It was Mick Underwood who unselfishly mentioned me to Ritchie Blackmore, when asked if he knew any good singers to replace Rod Evans in Deep Purple. With hindsight, of course, it was all a bit underhand, because neither Rod nor bass player Nick Simper, whom Roger would also replace in a different scenario, had any idea what was going on; and neither did the Purple management of John Coletta and Tony Edwards! So, while they were beavering away in the office at 25 Newman Street in London, trying to sort out problems and a viable future for the band, Ritchie, Jon and Ian were in America reshaping it for them, from a different perspective!
John and Tony’s main problem centred on difficulties they were having with the Tetragrammaton record label, who owed them a lot of money, so, in terms of what their band were up to with me, perhaps they’d taken their eye off the ball, and the same must have been the case with Roger coming in to replace Nick. Of course the band ‘pre-us’ would become popularly known as Deep Purple Mk. 1, and in that set-up they had already made albums with Shades of Deep Purple (1968), The Book of Taliesyn and Deep Purple (both in 1969); plus, they’d charted well with singles, of which ‘Hush’ made No. 4 on the American Billboard Charts, and was followed by ‘Kentucky Woman’ and ‘Emmaretta’, which also did good business. However, the three ongoing members of the next Deep Purple were looking for a harder sound; and in Roger they not only saw a fine musician who could also write and sing, but someone who already knew the new singer well! So it was against this background that Ritchie and Jon initially came to see me at the Ivy Lodge Club in Woodford Green, Essex, after which I was asked if I’d meet with them to talk things over properly.
From the first moment of my seeing them, the guys came across very strongly. I mean they looked so ‘rich’, so confident, so well dressed, including bouffant hair, which was in vogue at the time. By contrast, I felt so totally inadequate that I dreaded going to meet them, and prepared myself for it by borrowing the best of Roger’s clothes to go with some of mine; and then I bought ten cigarettes to help calm my nerves, and for offering in a gesture of friendship. I set off with just enough money to buy the cigarettes and get me home, while I also had a vile cold and carried a pocketful of soggy Kleenex tissues with me, so I could keep things under control as best as possible.
Well, of course, my first impression of these guys had been right, and I quickly looked to impress by offering round the fags. ‘Anybody want one of these?’ I invited, as used and wet tissues tumbled out of my pocket in an almost coordinated movement of clumsy goodwill. With snot trickling down my throat and out of my nose, I bent down to pick up the nasty mess, as eyes looked on. It was a moment of abject misery, and I was later quoted as saying, ‘I felt smaller than an ant, dirtier than a piece of dog shit, and wishing to be more invisible than the smallest part of the universe!’
However, they were great and helped me through the ordeal, as we talked rock ’n’ roll and great futures, before they offered me the job. So, with their singer position settled, they then asked if I knew any decent bass players, and I mentioned Roger. After some more chatting, during which I enthused about his decency, plus songwriting skills and potential as a musician, they asked me to see if he’d join as well, which, after a great deal of soul searching – it hurt Rog – he also went to meet them. In fact, his ‘interview’ was even more bizarre than mine had been, starting with the fact he’d not really taken to Jon and Ritchie when they’d come to see us play earlier, and then because he turned up wearing jeans that had been ‘perfect’ two years before! He also wore what looked like a tea cosy with arm holes, while his sandals didn’t sit well with the idea of playing in a ‘harder’-sounding band. However, although the complete package had him looking like someone held together with string, I said he looked very cool, and to my amazement they all thought the same! So they offered him the job as well – and he promptly turned it down!
I spent hours with Roger over the next few days, agonising over the pros and cons, hearing him say it was bad enough my leaving Episode Six, and so forth, but, in the end he agreed, and phoned Jon to tell him. In fact, he called him at about 10 a.m., not realising that Jon didn’t rise until about two in the afternoon, and I gather the conversation went something like:
‘Jon, it’s Roger here.’
‘Yeah? So?’
‘It’s Roger Glover, the bass player!’
Now remembering the meeting, and on hearing that Roger was ‘onside’ to join, Jon told him the decision was fine, but added that he’d be on trial for three months. He called it ‘probation’, which was a bit unexpected – even unusual – but, with everything about settled, we joined a clandestine studio session where we recorded ‘Hallelujah’, and generally settled in full time. Meanwhile the (still) unsuspecting Rod and Nick were completing dates with the band, while the now informed managers planned to call time on them, with their last date set for the Top Rank, Cardiff, on 4 July 1969.
Although there was great upset at Episode Six – and I believe Gloria threatened legal action – from my point of view it was like walking through a revolving door into a brave new world. And it was fantastic!
As for Deep Purple, well, as most of you know, it was named after the title of a song Ritchie’s grandmother liked, and was first recorded by Bing Crosby, before Nino Tempo and April Stevens successfully revisited it in 1963. I’ve mentioned the Mk. 1 Deep Purple having had considerable experience, particularly in America, and that, unlike with my past, they had recorded quite considerably, ironically having been in the same studios at Marble Arch as we’d been rushed in and out of during our time with Episode Six.
I was also aware that I was walking into a new situation, which had some business difficulties with Tetragrammaton in America (EMI in the UK). What I’ve not commented on is the fact that, through this company in its better times, I’d moved into a band where my new friends were already used to being treated with a lot more style and respect than I’d ever known. So, in addition to ‘record success’, they’d appeared on The David Frost Show, and played alongside bands such as the Byrds (London Roundhouse), as well as travelling Europe with the Small Faces, the Koobas and Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Titch. Still, it hadn’t always been hunky-dory for them, and like almost everyone else in the business, they’d known moments of downside, one of them being the occasion that Jack Barrie pulled strings to get them on the bill for the Sunbury Festival (later the Reading Festival), and was quoted afterwards as saying, ‘Deep Purple were booked to be the opening act on the Saturday afternoon, but, to add salt to my wounds, they died the proverbial death. My only defence in the bar later on was a simple, “Just wait and see – they’re a little before their time!”’ In fact, the band had been booed off stage, but these things have happened to most of us at one time or another, and it certainly didn’t stop them being looked after like stars, with limos to a party at the Playboy Club in the States, where they met Bill Cosby, and where (I’m told) Paicey behaved badly trying to organise something with Jackie DeShannon! They’d also supported Cream on their Farewell Tour, but were thrown out after San Diego. Still, it didn’t stop ‘the train’, and they partied with Jimi Hendrix, as well as playing with their heroes Vanilla Fudge at Edmonton. And so it became very obvious that I’d joined a band, the majority of whose lifestyles were a world apart from what I’d been used to; but, then, ‘It’s the future that matters, isn’t it?’ thought I!
Aside from Roger, who then were my new stablemates, in whose hands the future rested? Well, apart from the success I’ve mentioned, they were very different from the rather well-behaved group I’d just left; but let me quickly add that where they’d arrived at for now clearly wasn’t enough for them; and, just as I’d drawn a red line on my past, so I knew I was with like minds, who’d drawn their own. So everything was now in place for the emergence of the ‘classic’ Deep Purple Mk. 2, in which we’d all share the same starting point and future.
Aside from Ritchie’s musicianship, he now began to adopt a bigger image for his future by dressing in black, and wearing the pilgrim hat, which, of course, became a trademark for some years. He also capitalised on things he’d learned from people he’d performed with in previous bands, and this led to developing his innate ability to be dramatic, as he treated challenges of brinkmanship as a justified and worthy part of his performances, which would also be extended to offstage! So there was the occasion when he decided not to arrive at a David Frost television show until just half an hour before it went on air, and that meant roadie Mick Angus having to psych himself up to fill the slot somehow. Of course the guitarist did turn up, but he also made it very clear that, unlike the rest of the band, he wasn’t going to waste time hanging around for nothing! OK, then!
Ritchie next started to play longer solos, into which he’d drop bits of ‘God Save the Queen’ or ‘White Christmas’, and of course, these quirky inclusions became part of the Deep Purple tradition, which remains to this very day. Add to this the ‘scars’, born out of working with the likes of Screaming Lord Sutch and the Savages, as well as backing the incredibly demanding Gene Vincent and Jerry Lee Lewis – and it’s not surprising that Mr Blackmore was already someone ‘very special’ to travel with!
As for Paicey, well he was born north of Watford Gap in 1948, but, after the family moved south, I’m told he started playing drums aged around fifteen, before joining his dad’s dance band in the late fifties. A few years on (the mid-sixties), he joined the MI5, which changed to the Maze, and, along with Rod Evans of later Deep Purple Mk. 1, they signed to, and recorded for, Parlophone. They also joined the harsh but necessary European club circuit most of us had graduated to, and so he inevitably got to meet Ritchie – where else but at the Star Club in Hamburg, where all rock roads led to? Otherwise, some further insights into Paicey’s interesting persona will follow.
Which leaves ‘Gentleman Jon Lord’, whose wisdom I first came to appreciate when I visited his flat, instantly to notice it was covered wall to wall with a music score and to later appreciate it would become Concerto for Group and Orchestra, about which more will be told. However, in those first moments, I have to say I was a bit surprised, given I’d just signed up to Deep Purple, but the situation was all fine and manageable by him, as he told me about his time at the Royal College of Music and the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA), from which great halls he not only emerged as a very fine musician, but as an artist with a developed stage presence and proud voice.
However, as with so many of us in the business, how things often appeared on the surface was not always as might be expected beneath it, and so I’d learn how Jon had apparently struggled for years on peanuts – although with help from his mum – while outside of ‘classical’ he’d joined the Art Woods, who were with the Decca label. His influences were Jimmy Smith, Graham Bond and Bobby Timmins, while, with Deep Purple, he’d drive all his knowledge and talent through a fine command of the Hammond organ. Just watch how he makes that rock – literally!
Together, these musicians behaved, shall we say, ‘robustly’, and played loudly, although, as America moved into the love-and-peace era, audiences were sometimes confused by what was going on. So, while the beautiful people behaved beautifully, at a UCLA graduation party Ritchie smashed the mirrored false ceiling above the stage, while Paicey played with his tongue sticking out. (Fact: he still does sometimes!)
And so arrived that special night of 10 July 1969, when I fronted the band on that tiny stage at the Speakeasy in Margaret Street, London, and where I stood before my peers, professional musicians, family, friends – and girls! As soon as we started, the place just went wild, and I coasted through the show, the feeling of power indescribable. There was ‘Mandrake Root’ and whatever else (I almost forget), plus, I played congas for want of something to do during the instrumentals. And I cried – oh, I cried – because on that night I reflected on all the bands I’d travelled with, but left or dumped, including, in particular, the turmoil of transition from Episode Six to Deep Purple.
On that tiny stage, all of those emotions touched me so deeply, because I’d enjoyed each and every band, but now it seemed that all these musicians, friends and relatives had been lined up along the path to this very moment in time, because this was it! And I salute and love each and every one of them.
Earlier on, I’d made reference to the Stones as ‘terrible fellows’, and now with Deep Purple it came almost naturally for us to join them, as we quickly developed into a lethal cocktail of creativity and energy. Whatever the circumstances, when we were together, things would happen, and this would be the case for many years to come – on stage and off!
A good way to find out more about new mates came about when I spent time relaxing with them, and the River Thames proved an ideal playground for this. So I’d discover that Ian Paice’s interest was in fishing, and Ritchie’s was to cause chaos in fast boats. Put the two together in a restricted and scenic space, and quite a few people could get upset – and did!
It’s difficult to select a preferred example, but an early one started at Bushnell’s Boatyard, where we hired The Gay Joker. It was an old wooden boat tethered to the dock, and you could actually hear it groan at the sight of two long-haired musicians approaching, accompanied by Bert Bushnell himself.
Once we were aboard, the first job was to load in the various bits and pieces we’d brought along, which in my case took a few minutes. However, Paicey needed at least six journeys to and from the car, and, while he sorted himself out, I did the inventory with Mr Bushnell. After we’d concluded that business, it was impressed upon me that all damaged or missing items would have to be paid for, and I duly signed a contract to that effect. In fact, it was not a lot different from so many other pieces of paper I’d put my mark on over the years. The proprietor then took us through the rudiments of river cruising – or should I say he took me through them, since Paicey was still organising his worldly possessions? So I heard about the dos and don’ts of river etiquette, and ‘this is the steering wheel, and this thing here makes you go forwards or backwards’, at which point he took us to Boulters Lock. Satisfied with our confident approach to the adventure, he then leaped lightly ashore to leave me in control. Or was it ‘command’?
Anyway, Paicey let go of the ropes and, as the lock gates opened, I selected forward gear, which put us on course for a gap that didn’t look quite wide enough. With flashbacks of times past with Barry Dass, but now as captain of the moment, I made my first major decision: if we can’t make it forward, let’s try sideways! With that strategy dangerously in place, the next action necessarily meant that I fall back on my ‘time to think’ position, aware that an increasing number of well-wishers were looking on, doubtless with different hopes and bets on the final outcome! And then, after a zero contribution so far, my first mate made his final connection to the massive stereo system he’d brought along, and, with ‘Shotgun’ raging out of the speakers, several things seemed to happen at once. The engine immediately found a surge of enthusiasm and purpose, which, assisted by crashing gears, put us into full and forward thrust; a holidaying commodore promptly fell overboard (nobody heard the splash), and J.G. Ballard ignored us; but, then, he was busy trying to land his light aircraft! As we planed towards more open water, I looked over my shoulder to see a tableau of frozen faces on the ‘shoreline’, while somewhere down river I could just pick out Bert Bushnell trudging back to his yard, head bowed and shaking, contract in hand! ‘Got the stereo going, then, Paicey,’ I yelled, as we crabbed and rammed our way into a bright future, and towards the first pub, where we’d check our position.
Ritchie had rented a different boat, which was a modern fibreglass type. It had only a couple of berths, as opposed to the six or seven we had in our more sedate craft, and of course his vessel turned out to be a bit quick, as he demonstrated when the two boats arrived unannounced during the Henley Regatta. As I recall, there were all sorts of signs on the river saying, ‘Don’t do this’, ‘Don’t do that’, ‘Max speed 2 miles an hour’, as well as quite a few well-‘blazered’ people who were shouting, pointing and waving at us. Well, Paicey and I were fairly accommodating in the larger and slower boat, but Ritchie very quickly got bored with the whole affair, and decided to show the many onlookers that his craft could reverse just as quickly as it could go forwards. He also showed its ability to manoeuvre, by describing circles around The Gay Joker so fast that it mattered not if you were on the river or on the shore. Wherever you stood, you got soaked, as ‘You Keep Me Hanging On’ pounded the ears. Dear Lord, I’ve never seen so many pissed-off Hooray Henrys and Carolines in all my life, and there were a lot of Carolines – mostly with their tits out. Anyway, we all waved back at them!
As your impoverished newcomer to Deep Purple, I’d need to come to terms with many things quite quickly. For example, having seen Paicey offload serious material wealth when boarding The Gay Joker, I’d find myself in his ‘wake’, after we’d moored up near the riverside pub! So off he strode, in hipster jeans with a wide belt, and loaded with banknotes, which he’d folded in the belt, so that half the money would be hanging out for all to see. Once at the pub, he’d strut around, just willing people to wonder who this guy was, although, when it came to approaching the bar, he’d usually allow others to get there first!
An early problem also turned out to be his total disregard for personal hygiene ‘on board ship’, and, apart from having smelly feet, he showed a resolute reluctance to clean out the toilet, which was basically a bucket. After a while, I decided not to do it for him any more, and we used the pub facilities instead. The unpleasant situation didn’t seem to bother him too much, even though his bunk was next door to the cubicle; but, unfortunately, we moored up badly on one occasion, and the boat tilted sideways. To be fair, he rolled up his sleeves to help sort that problem out!
Still on the river, and Ritchie and his German-born wife, Babs, would meet up with us from time to time, and I’d begin to learn more about this eccentric and moody musician. On one occasion he decided to explore an island, and got the engine tangled up with the roots of a tree. Unperturbed, he hopped ashore, leaving Babs (whose figure would have proudly adorned the prow of the finest galleon) to amuse herself with their dog, Strokie. Well it happens that Strokie was an extremely clever animal who’d happily entertain anyone for hours on end, showing off with his backward somersaults and other party pieces. Now alone and stranded with Babs, he started his routine, presumably to cheer her up, except Babs, resplendent in her bikini, had got beyond the stage where even Strokie could make things better for her, and she was getting agitated. It was another moment for Gillan’s gallantry, as I stripped down to a pair of jeans and dived under the hull, where I cut the boat free with my knife. Coming to the surface, I realised to my horror, that the current was rapidly taking Babs and Strokie downstream. At this point Ritchie returned to see what was going on, while the distraught Babs screamed, ‘Ach, Ritchie! Vot I do?’
‘Turn the wheel, you soppy cow!’ was his unenthusiastic advice, before he promptly returned to his wanderings on the island!
There were a few good and relaxing moments on the river, although nothing was ever normal. For example, Paicey, for all his expensive fishing gear, never seemed to catch anything, and I often suggested that his luck might change if he substituted Nat King Cole for Vanilla Fudge. Of course he’d have none of that, but the point was probably better made the day this kid was fishing the bank, using just a bamboo pole, a length of line, a bent pin and some bread. Over a few hours, he filled his bag with trout, and towards the end of the day my shipmate, who’d not had a single nibble, went over to him to see if he’d like the treat of fishing from our boat. So they swapped places and, as Paicey threw out his line and cranked up the stereo, the kid continued pulling in fish from the comfort of our boat.
Later, in the pub, the drummer started making up bait for the next day. He used a biscuit tin full of maggots, which he rested on the wall while I went (again) for the beer. Waiting at the bar, I heard all this shouting and screaming, and looked out to see that the wind had blown the tin off the wall, so that his vile maggots were now crawling in the sandwiches, hair and private parts of other customers. They really were evil-smelling things (the maggots were), and it hurt Ian a lot to remove notes from his belt, to replace the spoiled food and drinks!
Meantime, while we were taking things easy, Ritchie was somewhere upriver with his airgun (or maybe it was a catapult), popping off at the riverbanks, until he finally went too far near Windsor, and the river police caught up with him. That was one of the few incidents the press didn’t get to hear about, and it was also my first awareness of the management skills of Messrs Edwards and Coletta, who somehow got him off, when the case came to court!
When I joined Deep Purple, my salary doubled to £20 a week, despite the ongoing troubles with the record company, which included gossip about ‘bad investments’ in other entertainment projects. However, I decided I had enough to concentrate my mind on as a musician, and left that side of Deep Purple to the management! Eventually, the Tetragrammaton issue would be sorted out when Warner Brothers came to the rescue, and, while that was great news, I felt particularly good having two managers, two roadies in Mick Angus and Ian Hansford, and being in a band that was going places.
Talking of ‘managers’, and feeling particularly good about the status that situation brought to us, I’d also learn they were very different characters, and needed to be understood as such. So, as the weeks and months passed by, I worked out how to approach John for one thing and touch Tony for another – or whom not to approach or touch for one thing or another! For example, an early mistake was when Roger and I approached John to ask him for a sub, so we could buy decent clothes to wear on stage. His reply was not very positive, to say the least, and proved to be a salutary lesson and an introduction as to how big-time management worked. Perhaps we should have gone to Tony.
In truth, John and Tony were a united front, with good and bad ideas, but generally fine to be with, while I’d soon be meeting our full-time accountant, and my future mentor, Bill Reid.
So, with business matters seemingly in good enough order, the band completed ‘Hallelujah’, which I first mentioned in the pre-joining phase, when Rod and Nick were still involved, and it was released on the EMI label (Harvest) in July, and later in America. In fact, it’s not a performance I’m terribly proud of, because, for starters, it wasn’t my lyric, and then, apart from mentioning that I’m not on the B side, the record showed me more as I’d been with Episode Six, as opposed to where I was at now. Still, it got me my first press release with the band, when Tony Barrow International Ltd printed that my ‘voice sings powerfully on revivalist lyrics, and tells us that it’s time for smiles and Deep Purple’!
In fact it wasn’t all smiles, really, because, when the managers told us we’d be performing the song on The David Frost Show (not Top of the Pops or Ready Steady Go), Ritchie refused. If we’d but known it, this was probably the beginning of things to come, but that was for the future, as they say, and, in present time, songwriting with Roger was well under way, as we ditched the culture of restraint and ‘holding back’, which had defined the way we went to work in the past. Then we were ‘nice people’, but, as a certain drummer, Lenny Haze, would say to me one day about different people in a different place, ‘They play like “nice people”!’ Well for us those days were now history and we didn’t have to be nice people any more. We could just stick two fingers in the air and go for it, and I think this is what Purple had been looking for – and we were going to deliver on it!
You could feel it in the music, and the way the band played. It explains very simply why songs like ‘Speed King’ took off. Right now, my entire music background of appreciation for the likes of Little Richard, Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry had found its new purpose, and, as I’ve suggested with Ritchie and the way he called on his past, so the time had come for me to put into practice everything I’d also learned.
Good Golly, said little Miss Molly when she was rockin’ in the house of blue light
Tutti Frutti was oh so rooty when she was rockin’ to the east and west
Lucille was oh so real when she didn’t do her daddy’s will Come on, baby, drive me crazy, do it, do it!
The early months of Purple were something of a blur, partly because of the energy and work, but also because I’d come to a drinking band, as a good drinker myself. However, because of the way we went about things, and what was going on around us, people thought we were on drugs, when the simple fact was that alcohol was our choice, and that was sufficient for me in the beginning! The problem arose only as the momentum and excitement increased, and I’d start going (almost daily) to buy a bottle of sweet Martini, which I’d use to set me up, having poured it into a tumbler loaded with ice. A bit further down the line, and I’d add gin to the Martini, which, although not very macho, did at least hit the soft spot for me quite quickly. So, with breakfast and brunch time sorted, I’d get into the day proper, and by nightfall I’d be having a sociable time in some bar or other, finally to find my way home perfectly well, with about ten pints of beer inside me.
It made no difference whether it was a working day or not. There was an occasion when we went to Germany, and I began drinking gin and vermouth quite early at the airport, ahead of the noon departure. During the flight, I must have had three or four miniatures of gin and tonic, which when chased by a similar number of beers, saw me through the short trip. I then found myself in a restaurant ‘somewhere’ doing an interview, and quaffing German beer – many large steins – before going on to do a TV show, and then having an evening meal, where the wine flowed. The session then transferred to a club, where I’d get back to Scotch and beer to dilute the taste of wine (which is not my favourite beverage), before I eventually crashed out in bed.
Now for those who may have been (or are) appalled by this account, the good news is that, come the morning, I’d wake up feeling great, and ready to carry on with the duties required of me. It was a recovery trait that I know used to irritate some musicians and other folks, particularly after they’d struggled down for a late breakfast, to find me doing a crossword puzzle, with a nice cup of tea stewing alongside. I think Tony Iommi (whom I recorded with on Black Sabbath’s Born Again album), was one such ‘disbeliever’, but, again, more about this later on, circa 1983!
On a more serious note, and back with the time when the above German trip was made, what I was doing was of course ‘abuse’, and it would catch up with me one day. However, until then, and as with so many of us who were in that situation, there was nobody to put me straight, and so the indulgence continued without comment, and possibly unnoticed. It certainly didn’t affect my performances on stage during the many months and years the band toured relentlessly, and of course produced some of its greatest music.
As Roger and I were still being eased into the band, we rehearsed a lot, while John and Tony mapped out a huge touring schedule as well as personal appearances and other business. There was still the need to balance early gigs using material written and performed before my arrival, but we also introduced the new songs we were now writing. So we’d perform ‘Hush’, ‘Kentucky Woman’ and ‘This Bird Has Flown’, all from Shades of Deep Purple and The Book of Taliesyn, but then we’d do stuff like ‘Speed King’, ‘Child in Time’ and ‘Into the Fire’, none of which had yet been recorded, but which we were trying out on audiences ahead of our first album, Deep Purple in Rock, on which they would feature.
At around the same time, Jon’s Concerto for Group and Orchestra had started to emerge from the walls of his flat, and become a project, as well as a bit of a problem. It was something we all found very difficult to cope with, Ritchie in particular, and words were spoken to the effect that we were a rock band making a major album, not an orchestra. So the discontent rumbled on, as we continued to write and rehearse at the Hanwell Community Centre, where, in its great echoey space, Jon first started to play a certain few notes.
We’d recently heard an album by a new band called It’s a Beautiful Day, on which there was a track called ‘Bombay Calling’. It was mainly instrumental, and was quite fast, but Jon had become fascinated by it, and was tinkering with ideas on the keyboard. After a short while I started to sing, ‘Sweet child in time…’ and rock history was about to be made! It was totally spontaneous, and conceived without a storyline (unlike how ‘Smoke on the Water’ would be constructed); and, through its development, with the help of tight trousers, I discovered ‘the scream’.
‘Child in Time’, remains elusive for me to sing to this very day. The timing and weighting of delivery can be a nightmare if I’m not in the right frame of mind, and, for a number that was written without a narrative style, it would shock me to learn – as far away as the 1990s – that it had been adopted as an anthem for some resistance groups who were operating underground in East European countries. Some songs are written with specific reference points and/or a ‘message’, but this was not the case with ‘Child in Time’, which illustrates the occasional scary part of being a singer/songwriter!
Other songs would be inspired by their own surroundings, and usually started with working titles. ‘Speed King’, for instance, began in a smaller room at Hanwell, and was called ‘Kneel and Pray’ for some time. It was performed at early shows, including one for the BBC, while ‘Flight of the Rat’ began as a joke, when ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee’ was mentioned; our ‘rat’ of course, was a drug habit, as was ‘Into the Fire’, which was similarly drug-associated. So, with a collection of material like this, to which add ‘Bloodsucker’, I suppose it’s understandable that most people continued to believe we did drugs, and when we said we didn’t the stock answer was, ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ So we gave up arguing about it, although we’d dabble with substances in later days – at least I did.
Other songs – for instance, ‘Highway Star’ – found their inspiration and ‘being’ elsewhere, and in this particular case, it came from a journey on a bus to Portsmouth, where we had some journalists on board. One asked Ritchie how our songs were written, and, caught in a helpful moment, he picked up his guitar, and said, ‘Like this.’ So he started a rhythm, and I came in with, ‘We’re on the highway; we’re on the road; we’re a rock’n’-roll band.’ Moments later, and we’d all be in the right kind of mood, with the creative juices flowing, so that by the end of the night the seeds had been sown for what would become our standard opening song for many years: ‘Highway Star’. It has been wonderful occasions like this that have made me realise why Deep Purple became the band I’d later admit being ‘willing to die for’; and, looking back on the camaraderie (most of the time) and a willingness to be experimental and innovative, I also realise, so powerfully, why my lapses into disillusionment in later years were based on sound logic.
As we’ve seen, my first significant appearance with Deep Purple was at the Speakeasy, and, although it was a small venue, it became the main watering hole in London for musicians, while the roadies seemed to hang out at the Marquee. So you could walk into the Speak at any time and find yourself in the company of people like Keith Moon, the Kinks, or perhaps one of the Yardbirds, and it was a sobering moment (or perhaps I should say a ‘defining moment’) when I realised that I was becoming part of that elite club of influential and respected musicians. At last, I was mixing with the heavyweights of the business on equal terms and, although the best was yet to come, it felt so good, even at the beginning!
My hair was halfway down my back, and I was comfortable in flared jeans, vest and buckled boots. I’d also found greater confidence in myself (which some took to be arrogance), and happily fell into the rock lifestyle, which existed in a microcosm at the club, where you could eat in their funky little restaurant, or just sit at the bar talking to some guy whose show you’d seen a while back.
There was always the nonchalant blow job (BJ) happening while you were waiting for another pint, but of course it didn’t interfere with the conversation, and we always used to say that the ideal groupie stood four feet tall, with a flat head, so you had somewhere to rest your beer!
Groupies came to feature greatly in the culture of rock ’n’ roll, and willingly helped create the basis for a lifestyle no self-respecting parent would wish their daughter to associate with! Come to think of it, there were not many self-respecting parents who were keen on their sons becoming rock-’n’-roll musicians, either, but over the years, there would be many wonderful occasions when the girls would enhance our lives, and those of the roadies and crew.
Their own rules and logic would sometimes defy belief, as I would discover later when I owned the De Lane Lea Studios in Holborn, London. In fact, it was during the Ian Gillan Band days – making Clear Air Turbulence, that a German girl managed to work her way into the studio, and was gradually working her way through my band and the crew! An old mate of mine, Jonathan Crisp, turned up, and, as befitted a young and highly successful entrepreneur, he was extremely well dressed and elegant in the way businessmen can be. Well, he must have found the scene he walked into a bit of a culture shock, so, just to wind him up (he looked frightened to death), I shouted through the studio to the Fräulein that she should look after my friend when she had a moment. Her reply was vintage, and extremely indignant: ‘I most certainly vill not! He iss vearing a suit!’ Now that’s what I call a groupie – what style!
Incredible as it may seem, BJs are the ultimate sign of affection in rock ’n’ roll, because they’re far less emotional, you don’t end up getting married, and the whole thing is far less stressful. Sadly, for all concerned, the situation was stamped on by the women’s movement, whose cheerleaders chose to represent the whole of their sex (including the groupies) on such matters. As I recall, it was usually the larger-bodied females who made all the fuss, and I also remember getting a bit shirty about it at the time. It all seemed so unfair that, just when the time was right for me, certain people were putting a downer on a bit of consenting fun.
I accept the fact that rock ’n’ roll, and what can go on in it, horrifies some people, or might even put parents off letting their kids go to a show, but, to reassure them, let me say it doesn’t happen to entire audiences. Well, not every night!
Sometimes things went a bit wrong, and one of the many concepts I have learned to deal with was the ‘Concept of Throwing Up’; and where better to try it out than in the restaurant of the Speakeasy, where I found myself at the table with my girlfriend, Zoe? After probably fifteen or twenty minutes of sound sleep, with my face buried in the plate of spaghetti Luigi had so wonderfully prepared for me, somebody bumped into the lamp over our table, and it woke me. I looked up, spaghetti dripping from my face, and stared at Zoe, who was now in a moving light.
Well, I felt nauseous – not because of her, but because of the moving light and the copious flagons of alcohol I had quaffed. And so, in my state of discomfort, it was time to get up from the table (as so many had before me) and try to reach the toilet, where I could vomit.
Now, it is one of the absolute quests of civilised man to be able to throw up and still to keep his dignity; but, unfortunately, my legs could not keep up with my stomach, and so I ended up spoiling a good fight!
All of this is very well, but in ‘cold lights of days’ we had managers who were on a corporate mission, and so I’d be constantly reminded that the money I was spending was an advance against future earnings; in other words, this is a serious business we’re all in! Having therefore been ‘reminded’ (again), we all reunited around said purpose to produce Deep Purple in Rock and, alongside it, Jon’s Concerto, which he continued with to the increasing fury of the guitar player, and, to some extent, the rest of us. We also began extensive touring, and doing high-profile appearances. August 1969, for example, saw us undertaking a schedule along the following lines:
| August | |
| 2nd | Radio Brighton |
| 11th | BBC Radio |
| 13th | Revolution Club, London |
| 15th | Mayfair Ballroom, Newcastle |
| 16th | Rebecca’s Club, Birmingham |
| 24th | Bilzen, Amsterdam |
| 26th | Klooks Kleek, Windsor |
| 28th | Lyceum, Leicester Square, London |
| 29th | BBC Radio, Noise at Nine |
| 30th | Kent Pop Festival, Gravesend |
It was the beginning of heady days, and I guess I may not have been handling things too well sometimes, as I was reminded the time I went back to my old drinking haunt, the Travellers Friend. Now, part of my intention with the visit was to repay mates like Barry, Mick, Dave, Los and all those guys who had ‘subbed’ me in times when they were better off; but now things were different: I was on £20 a week, and that was big bucks!
So I went into the pub, and said, ‘I’m the singer with Deep Purple, drinks are on me!’ There was a lot of backslapping as I ordered a round, and then, before the glasses were empty, I put in for another. ‘Same again, please, landlord.’ And then I went back for a third time.
At this point, little Dave King, whom we called the Professor, came up to me and said, ‘I think that’s enough, don’t you, Ian?’
I replied, ‘Hey, man, what do you mean?’
‘We enjoy you buying us drinks, and we’re enjoying tonight. In fact we’re really pleased you got the job. But don’t rub our noses in it! Buying two rounds on the trot was enough, so don’t be an arsehole. Stick your money in your pocket, and behave yourself!’
Of course it was a calming and corrective moment, during which time I remembered that I was only spending my ‘advance’, and, thinking about it that way, I would also see John Coletta, and it steadied me. Over a drink or several, John could be great value, and there were occasions when we played and beat him at cards, which for the most part he took with good grace and humour. However, when his dander was up, it could be a problem if you pushed your luck at his ‘expense’, and then I’d certainly not catch his eye. It wasn’t fear that held me back, but the fact that, when he lost control, his protruding teeth couldn’t keep in the spluttering that went with an outburst, and in full rage it was impossible for me to keep a straight face. In moments of doubt, I’d remember that John was not above landing one on you, and I’d also been warned that he’d been a champion boxer in the RAF!
As time passed, I know we began to cost the management quite a lot of money, as we settled into being successful at rock ’n’ roll in the early seventies. In the beginning, it was limited to chucking a few bits of furniture out of our hotel rooms – just to test the reaction – but, when the complaints started, the management would do their bit and say, ‘Very sorry,’ before handing over the notes (I mean our ‘advance’). However, we were not out to offend others by our behaviour, and would usually explain a misfortune in terms of our ‘just having a go’ at one another.
Needless to say, such justifications weren’t often seen that way, including the time we crossed the Forth Bridge, to get to the George Hotel, Edinburgh, after a gig in Dunfermline. What happened this time was still in the days before flight cases were available, and gear was protected only by plastic and canvas covers, which was the situation as we drove back in the band limo – a Jaguar 420G. So, as we lined up for the toll queue, we suddenly attacked Roger, putting an amp cover over his head and pulling it down, before tying it firmly to his waist with string. With Part One completed, and our Rog nicely trussed up like the proverbial chicken, we crossed the bridge, stopped the car and chucked him out – right in the middle of the busy multi-lane highway. The sight was incredible, as cars screeched and swerved to avoid the writhing creature, who was all over the place on the tarmac; but, because some drivers were then needlessly abusive, we reversed and got our bass player back in the car, before the police arrived.
Dear Rog, whose Episode Six profile said he didn’t like arguments, was livid, and, believe you me, on the rare occasion when Rog does fume, steam seems to come out of his ears. So we all said, ‘Oh, please, Roger, forgive us. We’re so sorry. We’ll definitely buy you a drink when we get there’ – and all that bollocks, at which moment we arrived at our very elegant hotel. Now, Roger, being the forgiving sort of person he is, said, ‘Oh, all right, then,’ at which moment we jumped him again, and stripped him stark naked! Reduced to his birthday suit, he made mutterings along the lines of ‘Fuck you lot!’ before he stormed through reception, up the stairs, pausing only to ask for the key to his room. We strolled in a few moments later to be confronted by a sea of waxwork faces, frozen over their gin and tonics! Gloria Bristow would not have approved!
Whatever misgivings we had about Jon Lord’s Concerto, Tony Edwards got behind it after one of those meetings I’d become familiar with, when he or John Coletta would say something like, ‘Well, boys, what shall we do next?’ And there would be Lordie with this opus to hand, and ready to give them the big sell. The next thing we knew was that Tony had booked the Royal Albert Hall, and then, when Jon had completed the score (in Purple time), it went to the publisher, Ben Nesbitt, who took it to the conductor of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (RPO), Malcolm Arnold. In fact, Malcolm was Dr Arnold, but I’d later tell him that, with his standing in the business, ‘Sir’ had a much better ring to it (and, indeed, he would be knighted in 1993).
Anyway, he said he’d do the show with the RPO and, with the die cast, we sort of got behind it. Time was not on our side – I think we had only a week or so to work with the orchestra, and they seemed even less keen on the project than we were. In fact, some of them positively hated it, and it was only Malcolm’s enthusiasm and energy that kept the whole thing on track. As an ‘experience’, the prospect of performing Jon’s work in this cavernous building, using 110 musicians, including a sixty-piece string section and assorted percussionists, was ‘numbing’, I’ll admit; but, despite the hugeness of it all, it was heartening to know that Ritchie could blast the whole lot of them away, if he chose to!
The first session with orchestra and band ended with different emotions running high. On the one hand, there were John and Tony sitting in the auditorium, heads deep in hands, and looking quite intellectual; but, representing the other hand, a female cellist stood up, and shouted something about not playing with second-rate Beatles, to which jibe Malcolm told her not to be so silly. However, when another lacklustre performance followed, our conductor had clearly had enough, and moved to deal with the situation in a manner that quite shocked us. So angry was he that he raised his hands and said something like, ‘I don’t know what you think you are doing, but you’re supposed to be the finest orchestra in Britain and you are playing like a bunch of c**ts! It’s extremely embarrassing, and quite frankly, with the way it’s going, you’re not fit to be on stage with these people. So pick yourselves up, and let’s hear some bollocks!’
He was less aggressive during the rehearsal for the National Anthem, which the orchestra also hated, but warmed them to the thought that, ‘We’re going to make history tonight, so we might as well make music while we are doing it!’
Our attitude in the build-up must have upset Jon quite a lot, but the way we saw it, well, it cut two ways. As Deep Purple, we were trying to make Deep Purple in Rock, which Jon was increasingly unavailable to rehearse, and against this we were being asked to support a high-profile non-rock project, which was his very own property. I admit that my own contribution – writing the lyrics for him – was made very late in the day, and it was only during the afternoon, prior to the concert that night, that Jon approached me to ask when I would be ‘doing my bit’. I did it over a couple of bottles of Chianti in a nearby Italian restaurant, and contributed to a great night for Jon.
Ritchie played brilliantly, Ian Paice was stunning, as was Roger, and we drove along with the orchestra in great style. I was proud of the band, and we generally got a good reception – in fact, a fifteen-minute ovation!
The composer, Sir William Walton, came to see us afterwards and said he’d enjoyed it immensely, although there were some who confessed to being uncertain how to deal with the whole thing. Tom Hibbert is reported to have seen a violinist stifle boredom with a coughing fit during Ritchie’s five-minute ‘speed solo’, but, if that’s the case, there’s no way it would have been heard, while, come the end, the audience didn’t know whether to applaud, dance or just sit tight! What’s certain is that it was a stunning success for Jon, and did Deep Purple no harm at all – that is once a few follow-up difficulties had been resolved. Fittingly, Jon’s first child, the lovely Sara, was also born that night, to add to his triumph, and, at the invitation of the BBC, we’d also perform his Gemini Suite at the Royal Festival Hall in September 1970, with the Orchestra of the Light Music Society. However, I remember little about that, on account of the fact that I was drunk for much of the time, although I’m told my performance was ‘acclaimed’, which I think means I was magnificent.
The Concerto was recorded live, and filmed by British Lion, from which footage a programme went out to several countries, while BBC Omnibus also showed it on 4 April 1970. As for the recording itself, well that went out on the EMI label in the UK, where it reached No. 26, while Warner Bros helped it go to No. 149 in America.
One of the side benefits of Jon’s project was that it ‘blooded’ co-engineer Martin (The Wasp) Birch, and his part in our rise to fame will become more apparent further on. For now, Martin had started his career as a musician, but he then moved into production at the De Lane Lea Studios. However, Concerto for Group and Orchestra took him into completely new territory, where he not only had to cope with the complex desks, each with eight tracks, but he also had to deal with background audience noise, the orchestra and, loudest of all, Deep Purple! Martin would soon cross over to become known as the sixth member of the band, staying with us for many years on tours and recording work, until, further down the line, he’d join Iron Maiden, where he became Martin (The Juggler) Birch!
As hinted at already, there were one or two problems to sort out after the Concerto, the biggest one being that, as we toured, some promoters and music lovers weren’t quite sure what to expect. Or, more accurately, they were sure what to expect, but they didn’t get it, and this happened a few times. One occasion was in Folkestone, where we pulled into town to see posters saying, ‘Deep Purple in Concert’, adding the name of such-and-such a silver band! Well, Ritchie took one look at that ‘banner’ and went berserk, ranting on about the Concerto having become a millstone around our necks. It was of course extremely embarrassing, because this promoter (like others) had obviously heard about the Albert Hall concert, and presumed that was how we liked to do things: if we could play with an orchestra, we could obviously play with a silver band. It was a very sad mistake for him, a wasted journey for us, and another notch on the learning curve of experience, which I’ve not mentioned in sadness for some time now!
So we needed to straighten people out as to who we were, and we did this through a period of heavy touring in support of the release of Deep Purple in Rock, as well as catching the occasional headline for rock-’n’-roll excess. Along with this, and as we became increasingly famous, so our pay went up from time to time, and we progressed to either headlining or at least taking second billing to bands such as Canned Heat.
A typical itinerary for around this time shows us in Paris on 5 January; doing Magic Roundabout for BBC radio the next day; playing Reading University on the 10th; and doing two shows in Amsterdam on the 15th and 16th. Then it was back to the Civic Hall, Dunstable, and onto a plane to play the Big Apple in Munich, while shows in the UK (at the close of January) included a return to the Royal Albert Hall, which we did very differently from our first appearance!
As I look back on it all, it’s clear that we began to go through all sorts of attitude changes. For example, it was suddenly ‘uncool’ for anyone in Deep Purple to smile, in case people thought (a) we were having a good time, (b) we were being paid good money for it, or (c) that we were not taking things seriously. So we were definitely ‘definitive cool’, and that showed in publicity shots, on album sleeves and so forth.
On stage, Ritchie had begun to take things a little further still, by refusing encores, and when challenged he’d just say the audience hadn’t deserved it. So we found ourselves with fans refusing to leave, having paid good money to see us, and begging for our return on stage, only for us to do so, without the great guitar player being with us. There were a lot of arguments and soul-searching moments over situations like that, as we came to terms with fame, and otherwise developed a free-flowing and improvising set, which took us in all sorts of directions. In fact, it has always been said that no two Purple shows are the same, and therefore why bootlegging our music became such good business for certain entrepreneurs. A controversial subject to say the least, but good luck to them, that’s what I say!
Still, as the touring and writing continued, Ritchie and I developed a close stage relationship, swapping his guitar licks with my often matching vocals, as our bond made for a great chemistry, and which Jon quickly picked up on, and began to similarly participate in, with the Hammond. Ritchie also introduced some new riffs to add to those early ‘God Save the Queen’ and ‘White Christmas’ choices, and so ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ and ‘An English Country Garden’ joined his solos, which, by the bye, were also becoming longer! It didn’t bother me, because the fans loved his musicianship, so, when it came to those moments in a show, the extended break(s) allowed me time to otherwise amuse myself, depending on the opportunities available. In fact, one such opportunity came at a gig we did, where there was a precious Steinway piano on stage. It was covered with a protective green canvas, which trailed to the floor, and, perhaps understandably, they refused to let the roadies push it aside. And building our stacks on the lid was also a no-no! However, given the lack of space left for us to work in, a compromise was reached: cardboard protection was added to safeguard the beautifully polished surface, and we got to play!
During the performance, a girl got on stage, but, in the first moments of her arrival, it wasn’t possible for us to be properly introduced. However, as we approached the moment for what would be a twenty-minute Ritchie solo, my new friend and I fell to the stage, and rolled under the piano, where we became fully acquainted. With the solo needing to end, getting my pants back on was a problem – but God bless the long guitar solo, that’s what I say!
Knobbing – you know what it means – was the order of the day, and you have to be glad that AIDS wasn’t the concern we now know it to be. Then, the popular ‘dose’ beloved of sailors, and known as VD, was well within the curing capabilities of a competent doctor, and I caught it a couple of times. Still, in the balance of things, it was worthwhile, and we enjoyed a life of unlimited debauchery and endless surprises, such as with Dirty Doreen, who was called that because the lass was game for anything, and was simply very, very rude. The way she used her orifices to amuse herself, and anybody who was interested, never ceased to amaze. There was that extraordinary time when we played the Queen Elizabeth Hall, supported by Wishbone Ash. Just before going on stage, one of their band members came rushing into the dressing room saying he’d lost his hairbrush, and could he borrow one of ours? It happened that Doreen had mine tucked between her legs, so, lifting her frock, I removed it, and passed it, handle first to the musician, who drifted out with a very puzzled look on his face.
These little moments of subtle humour were just commonplace in my business, but was it also going on in other circles? I know you wouldn’t be employed by a bank if you turned up for the interview pissed, a circumstance that need not have excluded you if you arrived for an audition a bit squiffy!
I guess we must have been affected by our lifestyles, but I won’t excuse anything because of it. We just did things spontaneously, and it snowballed. Sometimes we’d be the cause, and on other occasions it would start elsewhere. For example, if I started getting grief from a hotel switchboard, such that I couldn’t get what I wanted immediately, I’d rip the phone out of the wall and put it in a lift with a note saying, ‘This phone doesn’t appear to be working; will you send another up, please.’ I did that quite often, because I did get the distinct impression sometimes that we were not as welcome as other guests, and yet we were certainly better for business!
And then the occasional barman would give me a hard time, which I’d also find unacceptable. I mean, if you have to scowl at or be indifferent to a customer who’s drinking the bar dry, there has to be some kind of price to pay, eh? So, when it was time to leave, people like that would see me roll and light a large banknote of whatever currency we were dealing with at the time, and, once it was smouldering, I’d put it into the ashtray, saying, ‘Your tip. Goodnight!’ I know it sounds really nasty, but we’re all entitled to deal with our dignity as we feel appropriate, and it seemed a more civilised conclusion than starting a fight.
In terms of the serious money being generated, our management had secured a $400, 000 advance with the buyers of Tetragrammaton, although there would be some nervous moments in the early days, while Joe Smith, Warner’s president, fathomed out what to do with us! His dilemma was most probably because Deep Purple came to the corporation as a very small asset among much bigger contracts, but we played our part by delivering the Deep Purple in Rock album to them, which they were delighted with, and which went to No. 4 in the UK charts, and made No. 143 in the States. The ‘Black Night’ single followed, and made No. 2 in the UK, behind ‘Band of Gold’ by Freda Payne. All of this meant that the band I’d joined just about a year ago were helping me to achieve my wildest dreams!
I’m told we played about fifty UK gigs during the first part of 1970, as well as fifteen or so on the Continent, while our performance fees rose significantly, as radio and TV work kept flooding in. There was also the BBC’s Making a Musical on 8 February, their production Sounds of the Seventies in April, May and June; plus Granada TV’s Doing Their Thing and LWT’s South Bank Summer.
Well I’ve said ‘at last’ several times already, but here’s another one, because with the problems of Tetragrammaton settled, plus being with a great new label, and of course having a major album in the charts, it was announced that, at last, we’d be touring the States in the autumn.
Still just ahead of that, we had the National Jazz and Blues Festival to play at Plumpton on 9 August, and it was here that Ritchie decided to add a further dimension to his performance, when our version of the Stones’ hit ‘Paint it Black’ drew to a close with a blistering solo from Ian Paice. Basically, Ritchie had told our roadie, Ian Hansford, to douse his speaker with petrol and set fire to it, which of course Ian was extremely reluctant to do. However, he eventually went along with the order, torched the gear with a long broom handle, and – surprise, surprise – the whole damn lot went up, with one of the crew getting burned as he vainly tried to put the fire out.
It was then down to Ritchie to explain his rationale for the incident, which he did on the grounds that Yes had deliberately failed to turn up on time, and so we’d been manipulated into being the support act. However, it didn’t work out quite like that, because we very effectively closed the show for ourselves, and for them also. The situation caused a lot of bad feeling all the way round, but Ritchie didn’t give a toss, and we all felt pretty much the same.
Ritchie went on to make quite a habit of trashing guitars on stage, and cheap Japanese models would eventually be bought for the purpose of sending the crowd home happy. Well, that’s how he saw it, and the theatrical stunt worked well enough for him to carry on doing it right up to the moment of his departure in 1994.
It was in Dundee that I heard the album had gone into the charts. We were having lunch when Tony Edwards announced it, and, after so many years of struggle and disappointment, I just burst into tears. Within such a short time, everything had changed, and now it all seemed, for once, so very simple. I mean, just look how we made it with ‘Black Night’, which we did only because the managers told us we needed a ‘single’, and so we went to the studio one afternoon, tried to find a riff, failed, and went to the Newton Arms next door, where we got drunk. Then Roger and Ritchie went back to try again and, after a few hours, the backing tracks were down. We borrowed the title from the words of an old Arthur Alexander song, and Roger and I worked on the lyric, which was quite tricky to do, given the state we were in!
As Disc and Music Echo reported in September 1970: ‘Deep Purple’s Roger Glover admitted he has no idea what the words of “Black Night” are all about. Never mind, he only part wrote it!’ Still, the managers got what they’d asked for, and it succeeded. As I say, why had it all been so difficult before?
Other things also began to fall into place for us, beginning with another hike in wages to £100 a week, and a PR team with budgets to add further to our ever-rising profile. Police presences were also becoming necessary, to maintain orderly behaviour among the fans and punters before and after a show, although the occasional ‘serious issue’ would still sometimes present itself, as it did in Offenbach, Germany, where a bomb scare had the hall emptied, and of course closed the show. The incident was reported soon after in Melody Maker, and illustrates our ‘popularity’, if I can put it that way!
Talking of riots, Deep Purple caused one during their highly incident-prone European tour. After their skirmish with East German border guards and a bomb scare at Offenbach, which prevented them from finishing a set, they even found trouble in neutral Switzerland. Crammed into a none-too-big venue at Basle were 2, 500 people, so those who couldn’t get in, rioted outside.
With all of this going on, and much else besides, I received a call from out of the blue, and it was Tim Rice. He’d heard me sing ‘Child in Time’, and thought the way I did it would be ideal for a project he was working on with Andrew Lloyd Webber (now, of course, Lord Lloyd-Webber). So I went round to Andrew’s flat, where the two of them took me through the concept of their musical Jesus Christ Superstar. Tim was instantly fantastic – effusive, enthusiastic, driving: a warm, gentle giant of a man. He then introduced me to Andrew, who sat at the piano wearing his ‘inside-out look’, and said, ‘It goes like this,’ at which point he started playing. Every so often, he’d look over his shoulder for appreciation, but I found it difficult to show enthusiasm, as I worked with the lyric. The choruses were great, well worked out and crafted, but we seemed not to communicate too well, and it was only because of Tim that I really bothered to stay for one of those ‘it goes like this, and now change to that’ sessions. Tim kept encouraging me with, ‘Go on! Go on!’ and ‘Hey, that’s great!’ until I began to see where the whole thing was going.
He then said, ‘OK, let’s take it to the studio,’ where I did my whole contribution to the part of Jesus in just a few hours.
Looking back on the experience, I see two high points, the first being in the song ‘Gethsemane (I Only Want to Say)’, which is an important piece, and there I have to admit having to do two or three takes of the closing scene at the Cross, because that piece moved me significantly. In fact, it almost brought me to tears.
Jesus Christ Superstar is not a project I got close to at all, although I was very pleased with it in the end, including (for High Point 2) with Tony Edwards, who earned his commission on that venture, because he negotiated a royalty payment of one penny per unit sold, instead of the flat fee of (I believe) £100, which was on offer.
I’ve spoken in the beginning about how business was conducted in my formative years, against the way the young generation go about their music careers today, but I believe I’m right in saying that the percentage deal Tony struck for me on the Superstar project, was groundbreaking in its time, and that Yvonne Elliman (Mary Magdalene) also secured a similar arrangement. So the original album, in its striking sleeve, was released in November 1970, and went to No. 6 in the UK charts and No. 1 in America, selling about eight million copies in total.
A little while later, I received a call from Tony, saying that Tim was hassling for me to play the Jesus role in the movie. I had the voice, the figure – tall and slim – and, of course, the long hair, although I suppose it can’t be proven that’s how Jesus looked in real life. I mean, he might have been short and fat, mightn’t he?
Well, for many reasons – mainly because Deep Purple was my life, and I’d already turned down the stage part, so the film didn’t really seem any different – I turned down the offer. However, Tony said I should at least go and find out more about it, so I went to Pinewood Studios to meet the producer, Norman Jewison. The idea was for us to chat and screen-test, and, on balance, my mood was very positive, as I remembered the ambitions of my youth, and the incident with those two guys outside the Odeon (see Chapter 1). I mean, not even Elvis Presley had the credentials for a part like the one I was talking about, so perhaps everything was going to work out as originally planned, as I struggled in a ‘push me, pull you’ contest of the mind!
Against every positive consideration that playing lead in a movie meant to me, there was always the love and loyalty I felt towards the band and, of course, there had been the Concerto a few months earlier, when I’d participated in giving Jon such a hard time for being less than one hundred per cent committed. So all of this was in my mind, as I arrived magnificently at the studios in my new Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud III, complete with E-plates, and went to find Mr Jewison’s suite, where coffee was served. And then, with his secretary in constant attendance, Jewison looked me up and down and said, ‘Well, Tim is certainly keen for you to play the part, and I’m sure everything’s going to be just fine. What’s your schedule?’
As it happened, I was able to tell him that things were a bit quiet for a month or so, to which he said they’d be going to Israel in a few weeks, and we’d be on location there for about ten. There was lots of ‘I’m interested’; ‘Let me talk to the band’; ‘Fine, see if something can be wangled’; and ‘Yes, you look great’ as I stood up to leave. And then I made a mistake. If only I’d had the experience to know when to speak and when to shut up, and had kept my mouth closed and let Tony follow things up, I’d probably be a movie star by now. But it wasn’t to be, because at the door, I said,
‘Hang on a second,’ to which Mr Jewison replied, ‘Yes?’
‘What’s the deal?’
In fact, my motives were perfectly well intended, as I went on to explain that, if I was going to be out of circulation for three months, I’d need to ask what the band would have to say about it. This situation wasn’t about financial gain: it was about the guys being covered for loss of earnings and so forth; and so I repeated the question.
‘What’s the deal?’ to which he replied it was $1, 000 a week, which I took to mean ‘expenses’; and I said something to that effect. However, he misunderstood me, because he said, ‘Correct – but you have to pay your own bar bill.’ ‘That’s great,’ I said, mightily relieved. ‘Now tell me how much I get paid?’
‘Well, I’ve just told you: a thousand dollars a week.’
After a pause, I said, ‘Do you mean I’m being offered about twelve thousand dollars “all in” to star in this film, while my mates sit around for weeks on end, twiddling their thumbs?’
Puzzled, he said, ‘What are you talking about?’
So I laid it on the line. ‘Mr Jewison, this band I’m with can take $20, 000 a night, that’s what I’m talking about!’
Well the man was absolutely shocked, and it all started to go downhill from there. Gestures and recovery noises were made, so, when it came to the crunch and he asked how much I wanted, I told him I wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $250, 000, and, with that said, I was soon on my way to the car and a pub, to reflect on the fact that I’d nearly become a film star!
I told Tony about the meeting, and he said he’d see if he could pick up the pieces, but, of course, that never happened, and the American Ted Neeley got the gig. As a result of this, I discovered I now had two managers who were seeing me as a troublemaker. Whether it goes back so far as when Roger and I asked John for some money to buy clothes, or the fact I was behind some of the bills for hotel refurbishments, I know not, but John certainly had me down as ‘problematic’, and I guess Tony now felt the same!
Against this, the first trip by Deep Purple to America in August was relatively uneventful – a total anticlimax, really. We’d so looked forward to it, but then travelled with great reluctance, because Warner Bros wanted us to perform the Concerto at the Hollywood Bowl, which even Jon was unenthusiastic about. However, the label was also looking to give us loads of publicity for Deep Purple in Rock, so we did an abbreviated version of Jon’s work, and followed it with pure Purple, which went down brilliantly in the packed venue, although I have to say we were then glad to close the door on the Concerto part of our lives. Roger was particularly glad, because he’d played the show having just had a jab to deal with something nasty that he’d picked up along the way! Funny how you remember things like that, in circumstances just mentioned, and of such magnitude!
We played Albuquerque, Salt Lake City and Pasadena, and earned just over £7, 500, which was a lot less than the cost of a trip, which also failed to generate the record sales we were hoping for, as the tour ended beset by niggling problems. Expected bookings had failed to appear, keeping us at one time hotel-bound in Los Angeles, and on another occasion we had to borrow gear in Arizona after the tour bus broke down in the desert.
Still, it was better news back home, where ‘Black Night’ was doing the business, and we were in huge demand, including, as it would emerge, with Sanderson’s wallpaper, a story that illustrates how we sometimes struggled with the management over the conflict between artistic credibility and (almost) vulgar business intent.
I’m not entirely sure how and when the Sanderson’s incident occurred, but we went to one of those interminable meetings at number 25, where John would order the drinks, and then run ideas past us. The sessions usually started with a ‘let’s sort things out boys’ moment, and a chance to bounce ideas around, beginning with the bounce-around idea that Sanderson’s would make Deep Purple (-coloured) wallpaper. That’s right, Sanderson’s would make Deep Purple (-coloured) wallpaper!
From the prolonged silence, it was evident that this was another of those brainwaves that had everybody looking at the table, fiddling with pencils, or taking a deep swig of drink, before the two managers would swing into a tried and tested strategy. John would pick out two of the band to take to lunch, Tony would take the other two, and I’d be left to make my own arrangements. So I’d take myself off to the pub, and eventually we’d all reconvene to hear the outcome of collective deliberations, which would start with, ‘Well, Jon, what do you think?’ and he’d say that he thought ‘whatever’ a pretty good idea. And then ‘Well, Ritchie, what do you think?’ and Ritchie wouldn’t be in the least bit bothered, so it was Roger’s turn next, and he’d say he’d go along with the majority. That left Paicey, who’d just want to know how much money we were going to get. So, with a rub of hands, the management would say, ‘Good, so we’re going to do it, then, lads, right?’ And, as they all nodded, I’d go, ‘You fucking prats, I don’t believe this!’ But, sadly, that’s how so many things seemed to be handled from time to time, and I’m reminded that we live in a democracy!
The deal we had with our managers didn’t really bother me in those days. I was young and doing what I’d always wanted to do. Indeed I hadn’t a care in the world, so the detail of money was a very low priority – so much so that, if I was a millionaire in the halcyon days of Purple, I was the only one not to realise it! People kept telling me how rich I was, but they obviously had better access to my life than I did. Of course, I exhibited wealth by owning a lifetime’s ambition – the Roller, for which I paid £3, 750 – and then I also bought my first house: Hyde House in Pangbourne. That cost £12, 500, but it was only a neo Georgian thing on a small private estate, and efforts to make it more palatial by building a small swimming pool in the garden were unsuccessful. So, in the bigger scheme of things, I was basically happy to leave my earnings in the hands of John, Tony and Bill Reid, as Deep Purple became increasingly ‘bankable’.
A bit differently, it never bothered me how much the management and other professionals were earning, which was strange, given the experiences I’d been through with Episode Six and the Pye label. However, I did question the percentages when it was decided to drop the agency we used, and bring the matter ‘in house’, and, about that, the figure of 27 per cent comes to mind. Still, if I wasn’t interested enough to ask properly then, why should I now? On the other hand, why shouldn’t I?
I’ve already touched on Bill Reid, our accountant, whose introduction to the Deep Purple set-up is the stuff of folklore and deserves a proper mention. As I recall, it was decided that we needed a top firm of accountants to give substance to our image and standing in the music business, so a couple of us went to this big city firm, where we marched into reception and asked to see one of the senior partners. We said we were Deep Purple, which was enough to pull a fairly serious-looking chap in a pinstripe suit from out of his office; and, as he approached us, he had alongside him this older, rather wise-looking gentleman, who was introduced as a manager. There was clearly a misunderstanding as to what the partner thought Deep Purple might be, other than a nice colour, and so the meeting went no further than the reception lobby, where our stay was also very brief!
However, someone got the vibe that the old geezer and manager seemed amused and interested, so we lowered our sights and telephoned back, asking for Mr Reid. It can take several factors to come together for a moment of good fortune to be manufactured, and, in the case of Bill, it was that he’d probably reached the pinnacle of opportunity at this firm, that his kids were approaching independence and, above all else, he was probably very bored. So he handed in his notice and bravely took the plunge with us – in fact, just before ‘Black Night’ was released.
Fast-forward, and a few months later Bill was travelling ahead of us, setting up deals and contracts on a worldwide basis, and deservedly having the time of his life! His modest offices in Wallington became a financial centre for a major part of the music business, and he also represented many stars in sport. Old enough to be our father (he took on that kind of role), Bill became an anchor – at least in my life – as he sat in his panelled office overlooking the high street, with a steady build-up of gold discs adorning the wall, and dressed in multicoloured shirts, Bermuda shorts and sandals. He also scratched his balls quite a lot, which was probably a two-fingered statement to the rather restricted and staid life he’d left behind in the city!
It was often said we’d play our best shows when Bill was backstage, or out front, but, when it came to the after-show parties, he’d hover, resplendent with a huge Havana cigar in hand, and, after a glass of wine or two, bid us goodnight and take himself off to bed, leaving us to abuse the expense account. I’d love to know how he explained away receipts like the Chicken Wey in Frankfurt (which was not a restaurant!), but, then, a lot of our leisure activities and expenses were looked after by the promoters, who also liked to enjoy themselves. So maybe it wasn’t that big a problem for Bill, while other things about the man deserve my discretion.
Bill told us what we could afford, and he paid the accounts – all of them! He was the one who dished out the weekly money and, if I ran short, I’d call him to say, ‘Bill, can I afford this?’ or ‘May I do that?’ and he would make it possible. It seemed that we were a bottomless pit of money, but everything was channelled through him, and we respected that.
On the domestic scene, Ritchie was married for the second time; Jon was with Judith (and child); Paicey was engaged to his money; and both Roger and I were in love. In fact, I was in an ongoing and full-time relationship with Zoe Dean at the time, having first met her at Pye Records, during the Episode Six days. I’d always had a spark for this mysterious girl, which is what attracted me to her in the first place, and then I met her at a Purple gig, which she turned up to with a friend in her Austin A30. I was sitting in the back of a limo, and just got out, jumped into her car, and we drove down to her home in Salisbury, after which things drifted on for ten or twelve years.
It’s hard to know what to say about the relationship, and, because Zoe has felt unwilling to disclose much here, I’ll deal lightly and politely with a part of my life that saw me at my youthful prime, but in which any personal regrets are best kept that way. To have stayed with Zoe for so many years, when I had so many other opportunities, speaks for itself.
As our touring continued to intensify, I suspect the close-bonded relationship within the group began to crack when I brought Zoe along with me, and we started to live in separate quarters and hotels from the band, and even took to having our own limo. In fact, I played the ‘star’ part to the limit, and I guess I was a pain quite often. But this wasn’t the real world – or, at least, if it was, it was a fantasy to be enjoyed while it lasted. Eventually, all the women in our lives joined the circuit and began to compete, bitch, and generally screw things up, mostly when we were doing that perfectly well enough between us! Otherwise, there seemed to be few real problems, except that I had my ego severely dented when I failed my driving test in April 1971. Having decided not to be flash by using the Roller, I used the test school’s 1100, and apparently indicated left before taking a confident right! Still, it was worth it just to see the instructor’s face when I climbed into the Rolls (L-plates still on) and drove away. Perhaps I should have had my hair cut, but I’d been failed, and would remain a learner for many years thereafter!