Ain't It Time We Said Goodbye

by Robert Greenfield

  As Lady Elizabeth Anson would later recall, “The guests got ridiculously out of control. That wasn’t Mick’s idea of fun. It was the hangers-on. I can still clearly remember watching people throwing bottles of vintage champagne into the river and thinking that if anyone at Skindles was really clever, they would send a diver down there after the party and make extra money by recovering the bottles. In fact, I’m sure they’re all still there. Right at the bottom of the River Thames.”

  At around two in the morning, the powers that be at the hotel decide the time has come to shut down the music. Without any warning, the PA suddenly goes dead. Wandering around the ballroom in a somewhat altered state, Bianca starts protesting what has just happened by saying, “You can’t do this to us. This is 1971. Things have progressed beyond this. We can stay up later than two in the morning.”

  No doubt prompted by how distraught the love of his life feels about this, Mick gets right into it by loudly demanding to know why the music has been stopped. After being told that it was done to comply with a local ordinance, Mick decides to demonstrate his extreme displeasure with this response by flinging a chair through one of the large plate-glass windows overlooking the river.

  As Alan Dunn will later say, “I’m not certain if Mick threw that chair through the window because they had shut off the power or as his last act of defiance against the English establishment.”

  Forget the band’s final shows at the Roundhouse or the made-for-television disaster at the Marquee. It is with this signal gesture and the loud sound of breaking glass that the Rolling Stones finally bid farewell to England. Time to turn off the lights. This party is over.

  PART TWO

  AFTERMATH

  (In which I finally forsake what by now has become the fairly annoying ploy of using italics to separate myself from who I was back then in order to begin a full-blown account of my time with the Rolling Stones once the English tour was over.)

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BELFAST, PARIS, AND NICE, MARCH 25–MAY 21, 1971

  ONE MONTH AFTER THE TOUR WAS OVER, the 5,300-word article I had written about it appeared in the April 15, 1971, issue of Rolling Stone magazine under the title “The Rolling Stones on Tour: Goodbye Great Britain.” For those who care about such matters, the cover of that issue featured a photograph of Joe Dallesandro, the underground film star who had made a career out of appearing nude in Andy Warhol films, cradling a naked baby to his bare chest.

  In what I suppose you might call a nice bit of synchronicity, it was also Joe Dallesandro whose penis could be seen hanging to the right in a pair of very tight black jeans on the cover designed by Andy Warhol for Sticky Fingers, which was released on the very same day. Not that I was thinking about any of this at the time.

  For me, the most significant thing about the piece was that I had finally managed to get something I had written published in the back of the magazine rather than on the news pages up front where my articles usually ran. And while no one from the Rolling Stones bothered to get in touch to tell me just how accurately I had portrayed what had happened during the tour, it was not as though I was waiting to hear from them.

  Turning my attention to what I thought were definitely far more important stories, I had by then already spent what I can only describe as the single most frightening week of my life in Belfast covering the ongoing religious war between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland colloquially known as “the Troubles.”

  In a city where everyone was so high on revolution that the sound of automatic weapons fire and bombs going off in the distance at night seemed like music to their ears, I soon realized that unlike Ernest Hemingway, I was not cut out to be a war correspondent and returned to London as quickly as I could.

  After I had filed my story about Belfast, I began looking for something new to write about. Without any idea what I was going to do when I got there, I somehow managed to persuade Andrew Bailey, the editor of the London bureau of Rolling Stone who had by then also become my good friend, to let me cover the Cannes Film Festival.

  On my way there, I stopped off in Paris to interview a high-ranking member of the North Vietnamese delegation to the Peace Talks which had already been going on for years without doing anything to end the war in Vietnam. Not surprisingly, the representative had nothing much new to say and the story never ran. I was about to leave for Cannes when I got a call informing me that I had been chosen to conduct the Rolling Stone interview with Keith Richards in the South of France.

  After flying to Nice on a prepaid ticket, I walked into an office at the airport to pick up the car someone from London had rented in my name so I could drive to Keith’s house to set up the interview. After signing a variety of forms in triplicate, I went back outside only to see that I had been given the keys to a shockingly expensive-looking French sports car. The car was so utterly fabulous that James Bond would not have looked out of place behind the wheel. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that unlike all the cars I had driven in America, this one had a clutch and a stick.

  When I tried to exchange the vehicle for something a bit less grand, the woman in the office told me that what with the Cannes Film Festival already in full swing, no other cars were available. My choice was simple. I could either hitch a ride to Keith’s house or learn how to drive this sleek machine.

  Knowing exactly what James Bond would have done in this situation, I slid suavely behind the wheel of the car, turned the key in the ignition, and stepped down on the gas just as hard as I could. Sputtering loudly, the engine immediately died. Stubbornly, I started it right up again. Again I floored it. Again the engine stalled. After somehow finally managing to jam the stick into first gear, I lifted my foot off the clutch slowly enough to ease out of the parking lot. This was my second big mistake.

  Utterly unable to master the intricacies of clutching and shifting, I soon learned I could not even go from first to second without grinding the gears so loudly that the sound was painful to my ears. If I pressed my foot down too hard on the accelerator, the car would shoot forward like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. If I took my foot off the clutch too quickly, the engine would die and the car would stop right in the middle of the road.

  Behind me, angry French drivers, all of whom had only recently competed at Le Mans, began to blow their horns. Roaring past me with that classic look of utter Gallic disdain on their faces, motorists of both sexes threw me the French finger while uttering curses that left no doubt as to my dubious parenthood and total lack of brains.

  As soon as I reached the stretch of impossibly narrow, curving mountain road high above the sea leading to Villefranche, I knew I was going to die. One false move behind the wheel and I would go careening over the edge and plummet to my death on the jagged rocks far below.

  On the spot, I made what I suppose you might call a battlefield decision. No more stopping. From now on, I would not stop for anyone or anything. I would not stop for red lights, I would not stop for stop signs, and I most definitely would not stop for all the gendarmes in blue uniforms who were directing traffic in the middle of crowded roundabouts with whistles clenched between their teeth.

  Staying resolutely in second gear as I slowly cruised through one intersection after another, I began waving my hands in crazy circles to let everyone know I was no longer actually in control of this vehicle. For some reason, this technique seemed to work wonders for me and the next thing I knew, I was turning off the treacherous mountain road and on my way to Villefranche.

  By the time I finally nosed the car through the massive black wrought-iron front gates of Villa Nellcôte, I was soaked with sweat. Even to myself, I smelled like a dead coyote. My hands were shaking, my self-confidence was shot, and even though the car was somehow still in one piece, I was a total wreck. Having to walk up the broad marble front steps of what looked to me like a smaller version of the Palace at Versailles did nothing to ease my anxiety.

  Although I had come to talk to Keith Richards about the Rolling
Stone interview, I had no idea if he would even know who I was. After all, we had not spoken a single world to one another on the entire tour. While breaking into the dressing room with him in Brighton had been great fun, dropping by unannounced at his palatial home in the South of France was something else again. For all I knew, the man might very well send me packing before I could even begin to explain why I was there.

  As I stood waiting in the front hallway for the young French woman who had greeted me to go find “Monsieur Ree-chards,” all these thoughts kept churning through my head. Making it all just that much worse, the house was so big that her search seemed to take forever.

  And then, without warning, Keith was suddenly standing before me. Looking much healthier and a lot happier than when I had seen him last, he cried out, “Bob Greenfield!” That Keith actually knew my name was an utter shock. This feeling was compounded a hundredfold when Keith stepped forward and hugged me like some long-lost comrade with whom he had soldiered through the war.

  As absurd as this may now seem, a feeling of well-being suddenly coursed through my entire body. Like a pilgrim at Lourdes, I had just been cured by the magic healing touch of the star. The great Keith Richards, he of the get-out-of-me-bloody-face-before-I-smash-you-over-the-head-with-me-guitar persona, not only knew who I was but was actually glad to see me.

  When Keith said, “So, how are you, man?” I was still so totally blown away that I began to stammer. Regaining my composure, I told Keith I was fine and that it was great to see him but I needed to spend a few days covering the Cannes Film Festival before he and I could start doing the Rolling Stone interview together, so would that be cool with him?

  With Keith, it was all cool, man. Whenever I was ready, he said I could come back and stay in the house so we could “hang out together and talk and really get this thing done right! Know what I mean, man?” Despite having only a very vague idea of what he was talking about, I told Keith I most certainly did.

  Before I knew it, I was back outside the house again and hopping behind the wheel of that car like it had always been my own. With the spirit of 007 coursing through my veins, I turned on the ignition, slid the stick into first, put one foot down on the clutch and the other on the gas, and sped out through the front gates of Villa Nellcôte, spewing gravel behind me in every direction.

  Finding my way back to the same twisting stretch of narrow mountain road, I began driving faster than I ever had before while shifting smoothly through all the gears like my brain was now equipped with synchromesh. As I sped past one slowpoke French driver after another, I could not even be bothered to throw them the finger. Instead, I just waved dismissively at them like the great Stirling Moss on his way to yet another Grand Prix win.

  When I finally clambered out of the car after arriving in Cannes in world-record time, I was still as high as a kite on an adrenaline rush of major proportions. Although I had never expected this to happen, I was now back in the charmed circle of those who then surrounded the Rolling Stones.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  VILLA NELLCÔTE I, MAY 27–JUNE 4, 1971

  AFTER HAVING SPENT A WEEK fulfilling my lifelong fantasy of attending the Cannes Film Festival, I headed back to Villa Nellcôte where I knew Keith Richards would be waiting to greet me with open arms. After knocking several times on the front door without getting any response, I just took the liberty of letting myself into the house. Calling out Keith’s name as softly as I could to announce my presence, I slowly made my way through a huge and completely deserted living room that looked as though it had just been hit by a bomb.

  Shipping cartons that had not yet been unpacked stood scattered amid priceless pieces of antique furniture. Along with a good deal of sand, a variety of children’s beach toys lay strewn across the very expensive Persian rug covering the polished wooden parquet floor. From the mantle of the ornate white marble fireplace, a ridiculous-looking life-sized cardboard cutout of a shirtless Mick Jagger holding a copy of Sticky Fingers over his crotch stood keeping watch over it all.

  Stepping through an open doorway into the dining room, I saw Keith sitting at the head of the table. On either side of him were people I did not know. At the far end of the table, Anita was balancing Marlon on her lap. Apparently, everyone had just finished eating lunch. While Keith seemed somewhat pleased to see me, his reaction was nothing compared to the way he had greeted me before.

  Although I did not know why, the mood at the table seemed as dark and stormy as the weather had been for the past two weeks in the South of France. Sliding into the nearest empty seat, I did my best to blend into the scenery. As always at Villa Nellcôte, this proved impossible to do.

  Turning to me with an inquisitive look on her face, Anita said, “So, did you bring us anything?” Completely misunderstanding her question, I wondered if she was talking about some kind of a housewarming present. Before I could ask, Anita clarified her demand by saying, “Did you bring us anything to smoke?”

  Dim as a fifteen-watt lightbulb, I still did not get what she was talking about. Scattered everywhere before me on the table, I could see boxes of Rothman’s and Dunhill International cigarettes as well as packets of Gauloises and thick yellow Boyards so powerful that a single puff could knock even the most serious nicotine addict for a loop. If Anita wanted to smoke a cigarette, all she had to do was reach out for one.

  Losing all patience with me, Anita said, “Did you bring us something to smoke so we can all get high, yes?” Nodding my head, I said, “Yeah. Actually, I did.”

  Reaching into the English schoolboy’s satchel I carried with me everywhere back then in lieu of a briefcase, I brought forth the little tobacco tin I had been given in Cannes by a long-haired hippie publicity man who did not want to take its contents back with him through customs to America. When Anita opened the lid of the tin and saw all the high-quality Afghani hashish that it contained, her eyes lit up like I had just given her the Christmas present of her dreams.

  As though no one else was fit to do the honors, the tin was quickly passed all the way down the table to Keith. From out of nowhere, packets of red Rizla rolling paper suddenly appeared before him. In no time at all, Keith had expertly crumbled just the right amount of black and sticky hash into tobacco from a Rothman’s cigarette and created the perfect English joint.

  Striking a wooden match against the side of a little box, Keith lit up and inhaled deeply. As he smoked, everyone watched him in utter silence. Was this stuff any good? More to the point, was this stuff good enough for Keith? As the final arbiter in all such matters at Villa Nellcôte, his opinion was the only one that really mattered.

  After letting all the smoke back out of his lungs, Keith smiled so broadly that his entire face lit up with delight. Like everything else in this house, the hash was of the highest quality. Although it was purely an accident that I had come there that day bearing tribute, my gift had been accepted in full. Because Keith had given his unqualified seal of approval to what I had brought with me, I was now most definitely persona grata at Villa Nellcôte.

  After the joint had been passed around the table several times and smoked down to a glowing roach so that another one had to be rolled and then passed around as well, no one seemed in any hurry to leave. From out of nowhere, several bottles of fine white wine appeared. Drinking and smoking, everyone started telling incredibly funny stories. Before I knew it, the rest of the afternoon slipped away in a pastel-colored haze.

  At some point, Keith himself showed me to my room. Located on the far side of the house, it was connected by a door to the room occupied by a man with short dark hair whom Keith and Anita had met while hanging out with the remnants of the Living Theater in Rome. Even though it seemed a bit odd that I had to walk through his room to use the bathroom, we both agreed this would not be a problem for either of us. Because of the man’s very active sex life with a variety of local young men, I soon learned that the door was almost always locked.

  Bright and early the next morning, I
dutifully unpacked my little battery-operated tape recorder and walked out onto the back steps of the house so I could begin interviewing Keith. With his legs crossed beneath him and a newly rolled joint in his hand, he sat without a shirt or shoes basking in the warm sunshine of a perfect spring day in the South of France.

  Apparently completely at peace now that he and Anita and Marlon had landed safely in this stately pleasure dome by the sea, Keith never dodged a single question I asked him. Nor did I ever have to prompt him to tell me more. His focus and level of recollection were so extraordinary that a simple question about what he had been doing at art school evoked an astonishingly detailed, nine-paragraph answer.

  At some point in the proceedings, Anita decided to join the conversation to offer a few choice comments about Brian Jones. In the tiny leopard-skin bikini that was always her outfit of choice at Nellcôte, Anita looked good enough to make a dead man come. Unlike me, Keith remained so centered that not even Anita could distract him.

  The session was so intense that when I finally turned off the tape recorder an hour and a half later, I felt as though I had just done a full day’s work. When I asked Keith if we could do this again tomorrow at the same time and place, he said we could just pick it all right up from where we had left off whenever we next sat down to talk.

  I then spent days waiting for this to happen. Fortunately for me, I happened to be living at Villa Nellcôte during what I would later come to call “the garden period.” Because the only intoxicating substances being passed around on a regular basis were smoke and wine, every day seemed like an excuse for another party.