A typical night off in London in 1981 would usually start with going to a gig. There always seemed to be a show, and I quickly got used to just walking straight in. The Nashville, Golden Lion, Fulham Greyhound, the Venue, Hope and Anchor, Hammersmith Palais, Hammersmith Odeon, Camden Palace, Dingwalls, the Lyceum, and the Marquee in Wardour Street were the main places. The Clash, the Pretenders, the Specials, Motörhead, and Madness are memorable ones. Someone you knew or wanted to know seemed to be playing every night.
We were admired and respected by all the bands in town. The Cats seemed to be the one band that everyone in tribal London could agree on. The fashion and music from the original American rock and rollers has never gone out of style, never will. A T-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots will always be the official uniform of cool. We were young enough to put a colorful new spin on it. The Cats had that basic look down and mixed it in with a lot of the current trends in London, creating our own style. It was embraced by all the trendsetters of the time. Since we were Americans and not bound by any official membership to a tribe, we could appeal to everybody. In the past, any attempt to revive the style and music from the ’50s had come out looking corny, and I’m not sure if the musicianship was that great. No one had really nailed it. We didn’t have a theory about this; we just instinctively knew it. We could all really play. The other two are natural virtuoso musicians; that was the bottom line. If you looked outrageous and did crazy things, it didn’t matter if you couldn’t back it up onstage and in the studio. If there was any doubt about the buzz going on around us, once anyone saw Brian play, all doubts quickly vanished. I could keep up and was doing something totally new on the drums. We also brought a few guaranteed hit songs and a louder, faster approach to rockabilly. It wasn’t a rehashing of some old records. We had a very funny New York charm about us, and I ably and happily represented us on the nightclub scene. I liked and felt equal to all these musicians and characters.
After the gig, I’d usually meet Lemmy downstairs at the Embassy Club around midnight. I met Lemmy, the legendary founder of Motörhead, at one of the first Stray Cats shows, and we became fast friends. We liked all the same stuff and had a laugh right away. The Embassy, on Old Bond Street in Mayfair, was an oldie-worldie ballroom with a tragic faded-glory feeling around it. Miles of ornate, smelly carpet, thick Regency-print wallpaper, and chandeliers conjured up classic visions of 1930s prewar London. I once mentioned to a taxi driver that New Bond Street was still older than anything in my neighborhood in New York. He drove me around Piccadilly showing me all the stuff he thought I’d be into. London cabbies are an extraordinary breed. I’ve given them half the money I’ve ever earned in my life, and they’ve given me a deeper understanding of the city and a few shortcuts that few Americans know. They have a complete knowledge of the streets and charming personalities, and all claim to have once been teddy boys.
Everyone went to the Embassy. Rock royalty, punk rockers, drag queens, and Hooray Henry, country club types could all be seen drinking together at the downstairs bar. Drinks were pretty expensive. I never knew or thought about how anyone afforded anything, myself included. Like everything else at that time, it just seemed to happen. The place was owned and operated by Stephen Hayter, an openly gay, public school type who loved entertaining and the whole idea of celebrity. He let anyone he recognized stay after hours to continue partying. He was a bit over the top and flamboyant in a conservative kind of way. He dressed like a yuppie on his way to the golf course, but his speech and mannerisms were overtly gay. He was a character, and I liked him. I met Bowie on a quiet night there—Pete Townshend and Freddie Mercury, too.
Lemmy loved playing the slot machines. He was an expert and connoisseur. There were two at the Embassy. We’d stand side by side until after closing and pour fifty-pence coins into them. The bartender had an unlimited supply of little sealed plastic bags with ten pounds’ worth of coins in each one. After each empty bag of coins and ten pounds I’d never get back, Lem and I would retire to the gents’ to refuel. As I took out my bindle, Lem asked, “What’s that?”
“Coke,” I answered with a “What else?” tone.
“Coke is for chicks. Do this!”
I took a sniff of the crystalline powder off the tip of the buck knife he always carried on his belt. It felt like someone had shot an orange-flavored metal arrow up my nose and through the top of my head. I was frozen. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even blink. I made it back into the club on two frozen-stiff legs. Two regular-looking customers were at our machines, celebrating a big jackpot.
“Those guys got our money,” Lem growled. “We can’t leave the machines again!”
“What are we gonna do?” I was thinking more about all the beer I was drinking, not about the next bump. I was pretty sure that Lem’s special brand would see me through the immediate future. I knew I’d have to pee way before the rush wore off. He wasn’t going to lose another payout. He had a genius, tweaker-inspired, fully covert solution. He left the bag of speed open in the pocket of his leather jacket. He worked out a system where he could take his buck knife out of its sheath, snap it open, reach it into his pocket, give himself and then me a perfectly measured hit, snap it back closed, have it back in the sheath, and never break the rhythm of the pull on the one-armed bandit. It was beautiful to watch. Speed-freak ballet. Around three, we’d excuse ourselves from the club. Any girl that had come with me was long gone by now. The owner would disappear into his office with a few young men. I never wanted to see what went on in there.
Lem lived in a house in Battersea that he shared with a Hells Angel and a few other nefarious characters. There was a disassembled motorcycle in the living room, up on blocks with an oil pan underneath, and always a few passed-out bodies scattered around. It was an accidental living art installation. His room was in the basement. It was a concrete bunker with a gold record screwed to the wall with industrial bolts. All his clothes, belts, hats, and boots were strewn about with a haphazard flair and organization. Lem would dig around in a large cardboard box filled with cassettes. He always found exactly what he wanted. This time it was a live BBC show from Gene Vincent in the ’60s that he had recorded by holding a microphone in front of the radio. I had never heard a few of the songs. He knew every detail about the players and the set list. We’d play a few games of chess in which he’d slaughter me in five moves. We’d have long talks about the impact of rock and roll on the culture, how it really did save our lives and gave us a chance to travel, mixed in with our shared love of the details, liner notes, and photographs from the original rock-and-roll artists.
At some point after sunrise, I’d have to split. I always found a black taxi on the main street, and with the help of an old teddy boy cabbie, I’d make it back to my place in Bayswater. The driver never complained about me paying with two handfuls of change.