Hammered: Heavy Tales from the Hard Rock Highway

217 Pages·2012·83.378 MB·English

by  Kirk Blows

‘Back problem?’ he says lazily, suggesting that he knows little about it. ‘Er,
yeah, yeah,’ he suddenly adds, somewhat belatedly and rather unconvincingly.
‘Well, I was wondering if, given the circumstances, you’d be available
do the interview instead. After all, Axl can’t do it if he’s gone to hospital.’
There’s a short silence before Slash responds. ‘Oh no, Axl wouldn’t be happy
if I stole his interview. Axl would get very upset if I were to do anything like
that,’ he says.
Given all the trials and tribulations of the band’s controversial career,
which has involved riots, drug and alcohol problems, changes in personnel,
cancelled gigs and fi nes for late appearances, among other things, it’s
impossible to believe that Axl would even notice if Slash was interviewed
in his absence, let alone get upset about it. Or that Slash would really care
even if Axl did.
I make some further pleas – ‘It’ll only take fi fteen minutes,’ for example –
but it’s futile trying to persuade anybody to talk when they don’t really want
to, especially if they’re probably getting noshed off at the same time.
‘Well, thanks then, Slash, take it easy. Oh, and tell Axl I hope his bad
back gets better.’
‘Bad back?’ he says. ‘Oh yeah, of course . . .’
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comedy occasions 185
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TTThhheee sssooohhhooo sssccceeennneee
F
ew involved in the London hard-rock scene in the mid-to-late eighties
will have managed to avoid being irresistibly drawn to the centre of
Soho. The magnetic presence of the Marquee Club, which existed
at 90 Wardour Street from 1964 through to July 1988 before relocating to
the Charing Cross Road, represented the fulcrum of activity in a musical
sense. Meanwhile, The Ship public house and the St Moritz Club, less than
a minute’s walk away on the same road, were equally busy, accommodating
the needs of a thirsty crowd made up of musicians, journalists, PRs, record
company executives, producers, music publishers, Marquee staff and DJs,
hairy hangers-on, good-time girls and various other boozers, cruisers and
losers enthralled by the vibrancy of the social scene and the charismatic
characters that helped shape it. It couldn’t last forever but, at the peak of
its popularity, the Wardour Street scene was compulsive to the point that it
became something of a personal and professional playground . . .
Sid and Lila have been running The Ship for donkey’s years. The Wardour
Street pub, with its dark wooden décor, fading wallpaper and well-worn carpet,
has long been a magnet for the rock fraternity because of its proximity to the
Marquee Club. And its veteran landlords have pretty much seen it all since
the early 1960s. Indeed, Lila enjoys recounting tales about her friendship
with rockers on the razz such as Keith Moon and Harry Nilsson during the
early seventies to any punters willing to listen. ‘They were so good to me,’ she
smiles. ‘Keith even came to visit me in hospital, you know.’
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186 Hammered
Sid is equally entertaining – in his own miserable way. His idea of providing
fi ne cuisine for his starving customers is to crudely make a cheese sandwich
on the bar. He slaps the bread down on a plate, applies a thin layer of butter
and presses a hard lump of cheese on top, while a cigarette hangs from his
lips and drops ash in front of him. ‘D’you want pickle with that?’ he wheezes,
before coughing and spluttering all over the cheese, which is instantly coated
with piccalilli – or something that resembles it. Sid grabs the top slice of
bread, fl attens the sandwich with his palm and hands it over. ‘There you go,
that will be fi fty pence, please.’ Well, this is the late eighties . . .
The Ship is the established meeting place for people heading to the
Marquee and there are always recognisable faces among the regular crowd
of drinkers. On one particular day, the pub has barely opened when Buster
Bloodvessel is found sitting at the bar and in the mood to get plastered. The
bald and bulging Bad Manners singer – a real Mr Blobby lookalike – has
already had a pint or two when he decides it’s time to take things to a different
level. ‘Right, let’s do some slammers!’
Being a strict lager drinker (generally), I feign ignorance, yet Buster
responds by detailing specifi c instructions. ‘Okay, lick your left hand, then
pour on the salt,’ he orders. ‘Right, cover the glass, bang it on the bar, knock
the tequila back in one and then suck on the lemon.’
This procedure is followed to the letter, although Buster has an
unconventional way of doing things. ‘Right, now let me do this,’ he says,
leaning forward to grab two fi stfuls of hair and commencing a violent shaking
action that sends my vibrating brain into outer orbit. ‘Isn’t it great?’ says a
highly amused Buster. ‘Okay, now you do the same to me,’ he insists, before
whizzing through the routine with the salt, lemon and tequila. ‘C’mon, now
you’ve got to shake my head!’
The opportunity to infl ict some immediate revenge seems highly appealing
until it quickly becomes apparent that getting to grips with Buster’s greasy
bonce is no easy task. Indeed, it feels like trying to keep hold of soap in the
bath. ‘C’mon, get on with it,’ says Buster, eager to experience the feeling of
exhilaration. The only solution is to grab his ears – as if they were the handles
of the FA Cup – and start shaking the living daylights out of him. ‘Yeah,
that’s it, more!’ he demands.
At which point a dozen or so rugby fans spill through the doors of the
pub to be confronted with the bizarre sight of Buster Bloodvessel of Bad
Manners – a fi gure they’re more than familiar with thanks to hits such as ‘Lip
Up Fatty’, ‘Special Brew’ and ‘Can Can’ for the ska band – appearing to be
physically assaulted . . . and loving every second of it.
Buster comes down to earth with an almighty splash as he instantly fi nds
himself swimming in an ocean of lager, with the egg-chasing fans battling
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The soho scene 187
with each other to buy their heavyweight hero – and his new mate, of course
– a pint (or six). Needless to say, by the time my girlfriend enters the pub
ahead of the John Waite gig at the Marquee that evening, I can be found
happily snoozing at the bar . . .
Inevitably, the crowd in The Ship – for those still conscious, that is –
generally moves on to the Marquee, the bar of which often appears to be a
more popular attraction than the headlining band. The security is often a bit
on the relaxed side, so familiar faces exploit the freedom to push their way
through the backstage door and into the tiny dressing room, which is notable
for the graffi ti (indicating decades of decadence) that adorns the walls and
ceiling of the club’s most private area.
On one memorable evening, Fast Eddie Clarke is at the bar. The guitarist
left Motörhead years ago, but whatever he’s now up to, it appears to be thirsty
work. ‘What do you fancy?’ he asks me after being introduced by a mutual
friend. I decline his kind offer because I already have a drink, but Eddie is
insistent. ‘Don’t be silly, what are you having?’ He orders a pint of lager and
hands it over. ‘Now, what else d’ya want?’
I raise my two glasses to suggest that immediate replenishment of
refreshment is hardly necessary. But Eddie is having none of it. ‘Right,
another lager it is.’ And so another pint duly arrives. ‘Time for another?’ he
swiftly asks, less than a minute later. Suddenly, the penny drops with Eddie
that, with three pints forming an orderly queue, the offer of yet another is
somewhat ridiculous. ‘Sorry, mate, you’re obviously struggling there,’ he says,
‘I’ll get you a short.’
Meanwhile, Jessie, an American girl in her mid-twenties, has recently
become one of the regulars at the club. She claims to be responsible for the
scar on guitarist Gary Moore’s chin. Of course, nobody believes her. She also
says that she once lived with Iggy Pop. Nobody believes that, either. What’s
more plausible, however, is her admission that she works at the Nude Bed
Show in Wardour Street.
She fi rst appears at the club one evening, immaculately dressed in a black
suit and hat, with her blonde hair perfectly groomed. It’s a very different image
the next day, however, when she arrives for lunch looking like a punked-up
porno princess. Underneath her beaten-up leather jacket is a ripped T-shirt,
which goes rather well with the short leather mini-skirt and fi shnet stockings.
Her shiny black, high-heeled shoes have little silver padlocks on them. With
her fl uffed up hair and pouting red lips, she looks like she’s well up for it.
Sadly, she isn’t – at least not with me – as is evident after returning to my
place one night, obviously far more reluctant to take her clothes off at night
than she is by day. She curls up under the blankets with her leather jacket
fi rmly zipped up, although perhaps that’s no bad thing given she’s spent half
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188 Hammered
the journey being sick out of the taxi window and splashing vomit over the
windscreen of the car behind us.
By this time my fl atmate is beginning to tire of having his sleep interrupted
by late-night disturbances – not least when he gets up at 5:00am on one
particular morning to discover a drunken, half-naked girl sitting on her
backside in the cat litter tray. The bang seems to have done something to her
head as well. She rings my offi ce later in the morning and breaks the news.
‘I’ve done it, I’ve left him,’ she says.
‘Er . . . not on my account, I hope.’
‘Oh no, I was going to do it anyway,’ she insists. ‘So . . . I was thinking,
could we get together again some time?’
‘Er, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,’ I say, especially as the young lady
in question just happens to be married to a rival journalist. A few years later,
I’m in Hammersmith with a friend who stops to talk to a girl whose face looks
vaguely familiar. ‘So who was that?’ I ask. ‘Oh, she used to be married to a
friend of mine,’ he says. ‘He’s much better off without her. Yeah, she was
terrible. I mean, she’d go with anyone . . .’
She claims to be responsible for the scar on guitarist
Gary Moore’s chin. Of course, nobody believes her.
There’s something sentimentally special about the sticky fl oors of the
Marquee in Wardour Street, but it’s not quite the same when the club moves
to Charing Cross Road. The venue is bigger and has seats upstairs, but it
lacks the intimate character of the old place. Predictably, the bar is still the
main area to hang out in and bump into people.
On one occasion, former Quireboys guitarist and new Wildhearts
frontman Ginger is less than impressed by a review of his latest band in which
I question his vocal capabilities. He spots an opportunity to gain revenge –
and swings a punch in my direction. Thankfully Ginger is extremely pissed
and is hopelessly off target. He disappears into the crowd and seems to forget
everything about the incident, because he couldn’t be friendlier the next time
we meet. From a Wildheart to a mildheart, it seems.
Post-gig, it’s time to head to the St Moritz. The dark basement bar,
underneath a restaurant of the same name, is run by a legendary fi gure
known as Sweety. Indeed, former Clash singer Joe Strummer’s 101’ers even
recorded a track called ‘Sweety Of The St Moritz’ in his honour.
At this point it should be stated that Sweety – who is Swiss, in his fi fties
and mostly bald – is something of an erratic character. ‘I want your cock!’ he
frequently offers as a greeting on the door. When he’s in a less friendly mood,
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The soho scene 189
he refuses to provide the free entry that is generally taken for granted. ‘No,
you pay this time!’ he grumpily insists. On one such occasion tempers fl are
and I somehow end up pinning him against the wall. The result, inevitably, is
a six-week ban from his club, but everything is quickly forgiven and normal
service is soon resumed. ‘I want your cock!’
Downstairs, Motörhead main-man Lemmy, as always when in London,
is feeding the fruit machine, with which he has developed an intimate
relationship. ‘This is Lemmy . . .’ I say to those looking to be introduced to
the great man, ‘. . . and this is his wife.’ Of course, I’m talking about the fruit
machine rather than one of the Japanese girls who generally trail in his wake.
One evening, a journalist passes Lemmy while carrying a tray with around
half-a-dozen drinks. Lemmy’s gaze is fi xed to the machine’s speeding dials,
but that doesn’t stop him from sticking out his right leg to send the reporter –
and all his pint glasses – crashing to what is already a sticky fl oor. ‘The lesson,’
growls Lemmy, still focused on the spinning oranges and lemons in front of
him, ‘is to always be on your guard.’ The journalist thanks the veteran vocalist
for the valuable advice and quietly disappears into a dark corner.
On the wall in the main bar, there’s a framed triple gold disc in honour of
Guns N’ Roses’ mega-selling Appetite For Destruction album. And Guns guitarist
Slash, who has indeed visited the club, would surely approve of some of
the bad-boy behaviour that occasionally takes place. Something suspicious
is being chopped out on the table in the darkest alcove in the deepest corner
one night when nobody notices the new barman approaching. On any other
night, you’d expect bodies to be hastily ejected or the police to be called. But
our man, as calm as you like, gathers up the empties, grabs the rolled-up £5
note from somebody’s hand and snorts the stuff off the table. He hands back
the note and walks off without so much as a backwards glance. He doesn’t
work there again.
Alice is part of the furniture at the St Moritz club. She’s certainly much
older than most of it. Indeed, she’s something of an antique. With her fur
coat, big earrings and wiry blonde-grey hair, she resembles a cross between
veteran actresses Diana Dors and Yootha Joyce. Which means she looks a bit
out of place when surrounded by groups of hairy young rockers, who take
advantage of her generous spirit.
It’s almost four in the morning. And Alice is on all fours in her front
garden. Her knickers are down and stretched from one muddy knee to the
other. Oh well, it’s a bit late to turn back now . . . The next morning is one of
those chew-your-arm-off moments when one’s head hurts like hell, but is still
in much better shape than one’s self-esteem. Word quickly gets out and the
inevitable abuse starts the following evening in the Moritz. Yet they’ve nearly
all been there, as they are quickly reminded.
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190 Hammered
Normal standards of conduct are frequently forgotten in the club. Take
a photograph of the regular crowd and use a marker pen to indicate who
has been with whom and you’ll end up with a fl urry of lines zigzagging
all over the place. Caroline quickly proves her popularity. She popped up
on the scene as if from nowhere – and disappeared just as quickly. Half a
dozen chaps are sitting around a table in the St Moritz one evening when
Nick, one of the DJs at the Marquee, starts talking about a new girl he got
off with. She starts to sound a bit familiar. Dave picks up the thread and
describes a similar tale. The young lady starts to sound even more familiar.
It soon transpires that fi ve of the six guys around the table have enjoyed/
endured one-night stands with Caroline over the previous ten days. There’s
a moment of refl ection as drinks are quietly sipped. ‘What I remember
most,’ says Lea, after some consideration, ‘is that she had legs like upside-
down beer bottles.’ Everybody laughs, except Nick, that is. Because he went
last . . .
At least Caroline goes home with her gentlemen, which is more than can
be said for one friendly female in the Moritz one evening. There’s at least
an inch of piss on the fl oor of the gents’ toilets and, while Julie is clearly all
woman, her behaviour is anything but lady-like. The girl is not the only thing
being banged, with the locked door coming under increasing pressure from
the queue of men outside.
Megadeth frontman Dave Mustaine, making a very rare appearance, is
among the blokes outside and literally hopping up and down as he clutches
his trouser zip in desperation. ‘It’s my turn!’ he spits, although whether he’s
talking about the bog or the bird is anyone’s guess.
The St Moritz toilets clearly have several functions. However, sleeping in
them is not to be advised, as is discovered one evening when dozing off in the
upstairs cubicle and waking up at 6:00am with the club in darkness. I inch my
way downstairs but the club exit is bolted on the outside and so I’m forced to
make my way back to the restaurant at pavement level.
Dawn is starting to break, but any hope that there might be light at the
end of the tunnel is dashed when I discover the front door cannot be opened
from the inside. Still drunk and half asleep, the idea of ringing the police
for help fails to occur to me and I decide to launch an escape bid. The
front window is made up of small squares of glass and so I look around for
something heavy to throw.
I pick up one of the heavy plant pots and hurl it at the window, only to
send a shower of soil fl ying across the restaurant. I try again with a second
pot and the explosion of earth is even greater, leaving every one of the
white tablecloths covered in a thick layer of dirt. Meanwhile, the window
remains intact.
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The soho scene 191
The solution is eventually found in the shape of a square, silver fl ight-
case. Inside is Sweety’s treasured accordion which, when the mood takes
him, allows him to mince around (in traditional costume) and serenade his
customers – even though it’s fake and relies on pre-recorded music for its
jolly (irritating) sounds. I chuck the metal box with all the force I can muster
and, feeling at one with Nick Lowe, rejoice in the sound of breaking glass.
Sadly, the impact has triggered the club’s alarm and so bells are now loudly
ringing. Quite what the young couple walking up Wardour Street make of
the man climbing out of the St Moritz window and rushing off up the road
is anybody’s guess.
Later that evening, a major inquest is taking place in the club. It’s revealed
that the management had reported a break-in until the police told them that
it had been a break-out – as the glass was on the wrong side of the window. ‘We
have one clue to suggest who it might have been,’ says Sweety, with a knowing
look. ‘In the toilet, they left behind a copy of Metal Hammer, the magazine you
work for . . .’
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192 Hammered
Alice Cooper, aka Vincent Damon
Furnier, proved to be something
of a Jekyll and Hyde in his
hometown of Detroit, where
we talked ‘romance’ and
‘rape’ while, er,
watching the
television.
Above: Anyone know the way to Iron
Knob? The Screaming Jets (from left
to right: Paul Woseen, Brad Heaney,
Richard Lara, David Gleeson and Grant
Walmsley) on a debauched tour of
their Australian homeland. The trail of
condoms, illicit substances and empty
beer cans they left in their wake is not in
shot . . .
Left: Gregor Mackintosh and his gloomy,
doomy colleagues in Paradise Lost
took their majestic brand of metal to
Bucharest and found several reasons to
smile – not that you’d be able to tell from
this photograph.