Wild Tales: A Rock & Roll Life

by Graham Nash

  “Look Through Any Window” came out in September 1965 and shot right into the top ten. It also broke into the top forty in the States, which put us on the map there once and for all. The residual buzz from our performance at the Paramount in New York, coupled with a hit single, launched the Hollies into the forefront of the rock scene. We were frontline troops in the British Invasion, right up there with the Beatles, the Stones, the Kinks, the Animals, and the Yardbirds.

  We decided we were through making our name strictly on covering American hits. We were writing our own stuff now, and in the process we were adding to the sound of rock ’n’ roll. Okay, that might sound egotistical, but it’s true. It wasn’t just us, of course, but we were leading the way. There was a drift away from the simplest pop forms built on standard three- and four-chord progressions. New chord structures were being experimented with, innovative tunings, melodic patterns. We abandoned the trite moon-and-June rhymes, the hold-your-hand and just-one-kiss fluff that had governed lyrics for so long, in order to express ourselves musically. As songwriters, everyone’s perspective was expanding, and with it their imaginations, their command of language, their facility with rhyme. Just listen to some of the singles released in 1965: the Kinks’ “Tired of Waiting for You” and “Set Me Free,” “It’s My Life” by the Animals, the Zombies’ “Tell Her No,” “Satisfaction” and “Get Off My Cloud” by the Stones. Forget about where the Beatles were taking music. Creatively, the heavens had opened, and rock ’n’ roll had morphed into rock.

  My personal outlook was also in transition. I was starting to become political and socially conscious, which would alter my perspective forever. I had been sheltered all my life, not so much by privilege but by limited circumstances. I hadn’t seen much of the world and I didn’t have much education, so I hadn’t read much about the world either. But living in London made it impossible to keep the blinders on. The people my age whom I encountered there were enlightened about the world situation, and I heard about it from all quarters: the escalation of the Vietnam War, of course, but also the first commercial nuclear reactor, apartheid and racial equality, the Profumo affair, military coups in developing nations, our diminishing environment, Rhodesia, Ghana, the Congo, Gambia. The postwar world was evolving in front of our eyes, and I found myself thinking about it in new and emotional ways. The issues at large began affecting me personally.

  My initial response to this was music, expressing my views through song. And in 1965 we wrote “Too Many People” in answer to the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya, which the British had colonized in 1920. The situation there was a complete mess. So many innocent people had been slaughtered. It brought Jomo Kenyatta to the forefront of the African political system, and this scared England to death. Thinking about this, I began to realize that there were indeed too many people, too many rats, so to speak, and that population growth was an issue we’d better confront sooner than later.

  With this song, I was starting to grow as a writer, starting to come round from the usual stuff the Hollies were writing and to view our stardom in an entirely new way. I felt we had a responsibility to use our public personae in order to speak out on important issues, to communicate them to our fans. It’s one thing to rail and rant one’s opinions, and quite another to put it across through music.

  This was easy to do in 1965 as the city was changing into Swinging London. A full-scale cultural revolution was in progress, with youth and music dominating the scene, top to bottom. The boutiques on Carnaby Street catered to our lifestyle. Mary Quant was introducing miniskirts and Biba was around and Cecil Gee. The King’s Road in Chelsea had Granny Takes a Trip. Jean Shrimpton’s face was everywhere, along with Veruschka and Penelope Tree. Darling and The Knack spoke to us from the screen, cynical and sexy and angry, and Radio Caroline was broadcasting off the coast. It was all happening at the same time, and I loved every minute of it. I immersed myself in the whole explosive scene, getting a new kind of education, something that filled in a lot of the gaps.

  In between our gigs and recording sessions, Rosie and I made regular visits to Manchester. Both of our families were there, and we tried to spend time with them every chance we got. On one of those visits in 1965, something shocking happened. I got on the bus to go from Manchester to Salford. I was sitting on the upper deck as we pulled up to a stop outside of Lewis’s department store on Regent Road. From my seat, I could see my mother at the bus stop. But not just my mother. She was with another man. They kissed passionately, at least more than in just a friendly, impersonal way. I ducked back out of sight while taking it all in.

  That really threw me for a loop. I’d always assumed my parents had a pretty good marriage. They’d only ever had one argument that I recall, when my mother hit my dad with a wire brush and broke his skin. Otherwise, things were fairly routine in our house. I’d never seen real passion, but I’d certainly never seen signs of discord. I guess sometimes kids don’t know all that’s going on below the surface.

  My mother got on the bus after the kiss, but fortunately she didn’t come upstairs. I sure as hell didn’t want her to know that I’d seen her. And since I knew where she was going to get off, I stayed on the bus a couple stops past our house and walked back to make it seem more natural. That gave me a chance to process what had happened, to reflect on events in my own chaotic life. I was kind of stunned that something like this was happening to my family, but it wasn’t completely shocking to me. I’d been in rock ’n’ roll for several years already, and I understood temptation. I’d sown a lot of wild oats. Hey, shit happens, people make mistakes. Including me, big-time. So by the time I got home, I thought, You know, that’s life.

  A couple years later, I encountered an incident that helped put some pieces in the family puzzle. During a series of interviews with me and a few friends about the Manchester rock scene, Alan Lawson, a journalist, discovered that my younger sister Sharon was not my father’s daughter. You know how when siblings joke: “Look at her, she’s not a Nash. Really, look at her and look at us. Sharon must have been adopted.” It was a joke—but it turned out not to be a joke. Somewhere along the line my mother must have had an affair. It was absolutely shocking to me. So out of character for her. It was scandalous for those days, but my father always loved Sharon like his own daughter. Still, it had changed him. That and going to prison—I think he just lost his heart. He let his guard down and his immune system along with it, and he slipped into a steady decline.

  In early 1966, my dad was in the hospital for some ailment or other. The Hollies were about to begin a European tour, but just before leaving I went to visit him, to give his spirits a boost. He was at Hope Hospital, where my sisters had been born, but after canvassing the ward I was unable to find him. That place was ghastly, overcrowded with beds twelve deep on either side, and I walked up and down the rows like a commander inspecting the troops. Finally, I spotted a figure the color of an orange. Something was going horribly wrong with my dad’s liver that was making his skin turn a hideous hue. He looked awful, so diminished, considering what a strapping guy he’d always been. I visited for a while, offered a few words of love, and promised to get back as soon as the tour was over in ten days’ time.

  A few days into the tour, we were playing in Copenhagen when I got a call from Rose. “Your dad’s taken a turn for the worse,” she said. “I think you’d better come home.” I explained that we’d be home in three or four days, but she insisted. “No, it’s bad. You’ve got to come home right now.”

  It was pretty late at night, and I couldn’t find a commercial flight from Copenhagen to Manchester, so I hired a two-seater plane to fly over the North Sea. Rosie was there to meet me at the airport and just said, “He’s dead.”

  I was in complete shock. I knew my dad was sick, but I never thought he was going to die. He was only forty-six, hard to imagine, twenty-two years older than I was then. His death changed my life in so many ways. It’s why I believe, to this day, that you have to make every second count.r />
  THINGS CHANGED MUSICALLY as well in 1966, as the Hollies’ star kept shooting skyward. We were in a groove. We continued to have one chart hit after another. Our fourth album was already in the works, and every one of our live shows was absolute bedlam, screaming teenyboppers, kids jumping over balconies, girls attacking us on our way out of the halls. The only stumble, if you can even call it that, was a cover version we did of “If I Needed Someone,” the George Harrison standout from Rubber Soul. I thought we made a damn good record of it. It was perfectly suited to our voices, with a smart three-part harmony that gave the song a soaring melodic virtuosity. Too bad George didn’t share our enthusiasm. In his wisdom, he felt compelled to give a press interview, in which he called our version rubbish. “They’ve spoilt it,” he said. “The Hollies are all right musically, but the way they do their records they sound like session men who’ve just got together in the studio without ever seeing each other before.”

  Sometimes, even Saint George didn’t know when to keep his snarky views to himself. He felt as though he owned the fucking song and no one else had a right to interpret it. It wasn’t as though the Beatles had never done cover versions in their career. I should have reminded him of toss-offs like “A Taste of Honey” and “Mr. Moonlight.” Or his own anemic version of “Devil in Her Heart.” I guess I also should have taken my own advice and kept my mouth shut, but two weeks after his outburst, I was still seething. So I spoke with a reporter at NME and fired back: “Not only do these comments disappoint and hurt us, but we are sick and tired of everything the Beatles say or do being taken as law.”

  In those days, tweaking a Beatle was like blaspheming the pope. But who the fuck cared. I was getting sick and tired of their holy status, the way they said whatever was on their minds, no matter whom it affected, right or wrong. All of London was in their thrall. And if you didn’t know Popes John or Paul, or at least drop their names in conversation, you might as well take the next train back to the provinces, over and out. Keith Richards said it best in Life: “The Beatles are all over the place like a fucking bag of fleas.” They were a great band and I loved their records. Every English group owed them a huge debt, but I had no intention of kissing their asses. (George and I became great friends later in life.) Besides, last I looked, the Hollies were holding down places on the same top ten as the Beatles, so pardon me if you don’t like our fucking record but keep it to yourself, if you please.

  Although we remained friends, George’s outburst kind of cursed the record, and it stalled at number twenty-four—not a complete washout, but not our usual success. Pretty rare for the Hollies at this stage of the game. For obvious reasons, we needed to follow up with a killer single. There were plenty of things we’d written that were ready to go, but nothing that was a surefire hit. We kept coming up with songs like “When I Come Home to You” and “Put Yourself in My Place,” decent album cuts, but ultimately rejected as singles by Ron Richards, who didn’t think they were commercial enough to get instant airplay. We still hadn’t reached the point where we could crank out our own singles. Thankfully, Tony Hicks was committed to trolling the Denmark Street publishing houses, and he fished another winner out of their files. He picked up a little gem called “I Can’t Let Go,” written by Chip Taylor, who’d had a smash with “Wild Thing” by the Troggs and later “Angel of the Morning” and Janis Joplin’s classic “Try (Just a Little Bit Harder).” The song had a great hook we could work, and a verse with just the right touch of rejection:

  Feel so bad, baby, oh it hurts me

  When I think of how you love and desert me.

  I’m the brokenhearted toy you play with, baby …

  We made a classic Hollies record with it and shot right back onto the top ten, where it lodged all through the spring of 1966. You couldn’t avoid “I Can’t Let Go” if you listened to the radio. That March, we did a tour of Poland with Lulu. We opened in Warsaw, got into the Hotel Bristol, dumped our bags, turned on the radio, and the first thing we heard was “I Can’t Let Go.” That was mind-blowing, to start with. Then, a few minutes later, there was a tremendous commotion in the street below our window. I glanced out onto the square and saw a cordon of tanks, with troops massing on all sides and machine guns blazing. Holy fuck! We’re in the middle of a revolution here. Assume the position, Nash. Save your skin! I was just about ready to dive under the bed when I got a closer look at one of the generals. Seemed to me he looked a lot like Peter O’Toole. In fact, that fucker was Peter O’Toole. In a Nazi uniform. They were shooting a movie called Night of the Generals. Hey, no need to tell the rock ’n’ rollers in the hotel. Let ’em sweat it out behind the Iron Curtain.

  The vibe wasn’t that much better once we hit the stage. Lulu opened for us, and she was great, a ballsy, brassy, sexy Scot who could really belt it. “To Sir, with Love” was screaming up the charts, so the crowd was waiting for her and turned on the juice. Halfway through her set, a young kid ran up the aisle with a small bouquet of flowers for her, only to be intercepted by the cops, who beat the living shit out of him. And we were powerless to do anything about it. This just added to my rapid politicization. I naturally despise bullies and people who utilize power over others. And as far as the cops go, I distrusted them mightily since the incident with my father. The cops in Poland were bullies and fascists, which cast a pall over our visit there. Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against Poles, who were incredibly kind. In fact, I remember making love to an exquisite and quite adventurous Polish girl on that tour. But the police-state undercurrent creeped us out.

  After Poland, I was ready for a little democracy on the half shell and welcomed another trip to the States. We got a tour there, about fifteen dates, playing ballrooms and doing some television stuff. I couldn’t wait to get over there again and soak it all in.

  First time over I’d been overwhelmed by New York, but this time around it felt more like home. Even better. You could lose yourself there, be whoever you wanted, no questions asked. “Hey, buddy, you want a girl?” “How about a boy?” “A chimpanzee?” I wasn’t into boys or chimpanzees, but at least they were available if the urge arose. New York was one-stop shopping and incredibly discreet. Nothing like London, where everybody knew your business.

  I hit the streets five minutes after we landed. Zoom! Right down to the Village. Just walked around, trying to soak up as much as I could. It was great. Nobody knew who I was. The club scene was amazing. It seemed like there was jazz on every corner. I hit the Vanguard and the Blue Note, caught shows with Mingus, Miles, Dizzy, and Gerry Mulligan. I went over to the Gaslight and saw the Spoonful. On Bleecker Street, I had my nose pressed against the glass outside the Village Gate, checking out the schedule, when I noticed some action behind me in the window’s reflection. A group of guys dressed like freaks were lingering by a building on the other side of the street. I recognized them immediately—the Byrds, one of my favorite American bands. McGuinn, Clark, Hillman … and the guy in the cape and weird leather getup, David Crosby. Suddenly, they all walked into this head shop. Now, I don’t presume to know what they wanted in such a place! But I didn’t have the balls to introduce myself. “Hey, I’m in the Hollies. Love the band, man. ‘Tambourine Man’ is a great record.” No one in America really knew who we were. Or if they did, they didn’t really give a shit. Besides, Crosby intimidated the hell out of me. He gave off this don’t-fuck-with-me vibe and seemed so unapproachable. I figured there was no point in knowing a guy like that.

  We were staying at the Holiday Inn on West Fifty-seventh Street. A few days into our stay, I took a phone call from the concierge. “Mr. Nash, there’s a man in the lobby who would like to talk to you. He says his name is Paul Simon.” Now, the Hollies had just recorded “I Am a Rock” and did a pretty decent job of it. Paul liked it enough that he wanted to meet us. “Arthur and I are recording over at Columbia Studios,” he said. “You feel like coming down to the session?” Are you kidding me! This was Simon and Garfunkel, for God’s sake. They were p
utting together the Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thyme album and working on “7 O’Clock News/Silent Night,” with a news bulletin mixed in with the music. Brilliant stuff.

  I learned a lot watching Paul and Arthur record. They weren’t just gorgeous singers, they were into the whole recording process. Nothing in that studio escaped their attention. One time, they said, “Hey, do you know this trick?” They would speed the track up and hit the snare drum in rhythm. Then, when they slowed it down, it produced a sound like pch-oooooewe pch-oooooewe. Brilliant. Another time, I watched their engineer, Roy Halee, take sixteen faders down at Paul’s last breath at the end of “Hazy Shade of Winter.” I’d never seen or heard anything like it before. Imagine how that looked to a rock ’n’ roll star who once wasn’t allowed to come within ten feet of the board at Abbey Road. The Hollies weren’t allowed to touch the faders. If we wanted more of a kick drum, I first had to go to Ron Richards, and then to an engineer, who would bring up the kick drum. In America, everything was so hands-on. I couldn’t take my eyes off what they were doing in the studio.

  Later that week, Paul and Arthur invited me to accompany them to a gig at Texas A&M. On the plane down, I got a deeper understanding of who these men really were. They were far more worldly than I was. They talked about American politics, what was going on in Vietnam, about McNamara, about Dylan and his harmonica. Paul was reserved, but an intellectual Jewish guy who didn’t mind saying what was on his mind, with very strong opinions. I’d never met anyone like him. He and Arthur were both political, very outspoken. It wasn’t like that in England. The freedom to express yourself was so foreign to me—and so damn attractive. And the shows they did, with just one guitar, were stunning. Simon’s guitar work mesmerized me. Add to it those voices and those songs. I couldn’t take my eyes off their stage presence, and how the audience reacted to them. Their timing was incredible. Everything about them was turning me inside out. It was a whole new ball game for me.