We were in LA, again staying at the Sunset Marquis, the rock’n’roll hotel, and having a wild old time. Terry was made up because Roy Scheider (of Jaws fame) was living in one of the coveted corner rooms reserved for very big stars. Cozy Powell was living there too at the time and had his collection of hot rods parked downstairs in the basement car park. That day we were due to leave for a gig in Santa Barbara when who should turn up but the Scarlet Pimpernel himself, Alan Erasmus, with a journalist in tow, Sylvia Patterson.
We are all a bit surprised and puzzled, especially when Alan, having only been in the US a matter of hours, told us the trip had been arranged and paid for by Factory, and that Sylvia would be staying with us for a while, doing a big article for some magazine (he didn’t say which). He then departed for the airport and home, leaving Sylvia with us, who then told us the article was for teeny-boppers mag Smash Hits.
Completely nuts.
It was typical Alan/Factory but to us seemed like a waste of time, money and effort.
Travelling to the gig we remained puzzled and confused. We weren’t really a Smash Hits kind of group. Or, shall we say, we didn’t like to think of ourselves as a Smash Hits sort of group. So for that reason we had a bit of a downer on Sylvia Patterson. Another reason we had a downer on her was because we felt that having a female journalist on board was going to be cramping our style a bit. Basically, you get two different sorts of journalists: type one, who mucks in, has a laugh and almost becomes part of the crew (Miranda Sawyer, say, who whenever she appeared became one of the lads) and type two, who lurks on the sidelines, looking on, making you feel like they’re not a fan of the music, or like they’re judging you.
Sylvia Patterson seemed to be the second type. So even though she was given a backstage pass and was free to come and go as she pleased, I’d have to hold my hands up and say she probably wasn’t made as welcome as she could have been. Terry, in particular, took an instant dislike to her, and when he saw her take a couple of beers off the rider – hardly the world’s worst crime, and in fact not really a crime at all for an invited journalist – needed no further excuse to ban her from the dressing room altogether.
It transpired she was holding out for an interview with Barney. Heh, I thought, that’s going to be interesting.
Things went from bad to worse. Unable to enter the dressing room, poor old Sylvia was forced to lurk in the corridor outside. Every time I caught sight of her she had a face like a smacked arse, and who could blame her? After the show Tom Atencio had invited Santa Barbara’s most gorgeous women into our dressing room. He opened the door with a flourish, declaring, ‘Look what I’ve found!’ as he ushered them in. Santa Barbara’s women are some of the most beautiful on the planet. It was as though a dozen Raquel Welch lookalikes had entered the inner sanctum – and soon we were busy metaphorically twirling our moustaches, dishing out Pernod and Asti Spumante, the complete Terry-Thomas effect. Inside the dressing room it was a colourful, bubbly riot; while outside stood Sylvia Patterson, face like thunder. The door would open to allow another Raquel Welch in or out, and in that brief period the door was open I’d see her peering inside.
The whole time, Rob and Terry were mithering Barney to do this interview. ‘Fuck off,’ he said. No doubt she was mithering them, they were mithering him, and he was putting it off, having far too good a time for any of that. I already had a girlfriend with me so I was pretty restrained that night, but Barney was having a great time and ended up taking a load of people back to his room for more partying.
As bad luck would have it, in the room next door, without doubt hearing the sounds of said party, was poor old Sylvia.
Two particular girls had zeroed in on Barney. They were friends and got everybody else to leave in order to enjoy his company in a more intimate setting.
Next thing, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Rob, and he’s insisting Barney does the interview.
Furious at being interrupted, Barney bundled the two girls into a wardrobe, told them to be quiet and allowed Sylvia in the room, beginning the interview by telling her that if she mentioned anything she saw or heard that night, he’d break her legs.
As you can imagine, after that opener the interview was short and bad-tempered, and as soon as Barney got Sylvia out of the room he resumed the evening’s entertainment. God only knows what she heard through the walls that night. I dread to think.
The next morning, after the bleary-eyed group had posed for photos by the pool and then left for the next venue, Sylvia and her photographer encountered the two girls leaving Barney’s room. The girls had taken his pair of leftover shorts as a souvenir and, to add insult to injury for Barney, found $200 in the pocket (ouch!) so Sylvia got the photographer to take a picture of the two girls holding shorts and money aloft. Now, I know what will have hurt Barney the most, and it wasn’t losing the shorts.
No doubt when Barney went home his missus would ask him what the tour was like and he’d say, ‘Oh, quiet, you know?’ just like the rest of us, when in fact the truth of it was the exact opposite. Our illustrious lead singer had certainly come to terms with the pains of being front man.
Now, fast-forward a load of gigs, and I think we were in Boulder, Colorado, by the time the news filtered back from home that the current issue of Smash Hits featured the New Order interview, complete with the headline: ‘Ask us anything horrible and we’ll break your legs!’ and a picture of the two girls holding up Barney’s shorts.
Considering what it was that he’d really said, and what had really gone on, Smash Hits had let us off quite lightly. Even so, it was still incriminating stuff, especially the bit about the two girls giggling in his wardrobe while Barney did the interview.
Anyway, back to the gig, and first was the problem of how, what or when to tell Barney. Me, I must admit, I was loving it. I was in that rare and privileged position of having a front-row seat without being involved. Being one of the few people in the company who would stand up to Barney then, I had nothing to fear from him; all I needed to do was sit back and enjoy the fireworks.
Sure enough, Rob and Terry agonised over when to tell him. They reasoned that if they told him before the show, then he’d make it a terrible show; he was prone to doing that for the smallest of reasons anyway. But if they waited and told him afterwards then he might be even more angry.
In the end they chose to tell him beforehand, against my better judgement, and it was indeed a crap gig. Like I say, Barney is one of those who if he feels shit, then everybody else has to feel shit, too, and it was like a dark cloud came over the entire backstage area, infecting the dressing room, the performance, everything. He came off stage and started hitting the Pernod hard, and you could tell that he was in a very dark place. He had been well and truly caught with his pants down. Or rather, aloft.
Like everybody else, I escaped the dressing room, leaving our singer to brood and drink alone. What a difference to Santa Barbara . . .
In the corridor outside I encountered Tom Atencio, with the local Warners rep.
‘Hey, Peter,’ he said brightly, ‘could I bring someone to meet you guys?’
I said, ‘Aw, mate, you couldn’t have picked a worse time. Who is it?’
‘Oh, it’s this guy who runs three record shops in the area. He’s a great guy, big in A&R for A&L at A&M, gets us lots of exposure. He’s here with his girlfriend and I’d be so happy if you could just meet him, give him an autograph, sign his records?’
‘All right, bring him through. I’ll do it,’ says I.
There was a seating area outside the dressing room. Low table, drinks machine nearby, that kind of thing. There they introduce the record-shop guy, who was a short bloke in spectacles, quite nondescript, with a girl in tow, and a bunch of New Order records tucked under his arm.
He walked up to where I was standing, tossed the records onto the table and, looking away, said, ‘Sign my records.’
I had that weird moment of not being able to believe what I’d heard.
‘You what?’ I said.
He went, ‘Sign my fucking records, man.’
I looked at him. Then, giving him back the records, I said, ‘Come with me. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.’
I led the guy and his girlfriend to meet Barney, and they followed me into the dressing room, where I entered to find our singer in the process of pouring himself another Pernod.
In we went: me, the record-shop guy and his girlfriend.
I said, ‘Barney, this guy wants to meet you.’
Barney looked around, putting the top back on his Pernod bottle, eyebrows raised.
The guy said, ‘Sign my records,’ throwing them again on the table in the dressing room.
Barney looked at him.
‘You what?’ he said.
‘Sign my fucking records, man.’
It went off, as I knew it would. Barney grabbed his bottle of Pernod by the neck and looked like he was about to swing it at the guy, who ducked out of the way, at the same time as his girlfriend screamed, ‘Don’t you do that!’ and dived forward to protect him.
Barney never missed a beat, started screaming at the girl – at both of the poor sods – unmentionable, unprintable things, while I stood there laughing my dogs off. As the two visitors recovered their wits and started screaming abuse back at him I could see his knuckles whitening on the neck of the Pernod bottle and decided to step in before he did any real damage.
I grabbed the guy with one hand, his girlfriend with the other and bundled them out the door, slamming it shut just as Barney reached it on the other side.
The door shook as Barney tried to open it but I held it shut. He started kicking it but I kept it closed.
‘I think you’d better go, knobhead,’ I said to the record-shop guy.
‘But nobody’s signed my fucking records, man.’