Читать книгу Life on Tour with Bowie - Sean Mayes - Страница 8

Nowadays I suppose everyone knows what Dallas is like. But in 1978 it seemed rather an unglamorous place to be rehearsing a David Bowie World Tour. I had flown out from London and checked into a smart but dull hotel on a dusty freeway fifteen miles from downtown Dallas. Just down the road was the rehearsal studio, a large windowless warehouse with a low stage at one end. Outside, the Texas sun blazed down but inside it was dark with occasional pools of light - rather like the music we were playing.

David hadn’t arrived yet but Carlos Alomar was taking us through the numbers, handing out sheets of chords and singing the lead line as we strummed through. The music was a strange mixture - I had lain on my hotel bed with a cassette, listening in despair to the instrumentals on Side 2 of “Heroes” - I couldn’t tell where one track ended and the next began! What on earth was I doing out here? But then we ran through ‘Suffragette City’ and I happily rocked away remembering the excitement of the ‘73 tours.

Back then, David was Ziggy Stardust - sassy and outrageous, the last word in decadence - and I was in the rock ‘n’ roll band Fumble opening the show on his American tour. We finally said “Goodbye” to David at the end of that tour in Los Angeles, but whenever I heard a Bowie record after that I sometimes wondered if he ever remembered Fumble and a piano player called Sean.

Five years later I got a phone call: “Would you like to play piano for David Bowie?” Would I just! I was still with Fumble, appearing in Elvis!, the West End musical, so we found another piano player to take my place for a while. I said “See you!” to Fumble and caught the plane.

Now I was sitting at a grand-piano at one side of the stage and had a good view of the rest of the band. Just near me in front of the piano was Simon House, the only other British musician - he used to be in Hawkwind. Tall, thin and very laid back, Simon was playing electric violin and had a look somewhere between Paganini and Keith Richards.

At the front of the stage was Carlos, singing and conducting us with sharp chops of his guitar neck. He is David’s musical director and first met him when his wife Robin Clarke was doing vocals on Young Americans and she invited David back for dinner. He’s from Puerto Rico, relaxed and friendly with a smile you could read a contract by.

On this tour, David was using his usual black rhythm section - Carlos on guitar with Dennis Davis on drums and George Murray on bass - but the rest of the band were new - Adrian Belew on lead guitar, Roger Powell on keyboards and synthesizers, Simon and me. At first I was a little nervous of the others. I thought they might snub a rock ‘n’ roll player, but in fact they were all as friendly as could be - no prima donnas.

Dennis is crazy and irrepressible, always joking, sometimes deadpan, possibly the original inspiration for Animal, the Muppets drummer. George is the complete opposite, very quiet - Lonesome George Murray as Carlos says. These three had been with David ever since ‘the plastic soul’ days in 1975.

At the far side of the stage were the other two ‘new boys’. Adrian is from Kentucky, a slight figure. In his dungarees he looks like a farmer from a Norman Rockwell painting. David spotted him in Frank Zappa’s band in Berlin and asked him to join. He has a quirky sense of humour which Zappa appreciated on-stage but not so much off.

Roger, surrounded by synthesizers, is a college graduate type - he links up computers to his keyboards and flies to Japan to demonstrate them for the manufacturers. A dry sense of humour mellows his academic personality but I think David was wary of his obvious intellect.

We were a mixed bunch but somehow got on well together. The different musical styles blended too and soon we began to feel like a band.

On Wednesday afternoon while we were rehearsing, a small group of people came into the gloom at the back of the studio, closing the door on the brilliant sunshine outside. As they approached the stage I recognised a slight, nondescript figure with fair hair and completely forgot what I was playing.

David looked tired and drawn after his 11,000 mile flight from Kenya. He had been relaxing there after filming Just a Gigolo in Berlin. He wore baggy trousers and a neutral short-sleeved shirt with a narrow tie, loosely knotted - “This one’s from Bromley Tech!” - and looked quite ordinary compared with the last time I had seen him.

“Look,” he grinned proudly, “I’ve got a suntan.”

“You call that a tan?” drawled a Texan voice from the back of the room and we all laughed.

Though exhausted by travel, he was really excited at having a new band to play with and immediately jumped on-stage and started going through numbers. Finally Coco had to drag him away before he wrecked his voice.

Coco, aka Corrine Schwab, was David’s constant companion - his personal assistant, wet-nurse and wardrobe mistress, who kept a very low profile with the press. Coco is small and bird-like with close-cropped hair. She is French- American, grew up all over the world including Haiti and Switzerland and has, as you may imagine, an unplaceable accent. Her knowledge of several languages proved very useful on their travels, but so too did her natural instinct for coping with anything. She is not unflappable but her panics are good for getting things done! I believed it was more important to get on with Coco than with David and fortunately we took to each other immediately!

The next day things really got moving and the ordinary young man began to generate energy, excitement and humour. There was a chemistry about the band which was subtle but crucial and it was a great feeling as the music came together.

The atmosphere at rehearsals was not what I’d expected. Anyone watching would think Carlos was in charge and David seemed like a kid who’d been allowed to sing with the band but doesn’t think the musicians are going to take him seriously. I know he is shy and got the impression that much of his joking and bounce were intended to cover his diffidence. He never told us what to do but suggested things - “How about this… Let’s try that…” He was very quick to pick up on good ideas. “What was that? - it sounded great! Can you make it a bit more raunchy?”

He told me later on the tour, “I’m very suspicious of virtuosity. I like people who play with an original style and I choose people who I think can contribute something.”

He allowed us great freedom and encouraged us to be creative but it was still very much his music - he seemed to direct by a process of inspiration and there was never any doubt that the final result was just what he wanted. Still he clowned, grinned, cavorted, forgot words, made up silly ones and constantly glanced at Carlos to make sure he was doing the right bit of a song. It made for a relaxed atmosphere. Time takes a cigarette… sticks it up your arse…!

Rehearsals were fun but exhausting. We worked solidly from 10 in the morning till 8 or 9 at night. Most tours take a month to prepare but we had only two weeks so the pressure was on.

The studio was comfortable with all the gear, a complete monitor system and a small PA. Showco was the tour company, based in Dallas, which is why we were rehearsing there. The crew was an entertaining mixture of Texans and Californians. David was rather taken with the southern accent and Adrian’s all-purpose Texan exclamation, “Hell-God-Baby-Damn!” became a tour catch-phrase. We were well looked after - they’d bring food in and you only had to raise an eyebrow to get a beer or juice rushed over. After one or two near-spills I stuck a tape across the black Steinway piano with a notice NO DRINKS BEYOND THIS LINE before anything got upset into the works.

Diary Notes:

Friday 17th March: Dallas: Notes on my birthday. D down to breakfast - seems strange but of course he doesn’t excite attention, dressed very conservatively. People don’t know he’s here. His tan is less pink and more becoming. Pushes his hair back off his face and is looking more like the old DB as he loses his tie, and dons a cream gaberdine cap.

In ‘Hang On To Yourself’, everyone jamming madly on the last section, he pogos to the obvious feel of the number and gives a quick grin. In ‘Blackout’ he starts to bop, throws a leg up in a ballet/karate move. Everyone is moving more now anyway. The first show, it just struck us, is only twelve days away. San Diego, wow!

In the car coming across this afternoon a few of us were discussing what we would wear, and that David would look so smooth that everyone else would look ridiculous. There’s a girl downtown who makes spacesuits, someone remembered…

(A few days later we made a hilarious trip there with Adrian but he decided such a suit would be too hot on-stage.)

That afternoon I came into the studio to discover three huge dark bottles of Moët & Chandon champagne on the piano standing firmly on the wrong side of the NO DRINK line. Also a shoe box tied with a mauve lurex leg warmer. The box was bulging with crazy striped socks - A very merry birthday for Sean from Bowie 78.

It was indeed a merry birthday. At that point we had never ventured beyond the hotel, being too tired most nights for more than a quick nightcap and sleep. But I was determined my birthday should be our first escape into downtown Dallas, and we all drove into town to a raunchy Texan rock club called Mother Blues. Drinks were on the house and we’d already polished off the champagne back at the studio. The live music was loud, so someone led us upstairs. We just found a wreck of an old dressing-room and sat around on broken chairs and burst cushions. The ‘air-conditioning’ was a gaping window frame through which I could see David’s dark blue Lincoln limousine. Tony, his huge driver and bodyguard, stood impassively by the door, no expression on his face.

“Well,” I said delightedly, “it makes a change from the hotel!”

I was amused to see David slumming it, though later I heard that this was like many of the dressing rooms on the Iggy Pop tour when David played piano for him. The drinks kept coming and later we drifted downstairs again. Fortunately I made it back to the hotel before being very sick indeed - I took Saturday’s rehearsal carefully, much to David’s amusement.

Tony Mascia and his limousine will be familiar to anyone who has seen The Man Who Fell To Earth (or The Cat Who Fell Down, as Dennis calls it). Tony is a true Italian from the Bronx and used to be Rocky Marciano’s sparring partner. He is large and solid and I can’t imagine anything getting him too excited - the ideal guy to look after our hero. He never looks truly comfortable away from his car.

Apart from my birthday, we hardly left the hotel, which stood in splendid isolation between an industrial estate and a muddy wasteland. It was a deluxe cell-block with a disco on the nth floor full of swinging middle-aged polyester businessmen in tired suits, served by bunny-style waitresses with fixed smiles. Breakfast apart - I love American breakfasts - the hotel food was dull and not cheap. The hotel motto was ‘We know what you want’ and I imagined this chanted by a seedy garden gnome with plastic wings. You were encouraged to feel about as individual as an inflight meal.

My room was large and comfortable though and I tried to make it feel like home. This meant papers everywhere and the typewriter in the middle of it all. I put my ‘Good Luck’ cards from home on the TV, covered the ghastly wall picture with an Elvis poster and played classical cassettes late at night. On my sixth floor balcony I put a plastic trash can full of ice and imported beers. I did miss my cat.

Dallas itself is a typical southern city, a background of bleached desert tones scrawled over with neon. Mostly long, low buildings on wide dusty roads where every customised fast food establishment glows like a giant’s toy in the splendour of its own parking lot. At the centre of this sprawling grid the downtown pile of sharp office blocks juts like a designer mountain of glass and concrete. In 1978, I somehow couldn’t see the glamour of Dallas!

I did love the cars, though. During the rehearsal period we were ferried between hotel and studio in beat-up old hire cars, but they were still large and American with spongy suspensions, the metal hot and burnished under the Texas sun.

One day, early on, David said, “Let’s do the whole of the Ziggy Stardust album - that’ll surprise them!”

We finally settled on six numbers but only after learning the whole lot. It was a strange experience for me - like a time warp back to 1973. Once when he sang I’m a space invader! he turned towards us with his fingers circling his eyes - the Martian goggles. “Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah… Do you remember that?” he called as the number finished.

I remembered only too well the monster who once mesmerised us all and held me very much in awe when Fumble were touring with him. His appearance then was bizarre even off-stage. His white skin had a waxy translucence and his eyebrows were plucked right off. He looked as if the blood had fled his face into that alien hair. His clothes were that pre-punk style he created with a sidelong glance at the ‘50s - tight fitting, black and savage colours, more plastic than glitter - the glitter was in his eyes, unnaturally bright.

“I never thought I’d be singing Hey man! along with you on-stage one day,” I said.

“I never thought I’d be doing Ziggy in 78!” said David with a grin.

When Adrian was working on the solo to ‘Hang on’ Simon remarked that it reminded him of the trombone theme to the old radio series Hancock’s Half Hour. David laughed and said that tune had in fact inspired him!

We had one break from the heavy schedule on the evening when they first screened The Rutles (the Beatles spoof). We were all keen to see it as almost every one of us owed his original impulse to pick up a guitar to the Fab Four. We finished early that night and rushed back to the hotel. Then David phoned me.

“Do you want to come up to my suite and watch the programme with me and Coco?”

At times like this you forget you’ve been working all day with the guy and I felt thrilled at the honour! But, of course, he was ringing round inviting everyone and his room was soon full of the group plus one or two wives, girlfriends and even a baby.

We all fell about over the programme and David had fun imagining how John (Lennon) would react.

“I’m sure he’s watching it but he’ll probably pretend he didn’t bother!” David’s loud laugh still echoes his Cockney youth. “Let’s get the LP and use it as the intro music for the show.”

So we were soon to be jumping around back-stage singing Hold my hand, yeah yeah! getting in the mood to go on-stage.

Towards the end of rehearsals, David’s voice gave out and we spent the last few days running through the complete set while the lighting crew got the hang of the show. Everyone was getting nervous and we were far from note-perfect, but finally the time ran out. On Saturday, 25th March, two weeks after I’d arrived in Dallas, three huge trucks of gear were driving west across the desert headed for San Diego, our first gig.

That night we all went out to a bowling alley, a huge place with twenty lanes, plus bars, pool tables, etc. We were in a lively mood and kept shouting to each other to watch the TV where they were showing old Ed Sullivan Show specials including classic snatches of Presley and the Beatles.

Later some of us moved to the pool tables. I went to the bar to order some beers and the barman wondered if I was from England.

“What are you doing over here?” he asked, just to be friendly.

I hesitated a moment then muttered something about holidays and travelling. I suddenly realised that if I told him what I was really doing I’d break the spell of that free evening. There was David chalking a cue and asking the young guy at the next table something about the rules, and no one dreamed who he was. Then it was brought home to me just how precious moments like this must be to someone of his status and how much I should hate to give up such simple pleasures myself. Fame!

When David sat down later, he tucked one leg up under him and I noticed that the sole of his shoe was as clean as the day he’d bought it. OK, maybe the shoes were new, but it struck me that he hardly ever sets foot in the street. It’s all hotels, limousines, sterilised airports - the life I was about to lead. I shivered, feeling poised at the top of a rollercoaster about to sweep across the world.