Kitabı oku: «Memories, Dreams and Reflections»

summoning up a sunny afternoon in the sixties (one of many)

Listening to Revolver always brings back memories of when we were all much younger and madder. Any excuse to get together, get high, get dressed up, or play each other our latest faves. In and out of each other’s houses and at many different clubs, Pete Townshend and Eric Clapton dropping by Cheyne Walk, Mick and I visiting Brian Epstein; day trips to George Harrison and Pattie Boyd’s multi-coloured hippie cottage, evenings at Paul McCartney and Jane Asher’s.

Sometimes a tiny little moment, a gesture, will catch me unawares and transport me back to the sixties. One day I was waiting for a taxi after the Versace show, and suddenly there was Stella McCartney knocking on the window. As I turned and peered out, Stella gave me a wink and a thumbs up. And I had this sudden flashback to her dad, Paul, because that gesture and the wink is just what he used to do in those days. Kind of a corny music hall cheeky-chappie thing. So there was dear Stella by Starlight, who looks quite like the old man anyway, giving me Macca’s sign! The sixties was a great motley cast of characters in an ongoing operetta with multi-hued costumes to match. What I remember most is how beautiful everybody was, and, of course, the beautiful clothes: we dressed up like medieval damsels and princes, pirates, pre-Raphaelite Madonnas, popes, hussars, mad hatters and creatures visiting from other planets.

And then there were the courtiers and spear-carriers – all those strange characters around the Beatles and the Stones: the roadies, the hustlers, and instigators. George’s personal assistant Terry Doran, the ‘man in the motor trade’, somehow getting hold of Lennon’s psychedelic Rolls-Royce and ending up with a top job at Apple Corps. There was the sublime Derek Taylor, the Beatles’ publicist and agent provocateur; the sinister Tom Keylock, Andrew Oldham’s homicidal chauffeur; Brian’s thuggish builder, Frank Thorogood, and his deathbed confession of how he murdered Brian Jones.

Then there were the Beatles’ old roadies Neil Aspinall and Mal Evans. Big, benign, boyish Mal shot by the LA police during a misunderstanding. And Stu, Ian Stewart, the Stones’ original piano player. I loved Stu! I remember for my twenty-first birthday Mick wanted to buy me a car and Stu was given the mission to find it. He turned up with the most beautiful car imaginable, a 1927 Cadillac, a Bonnie and Clyde car in an incredible beige colour with a red stripe across it where the doors opened. How cool was that? But despite Mick’s efforts I never learned to drive. It was like driving a tank in the First World War, it had a gear stick and all that stuff, I could hardly see, my nose only just reached the windscreen.

Stu did me another great favour. Mick hated the Stones’ performance in The Rolling Stones’ Rock and Roll Circus. He just wanted the whole thing to go away. It was like the scene from Snow White where the Wicked Queen says to the huntsman: ‘Go! Take her into the forest and destroy her!’ with Mick as the Wicked Queen and Stu as the huntsman. Except that it wasn’t me he was talking about, it was the cans of film of my part in Rock and Roll Circus. He wanted those tapes destroyed. Burned. Thrown into the Thames. For ever eliminated. And Stu said, ‘Yeah, okay, Mick, will do.’ But he couldn’t do it! ‘Where can I put these cans of film,’ Stu thought to himself, ‘where Mick will never think to ever look?’ And so he took them to Eel Pie Island and said, ‘I say, Pete [Townshend, this was], I’ve got these old cans of film. Do you mind if I leave them in your garage?’ And Pete said, ‘No, Stu, go on. That’s fine, you know, I don’t mind, don’t use it, there’s nothing really in there.’ And there they lay, mouldering away, for twenty-five years, until one day, God knows, Pete, clearing out the garage, found the film and it said Rock and Roll Circus on it! And he goes, ‘Oh, hey, what’s this?’ And being incredibly smart, he put it on his home projection and watched it, and every single shot was of me for the Rock and Roll Circus. He called Allen Klein and said, ‘I’ve got something you’ll be very interested in. I’ve found the lost Marianne film from the Circus. What do you want me to do with it, Allen?’ And Allen said, ‘Hallelujah! I’ll send a courier.’ And he did. He sent his daughter, Robin Klein, to pick it up. Townshend knew about this problem because of course The Who were very much involved with the Rock and Roll Circus – and he also knew that one of the reasons the show hadn’t come out was because they appeared to have upstaged the Stones. They really didn’t, but, anyway …

And there it all was, except for one really beautiful crane shot. I don’t know what happened to that. Maybe Mick was so angry that he just had one roll of film out of a can, tore it into a million pieces and burned it in the back garden as he and Bianca danced around it hooting like owls!

I loved Mick, I really did, you know – but if I had stayed in that situation with Mick, all that money, going to the South of France, Keith and Anita Pallenberg, blah-di-blah, Goat’s Head Soup, I’d be dead, and I knew that. And if I was going to go down, I wanted to go down my own way! Not with some adjunct decadent ringleader and his scurvy crew!

When I split with Mick and left with Nicholas, I took a beautiful Persian carpet and some Ossie Clark dresses and all my Deliss silk clothes. So these were the clothes I was wearing when I was living on the street, a wraith-like vision, an anorexic waif, feeling no pain, and not feeling any cold either, of course, you see, because of the smack.

At this point, I’m sort of an honorary Rolling Stone, a situation I’m a little ambivalent about. I love them and we had such great times, but it was a really hard scene to be in. I was never going to be good at functioning in that bitchy world, with all those betrayals. Now, when I go to see them backstage or at the George V Hotel, it’s lovely to see Keith and Ronnie and Mick and Charlie. Charlie’s always been a delight. I love to go and hear him outside of the Stones environment when he plays his jazz shows in London.

I’m still scared of the Stones because I always have this feeling – and it’s not just an illusion – of being sucked in again. Unlike Anita, I don’t have any immediate connection with them. I’m a free agent, and yet, when I see them, I suddenly feel drawn in. I go back to their very beginnings. I am part of them. I know that. And that’s okay.

One of the favourite places Mick and I liked to hang out was George and Pattie Boyd’s house in Weybridge. Mick loved George and I thought Pattie one of the most beautiful people ever. I loved the way she dressed, her fantastic sense of style. Psychedelic dresses in beautiful colours or little skirts that showed off her wonderful legs.

During those magical afternoons George would be the perfect host, serving up exotic teas, fat joints, and his new songs like exquisite delicacies offered for our consumption. A little bungalow (by rock star standards) brightly painted in sparkly psychedelic ice-cream colours, very warm and cosy and friendly, like the people who lived there, with a garden full of sunflowers and cushions outside. Just a very soft, gentle vibe, as if this fairy-tale cottage were conjured out of his sweet melancholy songs.

It was always far easier to go and visit people from other bands. You didn’t have all the stresses and strains you do with your own group. At Redlands, Keith’s house in West Sussex, there was always some tension – undercurrents that I couldn’t even put into words. Subterranean stuff, which I think is always lurking about in any band. What makes an interesting band is that incongruous combination of people at odds. The tension makes for great music, but it doesn’t always make for the easiest social situations.

Clearly there were similar issues with the Beatles, but any raging insecurities or problems within the group were never apparent at Weybridge on a sunny afternoon, with George sitting cross-legged on a kilim playing us his songs.

So being with George and Pattie was very relaxing. Mick and I were able to lie back on Moroccan cushions, get high and float away listening to George’s new songs. When he wasn’t playing his own stuff, he would be playing Ravi Shankar on those beautiful green discs we all used to have. I do think he very much brought all that into our world.

Mick loved George’s songs – those wonderful songs on Revolver – but George never felt that anybody appreciated his songs, really, or thought they were as good as John and Paul’s. George was racked with doubt about his work, but it’s now obvious what a great songwriter he was. ‘Beware of Darkness’ is as good as anything anybody ever wrote.

In a way, Brian Jones was George’s counterpart in the Stones. But there was a big difference in their personalities. The thing about George – and we all feel it strongly now that he’s gone off and left us – is that he plunged into things. Whatever he got into, whether it was the sitar and Ravi Shankar or the Maharishi, he walked right in and never looked back, and that takes a lot of confidence. Brian, on the other hand, was all flash. He loved to astonish – and then on to the next thing. Sometimes I’d get the eerie feeling that – like the positive and negative in a photograph – George was the positive version of Brian. They were quite similar in many ways; both could play a lot of different instruments and were hugely talented. But of course one huge difference was that Brian was unable to write songs. His perpetual upsetness and unhappiness and paranoia and low self-esteem all worked against him. It was tragic because he wanted to be a songwriter more than anything. I’ve watched the painful process, Brian mumbling out a few words to a twelve-bar blues riff and then throwing his guitar down in frustration.

I think in Brian’s state writing a song probably wasn’t possible. He could only do it through another medium, through Keith. I guess the closest he came to it was ‘Ruby Tuesday’, where his melancholy recorder wistfully carries that sense of irretrievable loss. ‘Ruby Tuesday’ was a collaboration between Keith and Brian. It’s one of the few cases where Mick had nothing to do with a Stones song, neither the lyrics nor the melody – but he and Keith got the writing credit. Without Brian, there wouldn’t be a ‘Ruby Tuesday’.

It’s funny how each drummer was so perfect for the band they were in. Mick admired Ringo’s drumming – it was so simple, so spare, so incredibly on the money – but it wouldn’t have fitted into the Stones at all. You couldn’t have taken Ringo and put him in the Stones; you couldn’t have Charlie Watts drumming for the Beatles. As for Keith Moon, his drumming would have got too much in the way of the guitars and the vocals in either the Stones or the Beatles, but could there have been a more perfect drummer and maniac for The Who than Keith Moon?

I’ve heard this funny theory that Mick wanted to be a Beatle and that John wanted to be a Rolling Stone, but I think it misses the point by a mile. Mick loved the Beatles, of course, and obviously there was a bit of natural competition going on there, but I don’t think that was unhealthy at all – they sparked off each other.

You know, people have said, with a little truth to it, that the Beatles were thugs pretending to be gentlemen, whereas the Stones were gentlemen pretending to be thugs, and this is where it all gets so interesting when we talk about the music, because you’ve got those contradictory aspects bleeding through. They’re very subtle, but they’re there, and that’s what makes the music so compelling, the rent in the temple cloth.

The thing about the Stones is that they were very intense about everything: about writing, recording, and performing. The Beatles had a similar intensity in the studio, but they were never able to transmit that on to the stage. They were so unlucky with what they went through in the early days; not being able to hear themselves play. It was a complete fuck-up that we have to lay, I’m afraid, at Brian Epstein’s door.

One of the things a manager must do is make sure that theb technical aspects are taken care of when the musicians go on stage. Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp did it for The Who, Clapton’s crew looked after Eric. The basic responsibility of people who take care of any band, including mine, is to make sure that the sound is right so that the musicians can enjoy the experience. That’s vitally important, and Brian Epstein just didn’t get that together. He never made that leap from playing small venues in the north of England to playing Shea Stadium. It’s tragic to see the Beatles on stage with their tiny amps, unable to hear a thing. And naturally, after that last tour, they came back from all that and said, ‘That’s it! We’re never going out again!’ And then Brian Epstein got really depressed because he realised he was almost out of a job.

The Beatles completely evolved from the pop business. The Stones began as a Brit Chicago R & B group and then lurched into a more raunchy rig than the Beatles ever managed. When the Beatles stopped touring in 1966 they were still the lovable Fab Four – they were rock’n’roll muppets. The Stones were menacing and sexy. A lot of that had to do with the kind of music they played, with Andrew Oldham, their manager, pushing their bad-boy image and Mick and Keith’s natural bolshiness. But much of it, too, had to do with Mick’s savvy on the business side. They never had a manager in the sense of a daddy figure like Brian Epstein telling them what to do – Andrew was younger than they were and more reckless. They weren’t dependent on Allen Klein or Andrew – they were their own gang. Also, you have to take into account that the Beatles were the pioneers and nobody had invented proper speakers yet. It was so early on that nothing had been sorted out yet.

Mick might, very occasionally, put the Beatles down for their provincialism, which, if you’re from London and they’re from Liverpool, is a very natural reaction. But he’d never put their music down. Well, of ‘Yellow Submarine’ or those whimsical Beatle songs he might say, ‘Now that is a bit silly.’ I never thought so; I loved it, still do. Also something like ‘With a Little Help from My Friends’, but these are obviously not the sort of things the Stones would be into.

Anyway, when you listen to the Beatles carefully, and the John Lennon stuff in particular, they aren’t all sweetness and light. There’s an edge to their music; there’s a real soggy, dark, dirty bit in it that bleeds through. Their sweetness is very superficial. You hear the undercurrent in Paul’s bass playing, you hear it in John’s harmonies, you hear it in the call-and-response stuff. Maybe not the first couple of records, but when you get to Revolver and Rubber Soul, things begin to darken. And there’s something very weird about Sgt Pepper, too. It’s not at all what it appears to be. I’ve found subsequently that listening to Sgt Pepper can be a bit of an unsettling experience. Pet Sounds still comes across as very beatific, so innocent and yearning, whereas Sgt Pepper really doesn’t.

Brian Epstein didn’t seem to get it that one of his jobs was to make sure that his precious boys were happy onstage and could hear each other and that they weren’t torn to pieces all the time by crazed fans. The most basic of needs, you know, just to make sure they weren’t being hounded day and night by cameras and reporters, with absolutely no time to themselves. These awful things kept happening and he wasn’t able to deal with them. That’s one of the reasons why Derek Taylor, their publicist, was so handy, because he was such a gentleman, and a hipster plus he had that ability to make people snap to attention. Invaluable, since Brian Jones would go missing in the middle of tours, recording sessions, negotiations, and nobody could find him. Epstein was a handy front for the Beatles in the beginning, because he seemed to be a gentleman – in appearance he was upper middle class. At first he was able to keep that together and where he did fall short he wasn’t that different from many of the early managers. It was new territory and they didn’t know what the hell they were doing.

Brian Epstein was so talented and had so many gifts and yet in many ways it was as if he really wasn’t paying attention. He fucked up. Beautifully. He was eaten up by what he called his ‘problem’. This was all long before it was cool to be gay. He was wrestling with real demons there, boy, as much if not more than our Andrew. But the difference was that Andrew seemed to enjoy his demons, let’s put it that way. Andrew embraced them, whereas poor Brian just beat himself into a bloody pulp over it. Nobody guessed that he was so terribly depressed and desperate. I had no clue anything was awry. The many times that I went down to see him in his lovely country house, they were beautiful idyllic afternoons. He seemed happy, and put up such a front you could never guess what was going on in the dark corners.

We talked and talked, about ballet, opera, the theatre. We talked about Margot Fonteyn and Nureyev, Vanessa Redgrave, Maggie Smith’s production of Miss Julie. At that time Brian was agonising over Up Against It, the Joe Orton script that he wanted the Beatles to do. He was worried it was too far out.