Читать книгу The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones - Stanley Booth - Страница 14

THREE

Why is the jass music, and therefore, the jass band? Jass was a manifestation of a low streak in man’s tastes that has not yet come out in civilisation’s wash. Indeed one might go farther and say that jass music is the indecent story syncopated and counter-pointed. Like the improper anecdote, also, in its youth, it was listened to blushingly behind closed doors and drawn curtains, but, like all vice, it grew bolder until it dared decent surroundings, and there was tolerated because of this oddity . . . on certain natures sound loud and meaningless has an exciting, almost an intoxicating effect, like crude colours and strong perfumes, the sight of flesh or the sadic pleasure in blood. To such as these the jass music is a delight . . .

New Orleans Times-Picayune, 1918

I woke up under a Wizard of Oz bedspread, magenta and turquoise, with Dorothy and the Scarecrow and all the rest of them in a balloon. There were a pair of single beds in the room, where rich little Du Ponts used to sleep. David Sandison spent the night in the other bed, but he was already up. I showered and dressed looking out over Los Angeles, invisible under a dense elephant-colored cloud. Then I strolled the length of the house to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. It was odd to wake up in a big characterless house on a sunny morning when you couldn’t see the rest of the world around you for the noxious vapors and to open the fridge and find bottles of raw milk and whole-grain bread. California. It was ten o’clock, and I was sitting at the circular breakfast bar eating an orange and whole-wheat bread with blackberry preserves, recording things in my midget legal notebook.

Jo Bergman told me as I passed the office, where she and Sandison were working on the publicity kits for this morning’s press conference, that Ronnie Schneider had gone back to New York for a few days. I figured that should make him easier to avoid.

Jo, David, and I left early for the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where the press conference would take place, in one of the limousines that were on duty around the clock at all three of the Stones’ L.A. abodes – our place with the Watts family on Oriole Drive, the Laurel Canyon house where Keith and the two Micks were staying, and the Beverly Wilshire, where Bill Wyman and Astrid would be until Jo could ‘get them a house together.’ This did not imply any question of her getting them separate houses; it simply meant until Jo got them, rented for them, a house. ‘Together’ was Californian, or Hip, as obscenity used to be Army. There were certain words and phrases used by people who liked to think themselves hip, au courant, and the hip people in London or Los Angeles or Katmandu, the farthest spot in the world from Coral Gables, Florida, all used them, but you heard them used most, and regular English used least, in California. Out here whole neighborhoods had been talking for weeks, since they learned the Stones were coming, without resorting to even the most basic English: ‘Far-out dudes, man.’ ‘Heavy.’ ‘What a trip.’ All of which might mean nothing or might be code for some mysterious poetic message, like Catullus speaking from the grave about Mick’s sullen grace, Keith’s cold killer beauty.

Jo, born in Oakland, California, reared in the United States and England, had spent most of her adult life working for celebrities, and spoke a mixture of Hip and an even more esoteric language, Celebrity Code: ‘Did I tell Mick the telegram—? She’ll kill me— A baby, that’s really far out!’ she would say, all in a kind of intense breathless Lady Macbeth rush of pleasure and excitement, even genuine wholehearted concern, speaking this tongue in which words, phrases, entire paragraphs were omitted, leaving anyone who didn’t know the code, or the private affairs of the celebrity being talked about, leaning forward listening with a game smile to the fervent delivery, the smile becoming more glazed as the gaps widened. Celebrity Code is a great and ancient language, difficult to learn, and I never heard anybody speak it better than Jo Bergman.

The conference was to be in the San Souci (sic) Room at the Wilshire; we entered it through a labyrinth of bars and luncheon rooms. The Los Angelesization of Los Angeles had not yet reached the Beverly Wilshire, where the San Souci Room glowed softly in the gentle radiance of its crystal light fixtures, the harsh Southern California sun shut out by damask and organdy drapes, but it seemed near: outside the window an air hammer was making a racket that threatened to become mayhem, as if at any moment the bit might come through the wall. ‘What’s that god-awful noise?’ Jo asked the hotel’s man, whose blue pin-striped suit we were following into the room.

‘Ah, what time’s your meeting?’

‘Eleven-thirty.’

‘They’ll be stopping at eleven.’

Fifty or sixty folding chairs had been arranged in semi-circles before a long table; to the right were a bar and another table with tea and coffee services and fruit salad and little cakes, big bouquets on the tables. I wandered around the room making notes, the air hammer stopped, Steckler showed up, and the press began to arrive. They all appeared to be in their early twenties, most of them carrying notebooks, cameras, and tape recorders, all dressed in the current style, achieved by spending large sums of money to look poor and bedraggled, like a new race of middle-class gypsies. They ate like gypsies, snatching up the cakes and fruit and drinks.

Close to eleven-thirty, three television crews arrived, their dress running more to business suits and ties. With one of them was Rona Barrett, the televised Hollywood gossip, a small woman whose large blonded hairdo was frozen within a layer of spray shellac. She perched on a folding chair, a cultured pearl among the suede and denim.

At noon the Stones stumbled into the room in single file like drunken Indians and arranged themselves at the long table. Flashbulbs popped. Television cameras hissed. The Stones sat and scratched their heads.

With the Stones, sitting next to Keith, was another young Englishman, wearing a burgundy-colored leather jacket, dark glasses, and piratical dark greasy locks. He was Sam Cutler, a recent addition to the Stones’ entourage whose function, other than to carry whatever Keith would not want to be caught carrying, was unclear.

Finally the flashes stopped and for a long moment there were no questions, no one could think what to ask, the confrontation was enough: three years ago when the Stones last toured the United States, most of the people now here to interview them were teenagers screaming in darkened arenas their adoration of the Stones, who were going in the interim to be arrested, to swap women, to break up, to die, and yet here they are, elbows on the table.

The younger reporters, most of whom if the place had been raided would probably have gone down for possession of dope, did not look like any the Stones had seen before at an American press conference. But this generation, like every other, contained mostly dull-normal people who needed others to live their lives for them. Luckily there are always a few people who can and do live other people’s lives for them. They are the stars of the time, and at this time no public figure was so loved and hated as Mick Jagger, what a name, a name to open sardine tins with. Jagger sat smiling in lime-colored trousers, an open-throated black silk shirt with green and white flecks, some kind of large animal tooth hanging on a chain below his strong but delicately fashioned – like a silver necklace – collarbone.

If the questions here were like most of the ones I had been asked about the Stones, they would be short and direct: Are you queer? What kind of dope do you take? Did you kill Brian? But the first questions, fielded by Jagger, revealed only that the Stones’ new album, Let It Bleed, would be finished and released in about three weeks, and that the Stones had no real plans for a record label of their own. ‘That’s about all we’ll get, the label,’ Mick said. ‘Unless you hire a fleet of lorries and sell the records for half price there’s no point in it.’

The meeting, it appeared, would be friendly and dull, without the conflict that once characterized the Stones’ encounters with the press. So the great feeling of unity with the Stones this crowd would have had three years ago watching them meet the press on television was missing, and a reporter was moved to ask for a reply to the statement in Ralph Gleason’s column of the day before that ‘the price of tickets for your concerts was too high and that a lot of people who would like to see you can’t really afford it.’

Without seeming to defer in the slightest degree to the prattling of a middle-aged jazz columnist, Mick generously said, ‘Maybe we can fix something up for those people.’

‘A free concert?’ someone asked, but Mick said he didn’t know and evaded the issue with aristocratic ease: ‘We can’t set the price of tickets. I don’t know how much people can afford. I mean, I’ve no idea.’

Someone else asked whether the U.S. State Department gave the Stones any trouble or asked them to sign anti-drug statements before allowing them to enter the country. Mick said, ‘Of course not, we’ve never done anything wrong,’ and through the laughter and applause Rona Barrett asked, ‘Do you consider yourself an anti-establishment group, or are you just putting us on?’

‘We’re just putting you on,’ Mick said.

‘Taking you for a ride,’ Keith murmured, reptile eyelids drooping.

Rona presses on: ‘How did you enjoy eating at the Yamato last night?’

‘She was under the table,’ Keith explained, but it didn’t stop her.

Mick told a questioner that the Stones hoped to hire Ike and Tina Turner, Terry Reid, B.B. King, and Chuck Berry as supporting acts for the tour, and the question of a free concert returned. These young reporters seemed to suggest even more strongly than had Ralph Gleason that the Stones had an obligation to a new community, formed largely in the Stones’ image. It seemed the sort of thing that the Stones in their independence had never flirted with, and Mick avoided the subject again: ‘If we feel that’s what’s got to be done, then we’ll do it. I’m leaving that very fluid, you notice, I’m not committing meself.’

‘And how is Marianne Faithfull?’ Rona Barrett asked Mick. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought she was the only reporter interested in the Stones’ personal lives.

Three days after Brian Jones died, Marianne Faithfull, Jagger’s régulière for the past two years, in Australia with Mick to appear in a movie, looked into a mirror and saw not her face but Brian’s. Then she took an overdose of sleeping pills. Only luck and prompt medical attention saved her life. After recuperating in Australia and Switzerland, she returned to Mick’s house in London, where she was now, feeling neglected.

‘She’s all right,’ Mick said to Rona. ‘How are you?’

Rona, undaunted, wanted to know of any plans Mick had to run for public office: ‘I’m not feeling very messianic,’ he said, laughing.

Other people asked more questions about festivals and free concerts. The subject would not go away; this year the popular imagination had been outraged or delighted, captured anyway, by the pop festivals, mammoth exhibitions of drugs, sex, and music. Last year’s spectacle was the police violence in Chicago during the Democratic Party’s nominating convention; the year before that, we had the discovery by the mass media of the widespread use among the young of psychedelic drugs; this year there had been giant music festivals at such places as Woodstock, Hyde Park, Atlanta, Denver, the Isle of Wight, Dallas, where people came without paying, whether or not tickets were sold, went naked, had sex and took drugs openly with almost no arrests because there was no way short of war to arrest hundreds of thousands of people. It seemed that the World War II babies had grown into a force traditional society might be unable to restrain. There should be, Keith said about the festivals, ‘ten times more of them.’

But, someone still wanted to know, what about the prices of the tickets to the Stones’ concerts?

Mick, Keith, and Sam Cutler began talking at once, stopped together, and Sam said, ‘Could I just say this: The prickets—’ And Keith kissed him on the cheek.

They were still, after all, the Rolling Stones. Mick made a little speech, the questions trailed off, and Mick said, ‘Thank you very much, people,’ sounding like the late Merriman Smith ending a presidential press conference.

The Stones left the room. There at the end Mick had said: ‘We aren’t doing this tour for money but because we wanted to play in America and have a lot of fun. We’re really not into that sort of economic scene. I mean, either you’re gonna sing and all that crap or you’re gonna be a fucking economist. We’re sorry people can’t afford to come. We don’t know that this tour is more expensive. You’ll have to tell us.’ It seemed, since the Stones had always avoided having other people tell them what to do, a serious step.

Steckler, Sandison, Jo, and I met the Stones in Bill Wyman’s suite, where the serious question in the sitting room was whether the Stones would release a single record from their new album before the tour started. Steckler suggested they release the album’s country version of ‘Honky Tonk Women,’ their latest single, thus becoming the first musical group to release the same song twice in a row.

Jagger suggested releasing the title track, ‘Let It Bleed,’ as a single ‘if anybody would play it on the radio.’

‘Not with those lyrics,’ Jo said.

‘Well, they’re not just dirty, I mean they’re double entendre,’ Mick said.

‘“If you want someone to cream on, you can cream on me,” is pretty single entendre,’ Jo said.

‘We also have to decide which press you’ll talk to,’ Steckler said, and named several periodicals that had requested interviews.

‘Saturday Review, what’s that like?’ Mick asked.

‘Dullest magazine in America,’ I said. ‘Duller than the Saturday Evening Post. Duller than Grit.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

The meeting was short; nothing was settled, except to try living for a few more days. No blueprint, no master plan.

After lunch of ham sandwiches and beer back at the Oriole house, Steckler, Sandison, and I visited the Laurel Canyon place. A pudgy young man named Bill Belmont, part of Chip Monck’s stage production crew, came along in the limousine with us and pointed out the sights like a tour guide who dreams of being a press agent: ‘That cabin there, that’s Frank Zappa’s house, used to belong to Tom Mix. This house we’re going to, where the Stones are, used to be Carmen Miranda’s house and Wally Cox’s house and then it belonged to Peter Tork of the Monkees and now it belongs to Steve Stills. David Crosby lived there for a while. I can tell you everything. You see that story in Rolling Stone about the Doors? I did that. I told the guy the whole article. He just wrote down what I said.’

At a dirt road on the valley side of Laurel Canyon there was a gate, but it was open and we drove up, the dark green valley walls around us. The house was stone, with a swimming pool and big paved drive where two limousines and two rented sedans were parked. From the far end of the house across the pool came muffled sounds of electric guitars and a harmonica.

A lemon tree was growing by the drive, and the clowns I was with amused themselves by tearing off and throwing lemons. I threw one or two myself, just to be sociable, but I come from a place where the people are proud but poor, and I can’t really enjoy throwing food unless I’m trying to hit someone with it.

After a while we went into the house, a wood-leather-and-stone robber’s roost with stone floors, a big stone fireplace, no softening touches. The kitchen had a refrigerator big as one in a commissary at a turpentine camp, but it was stocked with beer instead of pigfeet and Big Oranges. We drank Heinekens and waited for the rehearsal to end. Belmont, Steckler, and Sandison were lounging in chairs around the living room. I didn’t know why any of them was here. I had come to speak to Keith and Mick about the letter I needed to get a publisher, to go on living, to write a book. I lay down on a leather couch, gazed out the window, and saw, coming down the valley-side, a small brown fawn.

Soon the music at the back of the house stopped and the Stones came out. I followed Keith into the kitchen. He opened a 35-millimeter film can and with a tiny spoon lifted out a mound of white crystals, and didn’t see me until he had the spoon halfway home. His hand stopped, I said, ‘Caught you,’ and he shrugged, raised the spoon and sniffed. Then I said, ‘Um, Keith, what about the, ah, book?’

‘I’ll talk to Mick about it.’

Time passed, nothing happened. In the living room the people were still slouching about. Keith stood with one hand loose on forward-slung hips, the other shoving a beer into his mouth, looking like a baby with its bottle. I found Mick sitting at a piano just outside the door of the rehearsal room. ‘What about the book?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got to talk to Keith about it.’

Then I went back to Keith and said, ‘Have you talked to Mick yet? We got to go.’

‘Hey,’ Keith said to Mick, who happened to be walking past, ‘what about this book?’

‘What about it?’

They strolled into the kitchen as daylight faded. Finally we really were leaving, and I said to Keith, ‘So?’

‘You write the letter,’ he said, ‘and we’ll sign it.’

So far so good, I thought, back at the Oriole house eating bouillabaisse. I had never eaten bouillabaisse before, and though I enjoyed it, I was still wondering what to do next. Write the letter and they’ll sign it. Then what? Will they leave me alone to make a contract and write a book?

I tried to digest bouillabaisse and these questions while sitting after dinner with Jo, Sandison, Steckler, and the Watts family. The night was cool, and in the fireplace four gas jets were blasting a stack of wood logs to blazes. A couple of people stopped by, one with a large vial of cocaine, so after everybody else had gone to bed, Sandison, Steckler, and I were up talking. Steckler had no coke but was excited to be away from home. He was in his late thirties, in this crowd an older man, and he worked for Allen Klein, who as the manager of the world’s two most popular acts, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, may have been the most powerful man in show business; but Steckler, so close to all that power and money, seemed naive, too earnest about the poetry and truth of rock music. He had a neat brown haircut, a baby-pink face, and sincere eyes that would do many unpleasant things but would never lie to you.

‘Who’s Schneider?’ I asked him when the logs were white powder, the fire four blue jets of flame.

‘Klein’s nephew.’

‘Besides that.’

‘He worked for Klein until a few weeks ago. They had a disagreement and Ronnie formed Rolling Stones Promotions to do this tour.’

‘What besides this tour does he do for the Rolling Stones?’

‘Not a thing,’ Steckler said.

After everyone else had gone to bed, I carried a typewriter from the office to the kitchen, closed all the connecting doors, and wrote a letter to myself from the Rolling Stones, assuring me of their cooperation, with their names typed below, spaced to leave room for their signatures. Then I took the typewriter back and tiptoed to bed.