Painted Black (19 page)

By rule, since Tom got the gig, the name of the jug band that night would be Omar St. Groovy and His Snake Stomping Review.

“We need to talk,” Erlene said to Bobby and Brian.

“What is it?”

“It's Eleanor Rigby. She's trying to communicate with me.”

Brian said, “Is she still trying to say something about me?”

Erlene nodded.

“I have to show you. I can't explain it. But I think you and Brian should see this before you leave.”

Bobby drove Erlene and Brian to Mill Race Road to Spider John's house. The house was just the way they left it.

Erlene told her story.

“I had the strongest urge to go back there. I got the distinct feeling Eleanor Rigby was trying to get a message through. I went over there with Tom Naylor one night when the jugless jug band was rehearsing. I went up and sat in George's room.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I was about to leave when I got the idea to look in the bathroom. I don't know why, it just came to me. I was checking my makeup in the mirror when I noticed something strange.”

They walked into the living room and found Spider John fully clothed and listening to the first American Rolling Stones release,
England's Newest Hit Makers
. Like most American Stones fans, he loved the album and played it nonstop when it first came out. He jumped up when he saw Brian Jones.

“Brian! You came back!”

Brian grinned. “Couldn't stay away, mate.”

Erlene cut to the chase. “We came back to see the ghost of Eleanor Rigby again.”

Spider John snapped his fingers. “That dead chick gets more visitors than I do.”

Bobby led them upstairs. George's room was still deserted. He hadn't been home in more than a month. They entered quietly.

Erlene whispered. “Notice the cold spot? Right next to the bed?”

Bobby put his hand out and felt the air.

“It doesn't register on any thermometer. I tried several.”

Bobby got goose bumps.

“Jeez, that's freaky.”

“But that's not what I wanted to show you. Brian, I want you to see this.”

She led them into the tiny second-floor bathroom.

“I was standing right here, looking in the mirror. The light was about the same as it is now. And I noticed this.

She pointed at the mirror.

“Look at it in the sidelight.”

A faint impression of a handprint, so light it was barely noticeable, had disturbed the dust on the glass. It was a small print, delicate and feminine.

“That wasn't there before.”

“Somebody could've touched it.”

“Look here,” Erlene pointed at the glass.

Brian and Bobby leaned in and squinted. There, written in a dusty fingertip, so light as to be barely discernable was one word, “Jones.”

“Jones?” Brian said. “Bloody hell, that's me.”

Erlene's voice was down to a whisper.

“Now, I want you to look very closely, and tell me what you see. Just study it for a while.”

Brian and Bobby stared at the dusty message.

“She's definitely trying to get to Brian. But why?”

Bobby suddenly noticed what Erlene meant.

“Wait! I see it! Holy crap. This message is written on the
other side of the mirror
.”

“You mean the side that doesn't exist?”

Brian shivered.

“And she mentions my name. Why? What's going on here?”

Bobby examined the mirror. He opened the medicine cabinet and looked at the backside. It had been painted over at least a dozen times over the years and showed no evidence of being tampered with recently. It would have been impossible to take down the mirror and write on the reverse side. It was merely a reflection of reality. As Gerty Stein would say, there was no
there
there. The surface of Brian's side of the mirror had its own patterned layer of dust. You could see if someone had disturbed it. No one had.

This message was on the other side of the looking glass.

Bobby said, “How is this possible?”

Erlene said, “That's just it. It isn't.”

Brian returned to London the next day. He tried to sneak into the country but, of course, there were reporters crowding the terminal. Once again, word had leaked out and the circus that followed Brian wherever he went was back in force.

His new girlfriend, model Suki Poitier, former girlfriend of Guinness heir Tara Browne, who died when he wrapped his Lotus Elan around a South Kensington tree, was there to greet him. Instead of going back to Courtfield Road, they stayed in various hotels around London, living like gypsies, trying to stay one step ahead of the reporters. Brian was terrified of being busted again. He was convinced Courtfield Road had been bugged.

The trial of Keith Richards and Mick Jagger began at Chichester Crown Court. It became instant front-page news around the world. They were both found guilty and remanded to prison for sentencing. Keith got a hero's welcome at Wormwood Scrubs, the well-named medieval dungeon of a prison in West London.

As Brian's trial neared, his anxieties increased. He tried to hide it from the public, but people were starting to notice. Suki convinced Brian to enter Priory Nursing Home together to be treated for severe emotional distress. They were both completely drained.

Two weeks later, Brian was part of the superstar chorus at the Beatles International TV broadcast of “All You Need Is Love” on the BBC. He joined Mick and Keith in the big production and enjoyed himself. John took a few moments to speak with him in a secluded corner.

Shortly after the TV broadcast, the Rolling Stones announced they were splitting with their longtime producer-manager, Andrew Loog Oldham. From now on, Mick and Keith, the Glimmer Twins, would produce the Stones.

A few weeks after that, the Stones solicitors Joynson-Hicks summoned Brian to their offices.

“Look here, what's all this rubbish about Claudine Jillian?”

Brian's jaw dropped. His mouth became dry. He couldn't speak for a moment.

“Who?”

“Claudine Jillian. The police want to question you in her murder investigation. What's all this about?”

Brian's heart pounded.

“I don't know.”

“Well, they will be here in a few minutes. I had to lobby for the interrogation here in our offices rather than downtown at the police station.”

“Interrogation?”

“Yes, and it's very important that we know, truthfully once and for all, did you have any knowledge of this girl's death?”

“No …”

“Several witnesses have placed you at a nightclub with her the night before she died; that would make you one of the last people to see her alive.”

“Oh God …”

A door opened.

“Sergeant Pilcher is here!”

“Norman Pilcher? He's going to interrogate me? You've got to be kidding! He hates me! He's busted me before. He's just looking for anything he can get on me.”

Joynson kept his cool.

“Just tell the truth, son. That's all I can say.”

Pilcher entered the room with several other detectives. He nodded at Brian.

“Good day, Brian.”

“What's so good about it?”

The Stones lawyers spread out around the room, placing themselves between the cops and Brian.

Joynson took charge.

“Let's get started, shall we? I understand you have some questions you would like to ask my client. I will allow a reasonable number of questions at this time.”

“Very well, sir.”

“But not from him!” Brian pointed to Sergeant Norman Pilcher. “He makes a living out of busting me!”

“Has Sergeant Pilcher been the arresting officer in any case regarding Brian Jones?”

“Yes,” Pilcher said meekly.

Sir Alec made a face as if he'd just smelled an unpleasant odor.

“You have the gall to bring in someone with a history against my client, someone prejudicial to his standing?”

The cops looked at each other.

“Sergeant Pilcher, you will leave the conference room.”

Sergeant Pilcher got up and walked out. Brian watched him go feeling somewhat satisfied. For the record, Joynson made a point of exposing a pattern of unprofessional behavior by the police.

“We would like to ask a series of simple questions.”

“Proceed.” Joynson's voice was already slightly agitated.

“Mr. Jones, did you know Miss Claudine Jillian.”

“Yes.”

“Were you in her company on the night before her death?”

“Yes.”

“You were seen together at a nightclub known as The Speakeasy Club. Is that accurate?”

“Yes.”

“Several witnesses said that they saw you leave the nightclub with Miss Jillian. Is that an accurate statement?”

“Yes.”

“So you must have been one of the last people to see Claudine Jillian alive, would you say?”

“Yes.”

The interrogator paused and looked at Brian's eyes. Bloodshot though they were, he stared right back at his interrogator defiantly.

“Mr. Jones, where did you go with Claudine Jillian after you left The Speakeasy Club?”

Brian waited before answering. He knew that his answer would be scrutinized from every angle. Everyone waited for his response.

He glanced at his solicitor, who nodded sagely and said, “The truth, Mr. Jones.”

Brian looked around the room. Even without Pilcher, he didn't have any friends here, and he knew it. He decided to tell the truth.

“We went back to her place.”

“What did you do there?”

“We had wild sex all night long.”

The interrogator stopped.

“You had sex?”

“Yeah, we were lovers. I ran into her at The Speakeasy Club.”

“So … you picked up Miss Jillian in a bar …”

Brian shouted, “That's right! You want all the sordid details? I picked her up in a bar and I took her back to her place and had my way with her! And I must say she was a magnificent lover, and this world is a lesser place … a colder, darker place without her in it.”

“Did you see her the next day, the day of her death?”

“I left in the morning. Said good-bye. I didn't see her after that.”

“Do you know anything about the circumstances of her murder?”

“No.”

“Do you know who killed Claudine Jillian?”

“No.”

“Did you, or anyone that you know of, have anything to do with the murder of Claudine Jillian?”

“No.”

Joynson looked around the room at his defense team and the cops.

“Well? You gentlemen asked the questions, my client answered them. This constitutes the end of this interview. If you have any further questions, contact my office. Thank you all for coming.”

The cops filed out one by one, each one with his mouth hanging open with twenty more questions ready to go, but the truth had been told. There was nothing more to learn. Brian testified that even though he was with her the morning of the day she died, he had nothing to do with the murder of Claudine Jillian.

Chapter Fifteen

No Expectations

Brian watched the progress of Mick and Keith's drug bust trial with great interest. The war against the Rolling Stones raged on in the front pages of England's press. The newspapers banged away continuously at the Stones drug-taking, narcissistic lifestyle. Daily tittle-tattle from this ex-housekeeper or that mechanic always painted a crazed, decadent picture of the band. They were arrested for public urination. They sneered at authority. Since the Redland's bust, they were held in contempt by every major law enforcement entity in the world. It was open season. They had targets on their backs. The game was on. Barely a day went by without some snide reference to Marianne, the girl in the fur rug, or the outrageous and untrue candy bar rumor. Somehow the outrageous story that Marianne was caught with a Mars bar in her pussy circulated around London. There was a Mars bar on the table when they were busted, but how it made its way into her pussy was never explained. It was typical of the nasty rumors swirling around the band.

In this atmosphere, it was impossible to get a fair shake from anybody, much less the press. They were selling papers like never before. There was nothing like a scandal to bring in the cash, and the Stones were scandal central.

As the sentencing came down for Mick and Keith, it went from a bad dream to a nightmare. Mick was sentenced to three months in jail at Brixton Prison, and Keith drew an astonishing one year behind bars. He was carted off to the infamous, ancient Wormwood Scrubs. Brian's apprehension grew.

Would he be going to jail, too? The future of the Rolling Stones was in jeopardy.

Bobby and Clovis flew to England to be with Brian in his darkest hour. Cricket had a change of heart about Brian and insisted that Bobby go. After spending some time with Brian, she now felt sorry for him and shared his concern. Brian seemed to take pleasure in being a tragic figure. It was role he was born to play.

Clovis needed help keeping Brian's head above water. Between the Stones and his personal life, Brian had a busy schedule but could barely get out of bed. Besides, Erlene was going off about protecting Brian. Eleanor Rigby had ignited a sense of urgency in her. She felt strongly that having Clovis and Bobby with him would thwart whatever disaster was going to happen.

Brian's trial was a typical public circus. The Rolling Stones solicitors convinced Brian to dress in appropriate clothes, and he responded by wearing a gray suit. Entering the courthouse through a gaggle of fans, Brian appeared dazed. Bobby and Clovis kept him moving through the crowd. Brian resented being paraded before the cameras like a circus monkey. He shielded his eyes and kept an expressionless face. In truth, he was scared, afraid of what could happen to him in this building. He was going in a free man, but how would he come out?

Inside, the courtroom was packed. Everyone came to see Brian Jones crucified.

He pleaded guilty to possession of cannabis and using his home for the consumption of illegal substances. He pleaded not guilty to possession of cocaine and Methedrine.

Brian stood nervously in front of the judge, an anxious, beaten man, waiting to hear his fate.

“Guilty!” the judge said with a whack of his gavel.

Brian felt faint.

“I sentence you to nine months in prison.”

Whack went the gavel again. Brian felt his heart break. He looked at his solicitors with panic in his eyes.

“Take him away!” the judge boomed.

They handcuffed a sobbing Brian. Shaking, with tears streaming down his face, they took him to Wormwood Scrubs, the same place Keith had been incarcerated.

Appeals flew in the winds of the legal hurricane that followed. The
Times
published a scathing editorial “Who Breaks a Butterfly on a Wheel?” in defense of the Stones prison sentences, making reference to Alexander Pope.

Brian could be heard pleading with the solicitors as they led him away.

“Please, I can't go to jail, I'm not well, please …”

His pleas were ignored and he was stuffed into a van and taken to prison. Built in 1891 with convict labor, Wormwood Scrubs was as gloomy a place as can be imagined. It was the last stop for many a law-breaking reprobate. Hardly a place for the great Brian Jones. He sat in his cell quietly brooding. Brian spent a harrowing night in the ancient prison and never slept a wink. Several times, he was harassed by the guards, who threatened to cut his hair off to comply with prison standards. When they got rough with Brian, the other prisoners shouted encouragement.

“Don't worry, Brian! We're with you! They can't get away with this!”

The next morning, he was released on bail awaiting appeal. The experience at Wormwood Scrubs had left Brian Jones a traumatized man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His hands trembled, and he smoked one cigarette after another.

Bobby and Clovis did their best to encourage him. They drove him to his doctor visits, his psychiatrists, his solicitor's meetings, but it seemed that Brian's life had become one long court case, followed by an endless cycle of rehabs.

When his psychiatrist testified that Brian should not be incarcerated because he would suffer a complete mental collapse, Bobby and Clovis believed it. When he testified that Brian was borderline suicidal, they nodded in agreement.

All Brian wanted to do was get back to playing music. But even that was threatening to collapse.

The Rolling Stones most recent album,
Their Satanic Majesties Request
, had been received poorly. Sales sagged, and it appeared that Brian had been right after all. The fans rejected their effort to become something they were not. The psychedelic Stones were no more. Now it was back to their R&B roots, a place Brian knew well. He saw it as his chance to prove himself to the band musically.

Brian had been showing up for Stones sessions whacked on an increasingly bizarre array of drugs. Even with Bobby and Clovis watching him like a hawk, he still managed to sneak things past them. He spent his days trying to escape reality. Brian hit rock bottom. His nickname became “Liability” Jones.

Clovis threw up his hands and shouted, “Brian! Get your shit together! You've got a session tonight and you're drooling like a spastic leper.”

“That's how they treat me. Like a leper.”

“Well, of course they treat you that way. Look at yourself. Don't you have any self-respect? Shit, man! Sober up and start playing the kind of music I know you can play. Quit being such a pathetic loser.”

“How dare you talk to me like that!” Brian snapped. “You work for me.”

Clovis shook his head.

“Not anymore. I quit. You've changed, Brian. I used to be thrilled working for you, a real live Rolling Stone, a living legend. I was proud. Now look at you. You're a fuckin' joke. How long are Mick and Keith gonna put up with your shit? I give up. You wore me out.”

Brian watched him walk out and said nothing. What could he say? The man was right.

The next day, Brian appeared at Clovis's apartment door in London. He was contrite and apologetic. He begged Clovis to come back.

“I can't trust anybody else,” he whined. “Please don't leave me. You and Dust Bin Bob are my last two real friends.”

Clovis kept a poker face. “If you want me to come back and work for you again, you're gonna have to get your act together.”

“I promise I will. I've been going to the court-ordered psychiatrist, and he says I'm making genuine progress.”

Clovis voice was stern. “There's a session tonight at Olympic Studios. I expect you to be there, be sober, and be ready to play. It's up to you, Brian. The Stones are lost. It's up to you to lead the band back their R&B roots and get this psychedelic shit off the table. That's your mission.”

Brian clapped his hands. “Let's do it!”

Sometimes, when musicians are at their lowest point, and you think there can't possibly be anything left in the tank, they do their best work. Does genius love madness? Does the lowest point signal the highest creative peak? Bobby didn't know. He'd seen the Beatles create, but that was usually a group effort. The Stones were harder to read.

Who knows what goes on in the minds of musicians?

Clovis and Bobby had never seen it before, but the exact moment when shit turns to gold was at hand. From fecal matter to twenty-four-carat gold ingots in a few short seconds.

That's exactly what happened with Brian on the night they recorded a new song by Mick and Keith called “No Expectations.” Not expecting much, Mick and Keith had been vague in their instructions to Brian.

“Just play some bottleneck guitar … see how it sounds.”

Unknown to Brian, they already had another bottleneck slide track by American virtuoso Ry Cooder in the can in case it didn't work out. Such was their faith in Brian.

A crew had been filming the Stones in the recording studio for a documentary by French filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard. Having the lights and cameras there created new problems. It was hot and crowded in the studio. The Stones hired Bobby as their photographer to shoot the session. He was also another set of hands.

Only a few days before, one of the lights had overheated and started a fire that halted recording. Bobby did his best to stay out of the way. Clovis stayed next to Brian, ready to spring into action. When he told Clovis to change the strings on the Gibson Hummingbird and tune it to a D chord, Clovis did as he was told and handed the guitar right back.

The Rolling Stones sat around a circle on the floor with open mics and messed around. Keith played in the same lonely guitar tuning he would later use on “You Can't Always Get What You Want.” It had a melancholy sound.

Brian tried not to sulk, but his mood couldn't have been bleaker as he sat down to listen to the track he was supposed to overdub. Brian had been smoking like a chimney all night. He lit another cigarette and closed his eyes.

Something happened behind those eyelids. Brian listened to the whole song without saying a word. It was a beautiful twelve-bar blues, honest and pure, with meaningful lyrics. As Brian listened, he knew the song was about him.
It was a song about being left behind
.

Brian reached deep down into his soul and produced his finest moment as a member of the Rolling Stones since his slide guitar propelled them to number one on the English charts with “Little Red Rooster.”

When Brian started playing the bottleneck guitar, time stood still.

All of the magical musical moments he had absorbed in America came out in those tortured notes. It was a cry for help. It was declaration of love. It was Reverend Julius Cheeks, Ravi Shankar, Otis Redding, Janis, Jimi, and all his brothers and sisters around the world all rolled up together. It was all these things. It was pure music, the universal language of the heart.

Brian had a way of phrasing that was both haunting and familiar. He hunched over his guitar, the glass slide on his finger, and spun a web of beautiful simplicity. He swooped from note to note, the vibrato he created by rubbing the slide up and down the strings adding personality and depth. Plucking lush chords then sliding them up the neck made Bobby's heart ache.

It was such a lonely sound, like someone crying into the darkest night of the soul.

Keith and Mick were transfixed. They looked at each other in astonishment. Brian's slide guitar was brilliant. It was absolute magic. It was exactly what the song needed. Understated and elegant, it bridged all the gaps. Brian poured his heart and soul into that slide guitar. If Mick and Keith would follow, it would surely lead the Stones back their roots.

How a shattered man like Brian Jones could come up with something of such genius was beyond them. It just happened.

Mick sang the lyrics. The words hit Brian like an arrow in the heart.

“Take me to the station, and put me on a train, I've got no expectations, to pass through here again.”

Tears filled Brian's eyes, well hidden by his long bangs. No one could see. Neither could they see the weight of the world on his heart. Brian always kept it all inside, only letting it come out now and then. Except, this solo was different. This solo was the one they'd remember.

“Once I was a rich man, and now I am so poor, but never in my sweet short life have I felt like this before.”

Mick's vocal inspired Brian. His lyrics were true. That's exactly how he felt. How could Mick know?

“Your heart is like a diamond, you throw your pearls at swine …”

Brian's slide was so in-sync with the song that it lifted it to higher level.
A song about being left behind.
If there was one moment that defined what Brian Jones meant to his band, this was it.

He nailed it in one take, leaving Keith speechless. Mick just stared.

“Brian, that was incredible.”

Brian modestly took off his headphones and put down his guitar. He looked at Keith as only two men who were desperately in love with the same woman can look. Something passed between them, something that hadn't been there for a long time.

The song was brilliant and Brian's solo was a triumph.

“Nice song,” Brian said with a wry smile, and walked out of the room.

They left the studio after two o'clock in the morning. Clovis acted as chauffer and Brian sat in the backseat of the Rolls. The huge Rolls stood out like a sore thumb on the nearly deserted streets of late-night London.

As soon as the police car saw it leave the parking lot, it began to follow them. The cops knew it was Brian's car. It was hard to miss. They flashed their lights and pulled them over.

A pair of cops strolled up on either side of the vehicle.

They indicated for Clovis to roll down the back windows so they could shine their flashlights inside.

“Good evening, Mr. Jones. How are we doing tonight?”

“Fine.”

“Have you ingested any illegal drugs this evening?”

“Just a Cadbury bar.”