Can't Stand Up For Falling Down: Rock'n'Roll War Stories

CONTENTS

Introduction

Leonard Cohen: London, June 1974

Tony Iommi: Iommi Mansions, Warwickshire, July 1974

Van Morrison: Knebworth, July 1974

Ray Davies: London, September 1974

Roxy Music: Cardiff, September 1974

KC and The Sunshine Band: London, October 1974

Lemmy: London, January 1975

John Martyn: Leeds, February 1975

Dave Brock: Devon, February 1975

Joe Strummer: London, February 1975

Wayne Nutt: Aberdeen, March 1975

Mick Ronson: Newcastle, April 1975

Alex Harvey: Glasgow, September 1975

Gordon Lightfoot: London, October 1975

Be-Bop Deluxe: Shrewsbury, January 1976

Patti Smith: London, May 1976

Phil Lynott’s Mum: Manchester, August 1976

Bryan Ferry: London, January 1977

The Byrds: London, April 1977

Angie Bowie: Somerset, April 1977

Lou Reed: London | Stockholm, April 1977

Olivia Newton-John: Lake Tahoe, Nevada, April 1977

The Sex Pistols: London, May 1977

Elvis Costello: London, June 1977

The Sex Pistols: London, June 1977

Stiff Records: London, July 1977

The Mont De Marsan Punk Festival: Southern France, August 1977

David Bowie: London, September 1977

Dr Feelgood: Leicester, September 1977

Nick Lowe: Glasgow, October 1977

Gregg Allman and Cher: London, November 1977

Nick Lowe: Finland, February 1978

Tony Iommi: Glasgow, March 1978

Elvis Costello: Belfast, March 1978

Lou Reed: Philadelphia | New York, May 1978

Kenny Everett: London, July 1978

John Peel: London, August 1978

The Legendary Ariola Juncket: New York | Los Angeles | Portland, August 1978

Al Stewart: Los Angeles, September 1978

The Clash: London, November 1978

XTC: New York, December 1978

The Boomtown Rats: Los Angeles | Atlanta | Dallas, January 1979

The Clash: Cleveland | Washington DC, January 1979

Mike Oldfield: Berlin, April 1979

Lou Reed and David Bowie: London, April 1979

Robert Fripp: Bournemouth, April 1979

The Pretenders: Chester | Blackburn, July 1979

The Searchers: Rhydyfelen, South Wales, November 1979

Jerry Dammers: Hemel Hempstead, December 1979

London Calling: Melody Maker HQ, December 1979

Squeeze: Australia, February 1980

Def Leppard: Glasgow, February 1980

The Police: Bombay, March 1980

The Police: Cairo, March 1980

The Police: Milan, April 1980

Elvis Costello | The Specials | Rockpile: Montreux, July 1980

Monsters of Rock Festival: Castle Donnington, August 1980

Ozzy Osbourne: Texas, March 1982

Morrissey: Reading, February 1984

Johnny Marr: Reading, February 1984

R.E.M.: Athens, GA, June 1985

Van Morrison: London, June 1986

Eddie Grant: Barbados, October 1986

Townes Van Zandt: London, October 1987

Lou Reed: London, February 1989

Neil Young: London, October 1989

R.E.M.: Athens, Georgia, December 1991

Warren Zevon: London, September 1992

Bob Dylan: New York, October 1992

Neil Young: London, October 1992

Pearl Jam: New York, April 1994

The Afterglow

Images

INTRODUCTION

It happens like this: in April 1974, Melody Maker advertises a vacancy for a new junior reporter/feature writer. In this by-gone time, Melody Maker is a genuinely big deal – the UK’s best-selling music paper, with weekly sales of 200,000 and counting. Eager young scribes all over the country are probably already stapling together their painstakingly-composed reviews of albums like Aqualung, Brain Salad Surgery, and In The Wake Of Poseidon – the kind of overblown prog rock guff too often (for my liking) championed by MM. These earnest appreciations are no doubt even now being stuffed into envelopes and addressed to editor Ray Coleman at the paper’s swanky Fleet Street offices. This is probably the chance a lot of people have been waiting for.

Anyway, my girlfriend Kathy sees the ad in a London listings magazine, reads it all the way through and laughs when she gets to the bit about the kind of new recruit MM is apparently looking for. Now that sounds like me, she says. Why not apply? Go on, take a look. I do and it does, which makes me laugh, too, because it turns out they are after someone who’s 21 or younger, a music fan, and is, in their words, highly opinionated. And what’s this at the end of the ad? No previous journalistic experience necessary.

That gets my attention.

Well, I’m 21, evidently a hurdle cleared there. I’ve also got a lot of records. I similarly have a lot of opinions, often brashly expressed even when I don’t know what I’m talking about. As for journalistic experience, I don’t have any. I do have a small belief that I can probably manage to write something more complicated than a ransom note. But it’s not like I have some long-smouldering ambition to write seriously – about music or anything else. And that includes writing for Melody Maker, even though I’ve been reading it for years – it’s just never crossed my mind. In fact, the whole idea of making even a half-hearted bid for the job seems suddenly preposterous. What am I thinking of? I’d surely stand more chance of being taken on by the circus as a moustachioed strongman or a whip-cracking lion-tamer. On the other hand, nine months after leaving art school in South Wales and moving to London with only a vague idea of what I’m going to do next, I’ve ended up working in the mail order department of a posh bookshop near Piccadilly Circus where my mind has started to unravel. It’s not like I’ve got a whole lot going for me at the moment. No one’s caught me sobbing at my desk yet, or stabbing myself in the leg with a letter opener, but you never know what’s around the next corner.

I decide to apply.

I don’t, for obvious reasons, have any kind of CV or clippings of local paper scoops, and it doesn’t occur to me to knock up some sample reviews to offer up as palpable evidence of my wit, insight and general musical knowledge. So I write a letter that tells whoever reads it that I’m a typical small-town music fan of the time, the kind that as a teenager in the late Sixties spends hours in the local record shop – in my case, a place called Derrick’s which is about as big as a mini-cab office but astonishingly well-stocked. In shops like these all the best new records are on tempting display, racks of them, their sleeves handled as tenderly as religious relics. Melody Maker, I explain, was an essential guide to what was worth listening to among all these releases. You could have put together a pretty good record collection back then by paying reasonable attention to the recommendations of writers like Richard Williams and Michael Watts. I did, anyway. In fact, I read every issue of MM from cover to cover, at least twice over, hungry for everything in it, thus including the jazz section, Folk News, the loon pants ads at the back and the enormous classified section that lurks there also – a vast marketplace for jobbing musicians (did A Able Accordionist ever find the gig he was looking for?).

For years, I go on, MM is just about indispensible. But something’s recently changed: in 1972, the ailing New Musical Express is given weeks to improve circulation or face closure. The paper’s editor Alan Smith and his deputy Nick Logan boldly recruit new writers from London’s underground press who bring a new acerbity to its pages, and an irreverence and general liveliness that suddenly makes MM seem regrettably stuffy, sober and staid – its more temperate approach to just about everything makes it seem dull against its rival’s colourful outspokenness. There are still plenty of great writers on MM, I say, but what makes new NME stars like Nick Kent and Charles Shaar Murray stand out, apart from their writing, of course, is that they look so much the part. The picture by-lines of MM staff do little to flatter them. Richard Williams and his frankly scary moustache have both gone by 1974, but long-serving Features Editor Chris Welch still beams from MM’s pages like someone who’s just won a marrow in a raffle, while Assistant Editor Mick Watts’ picture makes him look frighteningly like the infamous international terrorist, Carlos The Jackal. Kent on the other hand looks enough like a rock star to pass for one of Roxy Music’s itinerant early bass players and Charlie Murray with his shades, afro and leather jackets wouldn’t be out of place in a band shot of The MC5. My point is that MM right now could do with livening up. I go on about this at some length, get quickly and hopelessly worked up, and with a bravado I don’t for a moment really feel, sign off the letter with the following message: Melody Maker needs a bullet up the arse. I’m the gun, pull the trigger. I post the thing before I have second thoughts.

A week later, I get a letter from Ray Coleman, along with a totally flabbergasting invitation: can I come in to MM HQ for an interview? Hey, what? How did this happen? Has no one else applied for the job? Come the appointed day, I turn up at MM’s offices in Fleet Street, convinced there’s been a mistake that will belatedly be recognised upon my arrival, at which point I fully expect to be sent politely packing with apologies for whatever misunderstanding has occurred. In the event, I am ushered into the presence of the fabled Coleman, the editor who’s turned MM into such a sales juggernaut. He’s a man in his late-thirties, balding with fuzzy sideburns, large heavy-rimmed glasses and the reassuring manner of an avuncular oncologist or much-loved family vet, although the jarring colour clash of what he’s wearing – a purple suit, bright yellow tie and lime green shirt – makes him look like the manager of a Miami car wash franchise. He’s quite a sight. God knows what he makes of me with my scarves, bracelets, earring and one of my old glam rock jackets with padded shoulders, sequins and zips up the inside of both sleeves. Whatever, he’s warm and courteous and we chat pleasantly about art school and music for around half an hour, with Ray gently prompting sometimes outrageous opinions from me that seem to amuse him. And that’s pretty much it. I hadn’t been expecting to sit a written exam or anything, but I’m still surprised that Ray hasn’t asked me to present so much as a shopping list as evidence that I can actually, you know, write. Instead, he thanks me for dropping in – as if I’ve just strolled by and popped in to see him on a whim – shows me to the door and says he’ll be in touch.

Two weeks later I still haven’t heard from him and presume I’ve made such a hapless impression that he’s simply forgotten me. I can only imagine they’ve done the sensible thing and given the job to some ingratiating little swot with a taste for bands that wear wizard’s capes, which would of course have left me with no hard feelings whatsoever, absolutely none. Then one afternoon at the bookshop I get a call from someone who says she’s Ray’s secretary. She wants to know why I haven’t replied to Ray’s letter offering me the job. Ray’s letter offering me the job? Well, that’s a letter I haven’t seen. Do I even in fact still want the job, she’s asking? Do I still want it? Does love break your heart? Does one thing follow another? Do I still want the job? Of course I still fucking want it.

And so on Tuesday, June 4, I turn up for my first day at work as Melody Maker’s new junior reporter/feature writer, hoping for the best. The first few weeks are like being picked up by a tornado and landing in somewhere that isn’t Kansas anymore. It takes me about an afternoon to realise that, compared to the mass of musical knowledge shared by the MM staff I’ve just joined, I know less than fuck all about very little. Everyone’s friendly enough, although I get the impression that Mick Watts, the writer I’m most in awe of, is convinced Ray’s only given me a job out of pity or, even more likely, in a moment of spit-dribbling lunacy. I’m immediately put on the junior reporter Chitlin’ Circuit, so low on the editorial totem pole that I’m actually part of its foundations. But I’m uncomplaining as they send me off to interview sundry hit parade regulars of the day. Memorably, I turn up in Slough one day to interview The Bay City Rollers to find them lolling around a hotel suite looking like they’re fresh out of the showers or a communal bath, drying off with towels around their waists like something out of Spartacus while their creepy-looking manager answers my questions on their mute behalf. I’m frankly happy at this point to be doing anything. But I’m also starting to wonder how long I’m going to be stuck as the office dogsbody. It’s right about now I get an unexpected crack at Leonard Cohen, and the picture gets a lot prettier. Mick Watts is soon enough offering me much sage advice, for which I am immediately grateful, even as I continue to treat him with appalling flippancy. Mick sends me off in quick succession to interview Bryan Ferry, Van Morrison, Ray Davies and Frank Zappa. Things are looking up. Not much later I go on tour with a band for the first time. Excitingly, the band is Roxy Music. For the next few years after this, I’m constantly bombing up and down Britain’s motorways and back roads in a variety of leaky vans, clapped-out charabancs and beat-up tour buses. When I’m not here, I’m there, everything at times a blur. When Richard Williams replaces Ray as MM editor in August 1978, he sends me even further afield, as if he can’t decide what to do with me and settles for keeping me out of the office for as long as possible. I am apparently regarded as a ‘disruptive influence’. For nearly 18 months I only sleep on planes, like a character in a Warren Zevon song. I spend hours, days, weeks, with people whose music I dig, and even find entertainment in the company of people whose music I wouldn’t feed to a starving dog. Let it be enough for me to say that, all things considered, I have the time of my fucking life, although the deadlines are sometimes horrifying and I didn’t expect to be punched quite so much.

After I become editor of MM in 1984 – in another totally unexpected turn of events – the trips, jaunts and long-haul jolly-ups inevitably begin to dwindle. One a year, none a year – it happens that quickly. I’m more likely now to be found trying to look at least awake, if not fully alert, in meetings with various publishing types, rather than doing drugs with Lou Reed, knocking about with Joe Strummer, getting plastered with Nick Lowe, being set on fire by The Damned or beaten up by Black Sabbath’s Tony Iommi. It’s a change of pace, at least. But by 1996, a dire combination of Britpop’s beer-fart blare and the publishing plans for MM that make me fear for its future convince me it’s time to go. That summer, I spend a week in Nashville with Kurt Wagner’s 13-piece country-soul collective Lambchop and come back with an idea for the magazine that becomes Uncut, a new music monthly that I quit MM to edit. A few weeks before the first issue comes out in May 1997, we’re in the office when the subject of an Editor’s Letter to introduce the new magazine comes up. Alan Lewis, the editorial director we’ve been working with (an old MM man who is also former editor of both Sounds and NME and more recently had a hand in launching Loaded), has an idea. He suggests that instead of the usual homely welcome to readers, I should write up some of the stories I collected over my years at MM. These have become quite a repertoire by now, one that I am prone to windily recount in the pub, especially if old cronies like MM photographer Tom Sheehan, an accomplice on many of these adventures, or news editor Carol Clerk are at uproarious hand to turn the anecdotal flow into something more torrential. I’m not sure how many stories I’ve actually got, but decide to give it a go anyway. I start writing a column called Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before that quickly turns into a regular back page feature and runs for the next 15 years. It seems I have a lot of stories.

A selection of those many yarns are now collected in Can’t Stand Up For Falling Down. Some of them appear more or less as they originally ran in Uncut, others have been remixed, touched up here and there, parts of them rewritten, expanded and arranged in the order these things happened. The source for them all, of course, are the stories, interviews and on-the-road reports I wrote for MM. The bulk of them come from that wild early time on the paper, from 1974 to 1984, when every day was a new adventure and you never wanted the nights to end. This roughly coincides with what has subsequently become known as a golden age for music weeklies, a gilded time. I’m not sure anyone in the thick of things back then regarded it as any kind of ‘age’ so much as a particularly riotous phase some of us were going through and were determined to enjoy before it was all too quickly over. I was just happy and amazed to be a small part of it all.

Am I nostalgic for the time that inspired most of the stories in Can’t Stand Up For Falling Down? I guess in many ways I am. For a start, there was still a thriving weekly music press back then, before it was first marginalised, then increasingly ignored and eventually almost completely abandoned. And who in their right mind wouldn’t prefer a world that still counted among its living many of the people who appear in these pages, including Lou Reed, Leonard Cohen, David Bowie, Joe Strummer, Warren Zevon, Lee Brilleaux, John Martyn, Alex Harvey, Townes Van Zandt, Lemmy, Gene Clark, Mick Ronson, John Peel and even Sid Vicious? Like the weekly music press itself, they are all gone now.

As for what follows, we start somewhere near the beginning.

LEONARD COHEN

London, June 1974

A few weeks after I join the hallowed ranks of what used to be Melody Maker, I’m on my own one afternoon in the office. Everyone else is either being wined and dined at some no doubt lavish record company lunch, of which in those days there were plenty, or down the pub drinking like Vikings – a daily ritual for the paper’s sub-editors.

The common feeling among the senior staff at Melody Maker at the time is that my recent appointment by editor Ray Coleman is either further evidence of Ray’s unravelling sanity or the result of a ghastly administrative error. To their horror – especially the horror of uncommonly suave assistant editor Michael Watts, famed in the MM office for his cravats, safari suits and gourmet luncheons – I can barely type and the abstract codifications of shorthand look like indecipherable hieroglyphics to me. As for actual, you know, journalistic experience, as already mentioned, I don’t have any. Unlike, I am given to understand, my estimable new colleagues, who are universally skilled in ways Mick seems already convinced I’ll never be.

As far as Mick’s concerned, it seems to me, I’d be of more use to MM if I was a veteran of some local paper, a Bugle, Gazette or Chronicle, where I might have honed my journalistic skills reporting from the front lines of village fetes, town planning meetings, the openings of floral gardens, council estate murders—heady stuff like that. This is the sturdy stock from which MM usually recruits its new writers. Mick seems to regard me, therefore, as an opportunistic little chancer who’s somehow hoodwinked Ray into giving me a job for which I am uniquely unqualified. Eager, perhaps, but doomed all the same. Furthermore, I get the feeling Mick thinks there’s some budding junior reporter out there, a Jimmy Olsen-type, a kid with rosy-cheeked promise, currently stuck doing the pop column for some far-flung provincial rag who was surely destined for greater things here at MM until I minced along to bamboozle him out of his rightful inheritance, with my fancy art school patter and glam rock shoulder pads.

If you’re still here by the end of the month, it’ll be a miracle, Mick informs me on my first day. And for the next couple of weeks he throws me scraps. I’m grateful for anything he tosses my way, but it’s not quite what I expected and I’m beginning to feel like I’m being groomed for an early exit. Cheers, Mick!

Anyway, I’m dropping off something at Mick’s empty desk when his phone rings and doesn’t stop for about five minutes, someone clearly calling with urgent things to discuss with the absent assistant editor. I pick up the phone. It’s someone from CBS about the interview with Leonard Cohen – Leonard Cohen! – that Mick’s been trying to set up since shortly before fire was invented. Can I now tell Mick that Cohen’s currently at a hotel in Chelsea and is happy to meet him tomorrow morning? I’m given a time and address, which I promise to pass onto Mick, dutiful servant that I am.

Except, I don’t tell Mick about the call. He doesn’t come back to the office that afternoon, and I don’t make much of an effort to find out how I can get in touch with him. Instead, I turn up for the interview myself, feeling, as a long-time fan about to meet one of his heroes, slightly weak in the region of my knees as I tap lightly on his hotel door, which now opens.

I’m Leonard Cohen, he announces with a warm smile. A handsome man, impeccably dressed in a smart grey suit. Welcome.

He invites me into a modest room with windows overlooking Sloane Square and flowers on a small table. I notice now that he’s barefooted. He takes a seat, feet on the bed. I remind him that the last time he appeared in Melody Maker, remarks he’d made about his own low opinion of his music had been luridly accompanied by headlines announcing his retirement. Since he is in London finishing an album he tells me will be called either New Skin For The Old Ceremony or Return Of The Broken Down Nightingale, he’s clearly not retired. What’s the story?

I have read over the years so much negative criticism of my work and of my position, so much satire, so much humorous indifference to where I stand, he says, "that on the public level and in social intercourse with strangers I tend to dismiss myself and not take my work very seriously.

"I think that interview was just a way of saying goodbye for a while, a temporary cheerio, nothing tragic. I seem, however, to have given this impression to people that I’ve been recovering from some serious illness, which I am happy to say has not been the case.

"The image I’ve been able to gather of myself from the press is of a victim of the music industry, a poor sensitive chap who has been destroyed by the very forces he started out to utilise. But that is not so, never was. I don’t know how that ever got around. I would also contest the notion that I am or was a depressed and extremely frail individual, also that I am sad all the time.

There is a perception, too, of my songs as depressing, but I think that’s not the case. One side of the third album I find a little burdened and melodramatic. I think that’s the fault of the songs and of the singer. It’s a failure of that particular album, but it’s not a characteristic of the work as a whole.

It seemed to me, and I hoped not fancifully, that his music was less ‘depressing’ than emblematic of an urgent inclination to create art that was fit for a world in which people died and calamity was wholesale, in which circumstance it would hardly be cheerful. I told him as much.

I’m very pleased with that observation, he says. "That is definitely the most important aesthetic question of these days. Can art, or what we call entertainment, confront or incorporate the experience of man today? There’s a lot of evidence for a negative answer. I skirt around that question myself, very often. One feels often inadequate in the face of massacre, disaster and human humiliation. What, you think, am I doing, singing a song at a time like this? But the worse it gets, the more I find myself picking up a guitar and playing that song.

"It is, I think, a matter of tradition. You have a tradition on the one hand that says, if things are bad we should not dwell on the sadness, that we should play a happy song, a merry tune. Strike up the band and dance the best we can, even if we are suffering from concussion.

And then there’s another tradition, and this is a more Oriental or Middle Eastern tradition, which says that if things are really bad, the best thing to do is sit by the grave and wail, and that’s the way you are going to feel better. I think both these efforts are intended to lift the spirit. And my own tradition, which is the Hebraic tradition, suggests that you sit next to the disaster and lament. The notion of the lamentation seemed to me to be the way to do it. You don’t avoid the situation – you throw yourself into it, fearlessly.

Before I go, I ask him to sign my copy of his novel Beautiful Losers. He takes the book and looks at it, as if he hasn’t seen one in a while, then notices a passage I’ve underlined and reads it aloud.

‘How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday inside me... how can I exist as the vessel of yesterday’s slaughter?’ Not bad, he laughs. I wonder, he smiles, returning the book and walking me to the door, who I was when I wrote that.

I stand in the hotel corridor as the door to the room behind me closes. Panic almost immediately consumes me. Have I really just interviewed Leonard Cohen? What did I ask him? I can’t remember. My mind’s a complete blank. Did he even show an interest in anything I said? Yes, I think he did. But maybe he didn’t. I don’t know. Perhaps he had merely endured my presence, a notable stoic, too polite to show me the door, however inane my questions. I have to lean against the nearest wall, breathing hard. Fuck. I don’t remember getting into this kind of state after recently interviewing, I don’t know, Gary Glitter or the blokes from Mud. But, then, they didn’t write Suzanne, So Long, Marianne or Famous Blue Raincoat. I’m seized now by another worry. What if the tape recorder hasn’t worked? Oh, God. I find a quite corner in a nearby pub and check the thing. I’ve used a side and half of a C90 cassette. What if I play it back and there’s nothing but static? I press play, and there’s Cohen’s voice. The volume’s a bit low, there’s some traffic noise in the background, but nothing to worry about. That’s a relief. I have a drink to calm down and a couple more to steel me for my return to the Melody Maker office. I am in little doubt that I am shortly going to face the proverbial music, which I suspect will be a positively Wagnerian noise, a furious racket, Mick Watts its demonic conductor.

He’s at his desk at the far end of the office when I get back, head down over some copy he’s hacking lumps out of, clearly not in the best of moods.

This better be good, he says without looking up. He’s obviously spoken to someone at CBS and predictably taken a somewhat dim view of my apparently errant behaviour. I decide to play the indignant innocent (I’ve had some practise). So I describe my increasingly frantic attempts yesterday to track him down – a huge exaggeration, since I made only one half-arsed call. I tell him I was eventually so worried – positively besides myself – that MM would lose a valuable exclusive I decided to do the interview myself, thus saving the fucking day! Don’t I deserve some credit for showing a little initiative here? Mick just snorts, which has a significantly dampening effect on my wavering bravado. It’s like he’s already decided to ditch the entire feature. I tell him that if he’ll give me a chance to actually write the thing, he might, you know, want to run it after all.

Mick now appears to be thinking something over.

Write it up, then he says of my interview. But be advised, he adds with grave emphasis, that if it’s rubbish, you’re fucked.

I spend what’s left of the afternoon transcribing the tape of the interview and the rest of the night writing up the feature. It’s on his desk when he arrives the next morning, wearing some kind of fucking poncho. He picks up the copy I’ve left on his desk and tosses it into an in-tray, hardly overflowing, where it sits for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. He still hasn’t read it when I have to go out – I think I have an interview to do with Showaddywaddy or The Rubettes, somebody like that, my typical beat at the time. Anyway, it’s late when I get back to the office. There’s just Mick and MM’s great jazz writer, Max Jones, busy with his weekly expenses. Mick is packing up for the day, getting ready to go. I’m now desperate to know if he’s read the Leonard Cohen piece.

Oh, that, he says, as if I’ve just brought up something trivial, a wholly petty matter, not the feature my future at Melody Maker is apparently riding on. He seems more preoccupied, in fact, with the evidently trickier-than-it-looks task of getting the top on the Tupperware container in which he brings his pre-prepared lunches to work. His indifference to my anxiety makes me want to blow up his car. Yes, I think we can use it, he adds, rather airily, stuffing the Tupperware container into his big leather shoulder bag. Some of it, anyway.

He’s got his poncho on now. He waves good night to Max on his way out, then pauses at the door. Bryan Ferry’s got a new album coming out, he says then. You should interview him.

Since I can’t imagine he’s talking to Max, who’s sorting through a pile of crumpled receipts and sundry bar-bills from places like Ronnie Scott’s club, I guess Mick is talking to me. This is unexpected. Bryan Ferry! I want to give a little whoop, but settle for looking suitably humble (a tough one) and grateful (not so hard). So does Mick see me in some sudden new light? I have no idea. But I do get an impression – vague as it might be – that I may after all be here a bit longer than Mick had ominously predicted on my first day.

See you in the morning, he says. And he does, and for a lot more after that.

TONY IOMMI

Iommi Mansions, Warwickshire, July 1974

No doubt picking up the karmic tab for sins committed in a multiplicity of former lives, I’m deemed by the Melody Maker features desk to be the most suitable person on the editorial staff to write a piece on Black Sabbath, for which I’m supposed to interview their guitarist, Brummie bruiser Tony Iommi. The interview is duly arranged for 2:30pm on Friday, at the offices of his record company. Come that particular woebegone morn, I get a call from the record company. According to what they have to say, Tony won’t be travelling down to London from his country pile in the Midlands. Can I do the interview over the phone? This doesn’t seem to me to be anything approaching a problem. I dial the number they’ve given me.

BRRRRRINNNNG!!!!

Er... ’ello.

Is this Tony Iommi?

Er... yes.

Are you sure?

How d’yer mean?

Uh, you answered the phone and when I asked you if you were Tony Iommi, you hesitated. Like you weren’t sure who you were.

Are you taking the fucking piss, mate?

I assure him I’m not.

That’s all right, then.

I ask him why he’s up there and I’m down here, when down here together is where we both should be.

Say that again.

Why couldn’t you get down here today, Tony?

Well, says Iommi, in a voice so curiously faint I wonder what end of the receiver he’s talking into, we... er... we were all over at Ozzy’s last night, rehearsing.

And how do you feel today?

Bloody groggy, to be honest with yer.

I sympathise and ask if we can start the interview, keen to get this over with.

All right, he says. But I’m a bit untogether, like. Can’t quite think.

We start anyway. The American rock magazine Creem has just voted Black Sabbath the world’s greatest punk band, the term punk belonging then to a different lexicon than the 1977 version. There’s a silence as Tony takes this in.

Does that mean they think we’re rubbish?

No!

It sounds like they think we’re crap.

They like you.

Doesn’t sound like it ter me, he says, sounding a bit morose.

But they’ve just given you an award!

Are you sure they weren’t just taking the piss?

I am fairly sure, but decide to move on. Next question.

NO, Tony says, and I can imagine his little head shaking, foot-stamping possibly to follow as he works himself into a petulant strop. I don’t think so. I’m not in the mood. I can’t get it together enough to answer any questions. I’m feeling a bit, yer know...

Groggy?

Absolutely.

So where do we go from here?

Could you come up here? he suggests as my heart sinks faster than the Titanic, plans for the weekend scuppered and all that. Have a cuppa and a bit of a chat, he adds, as if I’ll find this irresistible.

All of which explains why the following afternoon I found myself sitting outside a railway station somewhere in the Midlands, avoiding the increasingly hostile stares of a crowd of incredibly drunken wedding guests, two of which were squaring up for a scrap, with several others urging them on while a woman in a paisley trouser suit threw up in a flower bed. I’ve been here for – what? – an hour at least, waiting for Iommi and I’m starting to nod off when there’s an almighty retching roar – the sound of something turbo-charged with smoking brakes. It’s Iommi, of course, screaming into the station car park and screeching to a halt, looking belligerent behind the wheel of something sleek.

Gerrin, he says.

We then