After dinner, Mick suggested that we should go to one of his favorite discotheques. He said that David and I should come with him in his car and arranged another taxi for the rest of our party. He suggested that they should follow. Well, his driver drove like he was in Milan and the other car could not keep up. Their taxi disappeared as we drove through the ancient streets. I often wondered if that was intentional and Mick just wanted us.
Once we entered the club, Jagger danced most of the evening in the center of the crowd, pawed repeatedly. We watched from our table in the corner. He with raised arms swirled with the music. The rhythmic beat carrying all to a fervor upon their heightened adulation. It was like a scene out of Suddenly Last Summer where Katherine Hepburn's son was walking up the white streets into the sun with all these men admirers pawing him lustfully to his demise. The local fans devoured Mick and he loved it! When we returned to the hotel, some of the band was in the lobby. They wondered what had happened to us. David just shrugged his shoulders and did a David sheepish smile as we walked away holding hands returning to our room.
The next morning we had to drive out of the city and into the desert. For miles and miles, the vast colors of earth surrounded us. It was hot and dusty as we drove along the dirt roads further away from civilization. At one point we came upon a billboard in the middle of the nowhere saying Timbuktu 52 miles by camel. It was a T-junction in the sand. Our driver turned left. We were in convoy followed by the film crew. Finally, we reached our next hotel where we were to stay until the photo shoot was finished. I think it was for two-three days.
We had to get up early before the sun rose so we set our alarm on our watch. When it rang, David went to get out of bed and started to panic, "I can't see!" The room was darker than any room I had ever been in but I did remember that there was a box of matches and a candle on the desk. I felt my way across the room, found them and struck a match. Phew! David was not blind! It seems that the hotel turns off the electricity at night and being so far away from a city there was no ambient light.
We had breakfast and resumed our journey further into the desert. What was amazing to me was that even though we seemed alone in this vast desolate space in the middle of nowhere came walking three African boys? They were curious as to what was going on. I suppose they saw our dust trails and followed them.
One of the evenings, the promoters arranged a special dinner and a traditional Moroccan concert. We sat outside on pillows covered in traditional tapestries before low wooden tables. A feast awaited us. Terracotta plate after plate kept coming full of traditional delicacies. I was so worried that we might have to eat raw eyeballs from some local animal. I felt this way for earlier Steve had told me that it was a delicacy and if we turned it down, our host would take it as an insult. I am not sure whether Steve was winding me up, but fortunately, this did not happen.
The evening started to cool and a fresh gentle breeze came over from the desert. The night was silent and we could see the stars above. From behind the building, entered a long line of very tall men dressed in white robes. They were majestic as the Masai, with skin the color deep and rich like the earth. As the music played, they sang in high voices the songs of the desert. At the same time, their clapping alternated in a repetitive melodic rhythm as each bent over one by one like a wave upon the ocean. It was beautiful and hypnotic. We all returned to the Mamounia for a couple days. The band left for the UK, but David and I decided to stay and go on an adventure around Morocco. Before we were to leave, I got the infamous tummy bug. Mick had invited David and me to spend time together in his suite. I rested on the bed in the dim light as the two of them played guitar on the terrace. Jade was asleep in the room next door while the afternoon sun went behind the palm trees.
The next day we rented a car and set off into the blazing sun towards Casablanca. As we walked through the market place, the city reminded me of another movie with Dirk Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, Casablanca. I find it interesting how movies have become our modern myths. They tell stories of far off places, we may never come to know, but we are there just the same. They return from our memories either in an image or as a fragrance.
With my blonde hair, hot pants, and platforms I don't know how I survived without being kidnapped. Angels were certainly protecting me in my naiveté and no sense of the differences of Arabian attitudes towards woman. Stories of western women kidnapped in Arabian countries and sold to the highest bidderhave surfaced. But I did not hear about that until after we got back to the UK. Since then I have a higher regard and respect for other cultures.
As we turned one of the corners, a man approached us from out of the dark shadows with a little bag of weed. David bought it. He trusted this as the way to get marijuana in that country because he has been there before. We returned to our hotel room where we tried to smoke it. It was a weed, but of the desert variety and not marijuana at all. David was irritated because he felt like a fool, but we had to let it go. All we got from it was a headache and bruised pride.
We drove on to Rabat, which was further up the coast. All the ancient towns in Morocco had what they called a Medina, which was a very large wall of the pink terracotta earthen bricks like Marrakech. They surrounded the town and were protection from marauders of the past centuries. They served the same purpose similar to the castles in Europe, but without the drawbridges. They were sanctuaries for the villagers and livestock.
David had visited Rabat before, and befriended some of the villagers. The city specialized in making round wooden in-laid tables and other objects made of wood. As we walked further down the streets, the smell of pine and lemonwood grew stronger and filled the air. Boys were carving table legs with lathes between their feet sitting on the earth in their doorways.
We meandered for some time through the little streets and alleyways. Sounds of children, called by their mothers mixed between other sounds of the city drifted between the walls. It was like a maze and I was not sure if we were going back on ourselves. They all looked the same. Finally, David found the house where he had bought a traditional round in-laid coffee table on his last trip. It has survived many moves from house to house, and is still with us. I forget his name but he was overjoyed to see David again. He took us upstairs to his front room above his workshop. There was a very large colorful painting of Jimi Hendrix on one of the walls straight out of the sixties Purple Haze. He motioned for us to sit down on the cushions on the floor. Other men came to join us. His wife brought us mint tea in a silver pot and little glasses.
One of the men lit a pipe, which overflowed with hashish. They passed it to one another and passed it over me to David. The partner of the woman must be the one who passes the pipe to his woman; it was the custom. Therefore, he did. The hashish was very clean and strong. The high had us laughing all day. Everything seemed to be wondrous and psychedelic. Every color, every taste, every smell was more intense in its reality than before.
Rabat was a fishing port where large and small boats came and sold their fish. On the port where they docked, were little metal bucket fires with grates and fisherman cooking the fresh sardines sold to all who came by for lunch. They were sprinkled with sea salt and served with a hunk of fresh bread. I loved it! I had not been a big fish eater in the States and realized that most of the fish wasn't as fresh as these sardines. There is such a difference. First, they do not smell of fish but of the sea. Second, eating as soon as they have come fresh off the boat is beyond description.
***
The closest I ever got to eating fresh fish was when I was a child. My cousins and I, Tommy and Sharon would go crabbing with my family where the Mystic River met the ocean. Blue crabs hid amongst the seaweed just on the edge. Their blue claws always held my attention as I caught them in my net. I still feel the cool clear water between my toes as I walked through the moving green seaweed.
My mother, my sister, Donna and Aunt Dot along with my little brother, Stephen, would spend the morning walking along the sand just as the waves ret
reated. They were looking for little holes that would appear and then start digging for steamer clams who had given away where they were hiding. It was a delight for the younger children. Something easy for them to do. Homeward bound, our buckets of treasures dumped on to the lawn, washed of sand with the hose and cooked. It was always a special family occasion, especially for us kids.
Sadly, I could not eat any of it without getting sick. Catching the crabs and seeing the blue of their claws was my pleasure. That color to this day is my favorite when placed amongst the green of the seaweed on my canvases. Another pleasure I got was because I did it for my Mom. I loved watching the smile of her delight upon her face as she ate them.
***
Therefore, when I was able to eat sardines in Rabat and not get sick was a revelation. Where previously I thought I was allergic to fish, I was no longer. I was happy for it could have been disastrous, but it wasn't.
The French tour was in 1974 and the photographic session was in 1972. Two years after the Gini shoot, the Floyd did five gigs in France, which turned out to be diabolical. They had forgotten that in their contract with the French company it entitled them to advertise and sell the drink at each gig. The idea of what the promotion would be from the ad agency was beyond what fit within the image of the Floyd. Needless to say, it did not sit easily with their fans either.
They coveted the image of the Floyd as being an underground group. Consequently, Steve O'Rourke, their manager worked at bridging the growing gap between the band and Gini. Thus, the oversight did not go over well with the Floyd. So many times, I felt sorry for him being the punching bag, the go-between. But that was to be only the beginning. The party was just beginning.
At each gig, a circus of trendy groovy people sporting leather jackets and dark glasses carrying Gini bitter lemon signs bombarded the show. There were painted vans, banners and Easy Rider Bikers. The road crews were thrilled for there was a collection of Page Three Models baring their breasts who kept them company in the evenings. Steve O'Rourke was constantly negotiating how to keep them away or at least at a safe distance. Besides a distraught Floyd, the fans were also very bothered by the whole bravado. This was not their Pink Floyd.
This was my first time on tour in France with David and I was extremely happy to have a few American women singing with the band. It was the Blackberries comprising of Venetta Fields and Carlena Williams. I used to hang out with them and we always had a giggle. It was great to hear their American accents and share in our common sense of humor. Venetta was always telling the band to calm down. "You white boys!" she commented as she stepped out of the dressing room with a laugh. This was nothing compared to Ike and Tina's tour they often told me.
One morning I woke early needing to know the time. David was still asleep so I braved the call to the receptionist, "Tout a l'heure s'il vous plait?" I said confidently. She did not respond, so I tried it again, but louder, "Tout a l'heurer s'il vous plait?" David peeked out from under the blankets and said try, "Quelle heure, s'il vous plait?" It worked! David said that I was asking to meet her later. Oh Well, Happy tales that keep me smiling.
Later I went to meet the girls in their room and told them the story. We had a good old giggle. Sadly, it did not stay in the room. That night when the show finished and everyone was waving good night and saying Thank You, the girls said, "Tout a l'heurer s'il vous plait." Thank God, it was our joke. We hugged after. Them wearing a snicker because of their girlie prank, I will always remember their laughter. Naughty but nice.
One day the local press was photographing the Blackberries outside of the hotel. I was standing inside at the door in blue jean hot pants and angel blouse with my platforms. I did not notice that he had taken a photograph of me until the next morning. All the wives were traveling with their respective husbands. We were booked on a rather small plane, as I recall either Nick or Rick was a bit nervous about flying in it. We were in our seats buckling up when the stewardess was handing out the morning newspaper. "Bonjour Monsieur et Madame,"And there on the front page was a photo of my long legs and blonde hair with the headline something like, Mrs. David Gilmour, guitarist of Pink Floyd, etc. etc. etc. I turned a few shades of pink, as David and I were not married yet. So we went from gig after gig with our Gini entourage, the Floyd embarrassed and feeling guilty for they thought they had taken easy money. They decided to give what they had earned away to charity. Was this easy absolution? No idea. For the fans, some of the glitter wore off around their idols, which I don't think was so bad. It was a reality check for them all, including the Floyd. I know the band looked at it deeply. Are we creating or being inspired by music that transcends or is it the glamour of being a star or an audience taken by idol worship. Who knows. Good stuff really. The affair served to challenge everyone to question what is it all about?
CHAPTER 11
KATE BUSH
MAN WITH THE CHILD IN HIS EYES
1973-1975
Living with a musician and loving a musician was such an adventure. Creativity surrounded me on many levels, which encouraged my own artistic development. I was a witness to David's music as it was given birth plus his support for other musicians. Music was all around me some days twenty-four seven. It wasn't just listening to a record or the radio. It was in the air I breathed. My dreams were escalating from the dreams of a young girl to the life of a woman. It no longer was I existing, yearning for love and creativity. It was my life. I started to create sculptures. They were tiny at first. Little pink resin roses for Christmas presents. Watercolors and clay forms fired in Judy Waters' kiln in London.
Between touring and working with Roland Petite, David had converted one of the out-buildings into his studio. This enabled him to do more work, as he no longer was inside the house with less equipment. The band was having some time off and both Nick Mason and David were open to taking on various projects. One day David met up with Rick Hopper and brought home a cassette of songs from a young singer-songwriter, Kate Bush. She was just fifteen and still in school. Her music inspired him to do a demo initially recorded at Woodley in his new studio. He was helping Unicorn to get kick started and enlisted two of the musicians to help. David had such heart and a drive to not only develop his career, but also to use his talent for others.
Kate would arrive, still in her school uniform, and they would record her songs. She and I grew to be great friends. Woodley had a little fish pond in the front garden with a large Willow tree where often we would sit and chat. I felt like herbig sister. As time passed, the little schoolgirl grew into a woman. Some still say that the "Man with the Child in his eyes" carried love for David. He helped her so greatly. I was not surprised that her admiration and gratefulness would hold an element of Love. He seemed to take her under his wing as an Uncle would do insuring her safety. We all did.
Just before we were to marry as I reflect upon our life events, David helped Kate further. While the Floyd were recording Wish You Were Here in 1975 he presented a more finished demo of Kate's to Bob Mercer, managing director of EMI, who then signed her to EMI Records. Her passion and talent was born and time passed as we watched it create a star.
It was to be many years later that Kate and I were to meet again, but under different circumstances. In the early 90s I was working with Lily Cornford in a healing clinic. Lily was like everyone's ideal fairy godmother with a heart of gold. After one of our sessions, I walked into the waiting room and there was Kate. It was like our lives had come full circle. I had no idea that they were good friends, though, fairy godmothers do get around. Kate wrote a song for her that is featured on her album Red Shoes. Each day we could hear it drifting from Lily's private room upstairs as she had her cup of tea and cucumber sandwiches. A haunting voice of Tragedy and Love.
CHAPTER 12
KNEBWORTH CONCERT
I'VE JUST MET A GIRL
5 JULY 1975
It was a sunny afternoon. We all sat on blankets on the grass back stage listening to the music as each band played. Ste
vie Miller, Captain Beefheart, Roy Harper, Linda Lewis, Monty Python. The Floyd were to play in the evening. They had just flown back from the second half of their Dark Side of the Moon tour in the States so there was a bit to organize for the jet-lagged roadies.
Backstage was very civilized with Marquees and caravans. The English weather did accommodate and helped the ambience of the day. As the music held us in the palm of its hand, the umbrellas stayed closed. Some brought picnics, others ate at the concession stands. The sunshine was bliss and its warmth relaxed our bodies, we were grateful there was no rain. We laid on blankets on the lawn enjoying the moment together.
At one moment when David had gone to the gents, Terry Doran presented me with a photo he had taken of me standing in a bluebell forest. It had a tiny orange sticker on the lower right hand side, which had written in pen "I've just met a girl." In Terry's Liverpudlian accent he said, "George, wanted me to give this to you. He would like to take you out." Goodness, I thought to myself. Here it was a dream coming to me from afar within my secret dreams when I was a teenager in Connecticut. I so fancied George more than John, Paul or Ringo. I created so many ideas of how to reach him, as I am sure many thousands did during Beatlemania. Their life must have been crazy! I took the photo from him with gratitude while staring into my dream world. I looked up and said, "Terry, please tell George Thank You, but I am so in love with David." Having said that I continued, "George has no idea what this means to me. I hope one day we shall meet and be friends."An inner smile filled my heart with pink and placed an extra sparkle in my eyes that day. Two dreams had come true. David and I were to be married in a few days was the first. The other was a dream, a memory kept tenderly in my heart. In fact, George and subsequently Olivia did become friends and neighbors many years later.
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