Adrenalized

by Phil Collen

  We also had other, less intellectual reasons to like Paris: Valerie and Lorelei. Shortly after Steve and I moved to Paris, I started seeing Valerie and Steve started dating Lorelei. Liz and I had drifted apart by this point. She’d never really be out of my life, but in terms of a relationship, we had moved on . . . for the time being. Initially, Steve and I stayed at Lorelei and Valerie’s place on the Île Saint-Louis, a tiny island on the River Seine next to Notre Dame Cathedral. The apartment looked like it was created for a Gothic film set, the building being hundreds of years old. The four of us would rent a car and take road trips to places like ancient Deauville, in Normandy, where we would end up sleeping in the car because all the hotels were booked. We attended a few of the girls’ modeling events, and I would eventually buy my first apartment, a place that Valerie found, around Boulevard St. Germain in the Sixth Arrondissement. Steve stayed with Lorelei in her apartment on the Île Saint-Louis. I have wonderful memories about my place in Paris. There was a great Italian restaurant opposite my second-floor apartment. Valerie and I would order food; then the waiter would whistle up from the street when it was ready. My Paris experience was actually happening in segments taking place while we were writing and recording the Hysteria album in Dublin and Holland. I was going back and forth but was in Paris when I learned about Rick’s accident.

  After well-deserved downtime following the craziness that was the Pyromania tour, we were all anxious to get back with Mutt to discuss the direction of the band and begin work on the next album. In February 1984 we all convened in Dublin, where we set up camp for about six months to write before going off to Holland to record. The pressure was on for us to follow Pyro’s success.

  We found a house to rent on St. Helen’s Road, Booterstown, overlooking the Irish Sea. We drew straws as to who would get which room. Sav got a room where the heater wouldn’t turn off for the whole six months we were there. When it came to choosing my room, I chose the one with the sea view. Unfortunately, it was the tiniest box room in the house. Joe, however, had a view of Mount Kilimanjaro and the hanging gardens of Babylon from his room. Ironically, this straw-drawing technique was employed for the next three houses. Joe always seemed to get the biggest room wherever we stayed. I was convinced he rigged the straws somehow. We all lived under one roof—five guys who’d practically lived with their parents their whole lives, living in a house together. You do the math. If you needed a plate, you’d pull it out of the pile in the sink, wash it, use it, and put it back for the next starving victim. There was an airing cupboard upstairs to dry out towels and sheets and stuff, but we used it for brewing homemade beer. Our local pub was called the Punch Bowl. It was about a hundred yards from the house.

  Steve and I found out fairly early on during our stay that the Irish like to drink. Our first “closing time” experience happened in the middle of the day when they called “time” and locked everyone in. We thought this was the best thing that had ever happened. Another time we decided to start a health regime and went for a jog en masse. Unfortunately, we only got as far as the Punch Bowl, and Steve threw up over the wall on the street. Alas, that was the end of our workout, and we went in for a pint.

  I continued jogging but also continued drinking. It wasn’t too long before I experienced my first real blackout, and it scared the shit out of me. This was different from passing out, as I had done before. This was literally not being able to remember where I had been and what I had done. The incident happened after Steve and I had gone on an afternoon binge. We had been driving drunk, which was and is absolutely unacceptable, and woke up back at the house wearing Rolex and Cartier watches that we’d unknowingly purchased; there was also another earring on me. I had parked Joe’s car at a 45-degree angle to the curb, left the car running, gone inside the house, and fallen asleep. I didn’t remember any of it. That event was my cue that I needed to chill out on this kind of behavior. It also was the advent of me working out. I would run along the coast road in the morning to try to get in shape. As I began to cut down on the drinking, I gained at least two extra hours in the day, in which I would normally be recovering from a hangover. I liked this. However, this wouldn’t be my final call for getting on the wagon.

  I felt more focused, more in control. And that was a good place to be, since we had a lot of work ahead of us. We wrote all the songs that would become Hysteria. Mutt told us the last thing we needed to do was make another album like Pyromania, as every other rock band out there in the universe was trying to re-create that sound. Mutt said, “Look, let’s not make Pyromania II. Everybody else is trying to do that album now. Let them. We’re going to do something different.”

  Mutt wanted us to instead create a rock version of Michael Jackson’s Thriller, our biggest competition on Pyromania and the biggest-selling album of all time. Thriller’s hit singles crossed over to virtually every audience. Mutt wanted our songs to cross over beyond just rock audiences.

  It was a pretty exciting premise. The idea of going beyond Pyromania was exactly what we needed to be thinking. Don’t rest on your laurels, try to top yourselves each time out. Why not use Thriller as a sort of model, something to aspire to? Plus, I was a huge fan not just of Michael Jackson but of Prince, soul, funk, and Motown as well. I was probably a bit more open to different genres than the other guys in the band. Steve had gotten into listening to quirkier, more diverse artists and genres, plus he found inspiration in his love of classical music.

  Mutt was adamant that this album would define whether we’d be just a good band with a hit album or a great band with classic, long-standing hits, but we’d have to be totally open-minded and work harder than mere mortals were usually prepared to work. We took chances—in particular on a bigger, brighter, commercial sound that incorporated lots of new technologies. Pop music artists like Michael Jackson, Prince, the Police, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, the Fixx, and even INXS could be heard on all kinds of radio stations. All these bands had big, bold, wonderful sounds using the latest technology. The music that was crossing genres was also crossing racial barriers. For the most part, hard-rock bands were kind of stuck in their own box and didn’t broaden their own spectrums much. Stay in your genre. Never experiment. Don’t be adventurous. We didn’t want to be one of those rock bands. We wanted to adapt the brazen attitude of these premier pop acts while keeping the credibility and the distinct sound of a rock band. A tall order, but we had a solution: merge attitudes and styles from a variety of influences. And not be shy about it. A great example is what Aerosmith did with Run-D.M.C., with their killer version of “Walk This Way.” Everyone in our band was excited over this kind of direction.

  But in all that revved-up excitement, Mutt gave us some disappointing news. He had promised to produce an album for the Cars and wasn’t able to go into the studio with us. He was becoming the hottest producer in the business, in part thanks to the work he had done with us. But we had the songs written, and we had our marching orders. We just had to choose a new producer to help us execute them. There were only really two other producers comparable to Mutt: Trevor Horn and Quincy Jones. Both were busy. We had a very, very short list of other available producers. Jim Steinman was one of them. We had thought that because of his work with Meat Loaf perhaps this would work out. But it didn’t. With Steinman, we thought we were getting a Cadillac, but we soon found we were stuck with a Ford Pinto. He would make small suggestions but never inspired us or pushed us harder. I think we were under the impression that the Bat Out of Hell producer would add something; however, he was that album’s songwriter and Todd Rundgren was actually its producer, so we ground to a halt.

  Our management gave Steinman notice that we were done working with him.

  There was really no one else who could have done this album. We had to wait for Mutt. We had a two-year period in Holland where we worked around the clock with various amazing engineers. Neil Dorfsman, Nigel Green, and Dave Thoener were among them. But we still weren’t getting anywhere near to this mythical sou
nd that we had in our minds. We basically slogged through a very expensive process at the extremely lovely Wisseloord Studios in Hilversum, Holland, not far outside Amsterdam, conveniently, until Mutt finished the Cars album. Thank God our misfires and waiting paid off in terms of Mutt finally being available for us.

  Somewhere in the middle of all this, Rick Allen had his accident.

  Steve Clark and I were just about to head out for a big night on the town: the town was Paris, the night was New Year’s Eve, and the year was 1984. Our band had recently come off the amazingly successful Pyromania tour and had become the biggest band on the planet, seemingly overnight. Steve and I, nicknamed the “Terror Twins” for our crazed drinking bouts, were excited to celebrate. The evening started out civilized, but then again, it was early.

  The phone rang.

  “Rick Allen was in an accident. His arm has been severed.” It was Peter Mensch, one of our managers.

  “What do you mean, severed?”

  “It’s gone!”

  “What?”

  “His left arm came straight off.”

  Rick and his girlfriend at the time, Miriam, had been driving on New Year’s Eve day on the A57, outside Sheffield. Rick, who was driving his Corvette Stingray, misjudged a curve and crashed through a stone wall before flipping several times. They’d both been wearing seat belts, but Rick was still thrown from the car. Miriam only had a black eye from the accident, but there Rick was left wandering around in the bitter winter cold, looking for his arm in the snow-covered field. A nurse who lived nearby had been coming up the road, and incredibly, she happened to have a full cooler of ice that she was taking to a New Year’s party. A cop also stopped to help. A nurse and a cop, a cooler of ice—unbelievable luck. They settled him down—he was obviously suffering from shock—and helped him locate his arm. Then the nurse put it on the ice as they rushed it and Rick to the hospital with police escort. (Yet another amazing story from this night: the nurse and the cop would end up getting married.) At the hospital, the doctors tried to reattach the arm, but it got infected so then they had to amputate.

  Holy fuck. Rick was just twenty-one years old; we’d just come off this wild tour and were getting ready for the new album. Thoughts were spinning in my head. Rick was glad to be alive, but he also lived for drumming—how would he survive this? Physically he would probably be okay, but emotionally, how would a twenty-one-year-old rock star handle it?

  Arriving in London a couple of weeks later, we were nervous about seeing Rick, who was still recouping at the Royal Hallamshire Hospital in Sheffield. We had no idea what we were going to say to our friend who was now facing the end of his drumming career. What else to do but go to a pub to have a few brandies before heading into the hospital? When in doubt, have a drink. When not in doubt, have a drink. That’s just how it was back then.

  When we had drunk up enough Dutch courage, we went to see him. Rick was sitting in his room, all wrapped up like a mummy.

  “Hello, Rick,” we said, in shock at how he looked. Seeing him made it real.

  Without even saying hello in return, Rick launched into a spirited pitch. “Okay, guys, listen, I’ve been working on this thing and I’m going to play drums again. But I’m going to use my left foot to do what my left arm used to do and then I’m going to have all of these little pedals and I’ll trigger off all these other sounds and everything’s going to be okay when I play. . . .”

  Steve and I looked at each other thinking, This poor kid, he must be so medicated that he actually thinks he’s cool with all of this and that everything is going to be okay. That he’s going to be a drummer again. It was even sadder than we had imagined. He was hallucinating. He hadn’t just lost his arm. He had gone mad. How could he think past the pain, much less about ever drumming again?

  “I’ve been practicing on the edge of the bed.”

  And there was the proof—a pillow on the floor by the edge of the bed. Rick Allen never had a real job. He had been playing drums all his life. At fifteen Rick was supposed to have a council-appointed tutor traveling with him while he was in the band. I’m not sure if this happened or not. The reason he had to have a tutor was because he couldn’t attend school due to touring. He spent his sixteenth birthday playing drums with Def Leppard (I wasn’t in the band yet), as they were the support band for AC/DC. In the dressing room, Bon Scott, AC/DC’s singer, sang “Happy Birthday” to him.

  We later found out that Mutt had also been to visit him and that Mutt, being Mutt, had said that Rick could still play drums and that a little thing like a loss of limb could be overcome with Zen-like willpower, lots of practice, and the available technology of the time. I also think this inspired Rick to start practicing on the pillow.

  As Rick continued recovering, we somehow got back to work. We had Mutt back at the helm, and Nigel Green stayed on as the engineer. I said to Mutt one time after the album had been released, “Why didn’t you just scrap all the stuff we’d done and start from scratch?” He replied, “You guys were so burnt out and fried that I dared not suggest it.” We basically used some of the prior stuff we’d done as a template, but eventually we ended up replacing it all anyway.

  Hysteria was recorded in three locations—Paris, Dublin, and Hilversum in Holland. During some of this time Steve, Rick, and I all lived together in Donnybrook, Dublin, in this brilliant house that our friends from Spandau Ballet had been renting. I remember us saying to them, “Wow, this place is really cool!” Gary Kemp, Spandau’s guitar player and main songwriter, replied, “Well, we’re leaving to go on tour. Do you want to take on the rent?” And we jumped on it.

  This was the house where we would live, and where Rick learned to play drums again. He would set up this electronic drum kit and play from the time he woke up till he fell asleep every single day. We never complained about the noise, as it was one of the most inspiring things I’d ever seen. Rick had to overcome not only the drumming difficulties but everyday things that we take for granted like standing up straight, cutting a loaf of bread, or tying shoelaces. It was amazing to see Rick’s progress. As frustrating for him as it was, he never gave up. It was “back to the drawing board” until it became natural. To this day when I see him cut some fruit, I worry he may cut his nose off or something. But the “Ginsu Knives accident” award actually goes to Rick Savage, who on many an occasion has chopped a piece of finger on a breadboard. Watching Rick play the drums was inspiring, but watching him do everything else could initially be quite agonizing and frustrating. It was just so hard. But we knew he’d figure out a way to get it done. Even though we were now back in Dublin, we had never stopped recording. Nothing affected recording the album, as we always did the drums last anyway.

  I can remember a time while we were recording Hysteria and we stayed in Loosdrecht, a small village in Holland. We were pretty much holed up in the Waterwolf Hotel during one of their worst winters. However, it was beautiful. With Holland being what it is—reclaimed land with no hills—the lakes, waterways, and dikes all over the country were frozen, making the whole place look like a Christmas card. Steve; Malvin Mortimer—Steve’s guitar tech, who would later become our tour manager; Mike Rogers, my guitar tech at the time; and I would walk across the frozen water like hippie prophets to get to another bar. We all had these great rooms that looked out over the lake, and in midwinter, we were the only residents left in the hotel. So the whole band left all their doors unlocked so we would swan in and out of each other’s rooms. The main meeting place was Malvin’s room. Malvin would tempt everyone in with his early-morning breakfast fry-ups. His room was the social center for the band. We were a little family of sorts, focused on making a great album.

  As Rick continued to get better, we left it up to him as to what he wanted to do. He wanted to tour, for sure, but Rick thought it best that he take another drummer out on the next tour as a backup just in case all the electronics crashed. His only request was that we find a guy to play along with him. This was further confirmed when Jo
e and I went to see Phil Collins perform. (By the way, I’ve always had a bit of a problem sharing a similar name with Mr. Collins. There’s always a “comedian” who thinks he’s the first one to crack the Collins/Collen joke. This got more complicated when I attended Phil Collins’s show and was on the guest list. When I stated my name, the guy at the door assured me “he” was inside playing. I told him, “No. I’m Phil COLLEN. I’m on Phil COLLINS’s guest list.” After about ten confusing minutes we were let in. To this day there are still people who believe I am the drummer from Genesis.)

  When we met up with Phil after the show with his bass player, Leland Sklar (whom joyfully I’d get to play with many years later), and Phil asked how Rick was getting on. We told him about Rick’s two-drummer request. Phil, who thought that was a great idea, said, “I’ve been doing that for years with Chester Thompson in Genesis.” This coming from him meant a hell of a lot to Rick and confirmed that he was on the right track.

  When we were taking a little break from the album—Mutt had been working us hard and we all craved a little hiatus—it seemed the perfect time to get Rick’s idea off the ground. So in the summer of 1986 we started rehearsals with drummer Jeff Rich, a London boy who had been doing session work for years and had done a stint with Status Quo. Jeff played a regular drum kit while Rick played his electronic kit. It sounded thunderously epic, both of them playing together totally locked in synch. It was the boost of confidence Rick needed. As much progress as Rick was making, in the back of our minds we all knew that the real test would be when the band got back onstage.

  We hadn’t played live for a bit, so to get ready for an upcoming European festival tour, as well as to test Rick and Jeff out, we booked a series of warm-up shows in the middle of nowhere in southern Ireland.