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CHAPTER 3

WEST COAST

Monday, 3rd April

I caught a glimpse of the ocean as we flew down over green hills and canyons into Los Angeles. Soon buildings were flashing past our wing-tips and the plane bumped gently down on the hot tarmac. We emerged into dazzling sunshine, palm trees shading the sidewalk, and everyone was in good spirits as the limos cruised across the city to Hollywood - and they really do cruise on the wide LA boulevards.

Hollywood is not a giant film set, as I used to imagine, but the central area of Los Angeles where the film studios are based. Sunset Boulevard runs right through it for miles till it meets the ocean. Our hotel was on a steep hill just off the Boulevard - a bright white two-storey building with a striped awning almost lost in lush tropical vegetation. The hotel suites formed a square around the swimming-pool edged with plastic grass. I unpacked and made a few phone calls trying to track down friends, then we were off to the gig.

The Forum is a huge sports auditorium - 19,000 and very impressive. A TV crew arrived for a brief interview with David. As we walked the long route to the stage, they scuffled backwards before him and the rest of us jostled cheerfully for camera angles. Then Eric gave the shout, cameras were forgotten and we strolled out to mount the scaffolding of our first real biggie. I felt as if my heart was pumping pure adrenalin round my system and it was an effort to breathe. The audience must have felt the same way as ‘Warsawa’ boomed round this space age forum.

Back in 1973, the crowds at smaller gigs were always full of freaks, red-headed and otherwise. Today, the thousands who come are mostly regular rock fans with just a sprinkling of ‘wowies’. But some places still celebrate and Los Angeles is one of them - at least the camp followers made good ‘n’ sure they got seats at the front. There was a heady feeling of celebrity facing celebrity with the show being staged on both sides of the footlights - David Bowie meets Los Angeles at The Forum.

After the show, another surging get-away, then we took a couple of limos over to The Rainbow Club on Sunset Strip, not far from the hotel. This was a place to see and be seen, but nice and casual. We marched in under the gaze of the girl on the door. She has seen it all and you can read anything into that gaze - awe, boredom, greed, fatigue, even welcome? We headed straight for a large round corner table and set up court while a hundred divine close friends came to pay homage - and in LA everyone has at some time met, spoken to, been to bed with, been at a party with, or knows a friend of, David and every other star.

“Loved the show, David…” “Hi David, what have you been up to…” “Jimmy sends his love…” “Darling, you’re looking marvellous…” Lethal smiles like laser beams are flashed from one close friend to another.

I took a wander about the club looking for talent. The people standing about watched me coolly, looked very unapproachable - as I expect I did myself. You know, I have a theory that most cool crowds are composed of shy, lonely people who steel themselves to run the gauntlet of the city’s top clubs and daren’t smile at anyone. Just recently I was in a fashionable London club: David was standing at the bottom of the stairs and people nodded to him as they passed. When we left one kid came running out after us along the pavement. “David, please can I have your autograph? I couldn’t ask you in there.” Then he kissed him and ran off, as excited as any schoolboy.

Back in The Rainbow, the lights finally went up as the place was closing and everyone stood up to go. People were still rushing up to say their bit, delaying our departure, as I stood on the edge of the throng.

“Hey, who are they making all the fuss about over there?” A slight brunette called Anna was standing beside me looking up with large dark eyes. She wore a slinky but unsensational soft patterned dress and a black wool shawl about her shoulders, Spanish style. I explained who all the fuss was about.

“Oh, I just looked in to find my girlfriend - I didn’t know he was here.” She looked at the fair head within the scrum. “I don’t know how all those people can just go up and try to talk to him.”

“Most of them seem to know him.”

“Oh, do you know him?”

“Yes - I play piano in the band.”

We chatted for a few minutes until everyone drifted outside. Anna didn’t spot her friend till we were sitting in the limo. Most of the crowd were hanging around outside looking lost. We drew alongside a particularly garish blonde in tight pink satin pants and the window hummed open. “Do you want to come back for a party?” But she didn’t - she looked at the Cadillac as if it was a cattle truck. So the window hummed up and the car slid on to Sunset Strip. There was no party when we got back. Anna and I said “goodnight” to the others and chatted over bourbon till we fell asleep.

Next day we breakfasted on waffles with syrup and ice-cream down on Santa Monica.

* * *

In the middle of our LA week, we flew up to San Francisco for a show. On the plane, a young woman in tweed suit and glasses leaned across the aisle to ask me if that was David Bowie travelling first class. We got talking. The lady, Carol, ran a photographic studio in San Francisco with her friend Charles. She said I could phone her after the gig and they could show me something of the city.

We stayed at the Hyatt Regency down by the harbour. The architect had certainly had fun. It was a vast hollow pyramid, three sides that met in a point thirty storeys above our heads. Instead of corridors there were open galleries linking the rooms on each floor. The elevators were glass-sided and zipped up the wall on open tracks. I stepped out shakily on the fifteenth floor. Far below was a restaurant open to the vault with a lamp hanging from the roof on a 29-storey cable!

I retreated into the room which was to be mine for the next eighteen hours - twin double-beds, a sea of thick, soft, wall-to-wall, a view of modern towers and ancient roofs. I found some jazz on the radio and stripped off to shower away the flight with hotel soap, shampoo, bath scent, face-flannel and an acre of matching bath towel.

I went out for postcards and razor-blades and was tempted to jump on a cable car climbing one of those San Francisco hills, but we soon had to leave for the gig.

We nosed on to a flyover rising to circle a couple of ’scrapers and headed out over the bay on a mile of multistorey bridge bound for Oakland Coliseum.

On a long tour your memory of individual gigs becomes blurred but certain things stand out. In “Heroes” David soon started to hit a new high note in the fourth verse - deadpan delivery jumps an octave - And I, I would be king… and YOU! would be my queen. You can hear this on Stage and every time it would give me a lift. When he didn’t sing it, I felt cheated.

When we got back after the show, Coco called me to say David was inviting everyone to a Japanese restaurant and could they all meet in my room? I ran around the vault to the ice-machine and twenty minutes later most of the group were sitting around sipping bourbon or beer while David was looking through a photo album. For years on the road with Fumble I always carried a cheap 35mm camera and now had a ‘Best of…’ album including a few from David’s ’73 tour.

The photographers Carol and Charles arrived and I gave them drinks. I had asked David if a couple of friends could come along. Everything was relaxed until Charles produced a camera.

“Hey David, I’m a freelance photographer and I wonder if I could take a few shots of you…”

David groaned “Oh, no” and put his head in his hands. Coco jumped up between him and the offending weapon. Tony looked coolly in Charles’ direction. I wanted to die.

Perhaps I was taken for a fool - it was certainly careless not to tell them, “Don’t bring a camera.” Charles appeared hurt by David’s refusal, “You shouldn’t cut yourself off from people like this!” Before things went any further I had to do something. Having invited them I should look after them so as the others got up to go I said to go on without me and tried to explain to my two guests why DB & Co. sometimes freak out at the sight of a camera.

So the three of us went to a cheap Chinese restaurant with a crazy waiter. Charles explained that he was always taking photos and did so throughout the meal. When we came out it was pouring with rain, water gushing down the steep streets. I was wearing sandals so my striped birthday socks were soon soaked.

At the airport next day I apologised to David over breakfast.

“I thought they looked a bit predatory,” he commented.

“I knew something was up when I saw her talking to you on the plane,” said Coco.

“Oh well, I’ll know next time,” I said ruefully.

On Friday, Eric had a party at his house. Anna came round and we drove out of Hollywood up through a canyon. The steep road wound between banks of lush tropical vegetation, the heavy limousine settling into each hairpin bend like a steamer into a trough. We caught glimpses of the extraordinary homes which eccentric people have built over the decades - villas, palaces, cabins, churches, Spanish, Greek, Moorish, delights and monstrosities, smart and shabby, dazzling and derelict.

We climbed out of the soft depths of the car to breathe the scented air. The lowering afternoon sun glowed on a green garden which seemed on loan from the jungle, and a comfortable house clung to the side of the hill.

It was a real treat to be in someone’s home, not a hotel. We met Chris, Eric’s lady, a golden-haired Californian. There was a smoking barbecue and tubs of iced beers, everything pleasantly relaxed. Later we all crowded into a back room with David to watch the TV spot from The Forum. On-stage they showed ‘Jean Genie’ (I suppose they always will) and I was interested to see how much David projected to the front, which I wasn’t aware of behind my piano.

Then we wandered about, perused Eric’s collection of souvenirs - gold discs of Jim Hendrix, Linda Ronstadt, James Taylor and David and some striking live photos.

Later Anna had to go, so we rode down in one of the waiting cars. Coming back up I sat in front with Jason the driver, clean-cut in his uniform. He told me he had studied philosophy before his chauffeur job, which is funny because I took philosophy before joining a group. In his quiet way he seemed to be a character you would only meet in America - not typical but truly American. I found his politeness strange and put it down to a professional manner but looking back I feel that may have been the way he was.

Back at Eric’s, Jason stayed in the car and declined even a soft drink. I headed back into the party where I met my friend Art, whom I knew from 1973 when Fumble supported David on his US tour. A rock ‘n’ roll freak, Art was delighted at a ‘50s band turning up with the record company he worked for. As he and I are both typewriter bashers we have managed to stay in touch. It was good to see him again and catch up on news from the past few years. Eric appeared, “Hey there, guys, everything OK? Want to join me in a vodka?” He produced a bottle of one hundred per cent proof, frosted and smoking from the freezer and poured us each a fierce slug which burned all the way down.

Later we roared down the canyon in Art’s VW Beetle and went to a couple of bars. I enjoyed ligging about in LA, swigging beers, chatting to one or two friends of his. He just introduced me as a guy from an English band. I was surprised at first but realised it made sense. I’ve since learned it’s better not to mention the Bowie connection first thing on meeting someone or the conversation always hits the same groove.

As he drove me back to the hotel I said, “You know, I feel strange being in a top band. It’s funny how these things happen.” He told me how he used to be chummy with Bob Dylan (they both liked Jerry Lee Lewis). One night Bob told him, “I’m putting a new band together - know any good guitarists?” “What an opportunity to do someone a favour”, Art said, “but I just couldn’t think of anyone at the time!”

Next morning we had breakfast in a little roadside café, a Californian concoction of eggs, crispy bacon, fresh fruit and salad, then went to a couple of garage sales. LA is a collector’s paradise - clothes, cars, bikes, furniture, records, kitsch - you can pick up a chunk of the American Dream for a few dollars. Then it was time to join the excursion. Into the limos, on to the plane, off to Houston, Texas, and the south.