Читать книгу Life on Tour with Bowie - Sean Mayes - Страница 10

The Monday after rehearsals we flew out of Dallas. The rough old hire-cars took us to the airport, we had a few drinks then took off across the desert for San Diego on the west coast. Our descent was spectacular. We plunged into a lake of white cloud from which tree-covered mountain tops rose like mysterious islands and outside the portholes everything went white. Suddenly we emerged through the ceiling of cloud, flying very low over the sparkling city - coastal resort and naval base. The airport lights marked out its perimeter in the waters of the Pacific Ocean.

I was still in a daze as we were led through the busy airport terminal full of flustered Mexicans and fresh young servicemen in white caps, belts and gaiters. Outside lining the sidewalk were three long black Cadillac limousines and David’s dark blue Lincoln. We cruised between palm trees on to Harbor Island and stepped out on the crescent drive in front of our glorious hotel.

I had a beautiful, large yellow room. I put my bag down and slid aside the full length window to step onto the balcony overlooking the glittering yacht marina. On one or two of the deluxe floating apartments I could see the dull red glow of a barbecue. I made a trip to the ice machine down the corridor then stood sipping a Jack Daniels bourbon and breathing the warm ocean air. This was rock ‘n’ roll!

We all met up in the lounge bar overlooking the sea. David was in very buoyant mood and I was exhilarated to be 6000 miles from home and on the brink. The lounge band didn’t seem so excited though.

Tuesday was hot and sunny, revealing blue sea and palm trees. I breakfasted downstairs on fresh pineapple in the coffee shop overlooking the Pacific. This is California!

Later I took a cab downtown and stepped out onto the sidewalk, camera swinging. I found myself opposite a small dark shop with an attractive girl sitting outside. She called me over.

“Hi - do you want to come in for a rap?”

A rap? A wrap? A federal rap?

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Come on,” she said, “is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

“That’s all right, honey,” I said shaking my head and strolled on up the road.

Soon I found myself on a sleazy side street with a few cheap clothes shops, bars and plenty of boarded-up windows. A cop car screeched to a rocking halt just behind me. They jumped out and ran into one of the doorways. America is just like the movies! A small crowd gathered but nothing happened.

Soon I ran into Simon and Dennis who were heading for a music shop. The guy there welcomed Dennis as an old friend and invited him to try a new drum kit, so he stormed his way around it.

Back at the hotel, everyone was feeling restless and beginning to get edgy. Somehow the prospect of another twenty four hours without playing was unbearable. We wandered between each others’ rooms - television, music, a few drinks, a little smoking - no one could settle to anything. Down in the bar, I chatted to Natasha Kornilof, a small and homely figure who designed David’s stage clothes and was making last minute alterations. Tony Mascia told us how the sewing machine had been delivered to his room and the small, fussy man had insisted on explaining how to use it - until Tony gently placed him outside the door. He spread his massive hands, “What do I want to know about one of them things for?”

Wednesday kicked off with excitement turning to nervousness as the day progressed. At 4pm we left for the sound-check. I clambered into the limo clutching plastic bags of stage clothes and got my cheap camera ready to snap our first stadium… then suddenly there it was - the vast, almost sinister concrete oval looming across the deserted parking lot. At the back-stage entrance there were a couple of security guards on the gate and a few kids hanging over the railings. The cars nosed their way down the steep ramp while the steel shutter-door wound slowly up. We drove into the gloom of the building and the door closed behind us, a modern portcullis. I headed straight for the arena, bags and all, and hurried up the steps onto the stage to survey the 15,000 empty waiting seats. It was breathtaking and I gaped.

I walked out into the auditorium to get a fan’s-eye view of the stage: a five-foot platform of scaffolding with a floor of shiny black plexiglass. The backdrop was a sixteen foot fence of white neon tubes. Above and on both sides was suspended a gantry of lights so we would be playing in a cage of black metal and white light, all reflected in the ebony mirror floor. The structure looked vaguely sinister.

We took a long time getting the sound and monitors right, while an army of road crew clambered about on the gantry illuminating us from every direction.

Eric was in charge now - he was the tour manager, an emigré Scot who lived in Los Angeles. He was responsible for every facet of touring - the technical side and the welfare of musicians and road crew. Some tour managers treat the star as God and everyone else can go hang, but Eric looked after everyone and had everyone’s respect. He even told David what to do - politely!

So we retired to the dressing-rooms - concrete, windowless and ugly with a lingering locker-room aroma. But for today they are transformed, furnished with carpets, chairs and long tables spread with a cold buffet and baskets of fruit and flowers. There were large ice-bins of beers and soft drinks, and bottles of wine and spirits - Chevas Regal, Jack Daniels, Remy Martin and Stolichnaya. We would need to go gently before the show!

Eric had an assistant, Ron, a young American who had the unenviable task of looking after fifteen untogether people - hotel to gig to airport. He told us the procedure for leaving the stadium after the show.

It was funny to see everyone getting ready for the show - seven guys and seven different images. George’s black and white Japanese kimono, (sometimes he wore a long jacket and cowboy hat, visible in silhouette next to David’s elbow on the cover of Stage). Adrian’s Hawaiian shirts, my punk/‘50s look and Dennis wearing anything that came into his head. Carlos started the tour in elegant mauve velvet, but by Australia he was looking almost as punk as me! David had his own dressing-room with a long mirror and Coco busy at the ironing board, but he wandered in to chat to us. He always dreams up some new look and appeared that first night in a green PVC lounge suit and a small smile that seemed to say, “I know it’s ridiculous but I dare you to laugh!”

Eric had been shouting the time to us, “18 minutes! …11 minutes! …3 minutes, you guys!” and now herded us out of the dressing-room towards the stage. Then, “Wait here!” and we were just around the corner from the entrance and could hear the crowd. We were all nervous but excited.

“How’s your voice?”

“Oh, it should be fine now I’ve rested it.”

I hate waiting to go on and started to pogo to release the tension. A moment later we were all jumping up and down and laughing, feeling much better. Then “Let’s go!” shouted Eric and we walked around the corner in a loose bunch, David among us. The house lights were still up, stage lights down. A few people saw us, there were a few shouts, but no one thought it was starting yet because of the lights. Then they spotted him, realised this was it and the shouts spread to a roar of 15,000, a thunder of welcoming noise.

The stage was polished like glass and I felt I had forgotten how to walk, how to put one foot in front of the other. I thought I might fall over before I reached the piano. Carlos picked up his baton and walked to the front of the stage. He turned to face us. David stood at his keyboard and watched Carlos calmly. Carlos raised his arms, began the count… BOOM! The first sombre note of ‘Warsawa’ rang out and the crowd roared. BOOM! There was a glow from the lights around the stage. BOOM! The auditorium started to dim. BOOM! Darkness beyond the edge of the stage - another roar. BOOM! My eyes were watering now as the lights blazed - it was like staring at the sun. The theme started like a church organ. David had a quizzical look on his face. Carlos beamed. David grinned back then looked across to me. I felt my heart would burst. The music swelled then came to a pause, David took the mike and Sula vi… deleo echoed around the vast stadium. A roar shook the place. Simon’s eerie violin screeched out the responses. The instrumental paced steadily on. The tension in the place was palpable. Then the last few measured notes… a pause… One, two, three, “HEROES”! A frenzy burst over the crowd, people were jumping to their feet, waving their arms wildly. “He’s back! He’s back! We love you!”

There is something miraculous about first nights. The things you always got wrong in rehearsals come out right, unexpected mistakes go unnoticed, a joyous fear carries you through.

‘What In The World’ - the first half of this was now a limping reggae beat. We had been fooling around at rehearsals one day waiting for David, when he arrived and liked it so it stayed. The last verse was at full tilt and the lights blazed again, showing up scores of faces down in front of us. More relaxed now, I started to scan for foxes (good-lookers) and anything crazy or funny - the different images, the look-alikes.

I soon noticed something eerie - hundreds of pairs of large, round pale discs of light gazing down from the sides of the bowl… binoculars were de rigeur at these big American concerts but I simply thought: Diamond Dogs! It was as if some strange creatures were peering out of caves in the walls.

I won’t go right through that first night, I was concentrating so hard most of it didn’t register.

‘Fame’ was David’s biggest hit in the States and it finished the first half.

“We’ll be back in ten short minutes,” he lied, and with a wave we all disappeared back-stage, talking our heads off to anyone around, grabbing a drink, exulting. Twenty minutes later we walked out again, this time with the house lights down. Dennis started the limping drum beat of ‘Five Years’ (something he never quite got right!) and there were shouts and cheers though it was hard to tell if anyone recognised it. Then David appeared to an ecstatic welcome - snakeskin drapecoat and huge baggy white pants. David, you look ridiculous and I love you!

“I’d like to introduce my band… Sean Mayes on piano!”

Careful not to trip over leads, I ran to the front of the stage and gave a thumbs up to the invisible crowd, a broad grin on my face.

“Simon House on violin!” who bowed coolly with a small smile.

So he continued through the band then we crashed out the first chord - THRUM… Pushing through the market square… delight from 15,000… Five years… people were holding up five spread fingers, mouthing the words.

Then the bombshells followed - ‘Soul love’! ‘Star’! David dancing, bouncing, kicking - this is not Bowie posing, it’s David having a ball. ‘Hang On To Yourself’! The neons spill daylight across the jumping crowd. Ziggy played guitar… a roar for this anthem. ‘Suffragette City’… and there’s electric expectancy until Aaaah… Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma’am! as the crowd leapt to its feet shouting.

Tonight and on most of the American tour he played ‘Rock ‘n’ roll Suicide’ and as the lights came up there he was with a cigarette in his hand, a souvenir of conceits of the past.

“What on earth can I do after Ziggy?” he had wondered one day at rehearsal.

“Have to be something to bring the energy right down - you can’t top it,” I said “How about ‘Art Decade’?” And ‘Art Decade’ it now was with the strange coloured spotlights swinging round to discover the crowd. As they realised he could see them they jumped up, waving, hoping to catch his eye and a gentle little instrumental turned into a near-riot.

Then followed ‘Station to Station’, Roger’s steam engine so realistic you could almost see the steam and smell the sulphur. The song built with strong piston strokes, up and up until - It’s not the side effect of the cocaine - I’m thinking that it must be love! It is love. Every light opens up - spotlights stab, floods blaze, neon glares - white out! It nearly lifts me from my seat. It’s too late! It is - it’s a landslide. It’s too late! No wonder he wanted a rock ‘n’ roll piano player. The European cannon is here… is David the European cannon? Who cares - David is here. The final romp, over and over, not wanting it ever to end. The return of the thin white duke, making pure white stains. The guitar pizzicato, pure ‘50s, tiptoes out - a quick bow and we’re running off.

Back for a double encore, ‘TVC15’ and ‘Stay’, finishing with an ecstatic, bouncing ‘Rebel Rebel’, David camp in his sailor’s cap, grinning broadly. The bouncers have given up the task of keeping everyone from the barriers and now it’s just a sea of people on their feet, on other people’s feet, on chairs, on shoulders, waving arms, throwing flowers, scarves… he catches one bunch of roses and the crowd somehow manage to raise a cheer above the rest.

Suddenly it’s over, we run off. The limos are waiting in a line, doors open, engines purring. Ron shouts - “Sean in here - Carlos there - where’s George?” The steel shutter is rolling up, the cars surge forward, a few cops keep the kids outside from making human sacrifices, and we’re zig-zagging fast through the packed parking lot, escaping before the 15,000. More police halt traffic while we swing out on to the main road, then we’re cruising back to the hotel.

“Any beers back there? Someone got an opener? God, turn the heat off! Hi sweetheart! Anyone seen my jacket?”

In the hotel bar David was ecstatic, hugging us and bubbling over with delight. The show had been a success and after the tension of the past few days, we all felt a surge of joy. The lobby was full of fans and they gradually infiltrated the bar. David sat in a corner with the rest of us around him as a buffer. The kids came up in ones and twos for autographs and to say how knocked out they were with the show.

Now imagine the scene - a posh lounge bar full of businessmen and elderly vacationers, on-stage the cabaret band making a polite sound behind the conversation. Then Dennis came over and said it was OK with the band if we wanted to jam on their gear… The next twenty minutes proved that some of us were rockers, others raised on funk and all of us well-oiled. After a few false starts we played the only music we all knew - Bowie songs, ones we had learned but dropped before the show - ‘Sound And Vision’ etc. During one solo, David sat down on-stage and smiled at the audience who just stared from behind their tables. The fans at the back must have been flipping to see David let his hair down but the worthies in front of us didn’t even recognise him! Soon we all fled giggling to our corner and the musak returned. Amazingly our pub-rock gig got a friendly review next day in The Los Angeles Times!

I can remember little of our early departure the next morning which is hardly surprising. We flew over a strange desert landscape scored by straight white roads which seemed to form a geometric pattern and lead nowhere. Phoenix, Arizona, welcomed us with hot sunshine and the gig went well. We had the next day free and lazed around the hotel pool. David, who wishes he could swim like a dolphin, cannot swim at all but lay there in dark glasses and turquoise trunks improving his tan while a handful of fans huddled bug-eyed behind the fence.

That evening, to my surprise, we were able to saunter out of the hotel and walk down the road to a Japanese restaurant. We were on the outskirts of town and the road was quiet, the sky very dark and distant. We seemed to be out of time and place - two days into a world tour and we could step aside for an evening.

The restaurant was traditional and we removed our shoes at the door and sat on the floor at a long, low table. I had never tasted Japanese food before but David ordered the unusual delicacies (raw fish, seaweed) for those of us with the courage to try. He told us about Japan, a place he loves. He takes holidays there but has only toured once, in 1973.

When we left, David thanked the kimonoed waitresses and they laughed with high, tinkling voices behind delicate hands. One or two shyly requested autographs. We shall be in Japan in December and I try to imagine it as we walk back under the palm trees.

Fresno is a large industrial town in California - not my image of that sunshine state. This was the gig where we shook out all our mistakes - and left them there! But Los Angeles was waiting.