees either side of the main door. It's not really a huge house, in fact quite modest for the size of the grounds. There seem to be columns by the front door and two huge flashy chrome cars stood outside.
A T.V. eye stands out sharply against the uneven bark on the trees and I keep to the wall, bending down to stuff my pockets with a few leaves for the lads who are probably getting fed up waiting for me. On at the back with four or five older cars, and a multi-coloured fun jalopy looking thing. I hear dogs barking, but you know what it's like when you’re pissed.
I walk across under the patio and there’s a back door. I turn the knob and it opens. Fuckin’ hell! Am I dreaming? I’m in the dude’s house; he’s somewhere within 50 feet of me now, but I really daren’t go further. Inside the door there’s two more doors - one on the right looks like a sports room, but I'm a bit too far gone to tell properly, and the one on the left looks more like where
he'd be – plush carpeting, a short hall and what looks like a staircase. I'll never know if these doors opened or not because I didn't try them. Instead, I knocked loudly. No answer. I knocked again and a black lady, very nicely dressed, peered at me through the window. I’ve since found out that it was probably Alberta, Presley's maid. She fits the description I gave to a couple of guys that went to his parties.
‘I came four and a half thousand miles to see Elvis Presley - is it possible to see him?’
‘I'm sorry, but - Mr Presley's tired and he ain't seein’ anybody.’
‘Are you sure I can't see him?’
‘Yes, I’m definitely sure.’
‘Well I’m sorry for the inconvenience, and I'll go back to the gate. Don't worry, I'm knocked out to have gotten this far. Thanks anyway.’
‘You're welcome. Good night.’
I felt elated. I didn't really want to meet the guy - he'd have only gotten angry at me staggering in in the middle of the night and invading his privacy. I felt like a 14-year-old groupie - but I'd done it for the buzz, and it had been great! To tell you the truth, I’d get a bigger buzz out of Jerry Lee Lewis, but there I'd been, in the king's house, and fooled the entire army. Actually I hadn’t fooled them that well because as I wandered round the front a wagon was waiting.
I told the exceedingly worried looking guard it was all over and that I was sorry I’d caused him trouble and that all I wanted to do was walk down the drive and out. He motioned me on and I walked straight down the middle of Elvis Presley’s driveway with a wagon slowly following me. It was a gas of an experience, and I won’t ever forget it.
Even in my obvious state, plus the fact I broke the rules, everybody had been extremely courteous, and I whooped my way back into the car. Phally piles in and it turns out he went right when I went left and he wound up at the front door where he was nabbed, so Phally keeps a memory too. What a high, just like kids who'd been scrumping and got away with it. Thank Christ they knew we were harmless, or those Dobermans would have torn us to shreds. I feel sorry for the poor bugger though, he can't have much of a life if idiots like me are pulling stunts like that and they probably do. Never mind El, count your royalty checks and forget all about it.
Back to the Downtown Motor Inn or the thieves’ kitchen as we’ve now dubbed it, and we're well into the morning.
The eighth floor looks like Rome. All of Barnstorm are there. Rock playing harp stridently and Joe Walsh, completely out of his head playing beautiful bottleneck. I sat with him a while and backed him on my old Echo - he was playing Pete's Martin. People I've never seen asleep on beds and myself and a bird roll a couple of guys off Buff’s bed onto the floor and drag Buff in from where he collapsed in the hallway undressing him and shoving him into bed. Stan, the eternal shepherd, was drunk, but still watchful. Bob Goddard naked but for gaily painted knickers talks earnestly to two young people on the floor. Champagne and bourbon bottles, 7-Up, Coke, a million cigarette butts, unknown faces, my hand aches from the shaking it’s done, and I finally slam my door - happier than I‘ve been. A great night to end a real breakthrough tour; I'll suffer for this tomorrow. I’ll ring Trudy and then go to sleep.
Sunday, 24 December 1972
Today is the 24th and Mott are homeward bound. Twenty-seven guitar cases and 12 suitcases are wearily packed for the last time, aching heads soothed by Veganin. Stan looks half dead, but it's going-home day, and the mood is good. I find a bullet in bed with me. Larry, one of the cycle cops, gave it to me last night to remember him by. A live .32 for a bed mate! Oh shit, my achin’ head. I give Zee my brown high-heeled boots because he gave me his clogs and Lee comes in and gives me The Hobbit. I know I should have read it, but I haven’t, so I will. Rich and Ike are genuinely sad to see us leave, and we all have our pictures taken outside the Inn.
Into the limos and up to the airport. I've got that ‘driven like mad from Germany and missed the ferry’ feeling. Death. I buy Tru a replacement Christmas present at the airport, a tiny pair of jade earrings with money I borrowed from Ritchie, and we hang around a while and have sandwiches and juice to get rid of the fag taste in our mouths.
Onto a DC-9 and I’m just being welcomed to Chicago, having written this last bit all the way through.
First class, and I appreciate the room to spread my aching limbs in. I feel about 90, but we're here and there’s one to go and that gets us all the way to Heathrow, Trudy, Solveig, Saucer, the Anglia and Wembley and Christmas Eve.
O’Hare is as grey as ever, full of grim faces. It really is a down place, Chicago. We wander round the gift shops and wind up waiting 30 minutes for a glass of milk in one of the drug stores. We’re all tired, but still not nasty. I find a piece of wood and on it a metal plate which sums up flying so much better than I can. It's a poem by John G. Magee, Jr, and it goes like this:
O, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun split clouds -— and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air,
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
A good poem, a poem you want to learn.
6:15 p.m. and it's time to wander down to the G-11 gate for the last big one. Phil and I moan about the distance, but eventually make it. Three security police unzip baggage and check thoroughly for guns, knives, etc., and we walk through the doorway. The light flashes on alarm and my Zippo lighter catches me. The guy holds them, and money and my cigarettes (silver foil) and a few hotel keys picked up accidently on the way. Through again, and this time I'm clear. Everybody’s OK. There’s green, red, gold and blue boarding passes and the plane’s a T.W.A. Jumbo and they're letting them on one colour at a time. We’re the second lot on and I'm sitting next to a hard-looking individual and as there's not too many on board I move over to the centre row. On a Jumbo there's three seats on the left. then a carriageway, then four seats then a carriageway then another three. I’m sitting in red D-325; it’s quite complicated really.
Still there is a good view for the film and as I’m dead centre (nearly) nobody’s in front. I've put the seat in front of me down and put the old legs up. A menu’s shoved in front of me entitled ‘The Madrid’. There is a choice of three meals - Charbroiled Filet Mignon, Loin of Pork Fermier or Barbecued Breast of Chicken. Looks like the chicken, that’s the only one I understand. Oh, perhaps a little wine to go with it. There's cheese and biscuits too. Phal loves cheese and biscuits, oh the beer’s 50 cents. Must get some money off Stan. I want fags and a bottle of something for Christmas too.
I’ve taken a mandy too, so the flight should be quite painless. The end of this flight will be the end of this book and it makes me sad. I've lived with it through so many moods and it's been an exercise in self-discipline; something I needed to do for a long time. A little girl plays peek-a-boo with me and the engines jet and die as the pilot runs through his routine tests. Soon we'll be off the ground, that is America, flying contrary to time and my three in the morning will be nine tomorrow morning when I arrive in England, I still can’t work out if I'll stay awake or asleep. Take it as it comes. I'll tell you something about American tours, I was almost a zombie before I left England - no real buzz, but I feel like I've lived a lot over the last five weeks and surely that is what it’s all about.
Already the next tour is semi-planned. We open in L.A. the first week in March. It's O.K. That's the only way I can live. The guy just said
the flying time is 6 hours 40 minutes to London and he's now going through the safety routine. The two hostesses demonstrating as the steward talks look like bizarre plastic-clad go-go girls - they’ve got it down to a fine art. Now he repeats the routine in Italian - perhaps the Mafia dig English Christmases. I’m writing along alone; all the rest sit together at the back, but I've had enough. A bit of peace is what is called for.
We're moving, the giant nose swings to the right and we start to taxi slowly out onto the maze of runways that web O’Hare and occasionally drive ground-control people mad. Soothing music plays, putting me in mind of The Star Gazers are on the Air when I was a kid. Now we stop again and engines begin to roar - but die and I think we're in one of those queues O’Hare is so famous for. Outside it's dark, and masses of lights which mean nothing to me aid the pilot towards the big runway. I see the last American light show outside the edge of Chicago and the word extravagance comes to mind.
Here we go. No we don't. Still the wheels hug American concrete. The bloody trouble with queues is you can't smoke when you're on the ground, and after a while it becomes a drag. I had some gum, but I lost it. A baby‘s crying and the captain says we're now number three for takeoff in five minutes over Flint Michigan, Ottawa. Canada, across the Atlantic, over Shannon and on into London. The weather's supposed to be good all the way. Number one now and the captain tells the crew to strap themselves in. Well if we're next the plane in front of us must be crawling down on its hands and knees, it’s taking so long.