I had met Todd Schneider when we both worked as sackers at Fedco, a discount department store, in the summer of 1969. We both loved rock music, and became fast friends. On the last day we worked together, when I changed my nametag to read “Pete Townshend,” he was the only one who noticed.
Since I’d last visited London, I’d worked for two solid years at the Rhino store without a vacation break. As Todd had never been to London, I thought it would be fun for us to go together. I had enjoyed my two previous trips, but as music styles had changed, I had less desire to go on my own. I also thought I could do business for the store that I now managed.
I made a reservation at the Sandringham Hotel, solely because The Move booked rooms there when they came down from Birmingham. Even after The Move, in the early seventies, Roy Wood and Jeff Lynne stayed there.
We arrived on Wednesday, September 1, to find that England was in the midst of a drought. As it had been three years since I was last in London, my familiarity with the city had diminished. We took a train from Gatwick Airport, and then a taxi to the hotel, but the trip seemed much longer than I thought it would be. When the taxi driver left us at the hotel, it didn’t appear familiar, nor did the woman who received us have our reservation. After a few minutes, she offered that there was another Sandringham hotel, not affiliated with hers, closer to the West End. That was the one we wanted.
In that part of northwest London, as we walked down the high street, we didn’t see a taxi, so we schlepped our luggage down the steps into the Underground Station and onto a train. Being jetlagged, I was far from my sharpest, and angry that I had wasted money on an expensive taxi trip, and that the driver did not ask me which of the two hotels I wanted. I also felt I had let Todd down, as I was his guide to the city. Todd, as usual, was unruffled.
We checked in at the proper hotel, and they did have a room with a shower reserved for us. The lobby was more modest than I remembered. Our room was acceptable, but I thought a hit group of the stature of The Move would have lodged at a better place. Still, it was a step up from the fleabags in the Paddington area where I had boarded on my previous trip.
I made an effort to stay awake to try to adjust to the new time. Todd fell asleep, and later, when he awoke, thought he was dreaming because he heard me speaking with a French accent. Peter Noone was living with his French wife in the south of France. Thinking of flying over to visit, I’d called his house, and spoken with his mother-in-law, who didn’t understand much English. I didn’t speak French, but thought speaking English with a French accent might make me more understandable. She said that Peter and Mireille were in Paris, but she didn’t know at which hotel.
That night we didn’t want to stray too far from our own hotel, so we dined at the nearby McDonald’s, which had opened in London less than two years ago. The experience of going to a McDonald’s, seeing what menu items were different from those in the States, paying in English currency, and being asked for our order in English accents appealed to our jetlagged sensibilities. Afterward, we watched TV in the lounge. I’d heard good things about Fawlty Towers, which starred Monty Python’s John Cleese, but it was never shown in the States. We found it hysterical.
The next day we were up and running. Jeff Gold, from the Rhino store, had set me up with Larry Debay, whose Bizarre Records was the primary distributor for the burgeoning punk scene. Larry, flaunting long ginger-hennaed hair and a dyed-green beard, greeted us in his Praed Street office in the Paddington area. He raved about the Ramones, the New York punk band that had toured England earlier that summer. Larry gave me their English pressing of “Blitzkrieg Bop,” which came with a picture sleeve. Maybe because the cover of the album I produced of my band, Mogan David and his Winos, featured us all wearing leather jackets—just like Ramones—Larry ordered a box. I was there to deliver it, and pick up extra spending money for our visit.
I had an appointment to see Colin Walkdon, a buyer for the Virgin Records retail chain. I met him at Virgin’s warehouse, and we rode in the van to S. P. & S. Distributors, which sold records that were deleted from their respective catalogues. I bought a couple of hundred records for the Rhino store. I loved getting English imports for a low price, but the shipping to the States was still expensive.
On his recommendation, Todd and I saw Chas and Dave that evening at the Bishop Bonner, a boxing-themed pub in the East End. Colin met us. I was familiar with Chas Hodges, as I had seen him play as a member of Heads, Hands and Feet. They displayed a fondness for pre-Beatles rock ’n’ roll and music hall humor. Afterward, we went to a small fish ’n’ chips shop. The fried food was handed to us in pages from a newspaper folded into a cone to absorb the grease. Colin encouraged me to try the jellied eel, which wasn’t to my liking.
On Friday, September 3, we checked in at a few of the record companies to see what was happening. I always looked forward to visiting Andrew Lauder, the head of A&R for United Artists. While we were in his office, he introduced us to Jake Riviera (real name: Andrew Jakeman). Jake had been a manager of pub rock acts, and he and fellow manager Dave Robinson had recently started a new label, Stiff Records. I loved the name and the sense of humor behind it. In record business parlance, “a stiff” was a record that failed to become a hit. I related to the name, knowing the difficulty an independent label has competing against the majors in trying to get a hit record—regardless of how good the music is.
Andrew Lauder played us their first single, by Nick Lowe, which had been released three weeks earlier. Lowe’s band, Brinsley Schwarz, had broken up the previous year. Robinson had managed them, and Andrew had released their records on UA. I thought the two sides, “The Heart of the City” and “So It Goes,” were terrific. I told Jake I wanted to buy a quantity to sell at the Rhino store.
The hottest new group in town was Eddie and the Hot Rods, who were at the vanguard of the developing punk rock scene. In the evening we saw them perform at the Marquee Club. The capacity was five hundred, but it seemed that there were twice as many fans, predominantly guys, squeezed in. The Hot Rods’ engaging sound, with its fast, throbbing rhythms and choppy guitars, was similar to Dr. Feelgood’s. (Guitarist Dave Higgs had roadied for the Feelgoods.) Barrie Masters, the band’s capable, boyish, good-looking singer, led the band through a set of promising, teen-angst originals mixed with 1960s hits “The Kids Are Alright” (The Who), “Gloria” (Them), and “Wooly Bully” (Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs). We went backstage—a narrow room directly behind the stage—to say hello before the set. It looked like they were popping amyl nitrate. I guess that explained why they played so fast.
On Saturday, we went to the King’s Road to see the latest in hip British fashion, which, unlike in my previous visits, was nowhere to be seen. The flashy velvet suits, the quintessence of male pop fashion, had given way to American styles. The popular movie Bugsy Malone had sparked a revival of American 1930s-cut gangster suits, double-breasted with wide lapels and pinstripes. Tweed and checkered patterns were also on view. There was a much higher percentage of jeans and leather worn than in the States, and even an occasional rocker walking down the street flaunting a long, felt-trimmed coat and ducktail haircut. Let It Rock, a clothing store I had visited before, was now named Sex and sold bondage gear in addition to leather jackets. In the window of one of the boutiques, we were amused to see a male mannequin that looked a lot like Fee Waybill, the singer of the Tubes.
Bugsy Malone was indeed the hot new movie. Produced in England, it was a Prohibition-themed musical, with kid actors assuming the adult parts. We enjoyed it, and thought Paul Williams’ songs were wonderful. Todd was surprised that the tickets indicated specific seats to occupy, and that there was no open seating, as in the States. Stimulated by the kids shooting custard from sub-machine guns in the movie, Todd bought a cup of ice cream. He loved the taste and the smooth texture until he read the label and discovered that it contained lard.
I had met Jeffrey Levinson through David Berson in Los Angeles. Levinson, originally from New York, made a living in England contracting musicians for recording sessions. He lived in the village of Jordans, a train ride north of London in Buckinghamshire. I looked upon the opportunity to get out of town and experience a night in the country, so I accepted his invitation to visit on Sunday.
It was a low-key visit. Not much was happening, and the village didn’t have much charm. Not far from his house was an appealing little forest that seemed typical of England to me. Walking through it reminded me of the woodsy area The Rolling Stones were photographed in on their High Tide and Green Grass album. That night we drove to the neighborhood pub for dinner. Because of restrictions on water use, Jeff hadn’t washed his car in a couple of months.
Back at the house, he played records. I was most taken with “Hi! It’s Herbie Flowers,” one of the most joyful records I’d ever heard. Flowers was an in-demand session musician, having most notably played bass on Lou Reed’s “Walk On the Wild Side” and David Bowie’s “Space Oddity.” I liked the song so much that Jeff gave me the single.
Todd had a more rewarding Sunday. He saw Kursaal Flyers headline at the Roundhouse, but was also impressed by the support band, The Clash. He reported that they were like a “Cockney Ramones,” true punks with good songs, but with one too many guitars causing them to sound cluttered. They had yet to record, but elicited an impressive response from the audience. Second-billed Crazy Cavan and his Rhythm Rockers were a 1950s revival band that channeled songs by Eddie Cochrane, Buddy Holly, and others from the era, and inspired their fans to dress as those stars had.
We visited Stiff Records in a storefront at 32 Alexander Street in Notting Hill. As we had issued a handful of singles at Rhino, I identified with and took interest in what Stiff was doing. Jake introduced us to his partner, Dave Robinson. We also met two friendly guys from Clover, a band from the San Francisco area that had relocated to London: Alex Call, the lead singer, and Huey Lewis, the harmonica player. While I talked to Jake and Dave, Alex expressed his frustration to Todd, of the difficulty he had in meeting reserved English girls. We heard the other Stiff releases, by Pink Fairies, Roogalator, and Sean Tyler. I wasn’t impressed. I bought a box of twenty-five Nick Lowe singles, and three copies each of the others.
We were hipped to the Hard Rock Café, which we soon found served the best hamburgers in London. Unlike those offered by the Wimpy restaurant chain, these were thick, like those in the States. The cafe had a 1950s American rock ’n’ roll theme as hits from the era—by Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Buddy Holly, and others—played on the sound system. The inside had a rustic look, like somebody’s garage. Concert posters, sports pennants, cigarette advertisements, and license plates were mounted on the dark brown walls. The waitresses dressed like carhops from American drive-in restaurants. We had to wait in line before a table opened up, but it was worth it. We went back a couple more times and observed that we could circumvent the line by either arriving well before the lunch crowd, or taking a seat at the counter.
We loved Tom Stoppard’s new play, Dirty Linen and New-Found-Land, which we took in at the Arts Theatre, a small venue near Leicester Square. Dirty Linen was a pun-filled sexual farce involving Members of Parliament and predatory newspaper writers looking to boost their circulations. It bookended New-Found-Land, during which one Member of Parliament delivered an appreciation of America in a clever monologue as a means of justifying an American’s application for British citizenship.
On Tuesday, we took the train to tour Windsor Castle. Queen Elizabeth II wasn’t in residence when we were there, but we were impressed nonetheless. On another day we saw the Tower of London and the Crown Jewels, my favorite historical site in the country.
AC/DC, a new band from Australia, were on tour in England, with a number of dates scheduled for the Marquee. They were highly recommended, but when we arrived at the club, a posted sign indicated that they had cancelled, much to our disappointment. We couldn’t return the next night because we were going to see The Count Bishops.
The next day we ate lunch at a mediocre Chinese restaurant, and then went shopping at the nearby Soho Open Air Market. We each bought leather jackets, which were considerably cheaper than those sold at Sex. From another vendor, I bought an embroidered, velvet Indian tunic. We ran into Huey Lewis, and showed him our purchases.
That evening we went to the Speakeasy and saw another band newly emerged from the pub scene, The Count Bishops. Their tightly arranged, hard rock sound was influenced by American blues rockers like Howlin’ Wolf and Chuck Berry. They even took an American name, that of a New York street gang. Similar to Eddie and the Hot Rods, they performed covers of sixties rock bands: Them’s “Don’t Start Cryin’ Now” and The Yardbirds’ “I’m Not Talkin’.” They were the first band signed to the local Chiswick label headed by Ted Carroll and Roger Armstrong of the Rock On record store in Camden Town.
We saw Stonehenge on Thursday. It wasn’t easy to get to. We took a train from Waterloo Station to Salisbury, and then a twenty-five-minute bus ride to the formation. There weren’t many people there, and we were able to walk among the large stones. When we learned that the arrangement was over four thousand years old, it was quite moving. We were appalled to see graffiti etched into the stones. On the way back, we stopped for a meal in Salisbury. Todd was baffled that they didn’t have Salisbury steak on the menu.
That evening before going out, we watched Top of the Pops on TV. I was familiar with the show, but it was my first opportunity to see it. I would have enjoyed it more if the contemporary artists lip-synching their records had been more to my liking.
I was looking forward to seeing Kursaal Flyers, who were playing in the grubby, smoked-filled basement at the Hope and Anchor pub in Islington. Where most clubs located the stage at the long end of a room, here the audience was squeezed into an elongated, shallow area in front of the stage. The Kursaals were a pub band that incorporated humor into their melodic repertoire. I was disappointed that the band delivered a set of largely country and western material rather than the clever rock songs more familiar to their fans.
London’s West End theatre had premiered a number of rock-themed musicals, such as The Rocky Horror Show and John, Paul, George, Ringo…and Bert. We took in this year’s entry, Leave Him to Heaven at the New London Theatre, which was little more than a spirited, Sha Na Na–like review of fifties/early-sixties hits. The leading actor, Brian Protheroe, sang well, as did the other soloists. Although lacking in substance, it was still enjoyable, especially the two Shangri-Las–like, tough-girls-in-leather numbers, and Stan Freeberg’s “The Old Payola Roll Blues” performed by a pimply rock star in a squeaky voice singing about high school.
On Saturday we went to Camden Town. We didn’t spend much time at Rock On. They sold mostly collectors’ records, and they were expensive. Much more rewarding was Compendium Books, on Camden High Street, near Camden Lock on the Regent’s Canal. Although the store had a plethora of political books and small press publications—mostly leftist—I was more impressed by the mind-blowing selection of music books. I bought two volumes of Charlie Gillette’s Rock File, David Dalton’s The Rolling Stones, and ZigZag magazine’s The Road to Rock.
With nothing else better to do, and with no other enticing theatrical productions, we went to St. Martin’s Theatre to see what The Mousetrap was all about. An Agatha Christie murder mystery, it was London’s longest running play, with continuous performances going back to 1952. With that longevity, how could it not be good? It wasn’t. We both thought it was mediocre.
On Sunday the twelfth, our last full day in town, we went to the Petticoat Lane Market in the East End. Not intended for tourists, it catered to locals who could better understand the colorful characters hawking merchandise in Cockney accents. There were a large number of poor American knockoffs, like football jerseys with inappropriate team names on them, such as the “76ers,” which is a basketball team. We saw a “Los Angeles Dodgers” basketball shirt—the Dodgers are a baseball team—various uses of the “Los Angeles Police Department” on shirt backs or pockets, and university sweatshirts with wrong colors and insignias. By far the most in-vogue were Boy Scout– and Girl Scout–styled shirts with random phrases on the pockets, and meaningless numbers on the sleeves.
That evening we saw Ted Nugent fronting his band in concert at the Hammersmith Odeon. The set was almost the same as the one we had seen that April at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Ted’s heavy metal was appealingly over-the-top, intense, but prone to excess. Some guitar players stood in one place, their face grimacing in emotional pain. With an excess of energy, Ted ran all over the stage and even climbed atop his amplifiers. We went to the after-show party at the Speakeasy. Ted drank what appeared to be ale directly out of a punch bowl. When we exited, it was late, and we couldn’t find an available cab so we made the long walk back to our hotel.
Unlike the exciting music I heard on my previous trips, the Top 20 was composed of the same hits by major artists popular in the States: Rod Stewart, Wings, and ABBA, and disco artists The Stylistics and The Ritchie Family. Still, I was able to come home with a number of records: Eddie and the Hot Rods’ Live at the Marquee EP, the Count Bishop’s “Train Train,” and Flamin’ Groovies’ “Don’t Lie to Me.” I found a used copy of Herbie Flowers’ Plant Life album. Andrew Lauder gave me a copy of Mersey Beat ’62 / ’64, a double album he’d compiled of the earliest beat groups, Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters, and Dr. Feelgood’s first two LPs, Down By the Jetty and Malpractice. I couldn’t have imagined a better trip.