Ian Dury

by Will Birch

  One of the best recordings from the Laughter sessions – ‘Duff ’em Up and Do ’em Over Boogie’ – was omitted from the album because Kosmo Vinyl, still orchestrating Ian’s press campaigns, thought it might encourage football hooliganism, then rampant. ‘It was very reactionary on the street,’ says Kosmo. ‘The skinhead thing had come back with none of the style but all of the violence. I was living in Bow and getting the tube and dealing with blokes on glue and swastikas. I didn’t expect Ian to be on the front line – he was riding around in a cab – but I said to him, “Those guys are gonna end up kicking somebody’s head in to your tune.” It was like Clockwork Orange, but I think Ian saw it as b-movie, Teddy Boy fun.’ The song was eventually given new lyrics and emerged on Laughter as ‘Oh Mr Peanut’.

  Not only did Ian tell us on Laughter that he wanted ‘to be straight’, but in the sing-along ‘Uncoolohol’, he denounced alcohol entirely! Although he had the self-discipline to occasionally abstain, he would consume vast quantities of booze when in the mood. But, as Mickey Gallagher observes, alcohol did not agree with Ian: ‘He was such a little guy. One beer made him very happy; two, and he’d start wobbling; three, he turned into a horrible drunk, insulting everyone. He was never hung-over, except for one occasion after a party in Stratford-on-Avon, when we had to get back to London, and he sat in the back of the car and put a bag over his head.’

  It was the idea of being drunk that Ian liked, but he was what is often referred to as a ‘lightweight’. He only had to hear the sound of a beer can being cracked open and he was gone, causing friends to wonder if he was allergic to alcohol. He preferred to sup on an empty stomach as food would tend to make him too bloated to drink beer, his usual tipple. Some days he didn’t much care for eating at all. He favoured a meal he could eat with his hands, often standing up. This led to much fast food such as kebabs in pitta bread or pie and chips. It was a poor diet that did not bode well for his health, but it dispensed with the need for cutlery, the manipulation of which Ian sometimes found tedious due to the limitations of his left hand. ‘He would put his arm around a bowl of food,’ says Davey Payne, ‘as if someone was going to steal it.’

  At the rehearsals for the Laughter promotional tour, which would mark Wilko Johnson’s live debut as a Blockhead, Ian suddenly announced: ‘We’re not doing “Sex and Drugs” any more.’ Wilko was gobsmacked. ‘Fucking hell! I only joined the band to play “Sex and Drugs”,’ says Wilko. ‘Of course we did do it, but playing the Blockheads stuff with my limited chords was a nightmare! I had to learn the back catalogue. The middle of ‘Reasons to Be Cheerful’ was particularly difficult. For the first few shows I had a piece of paper in front of me with the chords on it. I’ll also admit there were times in the set when I would turn my guitar off and mime. I was lost.’

  The tour was marked by a number of tense moments. ‘There were many backstage brawls,’ recalls Dutch über-fan Kees Bakker, ‘but Ian could break up a fight by simply fluttering his eyelashes.’ Ian couldn’t, however, prevent the inevitable showdown with Davey Payne, who, Wilko Johnson observes, ‘was a coiled spring, with eyes like acetylene torches.’ The incident occurred in Dublin on 24 November, where the group was staying at the lavish Gresham Hotel. Ian had upgraded to a suite, whereas the rest of the entourage had to contend with single rooms. ‘The Blockheads were complaining,’ recalls Wilko, ‘but I thought, “For fuck’s sake, he’s the star, let him have a suite!”’ Ian justified his extravagance by explaining that he would be using his luxurious accommodation to host a party, following that night’s performance at the Olympia Theatre. Plans changed when Ian decided to restrict the festivities to two fans he’d met after the show. For Ian, it was the perfect scenario – a young girl who was in awe of him, and her poor boyfriend, whom Ian would proceed to belittle in front of the girl.

  The Blockheads were not amused to be confined to the hotel bar while Ian held court upstairs. Davey was particularly angry, suggesting they should all invade the suite, along with a number of other fans they’d picked up en route. ‘We all went up there,’ says Wilko. ‘It was a good scene with champagne and punters hanging about. Suddenly Davey came in and said, “I’ve just knocked Ian out.” Ray, the minder, was cradling Ian in his arms like a child. “Party’s over! Band meeting!”’ When Ian regained consciousness he confronted the Blockheads with an ultimatum. ‘Right, are we going to carry on without Davey Payne or are we going to blow the tour out?’ Wilko, the new boy, made a speech: ‘Listen, guys, I bust up with one really great band through total bollocks and personal crap and I’m fucked if I’m going to do it again.’ The Blockheads sent for Fred Rowe, who had to come over from England and arbitrate. Fred suggested that Davey should be fined £200.

  Wilko Johnson was in his room at Copenhagen’s Plaza Hotel that December when word reached him that Ian was causing a commotion in the bar. He had encountered several well-known musicians and had cornered their American tour manager. Ian’s language was so offensive that the American suddenly roared, ‘Look, man, I always used to dig you, but if you say one more word to me I’ll punch you out.’ Wilko, fast becoming the peacemaker, dashed down to the bar and positioned himself between Ian and the American. ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ pleaded Wilko, trying to usher Ian back to his room. At that point, Ian grasped the brass handrail at the edge of the bar with both hands, shouting ‘Help me!’ ‘Ian thought that, because he was a cripple, people wouldn’t hit him,’ says Wilko, ‘so he would go way past the stage where most of us would get a punch on the nose. I got in between him and the American, apologizing for Ian. “He doesn’t mean it . . . come on Ian, back to your room.” He threatened to sack us all. We put him in the lift, got him up to his room and removed his leg iron.’

  The confiscation of Ian’s calliper was a tactic invented by Fred Rowe as the safest method of dealing with an out-of-control situation. Whereas bodyguards are traditionally employed to protect their clients from over-zealous fans, Rowe’s job was to protect others from Ian. So when things got really ugly, Fred would simply ‘take off the leg’ and stow it in hotel reception. On one tour, Ian sought to confound Fred by ordering a spare calliper to be sent ahead, by post, to his Edinburgh hotel, but Fred intercepted the parcel. He maintained a blank expression when Ian kept asking, ‘Is there any mail for me?’ ‘Hiding the calliper didn’t ever stop Ian,’ says Andrew King, ‘because at three in the morning, there he would be, sitting on his backside in the corridor, lifting himself by his hands, screaming, “You cunts!”’

  Laughter entered the UK album chart in December 1980, where it remained for just four weeks, peaking at number forty-eight, its commercial appeal possibly restricted by the challenging subject matter of its songs. Meanwhile the tour continued into Europe, and Ian’s drinking gained momentum. There were now effectively ‘two Ians’ – the relatively charming but manipulative Ian and the monster he would become after the third drink. Fred Rowe referred to the drunken Ian as ‘Tom’, as in: ‘Is this Ian talking, or is it Tom?’ As his drunken alter ego, Ian particularly disliked being excluded from the conversation. ‘He developed the annoying habit of grabbing at your elbow,’ recalls Andrew King, ‘and muttering, “D’ya mind? D’ya mind if I say something? Have you got a minute? D’ya mind?” I used to call it “the four-wall thing”. He had to have control of all four corners of a room and wasn’t very happy if there was something going on in one of the corners that he wasn’t in control of. When he came into a room, he dominated it and, if the action wobbled away from him, he’d start getting lairy.’

  Unless he was the centre of attention Ian could only keep schtum for so long and belligerently tried to steer the conversation in his direction. If another strong-willed individual managed to interrupt him while he was spouting forth, Ian would slope off or launch some preposterous distraction. There had been many examples of this. Excluded from a technical discussion in the recording studio, he crumbled digestive biscuits into the intricate workings of the mixing desk, effectively bringing the sessio
n to a halt. At a rehearsal, while the musicians were practising their parts, he cracked an egg on Ed Speight’s head. Realizing Speight’s annoyance, Ian then cracked an egg over his own head to compensate for his behaviour – a characteristic gesture when he knew he’d gone too far. In short, Ian couldn’t bear to be ignored.

  Ian’s most outrageous conduct occurred at the Midem music festival in Cannes, where he was guest of honour at a huge dinner party thrown by Eddie Barclay, boss of Barclay Records. Barclay distributed Ian’s music in France, and Ian was due to receive a special award. He was seated at the top table, between Barclay and his girlfriend, a young, glamorous actress. ‘Ian pulled her,’ recalls Andrew King. ‘It took him twenty minutes. He said, “This is a bit boring, shall we go somewhere else?” She said, “Yes,” and off they went. Eddie Barclay was very powerful – the kind of guy who had photographs of himself with John F. Kennedy on top of his piano, mates with Chirac and all that – and Ian had stolen his bird. When challenged, Ian said to him, “Eddie Barclay, tu es merde [you are shit],” and Eddie coolly replied, “Ian Dury, you will never sell another record in France.” That was more or less the case.’

  Ian had pushed the self-destruct button one too many times and effectively wrecked his career. His commercial demise coincided with the contractual expiry of his three-album deal with Stiff Records. Finishing with Stiff came as a relief to Ian; ever since his initial success he had felt a sense of obligation to Dave Robinson, Stiff Records and the Blockheads, but he found it hard to conform to a recording schedule that made such demands on his time and creativity. ‘I think there’s a whole wrong aspect to this game that we play,’ Ian told me, ‘the follow-up syndrome or the momentum syndrome. If you make a good record I think you should have the right to milk it for thirty-five years. It’s not about following it with another one.’

  Being out of his recording contract provided Ian with the opportunity to break free from the infrastructure he believed was suffocating his art. ‘Money had been fun at first, but it caused an inner conflict,’ says Kosmo Vinyl. ‘Ian was not materialistic. He was a Bohemian at heart, happy with a few key possessions such as his Bill Haley poster, his Chris Killip photos and his bongos.’ Nevertheless, Ian was now without an outlet for his music. As he reflected on his dicey predicament, he took comfort in the pronouncements of Basanta Kumar Mallik, Aunt Molly’s guru who had predicted his fame some twenty years earlier. But Ian might also have considered the mountaineer’s mantra: ‘When you reach the summit, you’re only halfway there.’ Ian now had to deal with the descent.

  16

  ‘Phil, You Don’t Know What It Involves’

  In the spring of 1981, Ian instructed his managers to seek out a new recording contract with as much up-front money as possible. The hottest companies knew that Ian’s career was in meltdown and gave him a wide berth, but there was always Polydor Records. Sustained by the massive international sales of MOR giant James Last, the German-based label had deeper pockets than most and would sign almost anything with a pulse. A&R man Frank Neilson at Polydor’s London office knew that adding Ian Dury to their pale roster would give the label a much-needed shot of credibility.

  When the Polydor deal was announced, Ian talked it up in the same way that he had tried to glamorize Pye Records – the last refuge of Kilburn and the High Roads – seven years earlier. ‘I went in there [Polydor] and there were geezers wearing diamond pullovers with Krugerrands round their necks, talking about “units”,’ Ian recalled, adding, ‘they all read the Daily Express.’ He quickly discovered that the Express-reading geezers in the Argyle sweaters were expecting him to make good their investment by immediately delivering a hit album, but once again new material was non-existent. It was time to reunite with Chaz Jankel, now seemingly refreshed after a spot of solo success, having co-composed ‘Ai No Corrida’, a hit for Quincy Jones.

  Chaz was watching Top of the Pops when a group named Freeez appeared, performing their hit ‘Southern Freeez’. On the other side of town, at the Dorset Street flat he now shared with his white Barbadian girlfriend Ashley and her two Burmese cats, Ian was similarly glued to his TV set. Chaz and Ian were both taken aback by the quiet power of Freeez vocalist Ingrid Mansfield-Allman, who was the main topic of conversation when Ian called Chaz. Ingrid would become the catalyst in their reunion as songwriters. ‘Chaz phoned me,’ recalls Ingrid. ‘He asked me to come down to his studio to do some work with him and Ian. It was the first time they had spoken in eighteen months. We did “Stop Wasting Your Time” and “Sister Slow”, the words of which went: “I was bored with my Ford, the Wolseley is coolsey, but a Lancia is fancier . . .”’

  Ian quickly persuaded Ingrid to sign to Polydor and arranged for the Blockheads to provide accompaniment. He also promoted himself as Ingrid’s executive producer, a role for which he was ill-equipped. ‘We used to have to arrange decoy studios to prevent Ian turning up,’ says Ingrid. ‘He would sabotage the sessions, and it would waste hours and hours of studio time. Because it wasn’t really his thing, he would try to take over.’ As Andrew King notes, ‘Ian wanted to be a great record producer, but he wasn’t. It’s a knack, but Ian didn’t have that knack.’

  In addition to concocting material for Ingrid, Chaz helped Ian come up with a batch of songs for his Polydor debut, the first of which would derive its inspiration from an unexpected quarter. 1981 had been designated the ‘International Year of the Disabled’. Obviously, this got right up Ian’s nose. The campaign was undoubtedly well intentioned – to give disabled people a voice. Predictably, the loudest voice of all was Ian’s. ‘Oh, I see . . .’ he pontificated, ‘so in 1982 we’ll all be all right!’

  Ian had a point. As possibly Britain’s most famous disabled celebrity, he was called upon to take part in various media events. He had already appeared on the BBC television programme Scene, in an episode entitled ‘To Be a Lunatic’ in which he expounded on the subject of madness. Visiting mentally disturbed teenagers at the Cassell Hospital in Richmond, he commented: ‘The only medicine at this hospital is “talk”.’ For once, Ian let others do the talking and he proved to be a skilled listener, coaxing out of the young patients their various experiences of depression and schizophrenia.

  ‘I got asked to do so many things in the year of the disabled,’ said Ian. ‘We had the “polio folio”, which was this great big folder . . . “Lesbians in Wheelchairs”! I can’t tell you what we didn’t get asked to do. I got a cassette from a guy called Kelly who was in a sheltered home for the disabled and he wrote me a letter saying: “This place is all right during the week, but the weekends are murder ’cos all the staff go home. They have the weekend off, it’s bloody lonely.” Kelly wrote a song called “This Is the International Year of the Disabled”. If a do-gooder heard it, they’d say, “Oh, you little ingrate.” But it’s murder having organized sports if you’re all of differing abilities. You can’t handicap the handicapped!’

  Ian had become something of a poster boy to the differently abled community, but he quickly tired of the endless requests for his involvement in charitable causes. Instead, he responded with his best song in years. Written from the heart, for handicapped people everywhere, it was the mighty ‘Spasticus Autisticus’.

  I’m Spasticus! I’m Spasticus!

  I’m Spasticus Autisticus!!

  I widdle when I piddle

  ’Cos my middle is a riddle

  ‘I wrote “Spasticus Autisticus” to be a completely anti-charity song,’ said Ian. ‘I’ve written seven good songs, that’s one of them. Live, it requires an incredible amount of energy. When we came to do it with the Blockheads, I told Charley, “You gotta play the bass drum and imagine you’re nutting somebody.” He said, “Can do, I. D.” Charley was a foot-fighting champion with the old Thai boxing.’

  So place your hard-earned peanuts in my tin,

  And thank the Creator you’re not in the state I’m in,

  So long have I been languished on the shelf

  I must give al
l proceedings to myself

  A secondary source of inspiration for ‘Spasticus’ was the 1981 television screening of Spartacus, starring Kirk Douglas. Ian saw it on a rare visit to Tring, to look after the children while Betty was in hospital recovering from an injury sustained in a nasty car accident. ‘I’m Spartacus!’ yelled the slaves of ancient Rome. It was one of Ian’s favourite films, having first seen it at the cinema in Romford in 1960. Viewing it over twenty years later, he made the connection. The following day he was still thinking about Spartacus when Ed Speight visited. ‘I thought about going on tour as ‘Spasticus and The Autistics’,’ recalled Ian, ‘but Speight said, “No, it should be Spasticus Autisticus – he’s the freed slave of the disabled.”’

  Ed Speight recalls, ‘We kicked a few phrases around, drinking more dandelion and burdock. “I wobble when I hobble,” was one of them. We knocked out the hooks, then Ian did the real artwork: “So place your hard-earned peanuts in my tin, and thank the Creator you’re not in the state I’m in.” Some of it was influenced by Lenny Bruce – the “half-man/half-woman” routine. Ian said he wanted a record that would be banned. It certainly did the trick.’

  Predictably, the irony of ‘Spasticus’ was lost on the media when it was released as a single. Radio producers didn’t seem to ‘get it’, although sections of the community it discussed were quietly amused. ‘It’s been banned by the BBC,’ Ian protested almost boastfully, but in fact the disc had been barely promoted. Like many a controversial song, it had been buried by the record pluggers, who found it too much like hard work to promote, while its failure could always be turned on its head in a stab at notoriety. ‘“Spasticus Autisticus” was misunderstood by everybody except spastic people,’ said Ian, ‘and a lot of them hated it as well. But a few really understood it. By the people, for the people . . . it’s a war cry!’