That night, the three of us pop down the road to our new local, the Greyhound on Fulham Palace Road. Casino joins us and we hang around, lording it over any musicians daft enough to come near us. And whom should we run into but Mal? We last saw him, ooh, when was it? Oh yes, being stiffed by yours truly outside the Café des Artistes way back when. He seems to have forgotten, or at least he’s not bearing any discernible grudge. We rather enjoy catching up with him, telling him what’s new.*
* * *
Ken calls to inform us that Mick has quit. Actually, what he really says is, “Mick cracked up.” Well, we can have that effect on people. Truth is, he wasn’t a good fit anyway. Great bass man and classic chap, but he wouldn’t immerse himself in our culture so what’s the point? It does, however, mean that we’re back to the soul-torturing drudgery of looking for a bloody bass player.
The office sets up a rehearsal studio for a week in Wood Green, where the four of us get to work introducing our songs to all our lovely new equipment. Not only that, but in these weeks of wonder there is yet another stunning development. Ken has got a recording session booked for us, September 27–29. And what studio has he booked? Just Olympic Studios, that’s all. We can’t believe it. The Stones recorded Beggars Banquet at Olympic. Everybody who is anybody has recorded at Olympic and now it’s our turn.
We are, of course, need it be said, of the firm conviction that we thoroughly deserve it and that it’s about time, too.
Ken has this idea that he wants us to record a single: A-side “Chez Maximes”; B-side “Nightmare.” He also says he wants to have a shot at producing. By all means, squire.
Two dozen idiots show up at Wood Green to audition for the role of Hollywood Brats bass player. These morons have obviously not actually read the ad we put in the Melody Maker. Awful-looking bunch. All they’ve done is read the magic words we now add to the description of ourselves in the ad. We now put “with record deal.” That draws them like flies. So, small wonder they seem as appalled to see us as we are to see them.
Ken sends a session bass player to Wood Green to cover the upcoming Olympic recordings, in case we don’t find anyone in time. He keeps telling us to just get someone to play bass. He doesn’t have to be part of the band, says Ken. We’d prefer a permanent player but we have to reluctantly admit that this advice makes sense. The chap he sends along is a nice-enough guy but he’s a hippy and he must be forty years old, at least. He looks like he’s come to mend the fence. He asks for charts as soon as he walks in. Charts? Why, are you sailing to Tahiti, mate? Turns out he’s no Mick, but it must be said the man can play and it’s refreshing to hear that great bottom end in the sound again.
Truth is, the music is sounding different with the new gear. Lou’s snare sounds like a machine gun, cymbals like “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” bass drum like Hercules’s heart beat. Casino is a great organ player (who knew?) and we stick his Hammond on every song, trying it out. It’s perfect on “Courtesan” and “Drowning Sorrows.” But it is Brady on the Firebird that is the real revelation. His sound and playing are starting to match his new psychotic personality. Finally.*
XX
Number 117 Church Road, Barnes. South of the river. We make it a point not to venture south of the Thames. What’s there, after all? Battersea Power Station? Battle of Hastings? Lou’s got a girl in Clapham, but that’s his problem. He got shot in the arse in Clapham and that’s south of the river. Says it all, really.
Ah, but Barnes is a different south of the river. This is west of Putney Bridge and here all is verdant and leafy, with nice cars and pubs and Victorian houses and bright-red double-decker buses and tourist-brochure pubs. It’s English, here.
And, strangely enough, this beguiling little corner of this green and pleasant land is where you will find the undisputed greatest recording studio in the world. You want to dispute? Okay, muggo, which studio is better? Abbey Road? Go to a grip shop and get one. Abbey Road is famous because of five guys and one of them is named George Martin. That’s it. Move on.
Well, how about somewhere in New York, the Record Plant, for instance? Or Los Angeles, the Record Plant, for instance? Or Sun Studio (museum) or Muscle Shoals (banjos and catfish)? Or how about Motown in Detroit? Sure, but where are you going to park your car? And who is going to escort you to and from your wallet? Even Berry Gordy hit the road and took the first Greyhound bus leaving for LA.
How about some European studio mecca? And where would that possibly be? Perhaps some Swiss place or Parisian rock emporium or any Continental salon de musique where they record only the most cutting-edge discotheque? Where does Sacha Distel record his stuff, anyway? Or Johnny Hallyday?
Still need convincing? Twit. Try this for a sample Olympic Studios client list: Yardbirds, Troggs, the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Small Faces, Who, Dusty Springfield, Jimi Hendrix, and Faces.
Still not convinced? Well, get this: Procol Harum skipped the light fandango at Olympic. The soundtrack for The Italian Job—brilliant Michael Caine flick—was recorded at, where else, Olympic. Even the Fabs did parts of the yawn-inducing “All You Need Is Love” at Olympic.
Need more? Well, on top of all that, try as we might we can’t forget that the utter cinematic wankery of Jean-Luc Godard’s Sympathy for the Devil (One Plus One) featured studio scenes, mostly illustrating the sad downward spiral of the blessed Brian Jones, shot at Olympic.
Brian Jones: “What can I play?”
Mick Jagger: “I don’t know. What can you play?”
Chilly stuff, Michael Philip.
But, get it straight, when it comes to “Roll tape . . . take one,” Olympic Studios is the place to be on planet Earth.
And this is where the Hollywood Brats are on the evening of September 27, 1973. We are also in awe. We are afforded a quick tour: first, Studio C, small and well-appointed, mostly for vocals; Studio B, intimate, opulent, but still big enough to rock; and then there’s Studio A. Studio A is huge and, in fact, looks like the cinema it once was. It is big enough to record an orchestra, which is, of course, why the Beatles used it for “All You Need Is Space.”
We try to affect an attitude of cool and not look like four rubes fresh off a tourist bus, but it’s difficult to pull off. This place is amazing and because of its history, a history with which we are all too familiar having read about it in liner notes for years, any young musician would crawl across a hundred miles of broken hearts just for the pleasure of collapsing on the doorstep. And the Hollywood Brats get to plug in and roll tape.
Ken introduces us to our engineer. He is not exactly an inspiring sight: tall, head to toe in denim, sandals, long haystack hair, beard like a young Santa, and untrimmed mustache so long it seems like he doesn’t have a mouth.
This looks promising.
We set up in Studio B. The engineer puts me in my own little vocal phone booth, okayed as a favor to Ken who spoke to me about it earlier. And they surround Lou with his own personal Berlin Wall. Now, I know Lou doesn’t like this because since we started playing together way back in Stanmore, July 1, 1972, he likes to check me out for little signals about this and that, and over time it has become almost second nature to us; just a glance and he’s on the ride, a nod and it’s hi-hat time. And he lets me know, with a raised eyebrow, when he’s going to roll. Like that.
But this is the big league, so we’ll listen to the big-league boys. After a bit of engineer-type messing around for levels, we start to play. Nothing serious, just a little workout based on St. Chuck, just to warm up.
Sounds terrible through my headphones and I wonder how things sound to the rest of the lads. Not so hot, judging by their expressions. Still, when the talk-back button clicks and the control room says it’s take-one time on “Chez Maximes,” we count it in and away we go just like we’ve done at a dozen gigs and a hundred kitchen rehearsals. Three minutes or so in, right on schedule, it comes to its cacophony of a climax and then eve
rything goes quiet. We look at each other, those of us that can see each other, and shrug our shoulders.
Through the glass, we can see the big brains in the control room, heads bent in earnest discussion. Take two, they say, and away we go again, then, same comforting train-crash ending, followed by the same silence. What we’re doing sounds like rubbish to me but what do I know? This must be how things are done up here in this rarefied atmosphere. I notice, also, that Brady is playing just like he did back in a certain bedroom in Bushey. And that’s not good.
Finally, the engineer asks Casino and me to come into the control room. When we get there it appears that he and Ken have arrived at the conclusion that “Chez Maximes” needs a riff. A riff? What are we, Hot Chocolate? A riff? We want a tornado of guitars smacking you in the gob if you’re daft enough to play the record. That’s what we want. Not a riff.
Casino has a quiet word in my lughole, giving me a concise version of his treatise “Politics in the Latter Half of the 20th Century,” and convinces me to ignore every instinct I hold near and dear. I try to do the one thing that is most alien to me. I try to get along. You want a riff? You, sir, shall have a riff. I point to Brady. Let me introduce our resident riffster. But, apparently, he is not needed.
We all traipse out to the grand piano and stand around it like we’re going to sing a chorus or two of “Swanee River,” but instead the engineer sits down on the piano bench, cozies up to Casino, and hums a riff he thinks will be just dandy. Casino tinkledy-tinks until he sorts out the notes. Brady copies it on the Firebird. It is awful, an embarrassment. A ten-note riff over two bars. Repeat as necessary. It is everything we are not. So let’s give it a try, shall we?
Two, three more bashes at this thing and we lay down what the mega-minds in the control room say is the “perfect” take.
Next, we tackle “Nightmare,” and this goes much smoother, no riff required, apparently.
After we get the basic track it’s back to “Chez Maximes” to overdub the dreaded riff. Brady is alone in the studio while we are all in the control room watching. The riff is rubbish and, just to complete the package, so is Brady. With talent like he’s putting on display here tonight he could easily play for, say, Lieutenant Pigeon or, at a pinch, Love Affair.
Our hippy bass player sits in a corner—unconcerned, uninterested, uninvolved—drinking grape juice and staring at the Page 3 girl in the Sun. She’s quite tasty, actually.
Over the course of the next two days we overdub this and that. For instance, three of us—me, Lou, and Ken—in a stairwell around a microphone doing handclaps. Only trouble is, gee whiz, only two of us can do handclaps in tempo. Exit Ken.
On day two I lay down the vocals and then the producing wizards settle in to knit their brows and mix the thing. The final product? The engineer loves it. The boys and I are ashamed of it.
Ken knows it.
* * *
Back to Wood Green and back to bass auditions. The office has thrown a net far and wide and yanked in everybody in England who has ever played bass anywhere. Somebody from the band Jonesy, whoever they are, shows up, plugs in, bores us to tears, and is given the boot. Most of them can play but the problem is the look. Well, that and the age. Don’t forget, we are appalled that Brady is twenty-three. We want a certain look and age, and we are not going to compromise. But this bass situation is getting dicey.
Lou and I meet with Ken at the office to talk about a clothing budget, a wheeze we dreamed up the night before. By the end of Lou’s imploring speech even I’m ready to dig in my pockets and contribute a couple of quid. He really does have the gift of the gab. At the end of the meeting we walk out with a little brown envelope containing £125. You can do a lot of damage with that kind of money in a half-decent secondhand shop.
Time at home is spent playing music, larking about, and, above all, watching TV. We love television. We are severely TV depraved, because we’ve been severely TV deprived.
So, now that our ship has finally come crashing into the dock, our TV is switched on from the moment we crawl out of bed until ITV, BBC1, and BBC2 close down for the day, usually at the ridiculously early hour of 11:45 p.m. It ends most nights with some bonkers white-haired fat chap in an ill-fitting blue suit telling us about stars and planets for fifteen minutes. Some nights, it ends with a prayer or an orchestra playing “God Save You Know Whom.”
Sometimes, on Wednesdays, TV viewing ends with Rod Serling’s Night Gallery, which we love. It’s all earwigs crawling into brains and laying eggs and things like that.
Guy Fawkes Night is somewhere off in the near future, and we buy strings of small red firecrackers at the shop. These wee, red, cigarette-shaped firecrackers pack a surprisingly huge and nasty wallop for such a modest-looking incendiary. We sit around watching TV, surreptitiously lighting firecrackers and throwing them at each other. You act nonchalant, seemingly transfixed by the telly, but really you’re just waiting for the chance to blow the other chap up. Makes for some hilarious leaping and yelping. Out in the hall, you tape one to the front of a teacup, light it, then hand the cup to the agreed-upon sap, handle first. He takes it, thank you very much, ta, goes to take a sip, and kaboom.
One night, due to rampant firecrackery, Brady’s bed bursts into flames, which we don’t notice for the longest time, since our eyeballs are glued to Reginald Bosanquet reading the news plastered on TV. There’s a huge black hole right in the middle of Brady’s bed. He doesn’t seem unduly concerned.*
The acetate of our single arrives at 26 Bishop’s Road. We don’t exactly rush to the turntable like we did with the Gooseberry acetate. We are wary about this one. And we are right to be wary. It sounds competent, professional, and interesting, but it certainly doesn’t sound like the Hollywood Brats. It is smooth, tidy, and tame, three words that will never be associated with us. That stupid riff makes toes curl and balls shrink with embarrassment.
It’s great to see the Brats on a 45, though.
XXI
Yet another ad in the Melody Maker, yet another audition. Now the office handles all phone calls and sets up the audition at the Pied Bull, scene of one of our former crimes against entertainment. Auditions are boring but it will be a nice change to be on that stage and not be detested.
The bass players are rubbish. But it’s my attitude I’m worried about. I don’t even expect anything anymore. They all look like they should be in Jethro Tull. The Hollywood Brats, however, look great after taking their wardrobe dough for a walk around town. Lou’s got a ladies’ flower-patterned blouse knotted across his skinny ribs and great shoes that he must need a stepladder to climb into. Cas has nabbed a gray zebra-stripe jacket with black buttons and bangles to match. Brady has been to see his mate Gerry in Kensington Market and come out with the exact snakeskin boots Keith wears in the Let It Bleed era.
I bought white lace-up boxing boots in a fight shop in Soho and I’m wearing red strides, courtesy of Sonja, with a purple velvet frock coat.
I spoke too soon about the stage at the Pied Bull, by the way. We’ve been on it for three hours and every bass player leaves detesting us.
Then Brady comes up with one of his typically bonkers concepts. Out of the blue, he says he knows the bass player from Silverhead. Says his name is Nigel Harrison and they’ve been mates for years. He and Nigel had a pint yesterday, and Nigel might be interested. I never noticed Nigel at Global Village and Brady sure as hell never mentioned they were buddies. I can’t conjure up an impression of Silverhead’s bass player, and neither can Lou or Cas. That can’t be a good sign.
Nevertheless, Silverhead are playing in Birmingham on October 23 and the office hires us a limo to go up and see what’s what, make an offer, as it were, poach the lad if need be. So the four of us, plus Ken and the obliging little . . . sorry, Louie, sit back in the tooled-leather upholstery of a top-of-the-line limousine and head up the M1. This turns out to be a ride of luxury and laughs. For a sta
rt, there’s a bar, and Brady doesn’t even have to search for it. Ken offers up its intoxicants within the first thirty seconds. The driver rolls down the don’t-bother-me window and hands back a small zippered leather bag containing four square inches of dark hash, a vial of white powder, and a mirror. The Hollywood Brats grab for the mirror to check out the eyeliner.
After a two-hour mobile drinking/smoking/snorting session, we arrive at the gig just fashionably late enough to see nothing of the show and are escorted to a private box to do just that. A young lady shows up with a tray of lager.
Brady goes backstage and, after a bit, returns with Nigel. Bloody hell, Nigel’s got curly hair. Back in the limo, back down the M1.
On the way back to London, on the limo radio, we hear that David Cassidy has reached number one in the charts with “Daydreamer.”
Grim gets grimmer.
We are also bored to death. Auditioning bass players day after day saps the spirit of a band. We’re completely sick of it. We should be in Olympic recording a classic album, not trooping off to Wood Green to play “Johnny B. Goode” a hundred times.
As a distraction, Brady, our social convenor, directs an outing to Imperial College to see Queen, the bunch that got into a snit over our old name. The teeth that launched an unprovoked attack on my fist. I was fed up with the name, anyway. It’s a daft name, truth be told. A cheap laugh at best.
They seem to have survived their early nonsense and onstage appear fine, if ordinary, to me, like a clean-shaven Silverhead, albeit with Mal’s twin brother on guitar.
Backstage afterward I wonder why I’m here, since I want to go home or to a pub or to the Red Cross to donate blood, anywhere but backstage at a Queen gig. We nonetheless kiss and make up and lie through our teeth about what a marvelous performance we’ve just witnessed. It’s pathetic but it works, because we get invited by the towel-draped punchbag and Mal’s doppelgänger to attend a Guy Fawkes party at their place three days hence.
Sick On You Page 24