Brillo
Lifelong pal, japester, father, and grandfather. The Grim Reaper knocked at his door, as well.
Carole
Still a friend, still lives in Watford, still looking for that kimono.
Zlatan the Mysterious
Became a property magnate in North and East London. Currently retired, practicing Buddhism and exotic horticulture in Doddington, Kent.
Queen
Ancient Marquee slap-fest seen as the folly of youth, the chaps invited Casino and me to the launch party for A Night at the Opera. We quaffed champers with the delectable Lynsey de Paul, and at the end of the evening the exalted Ringo Starr hailed us a cab.
Mick Jones
Formed the Clash and enjoyed great commercial success, at the height of which he stunned fans and critics alike by recording the hilarious comedy album Sandinista!. In the eighties Mick continued to flout convention by going defiantly bald. Can be seen perambulating the Portobello Road, pondering his deathless existential beatnik question: “Should I cool it or should I blow?”
You know the answer, Mick.
Tony James
Formed Generation X with Bone Idol, recording the hiccuping gay anthem “Dancing with Myself.” Went on to form something called Spug Spug Sitcom in the eighties. Can be seen these days doing absolutely nothing.
Malcolm McLaren
Managed the Dolls, the Pistols, Adam and a couple of his Ants, plus Mom Mom Mob, which, upside down and backward, is Bow Wow Wow. Reputed to have met his frankly scary missus, Vivisect Westwood, at the Railway Hotel in Harrow. Buried in Highgate Cemetery, not far from his idol Karl Marx.
11 Mill Lane, West Hampstead
Former rat-infested, petri-dish squat has recently been appraised at over £2 million. Despite literally dozens of signatures on an obviously poorly worded petition, there are no plans, as of yet, for a Hollywood Brats English Heritage blue plaque.
Ken Mewis
Managed the Hollywood Brats, then the Boys, then, of course, a nightclub in Bali. When asked to sum up his life he said, “I manage.” All too soon the unwelcome spook with the big black scythe knocked. Brady attended the funeral. Eulogies written by Andrew Loog Oldham and Andrew Matheson. The Brats sent a wreath shaped like a musical note along with these words, semi-nicked from his favorite film, Casablanca . . .
Of all the gin-joints in the world
You had to walk into the Speak.
Mick Groome
Went on to play with many artists, including Robert Plant. Currently plays with the Barron Knights. And back in the Brats fold.
Sometime after the demise of the Brats, he saw Keith Moon enter a tailor shop with two blondes. Upon being told his garment wasn’t ready, Moon wrecked the shop, stormed out, went to a pub nearby, and ordered a pint of brandy. Mick followed and summoned the nerve to ask Moon about the Hollywood Brats. He hadn’t a clue.
Andrew Loog Oldham
Married Miss Colombia and currently resides in Bogotá. Well, who wouldn’t?
Wilf Pine
A true hard man in a world of so many fakes and posers. A “trusted lieutenant of the Krays” who, as Wilf said, kept their violence and mayhem “among consenting adults,” unlike today’s gutless yardies and hoodies. Wilf is the subject of the book One of the Family: An Englishman in the Mafia. Clunky, fifteen-syllable title, but what the hell. I’ve got an autographed copy.
Thanks for not killing me, Wilf.
IV
Time ticked and tocked.
Years went by, five of them to be exact, and by then the Hollywood Brats were the furthest thing from my thoughts, though there had been periodical murmurs, vague dispatches from the front, hints and notions.
In 1979 a writer named Julie Burchill wrote a couple of paragraphs in the music press about witnessing Marianne Faithfull singing a song called “Sick On You,” from a lyric sheet, at the Marquee.
Odd.
And, while the Brats were a million miles from my thoughts, unbeknownst to me they were quite at the forefront of the thoughts of Iain McNay and Richard Branson.
Iain had just started a new label, Cherry Red Records.
Richard Jones, who was one third of Cherry Red, had a copy of the Hollywood Brats album. It had originally come out in Norway. He really liked it and said, “Why don’t we have a go with it?” I was nervous about putting the album out as I didn’t know how it would sell. Also that it was my first deal with Richard Branson and his company Caroline Exports.
Richard said, “Why don’t we do a deal on the Hollywood Brats?” He thought it would export quite well. He said, “Give us an exclusive three-month export period at a decent price and we’ll guarantee to buy so many albums.” I thought, that’s great.
The funny thing is that, years earlier, when I worked at Bell Records, we almost signed the Hollywood Brats. We were going to put out “Then He Kissed Me.” It was on the release schedule. Then Clive Davis came over from America and said, “Don’t be stupid, this isn’t the kind of act we want on Bell Records.” So it never got released.
But I knew of the band from back then. I’d seen them play a couple of times in a club in Piccadilly. That was the coincidence. I thought they were amazing.
Iain McNay, London, 2013
The four of us, of course, were blissfully ignorant regarding all these machinations. As far as we were concerned, the Brats were dusty, painful history. We had no clue about Cherry Red Records or the fact that Ken Mewis had done a deal with them to release the album.
Pocketed the cash, too, the scoundrel.
Then, one morning in 1980, the phone rang. It was my manager at the time, alerting me to a review in the Record Mirror.
Peter Coyne, Record Mirror, March 15, 1980
Too much, too soon. Casino Steel’s purposely discordant piano that introduces both “The Hollywood Brats” and “Chez Maximes” hardly prepares for the brilliant rock ’n’ roll onslaught that is to be found on this excellent record.
Back in ’73 the Hollywood Brats were Britain’s answer to Staten Island’s finest, the New York Dolls. Like the Dolls, the Hollywood Brats (Andrew Matheson on vocals, Casino Steel on piano, Lou Sparks on drums, Wayne Manor on bass, Brady on guitar) employed a similar use of glam and musical aggression. Also like the Dolls, they were light years ahead of their time and destined to be doomed.
Managing to record only this album, which was released only in Scandinavia, the Hollywood Brats eventually disbanded in ’75 and the Brats were sadly scattered here, there and everywhere.
In no respect does this record sound five years old when you compare the Brats’ sheer teenage brilliance with what passes for rock ’n’ roll now.
“Chez Maximes,” a naughty rocker concerning a high-class brothel, explodes (the only descriptive term possible) in fine style from the speakers, kneeing the listener immediately in the groin and at the same time kissing him/her on both cheeks. Matheson exploits his perfect Jagger simper from the outré opening line of “My daddy was a sailor in the Second World War” all the way to the album’s dynamic conclusion on “Sick On You.”
If it means anything, this is the greatest album I’ve ever had the pleasure to review, so let’s kiss and make up with the Hollywood Brats. Long live rock ’n’ roll.
Backstage pre-Southend biker gig. Mal—ashen, terrified, beneath unforgiveable haystack hair. Me—lager-lubed and ready for action. A bit Rita Hayworth but what the hell.
Outside the Rifle Volunteer pub, Bushey. Back: Roger Cooper, yours toothily, and Casino with his favorite mustache. Front: Lou Sparks and Mal.
First photo session, January 1973. From the left: Roger Cooper in a biker jacket he earned the hard way, Casino, me (in the Oxfam cocktail dress), Lou, and Brady.
Mill Lane slum, summer 1973. Me, Lou, and a fab Brats poster from the disastrous gig. Mere days before the Speakeasy.
Ken Mewis. A sco
undrel, a rogue, and the greatest manager in history. He’s to blame for all of this.
Lou leans out the loo window at 11 Mill Lane and, for the benefit of future tourists, points out the Phlegm Wall.
Lou and Brady, the day after the attack at the Black Lion. Brady’s eyes puffy from punches but Long Life lager held high and furry tongue stuck out defiantly.
Christmas 1973, Fulham Broadway. Lou cooks turkey with all the trimmings, in stark contrast to the tear-jerking, Dickensian deprivation of last year. Turkey carcass blown to smithereens with fireworks shortly thereafter.
Gered’s studio, 41 Great Windmill Street. Freezing to death, up the stairs to the floors above. Home to whores, pigeons, and Brats.
En route to Plymouth. Stopped for petrol. Drunk as daft lords. Left to right: Lou Sparks, Derek, me (armed with a crocodile water pistol), Brady (crotch soaked courtesy of crocodile water pistol), Casino Steel brandishing near-empty bottle of Old Grand-Dad. Nine hours to showtime.
Plymouth Tech, 1974. Pink satin chop-frock and Mr. Fish chemise. Brady playing an upside-down Les Paul and Lou looking for the quickest way out of town.
Yeovil (wherever that is), in the dressing room prior to blowing the fragile and increasingly whiny “Stray” off the stage. Quick swipe of Cherry Blaze–Outdoor Girl lipstick across the yap and let’s go.
Stray. Back: Buffo, Mildew, Stringy, and S’tunned, some chap, and Ken Mewis. Front: many impressive gold records surrounding the handsome and dangerous Wilf Pine.
Conked out in a house overlooking Richmond Park, owned by a German woman who kidnapped me after a gig at the Speakeasy. I expect she thought I’d be rather more fun than this.
Sailing HMS Brats across the North Sea to Leighton Buzzard. Derek holding Wehrmacht helmet and me in Royal Navy Whites. HMS Brats sign courtesy of Lou Sparks.
Flaneur, strolling the streets of Fulham, summer 1974.
The Brats are dead. Just me and Cas left. What could we do? This apparently. Shot in Rupert Court, Soho. Chosen for its undeniable charm.
The Hollywood Brats. We will never see their like again. And thank God for that.
Acknowledgments
I unreservedly thank the following individuals for all the help, expertise, and kindness extended to me.
If I have omitted anybody the oversight is either inadvertent or with damned good reason.
Jake Lingwood
Anna Mrowiec
Hilary McMahon
Amber Matheson
Honest John Plain
Terry Chamberlain
Richard Chamberlain
Ken Mewis
Andrew Loog Oldham
Gered Mankowitz
Marcus Gray
Alwyn Turner
Roger Cooper
Mick Groome
And most importantly
My Blood Brothers:
Casino Steel
Lou Sparks
Brady
Andrew Matheson
Of late, I’ve been minding my own business, walking the grounds with my vicious but faithful Irish wolfhound Rommel, reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, shooting rats with a .22, drinking cognac, staring into the stark embers of life’s fire, and generally wondering why everything is so undeniably naff.
I didn’t ask to be disturbed.
About the Author
ANDREW MATHESON was a founding member of the Hollywood Brats, the band that never really was, but that did what it could from 1971 to 1975. He has since been writing and recording music, producing, publishing magazine articles, and drinking pints.
* Mr. White went on to a career of some renown with Thin Lizzy and, not remotely as thin, Pink Floyd.
* Stein Groven aka Gorvan, Oslo, 2013
“I had been to many hopeless auditions, including one for Status Quo with about four hundred other keyboard players. I had met a thousand wankers and Yes fans. Andrew rode in like Sir Galahad on a white horse.”
* Eunan Brady, London, 1994
“I met Andrew in Denmark Street, 1971. He was the first man I’d seen wearing makeup in broad daylight. We met again in late ’72 when I answered an ad in the Melody Maker for a guitarist ‘drunk on scotch and Keith Richards.’
Andrew had a mop of dark brown hair like a grown-out George Harrison cut atop a six-foot skinny frame, complete with a Hollywood profile . . . every guitarist’s dream of a front man. But hey, he could be a fuckin’ pain in the ass. This man had more front than Jayne Mansfield. They had a fully qualified geek on guitar and the bass department was dodgy. I was summoned to the palatial bedroom in Bushey for an audition. It was all a bit tense.”
* Eunan Brady’s Diary, January 13, 1973 (Saturday)
“At Praed St. clinic to have warts on my dick cauterized. Hurt like hell afterward. Must keep secret from my general public.”
* All of which will remain intact for two more years, until he is discovered by the police late at night in a public toilet, trousers resting jauntily down around his ankles, and charged with “gross indecency.”
* Ken Mewis, Bali, 1989
“I went backstage, a trifle apprehensive, and spoke to the only one that would speak to me, the keyboard player. So I thought, if nothing else I’ve met this tasty Norwegian. Days later I sussed she was a he.”
* Ken Mewis, Bali, 1989
“A phone call to Mill Hill or wherever they lived and Andrew and Casino let me buy them a few drinks. Then they got to meet Wilf, who I remember tried to intimidate Andrew (unsuccessfully), and later referred to him as ‘that arrogant sod.’”
* Andrew Loog Oldham, Bogotá, 2012
“I cannot recall exactly when I met Ken Mewis. Somehow this former hairdresser from the North became the head of A&R for Immediate Records, the company I founded in ’65 with Tony Calder. Ken rolled a good spliff, had a winning way and good ears. He was pale as a pit boy, good-looking, and his hair was always immaculate. So were his ears.
He went to work for a puffed-up would-be gangster who fancied himself as an impresario. And why not? Helps to have ears, though.”
* Brady’s Diary, September 2, 1973
“Went to Greyhound with Andrew, Lou, and Cas. Met Mal, of all people. Chatted up American girl he was with. I think Andrew might have shagged her in the loo. Andrew’s got a new song. Great title. ‘Sick On You.’”
* Eunan Brady’s Diary, September 8, 1973
“Andrew and I go to see the Stones at Wembley. Block E, Row 24, 3 p.m. show, £1.65. Great ‘Street Fighting Man.’ Buy Goats Head Soup afterward.
Derek called, asking about the bass gig. No chance.”
* Eunan Brady’s Diary, October 19, 1973
“Still looking for decent bass player, i.e. one who doesn’t look like Hoss (Ponderosa). Derek phoned twice last week looking for bass gig. Ha, ha. Sap.”
* Eunan Brady’s Diary, 5 November 1973
“Firework party at Queen house. Freddie Mercury and two others there. Andrew refuses to acknowledge them. Lou nicks a torch.”
* Andrew Loog Oldham, Bogotá, 2012
“Ah, Andrew, you on the pavement at the Penthouse party. I was the pot calling the kettle beige. Or whatever.”
* Ken Mewis, Bali, 1989
“Erwin Schiff. A Jewish heavy who’s not talking. Difficult when you’re sucking in cement in Brooklyn. A nice enough guy who threw Viets out of helicopters. Loved his work.”
* Gered Mankowitz, London, 2013
“It was lovely to hear that the Hollywood Brats were so enthusiastic to work with me and I was thrilled to know that the Stones covers had such an impact.
I had known Ken since he started working for Immediate and we always got on well. I expect he thought he could score some points with the Brats by setting up the shoot.
/> My studio at that time was at 41 Great Windmill Street, on the third floor of a pretty run-down building a few doors up the street, opposite the infamous Windmill Theatre. The floors above us were abandoned, used by whores and pigeons and me and the Hollywood Brats. It was February and it was freezing.
We certainly had a great session and the photos do still have a freshness to them.”
* Eunan Brady’s Diary, May 9, 1974
“Played Cleethorpes. We were great. Stray were shit. Ken went wild, wrecked the dressing room.”
* Eunan Brady’s Diary, June 16, 1974
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