The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (27 page)

Unfortunately that was just the start. They got down to some serious drinking and some bright spark suggested a game of “Kelly’s Eye”. One of the group, sitting in the window seat (which is
important
) would call out weakly for a stewardess (and they were generally female in those days. Somehow the game wouldn’t have the same appeal these days as there are often males in the flight crew). When the stewardess arrived and asked what was wrong, the occupier of the window seat would mumble incoherently in reply. So she’d lean forward, cocking an ear to hear what he was trying to say. He’d groan something equally unintelligible under his breath. Keen to do her duty and help an ostensibly sick passenger, she’d lean further forward, now almost prone across the aisle seat. He’d gasp helplessly. And what the hapless stewardess took to be the whimper of a
seriously
ill man was actually the strain of stifled laughter – because the further she stretched over, the higher up her thighs her skirt would ride and the better the view for the rest of the group, ogling
enthusiastically
from behind. I don’t think the name of the game needs any further explanation! And from there things went downhill fast. Halfway into the flight the members of the band were considerably higher than the plane that carried them. Their raucous laughter and shouting – screaming even – were getting out of control. And it was out of order. It was time, I decided, to draw the line – not the kind of line usually associated with rock stars, but it certainly got right up their noses! Ironically, the relative newcomer to rock, Tony Newman, was by far the most obnoxious of the four. So I decided to single him out and make an example of him. I laid my cards on the table to see if he’d call my bluff (and it really, really, was not a bluff!).

I lunged across the aisle and loomed over the back of his seat – and my face was right in his face, livid with pent-up fury. The hearty guffawing instantly shrivelled to the sheepish titter of chastised schoolboys (or boy scouts).

“Listen, you!” I roared at the top of my voice, “Two of us can play this game – and I don’t mean Kelly’s bleedin’ Eye! We can do this tour two ways. I could make it hard for you – really hard – or … we could learn to work together!”

It worked. I suppose that when my words sunk in they thought about just how unpleasant I could make their life on the road – how their post-gig sexual and chemical proclivities could be curtailed by a martinet of a road manager bent on laying down the law to the letter of their contracts. They had little option but to toe the line for a while. I’d made my point – and made my mark. Temporarily at least, I’d tamed the wildest of party animals and for the rest of the tour the Jeff Beck Group were, if not exactly model citizens,
admirably
civilized. They’d learnt a valuable lesson from that little contretemps – and more importantly, so had I.

That Jeff Beck tour set the tone for my future life on the road. The hassles, the chaos and the loose cannons would be the same despite the fact that in my career I’ve worked with a diverse range of artists that includes Led Zep, David Cassidy, Adam and the Ants and the Sex Pistols among many others. In the end, as I learnt, the musical trends may come and go but that quintessential rock ’n’ roll attitude, like the song, remains the same. And long may it stay that way! Frankly, it wouldn’t have been much of a challenge if I’d been in charge of a bunch of choirboys – and nor would it have been as lucrative!

The rock ’n’ roll attitude was constant – and so were the hassles. They might be different in their precise nature, but I learnt to
anticipate
the unexpected so that in the end there wasn’t much that could shock or faze me. I became an accomplished “firefighter”. When things got heated I cooled the situation; when tempers blazed I extinguished them; and when bands’ self-destructive urges looked like making them crash and burn I usually managed to control the fire without losing the vital spark that made these guys legendary. I think it was Neil Young who said it’s better to burn out than fade away – well I’m not so sure, but I certainly got the impression that most of Zep and the Jeff Beck Group would have gone along with that philosophy! Sadly, there were to be times when I couldn’t prevent a great talent from falling prey to his own volatility and unquenchable lust for excess. More of which later …

A perennial problem that always rankled with the acts was when greedy agents booked them into venues that were entirely
unsuitable
– in terms of size, access, acoustics or even sheer mortal danger for fans and performers alike. One of Jeff and the lads’ gigs was a perfect example of the bookers’ total lack of concern for their performers’ image and style of music. To their horror they found that they’d been booked to perform at a kids’ summer camp – one of those places where American parents dump their stroppy
teenagers
for the school holidays. Playing to an audience of 13-and 14-year-olds was not a job for serious rock musicians – that was for children’s entertainers and cutesy pop performers. To say the band were unhappy would be an understatement and, when the
inevitable
on-stage shenanigans started and they began to treat the gig as little more than a private party, the organizers and their charges were unhappier still. Always the wild card, Tony Newman
abandoned
his drum kit and kept up the percussion as he staggered from tabletop to tabletop by banging his sticks on anything that would make a noise – bottles, pipes, chairs, you name it. At least he stopped short of banging out a paradiddle on a teenage head – well, at least I think he did! And then Jeff and Woodie joined in. Not to be outdone by their drummer’s antics, they picked up a fire
extinguisher
and liberally doused the first few rows of the audience with foam. Talk about dampening the audience’s spirits – sheer bloody pandemonium broke out! The organizers were evidently not amused. As they picked up the phone to call the police I realized that it was time for action. The ability to think on your feet is one of the first attributes anyone should look for in a prospective road manager – and I pride myself on the number of scrapes and brushes with the law I got my bands out of over the years. On this occasion a quick getaway was called for – my speciality! I bundled the band out of the hall and into the waiting limousine as quickly as I could and the sleek, stretched motor screeched out of the compound in a mad dash for the state line and immunity from arrest.

We made it in the nick of time – but that wasn’t much consolation to my assistant, Henry (the Horse) Smith, who’d had to stay behind with the truck and all of the band’s gear. When the cops arrived they didn’t see the funny side. Quite the contrary, in fact, because they were determined to confiscate anything they could lay their hands on in an attempt to force the band to come back and face the music. And when you consider the vast value of a major band’s touring technology, we probably would have had no alternative but to turn ourselves in and cough up the fines and/or backhanders, if not face jail sentences, to get it all back. But the appropriately named Henry had “horse” sense. He claimed that all the equipment belonged to him and that he’d simply lent it to the group for the performance and didn’t expect to ever see them again. Unbelievably, the police swallowed the story and let him – and the band’s
equipment
– go free. All we lost was Ronnie’s bass guitar and a few odds and sods – not that that stopped the boys sulking about it for a day or two!

I’ve had better times – but few of them were entirely without some kind of incident, such as the Jeff Beck Group’s gig at Schenectady Hall in upstate New York, for example. It seemed that things were really looking up when we heard that Peter Grant’s latest managerial signing – Led Zeppelin – were also on the American East Coast at the time on their inaugural US tour and arrangements were quickly made for the two bands to hook up for some serious partying. Led Zep and the Jeff Beck Group – talk about an explosive combination!

Those two now legendary bands may have been volatile, but their signing was a major coup for Peter. The downside, for Peter and for me, was that great talents are notoriously hard to handle. In Beck, he had one of the world’s greatest guitarists and a proven
recordseller
– temperamental, often stroppy but always ready to pull a rabbit out of the hat. In the end, though, it was Zeppelin that was to be Peter’s biggest cash cow – and one he’d take to rich new pastures and milk for all it was worth.

Right from the off, everyone knew that Led Zeppelin were a cut above the rest of the rockers – a true supergroup in the making. Formed by Jimmy Page, one of the key songwriter/producers of his generation, from the ashes of the Yardbirds, Zep blended vintage blues and heavy rock with consummate musicianship, and made all those elements add up to something far greater than the sum of their parts. Added to Page’s prodigious talents was lead singer Robert Plant. And what a find he was – an imposing, handsome, blond Viking of a man whose sex appeal was as powerful as his
thunderous
, yet soulful and vulnerable voice. John Paul Jones on bass was no less gifted – both at laying down the deep, throbbing basslines that melded the Zep sound together and at laying the countless women that fell willingly at his feet. And then there was Bonzo on drums. I would grow to love John Bonham dearly. He was a good – even great – man; a funny man and a great friend. He was also one of the wildest I’ve ever known – and I’ve known some very wild men in my time. I’d describe him as a playboy – but the term has too many suave and pretentious associations to sum up an irrepressible character like Bonzo. He was a walking bag of contradictions: a gentle soul who was nevertheless the epitome of the “wild man of rock” with an iron constitution capable of withstanding his
prodigious
and insatiable appetite for booze and drugs. His formidable drumming was the kingpin of Zep’s musical direction and rightly made him a rock legend – but his offstage antics were equally
hardhitting
and were to become equally famous.

Given their origins, it was almost inevitable that media interest in the band verged on the rabid – even before the release of their first album. And if the critics were a little sniffy about them at first, the live audiences fell in love with Zep at first sight and sound! America was similarly smitten, thanks largely to the heavy radio promotion of “Whole Lotta Love” (later the “Top of the Pops” theme for many years).

Anyway, Zep were coming along on the Jeff Beck Group’s tour bus to the Schenectady Hall gig – but it soon became clear that they weren’t just there to appreciate the performance. Richard Cole, their notorious road manager, lost no time at all in getting up to mischief, with the rest of Zep following his lead. While Jeff, Rod, Ronnie and Tony were grooving away on stage the majestic Zep boys held court in the dressing room with numerous excited females in attendance. Knowing their reputation, you’d have thought it would be John Paul, Jimmy or Bonzo who’d make the first lecherous leap on the compliant assembly of girls – but no, it was Richard Cole. When a pleasantly plump, rather innocent-looking girl walked shyly through the dressing room door in search of her rock gods, Richard lunged at her and literally swept her off her feet, spinning her upside down and rubbing his face lasciviously in her crotch. And that was just for starters. For all I know she enjoyed it – but I’m pretty sure the victims of the next little prank weren’t at all happy.

One of the boys, unnoticed in a corner of the dressing room, decided to urinate into a big jug of Coca Cola – and, as you’ve probably guessed, he offered this foul, tainted chalice to every hapless girl who stepped tentatively into the room in the hope of having some contact with her heroes. Poor girls, I thought. It wasn’t funny. Just crude. And cruel. But it wasn’t the worst abuse of these innocents who threw themselves at the rock ’n’ roll animals they lionized. I’d just about had enough of that kind of behaviour and had stepped outside with Peter for a breath of fresh air – both literal and metaphorical – only to walk straight into a distraught young girl as she emerged from the toilets in floods of tears. Clearly grateful to find two potential knights in shining armour, she turned to us and wailed, “There’s a guy in there who’s just been groping me!”

Fired up with righteous indignation, Peter and I stormed into the toilets (or should I say “restroom” since we were in America!) and immediately confronted the groper – who was about to regret the sexual assault bitterly because he, and I, were introduced to Peter’s celebrated “kicking trick”. This involved taking the terrified bloke by the scruff of the neck and kicking him in the shins, again and again. And then again and again. And again. And again – boot cracking against bone with a rhythmic precision that Bonzo would have been proud of. This treatment was followed up with Peter’s other mode of administering punishment – namely a stiff four fingers shoved into and under the ribcage, which really takes your breath away! As I’ve mentioned, Peter was a whale of a man, about six foot two and weighing in at something over 300 pounds. A kicking from Peter was like one from a carthorse – and one that the groupie groper wasn’t going to erase from his memory or his shins for a helluva long time! After a minute or so, which must have seemed like a lifetime to the groper, Peter finally laid off, dragged the guy’s limp and crippled form to the door and hurled him through it like the sack of shit he clearly was. Unlike a sack of shit, however, he actually bounced off the floor before hauling himself painfully to his feet and wobbling off, dazed and confused, in the immortal, and accurate, words of the Led Zep song. The message came over loud and clear: urinating in a bottle was one thing, but nobody messed with Zep’s fans when Peter was around, whether they were male or female.

The two bands’ paths were to cross several times over the next few days as their respective tours wended their way across the States – but it was at the Singer Bowl, a massive sports complex doubling as a concert venue just outside New York’s Flushing Meadows, that things really came to a head.