Problems soon arose. The expanded band didn’t sound cohesive live, and their repertoire favored newer member Jeff Lynne. After their first album had been released, Wood left and formed a new group, Wizzard. He retained the classical instrument augmentation, but went more in a 1950s-influenced rock direction, similar to that of The Move’s last hit, “California Man.”
I met Wood in the lounge of the Sandringham Hotel. His yellow-tinted glasses matched the yellow wisp in his brown hair. We had just gotten started when who should come by for a quick hello but Jeff Lynne, who was also staying at the hotel. Roy claimed that he and Jeff were on good terms. If they weren’t, Jeff wouldn’t have come over. Roy said that one of the reasons he left was so that Jeff would get more recognition, rather than being in his shadow.
Roy wasn’t a great conversationalist. He gave short, conventional answers with little insight. Compared to ELO, he wanted Wizzard to have a more dynamic sound, similar to that of the John Barry Seven. John Barry was best known for scoring the James Bond films. Roy said that he had been listening to Led Zeppelin, the Carpenters, and lots of classical music.
When I interviewed Bev last May in LA, he told me that Roy had forged his plans for Wizzard in secret: “We didn’t know it at the time, but he was rehearsing Wizzard behind our backs. Everyone but we knew about it in Birmingham, and when we got a call from our manager saying that he and two other members left to play in Wizzard, it was pretty embarrassing. Here we were all buddies, all good friends, and he doesn’t even give us the courtesy of saying, ‘I’m leaving the band; it just isn’t working out.’” Over the subsequent year, Roy had three hits with Wizzard in the UK, including two number ones, and a hit as a solo artist. So, it appeared that he’d made the right decision.
I’d met Nancy Retchin through Harvey Kubernik, and used to chat with her at concerts in Los Angeles. She had recently moved to London, sharing a flat with others. I wanted to make a postcard to mail back to friends and relatives in the States, a photo of me standing next to the Abbey Road sign depicted on the back cover of The Beatles’ album of the same name. Four years after the release of the album, I was surprised to find how few of the street signs remained. We found a suitable one mounted on a brick wall. I don’t think the one used on the album cover was still in place. Nancy took the photo of me modeling the white suit jacket I just purchased from Take 6 on the King’s Road, over the English-only Jo Jo Gunne promotional T-shirt that I got from WEA.
Knowing I was going to London, A&M Records had asked me to write a two-page biography of Stealers Wheel to accompany the US release of their second album, Ferguslie Park, produced by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. I interviewed Gerry Rafferty at Island Records’ Basing Street Studios in Notting Hill during the final mixing. Before Stealers Wheel, Rafferty had partnered with fellow Scot Billy Connolly in The Humblebums. I liked their two American-released albums. After they split, he teamed up with an old school friend, Joe Egan, who sang background on seven songs on his solo album, before they formed Stealers Wheel.
I saw Mike Stoller in the control room, but not Jerry Leiber. I also saw stacked cases of Newcastle Brown Ale and Scotch whiskey. Rafferty was introverted and shy, but I was able to get what I needed from him as he inhaled a Picadilly cigarette. He told me that he left the band for a time, but rejoined when “Stuck in the Middle With You” became a big hit earlier in the year. About the song he said: “Shortly after the group was signed, we all went to a big, very crowded party. I was a little drunk, and I was stuck next to this guy whom I had very little in common with. The conversation was forced. I was stuck in the middle with him.”
Man—Wales’ answer to the Grateful Dead—had recorded a handful of albums, but none had sold well enough to make the charts. Andrew Lauder had signed them and invited me to join a train trip United Artists organized to see Man perform in their hometown of Swansea. On Thursday, September 27, we departed from Paddington Station. On the way I chatted with English writers Geoff Brown (Melody Maker) and Charles Shaar Murray (New Musical Express), whose writings I admired.
That evening Man headlined Brangwyn Hall, and played well for the hometown crowd. Deke Leonard’s Iceberg opened. Leonard had been Man’s guitarist, but had been fired. I loved his song “A Hard Way to Live.” He performed it as part of his set, and then reprised it, joining Man for their encore. During the break I chatted with Mike Gibbins, Badfinger’s drummer, who was in town visiting his family.
After the concert our party went to Pandora’s, a local disco that had few patrons. We drank, but mostly stood around, and were bothered by the constantly changing colored lights coming from the dance floor. None of the English writers seemed interested in me, or where I came from. No one was friendly. Unlike most in our party, getting drunk on the record company tab didn’t appeal to me. I was so bored I didn’t feel like waiting around until the band arrived so I took a taxi back to my hotel. My impression of Swansea was that it rained all the time, not just from our two days there, but also from the moss growing on the roofs of the houses.
I saw a listing that ELO were appearing the next night in the Refectory at Brunel University. I took the Metropolitan Line on the Underground all the way to Uxbridge, the last stop, then walked a mile until I got to the university. Beside me most of the way was a young student, who asked me if America were as violent as what he saw in the movies and on TV. It made me realize the impressions that those in other countries get solely from our media.
When I arrived, I was disappointed to see that ELO had cancelled. Suzi Quatro was the replacement. Suzi was a cute, short blonde from Detroit. She and her band of Englishmen dressed in black leather, and she cultivated the image of a tough, aggressive male rocker. Her two recent British hits made me curious, and as I’d come all that way, I bought a ticket to check her out. I loved her personality and energy, but the overall sound wasn’t that tight or powerful. She needed better songs, too.
I took a “coach” (bus) northwest to Stratford-on-Avon, birthplace of William Shakespeare. The Avon struck me as the perfect width for a river. I walked around the quaint town and saw Shakespeare’s first home. That evening I took in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s performance of Romeo and Juliet at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. It was a pleasure to see such an accomplished cast.
After spending the night in a bed and breakfast hotel, I took a bus to Warwick Castle in Warwickshire. Located in a bend on the River Avon, it was everything I imagined a medieval castle to be. It satisfied a childhood curiosity from viewing movies and TV shows about knights in shining armor. Built primarily in the twelfth century, it was unlike anything we had in America.
I took a bus to the University of Birmingham to meet one of the friends Mark Leviton had made while attending the school the previous year. John Clark made arrangements for me to sleep on the floor in a dorm room. We didn’t do much that night, spending most of the time at a pub for the students on the ground floor of the dorm, something you would never see at an American university.
Bev Bevan picked me up the next morning in his luxurious Aston Martin DB6. It was like having a longhaired James Bond as a tour guide. He pointed out a few of the sights, and then we stopped by his modest record store, Heavyhead Records—with his mum manning the counter. Originally a toy store, he converted it to records two years ago. When Bev was in town and he wasn’t playing soccer, he regularly manned the counter. Roy Wood, replete with makeup, had joined him on occasional Saturdays. At his house, his wife served us lunch, and he showed me his scrapbooks from his previous group, The Move.
Of particular interest to me was the postcard that had caused the group a lot of trouble. Trying to get publicity for their single “Flowers in the Rain,” manager Tony Secunda, unbeknownst to the band, had circulated a caricature-illustrated postcard depicting Prime Minister Harold Wilson in bed, nude, with his secretary. Wilson sued the band for libel. Secunda settled, with all the money earned from the record—a considerable sum,
as it soared all the way to number two—given to charities chosen by Wilson. As the record climbed the chart, The Move were upset about the money they were losing because they had nothing to do with the stunt or the settlement. I enjoyed the day, and Bev’s hospitality. He dropped me off at the railway station so I could take the train one hundred miles back to London.
I still popped in at United Artists and WEA, but based myself more out of Rolling Stone’s London office, located at 25 Newman Street. Andrew Bailey, handsome and nattily dressed, was head of the bureau. I became friendly with writers Chris Hodenfield and Paul Gambaccini. The office received an advance copy of David Bowie’s new album, Pin Ups. We grouped around the office record player for a preview. I liked the concept, a collection of his interpretations of the mid-sixties songs he loved, but preferred the originals.
With a lot of construction in the area, I walked through the cold and soot under scaffolding down to Oxford Street to have lunch. I visited the newly opened Biba department store on Kensington High Street. From the gloom and rain outside, I stepped into an Art Deco paradise. It was the most beautiful store I’d ever visited, but also the dimmest lit. It was as though there had been a power failure and the auxiliary generators had kicked in. I was struck by the amount of glass—mirrors, black-glass counters—splashes of plumed feathers and Egyptian motifs throughout. The women’s clothes on view, reflecting the prevailing glam style, looked like they had been appropriated from an early-thirties Hollywood musical. For all anyone took notice of me, I could have been the Invisible Man. Yet, sweating in my unfashionable lined trench coat, I felt too intimidated to explore the upper floors, and left.
Andrew Lauder recommended me to Andrew Bailey to write an article for Rolling Stone on Hawkwind. Although I liked some of their songs, I wasn’t a fan of the band. But as it was an opportunity to get another piece in the magazine, I agreed. On Saturday, October 6, I took a Lufthansa flight to Düsseldorf to join the band while they were on tour in Germany. I was the only longhair on the flight. Most of the passengers were, I presumed, German businessmen in suits reading Die Zeit. That night Hawkwind were playing in a neighboring town. I was told I would be met at the airport.
My flight arrived, and there was no one to meet me. All the passengers had dispersed. I inquired at an information booth, but there was no message. I had no contact information, and didn’t know where the band was staying or playing. As it was Saturday, I couldn’t phone United Artists in London, as it was closed. I was admiring the construction of the brand new terminal, when I heard my name paged on the public address system.
Stacia, who was sincerely apologetic, met me. She was one of the reasons I wanted to see the band. I did not find her attractive, a six-foot-two-inch overweight woman with large breasts. She got so carried away as a fan of the band’s music that she would get up on stage, dance interpretively, and take off her clothes. She soon became a fixture of the live show. And here she was in the flesh—well, actually with clothes on. The handsome, blond German roadie drove a two-seat sports car. Stacia sat on his lap; I in the passenger seat. The Black Forest’s tall green trees lined the highway as a light rain fell. I was overcome by sadness, thinking of the millions of people who had died at the hands of the Germans during World War II.
At the club, before the evening’s performance, I spoke with a few members of the band, but couldn’t get much out of them. They did reveal that the band’s name was derived from sci-fi writer Michael Moorcock’s Dorian Hawkmoon character. Lemmy Kilmister, the bass player who sang lead on their “Silver Machine” hit, was amiable despite his intimidating 1950s rocker look—which seemed out of place as a member of a psychedelic band—and spaced-out eyes. As befitting his looks, Lemmy was a big rock ’n’ roll fan. He liked Little Richard most of all; also Eddie Cochran, Jerry Lee Lewis, Buddy Holly, and (Britain’s) Billy Fury.
That night a guy in the audience asked me, in German, if I had a light for his cigarette. I replied, “Nein.” It was the extent of the German I was able to muster. I wish I had remembered more from my high school classes, but “Wo ist die Bibliothek?” Where is the library? wasn’t going to put me in the right direction.
Hawkwind’s sound was similar to Black Sabbath’s, mostly based around riffs, except when they revealed their hippie folk roots. Most of the themes were science fiction, augmented by a synthesizer. Writers had slapped the description of “space rock” on them. Robert Calvert, their resident poet and lead singer, had recently departed the band. Andrew Lauder played me the new single, “Ejection,” that Calvert, with members of Hawkwind, had recorded as Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters. I preferred it to anything by Hawkwind, which I felt had been diminished by Calvert’s departure.
The band performed a number of selections from their recently released Top 10-charting album Space Ritual, which was about the dreams of a group of astronauts who are in suspended animation. The music was loud and hard, and the vocals were difficult to hear. The droning rhythm almost intended to put one in a trance. The show included DJ Andy Dunkley, who played records before the set and introduced the band; dancer Stacia, displaying little more than iridescent paint; and psychedelic liquid-light affects projected on the band.
Back at the hotel, we all shared a large dormitory room. It was low-key: no rambunctious drinking, no drug taking, no groupies brought back to the room. Stacia had her own room, which she shared that night with the German roadie.
The breakfast spread at the hotel was sumptuous: lots of sliced meats and cheeses, and dark breads. We ate together at a large table in the breakfast room. There were no discussions I could spruce up my piece with: no frustrations aired, no discourse on German culture, no bantering. Despite the drama of the music, as people, they were approachable, just not interesting.
Dropped back at the airport, I wandered around and came upon a gift store that stocked a few records. On the counter were extra, empty picture sleeves for Wizzard’s new single, “Angel Fingers,” on the EMI Electrola label. I took one.
On Sunday I arrived from Germany, checked back into my hotel, and then met Nancy at Fairfield Hall in Croydon to see The Kinks on the last date of their tour. It was a difficult time for The Kinks’ lead singer Ray Davies. In June his wife walked out with their two children. A week later he overdosed on drugs and was admitted to the hospital. Two weeks later, on July 15, playing a rock festival at White City Stadium, he announced his retirement from the stage. Later that day, having overdosed on amphetamines, he was admitted to the hospital and had his stomach pumped.
The audience was charged, since many, me included, felt that it could be the last Kinks appearance. The band was charged, too, but that didn’t mean that they were able to play well. Still, it was an effective and entertaining concert.
I typed up my article on Hawkwind at Rolling Stone, and gave the copy to Andrew Bailey. I wasn’t happy with it, because I didn’t get much of a story. Doug Smith, Hawkwind’s manager, asked to see a copy. Normally, a journalist would never show his article to an artist, manager, or record label employee prior to publication. But Doug seemed nice, and I was compromised, so I did. Doug used his standing to have the story pulled from consideration in favor of having somebody else write about the band the following year to promote the US tour. My disappointment in not getting paid was slightly lessened because I didn’t get a good story.
I met Peter Noone at Marquee Studios, located around the corner from the Marquee Club, at 10 Richmond Mews. He was working on a song, “I’m a Gambler,” that I thought was catchy, but it needed another part, like a bridge, to keep it from being so repetitive. He took a lunch break and we walked to a nearby restaurant.
After all the hits he’d had with Herman’s Hermits, Peter had had only one as a solo artist, with the David Bowie composition “Oh You Pretty Things.” Bowie had had a fluke hit in 1969 with “Space Oddity,” but had been unable to follow it up as a singer or songwriter until Noone’s hit returned him to t
he charts in 1971.
Peter told me that, because it was a hit, he had given Bowie a shot at the subsequent single. “Right On Mother” aired a contemporary social topic of a boy making the transition into manhood by moving in with his girlfriend, and getting his mother’s approval. As on the previous single, Bowie played piano, but this one failed to hit. As we walked back to the studio, I was surprised no one came up to Peter, who in my mind was a very recognizable star.
Later in the day, Peter and his wife Mireille picked me up at Trafalgar Square—where I had gone to say hello to Bev who was taping a segment with ELO for The Midnight Special—and we had dinner at the Westbury Hotel. His hospitality made a big impression on me, and he even invited me to spend the night at their home in Buckinghamshire, fifty miles away. I wanted to go, but as I’d gotten a ticket from Rolling Stone to see Steeleye Span at Royal Albert Hall, I thought I should attend the show on the chance that they wanted a review. Peter drove a luxurious Jaguar Vanden Plas. He dropped me off across from the concert arena.
The next evening I listened to the radio in my room. It had been installed in the wall, and had two knobs: one for on/off/volume and one that turned to two channels, BBC and Light. It was an old setup as Light was now known as BBC 2. The channel programmed what was referred to as “housewives’ choice,” which meant a good amount of radio soap operas and easy listening music. The other channel, now called BBC 1, played mostly rock. Hits that I liked included: “Angel Fingers” by Wizzard, “Ballroom Blitz” by Sweet, and “Nutbush City Limits” by Ike and Tina Turner. There were a couple of records by a talented new group, 10cc, that hadn’t made an impression yet in the States. The songs were more like miniature plays riddled with theatrical sound effects and voiced by different characters. The settings were American, as were the accents of the British singers. “The Dean and I” described an unusual high school romance, and “Rubber Bullets” a dance-cum-riot at the local county jail.
My British Invasion Page 24