With the roofs of several ventures falling on top of me, various people still seemed to want me to keep them employed, and Zoe’s dad, Dixie, was one of them. An ex-RAF officer, Dixie approached me one day with an idea that he’d open a travel agency that specialised in making arrangements for rock bands.
So we found ways of setting it up, and I said, ‘OK, Dixie, go ahead, use my house, my table and my name. It’s over to you!’
Well, all I remember about that project is being woken up in the middle of the night with one of the Stranglers screaming down the line about Dixie. It seemed they had arrived at some destination a very considerable distance away from where they should be, and it is sufficient to say that Dixie didn’t like being spoken to like that!
So he went to work in a health shop that his family owned, at which point Bill Reid called to say we should have a chat. When we met, he was not the Bill of old, and it was clear he’d been trying hard to come to terms with a very difficult situation, and one that had been rumbling around for some time. He told me things were not good with my different ventures, and that the only solution was for me to go and live in Paris.
He explained that the nucleus of the Deep Purple business (which was still a source of income) had been located offshore through Deep Purple Overseas Limited, and I was assured that this was a perfectly legitimate way for the management and its advisers to run the affairs of the company, and for the musicians. However, he went on to say that there were moves afoot by the government of the day to close a loophole and draw what would become a fine line between what was legal and what was not, specifically when it came to issues of taxation and so forth. Bill used two words to make the point: ‘avoidance’ and ‘evasion’, the first meaning permissible and the second meaning illegal. I think I was listening diligently when he explained all of this, but the bottom line seemed to be that, despite the fact that I’d apparently gone through vast amounts of money on my lost ventures, Deep Purple (with my name attached) were still selling records, their music was earning royalties, and so not all was ‘lost’ so far as I was concerned!
However, the only way to protect myself in the times ahead was to live abroad, which meant that, under the legislation at the time, I’d be allowed back into the UK for only sixty days a year. He said John Coletta and Tony Edwards had already bought homes in Paris and, despite the past, he thought I should also go there quite quickly, even meet up with them again. Once that had been done, he’d go about sorting things out for me at home, by which he meant The Springs, because the other projects were already dead ducks. As for The Springs, well Bill said he’d find a full-time manager, and we could then see what might be possible.
In later months, it would dawn on me as to just how much pressure Bill had found himself under, as I understand the Inland Revenue gave him and our business affairs a very thorough going-over, to the extent that I began to wonder how well thought through the new game plan for Paris really was for me. I know the burden of his work and responsibilities took a lot out of his poor wife, May, who I don’t think was too well, but, in the final analysis, what I don’t know is whether the authorities ever got to understand what secrets Bill may or may not have had. One thing’s for sure, there was a time when a stellar number of new clients were going in and out of his Wallington office, as the spirit and business of Purple multiplied itself many times, and the band spread out to become Rainbow, Whitesnake, Paice Ashton Lord, with each coming into the fold with new musicians and friends. Indeed, it was this considerable and growing network of artists, both at home and abroad, whose (business) affairs added to the vault that was Bill’s brilliant, but now clouded and tired, mind, and, in the fullness of time, he would take it all with him to his grave.
Still, I went to Paris, and Bill found this guy, a Swiss hotelier, who took control of the running of The Springs. His pedigree and references were immaculate, and so we showed him over the premises of my brainchild with hope and enthusiasm. He seemed happy, and wanted to make only a few changes, mainly to his quarters, so he could have his family with him. We also took on new staff, and bought a couple of small houses and cottages in the area for their accommodation.
However, despite all these efforts, I was still forced to watch the whole thing collapse, without even being able to return from Paris to help out; and I began to give up on the idea of ever running my own business again. If only somebody had told me I’d be fucking useless at it; but, then again, if they had, I wonder if I’d have listened!
And so the call finally came from Bill, saying: ‘Ian, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you are in trouble.’
I said, ‘What is it, Bill?’
‘Well, the overdraft at the bank is on the limit, and I can’t let you have any more money. I’ve got just about enough to cover the mortgage and for your living expenses, but, after three days of toiling with the situation, the only thing I can recommend is “voluntary liquidation”.’
It was a terrible situation to face up to, and arrangements had to be made for me to sign all sorts of papers, without technically coming onto British soil. So, with Zoe alongside as a director and single shareholder, we did the necessary, and I later learned that the liquidators sold my hotel for about £100, 000, which was just enough to pay everybody off, including the bank (of course), with all its fees and commissions! One of my mates later took my car to the local garage for petrol. I’d had an account there for some time, but, as he started filling it up, this guy came screaming out, shouting, ‘Take it out. Don’t put petrol in. That’s Gillan’s car, and he’s bankrupt!’
Back in Paris, I turned my mind back to the idea of singing again. In fact, the germ of the idea was finally planted back in England, when I found myself at some meeting or other at The Springs, sitting with people I just couldn’t relate to. So I shut myself away for a few days, wrote some songs and decided to make a record. I needed to think about a lot of things, and an early issue was who should manage me. Bruce Payne came to mind, since I knew he’d been doing a great job for Ritchie and Roger; but then I found myself going to see John Coletta to discuss an album, its label and my ideas for the new band. I was still in touch with the ‘Godfather’ of Purple, Bill Reid, and he thought it a good idea.
So a meeting took place at John’s house in Wilton Crescent, near Hyde Park; and, after telling me it had once been owned by Rex Harrison, he showed me around, including the tour of his gun collection, the snooker room and so forth. In fact we played a few frames, after which we settled down to business. John lit a cigar and proceeded to give me his shopping list of terms. It was high percentages all round, but I thought, ‘Better the devil you know’. And so we agreed.
Soon after the meeting, I introduced John, Tony and Bill Reid to my new outfit, the Ian Gillan Band, in Paris. Initially intended to be ‘Ian Gillan’s Shand Grenade’, we came together in September 1975, with my old mate John Gustafson on bass (Hard Stuff and Quatermass); Ray Fenwick, guitar (After Tea and Spencer Davis Group); Mike Moran, keyboard; and Mark Nauseef, drummer (Elf). In fact, Roger Glover was also part of the early set-up, but this one wasn’t to be, although he produced our first album (Child in Time).
As I recall (and here I stand to be corrected), we musicians and the management all met up at La Coupole, in the artists’ quarter, a place of great character, with high ceilings, bright lights and wall-to-wall with characters drinking coffee and enjoying brandy, as only the French know how! The waiters were immaculate; the air was thick with ‘wacky baccy’; and, although there were dogs roaming around eating titbits, this place was most definitely a class joint!
So here were John, with Cherrie on his arm, Tony with his ‘complex’, Bill with his cigar, my friend and roadie, Dennis, and a lady journalist from Music Week. And then of course, my band were also there, since the idea included launching us that night in the public eye. So it was a pity that only the one journalist turned up, and she seemed to find John more interesting to talk to than I was, or any of the others. Also, I suppose I should have planned the occasion a bit more carefully, because, as time went by, the band started to drink quite a lot, and Bill, ever the diplomat, said he thought it might be a good idea if he went over and kept the lads company, so I could field the questions, so to speak. That left me sitting next to Dennis, who had the misfortune of being easily overwhelmed by events, and showing it, with a nervous ‘Ooh, ooh!’ reaction to almost everything!
While John held the attention of the journalist, my attention wandered through a tiny gap in the tables – just wide enough to allow a waiter to squeeze through – and there I could see Cherrie, sitting in a stunning, white (and expensive), skin-tight outfit, through which you could see every part of her anatomy. However, my eyes then picked out John Gustafson moving across in the famous ‘Gustafson lurch’ – one eye fixed in the approximate direction of his destination, with head firm, but body not so – and he was clearly intending to hand Dennis his dirty plates. Unfortunately, Dennis made the fatal mistake of taking the offering in both hands, which meant he’d committed himself to Gus for the whole table, and so he began to disappear as twenty-five to thirty plates were rapidly stacked up, and the ‘oohs’ became more frantic and laboured, as the weight increased. Meanwhile John was getting concerned at the way things seemed to be shaping ‘down’, as he tried to concentrate on the interview, but was also worrying whether Cherrie was all right, because she was also disappearing from view from her position behind where Dennis was sinking under the plates, to which Gus was now adding the condiments. The careful placing of the mustard pot was the final straw as, with a final ‘ooh’, Dennis dropped the lot, and the mustard pot exploded into life, turning Cherrie’s immaculate catsuit a horrific yellow. Then John instantly ended his interview to scream at Gus, ‘You fucking animal! You’ve fucking covered my lady in mustard!’ to which verbal assault he got the reply, ‘Mustard? No, thanks, mate. Can’t stand the stuff!’ before my bass player sauntered off. What a hero!
Eventually, and not for the last time, the Ian Gillan Band (and friends) were thrown out, and we returned to the apartment I was sharing with the band. In fact John and the journalist came as well, and we arrived to find some of the lads already in residence, and reclining among the priceless antiques and rugs. Given the advanced state of drunkenness of just about everyone in the room, it probably isn’t surprising that the evening was going to end on a sour note.
After the guests had gone, Gus and I decided to have a screaming match, and this went on for two to three hours. I vaguely remember Zoe saying she was going to bed, and Mark also disappeared in the morning, as Paris came to life. Through the noise, both inside and outside, I became aware of the sound of approaching police sirens, but I didn’t imagine for a single moment that they could be anything to do with us. However, Gus was much wiser in these matters, and has an amazing sixth sense, which tells him when something is about to go terribly wrong. So he stopped screaming and went to his room. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten how we’d rearranged things to cope with more people living in, and stumbled over a mattress on the floor by the window. To recover his balance, he grabbed a curtain, which wrapped itself around him a few times, lost his footing and smashed the window to pieces, sending a million pieces of glass to street level three floors below. He then collapsed into oblivion as the police arrived, called it seems, by the dreadful concierge, who was convinced murder was afoot.
As they arrived at the block of flats to see shattered glass on the pavement, as well as other curtains billowing from the upper windows, it’s easy to understand why the police behaved as they did. They battered our door down, and entered with guns cocked, to find me whistling away, and dusting the table. After a stunned silence they asked (in French of course), ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’ I replied.
The lead policeman was babbling on about somebody being dead, so they started rushing into rooms, which woke up Zoe, and found Gus, still wrapped in a curtain, and lying in the glass. I picked up a bottle of whisky, and, with much tutting, explained that the wretched fellow was hopelessly drunk, and, with that most obviously the case, they left us in peace. Well, for just a few moments that is, because it hadn’t occurred to me that some of our visitors might be plain-clothes officers. So, having thought I’d got rid of them, one, who’d been hanging back, said most firmly, ‘Come with me.’
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I thought everything was cool here?’ But he was determined I should follow him. All I was wearing was a very short, brightly coloured kimono dressing gown (which was very much the thing at the time), while the article barely covered my privates. I said, ‘Shall I go and throw something else on?’ but that was not allowed, so I was escorted past our grinning concierge to the street, where the guy pointed to the pavement debris and said, ‘Pick it up!’ By now it was about 8 a.m., and the city was going to work. It was also true of Paris in that period, that, of all the world’s major cities, this one was top of the dog-crap league – and trust me, it was everywhere! Watched by this copper, I had to bend down in my scanty clothing and pick up every single piece of broken glass from among the dog shit, and then a lady from the cheese shop opposite came over with a newspaper for me to put everything into, while upstairs the cause of all the chaos and misery lay fast asleep!
Take me to the preacher
Take me to your god
You got me thinking like you
And you’re thinking like a dog
Shame’
We made our first album with Oyster/Polydor), and went to Musicland Studio in Munich to write most of the material and record it, before transferring to Mountain Studios in Montreux for the mix. With songs including ‘Lay Me Down’, ‘You Make Me Feel So Good’, ‘Shame’, ‘Let It Slide’ and the title track, ‘Child in Time’, it was good to be back, and strange to see HEC on the album credits again!
In terms of other aftermath reflections, we were quite lucky to make it to Munich in the first place, because the band had got themselves arrested at the airport, having behaved badly on the flight. Still, none of us were novices to the business, and so the problem was ‘amicably sorted out’ (I’m told!).
The album was released in July 1976, charting at No. 56 a little behind Wish You Were Here (Pink Floyd), and one ahead of Led Zeppelin’s Four Seasons. Rod Stewart (him again!) topped the charts, with Thin Lizzy also in the frame, along with Nana Mouskouri, Doctor Hook, the Beatles, and Genesis, while The Very Best of Roger Whittaker sat among and with us all! The Sensational Alex Harvey Band’s Penthouse Tapes similarly featured, but more about one or two of those guys later on!
While recording in Munich, we stayed at the Arabella Hockhaus hotel, where Mack and Hans used to be. Mack was the engineer for Queen, and, on this particular occasion, we were hanging around the cocktail lounge, when a bunch of hookers turned up. In fact, we got to know them quite well – as friends. After a few minutes, this old boy turned up with another of the girls in tow. He was quite diminutive, and had a big cigar, which was the perfect cue for Gus and Ray to start taking the piss out of him, although he wasn’t at all bothered, and took the whole thing in his stride. Still, I told them to leave him alone, and in a moment of extravagance, and because I wanted to get their minds off the old geezer and his lady, I said to Dennis, ‘Look, why don’t you take the Roller and the lads out? Here’s some money. Just have fun!’ I realised, even as I was saying this, what a gross mistake I’d spawned, but I still made it very clear to Dennis (and Zoe’s brother, Paul) that I wanted no screwing in my car – and no damage, either!
So it turned out that they found their way to a disco bar, and who should turn up later but the old geezer and his hooker, who, by the way, looked a million dollars! Anyway, they sat down, and were quietly enjoying champagne and canapés, when Ray decided to get involved. Now it’s one of the facts of rock trivia that Ray has one of the hairiest arses in the world, and he decided to approach the table, drop his strides and sit in their plate of canapés. Having pulled himself off the plate, pieces of cucumber and carrot still attached to his bum, he then, to the distress of onlookers, proceeded to waggle this unpleasant sight in front of the old fellow – a bit like a weapon! Well without taking the slightest offence, the old fella took a nice long drag on his cigar before he stuck the hot end of it very firmly up the rectum of my guitar player and vocal sidekick! There predictably followed quite a lot of leaping around, but in due course things calmed down, and they moved on to better things! In fact, Ray, John and Mark (with poor Dennis in tow) went to another bar, where they started mooning the joint, before going behind the counter, where the wall was decorated, shelved and well stocked. One of them leapt for a shelf, but, because his trousers were down, he didn’t have complete coordination or flexibility, and ended up bringing the whole lot to the ground, along with most of the booze.
I took this rabble on tour, and we were a great success, particularly in Southeast Asia, Japan and France, where a number of singles were put out, and did quite well. However, fairly early on Mike Moran was replaced by Mickey Lee Soule (ex-Rainbow), who’d then be replaced by Colin Towns, who would wonderfully stay with me for some time to come.
The American tour continued to experience the high spirits of this line-up and, because of that, I travelled separately – not out of self-importance, but because the chaos was too much (even for me) to handle on a full-time basis! They quickly ran out of drivers and it fell to one of the lighting engineers to take on that role as well. It was a move he thought quite smart, because it got him out of the crew bus, but it was a wrong call, and after three days he pulled the car to the side of the freeway and walked off into the sunset, never to be seen again! It seems it was the ‘in-car tennis’ that was the final straw, a game that involved ripping out the interior lighting, taking a wire coat hanger, straightening it out and wrapping an end around a ball of scrunched-up newspaper. The surplus length was then stuck back into the interior lights, and the newspaper was set on fire. The two front headrests were taken out for use as tennis rackets, and whoever scored the most points won. Just like Wimbledon, really!
We’d also organised our own baggage delivery, which worked out best at motels. Well, it did until the day Mark and Gus were in charge of the roof of the station wagon, and all I heard on that matter was an approaching vehicle, followed by a crashing of windows, as our gear was delivered!
The relationship with Oyster/Polydor was not a great success, so we signed to Island Records, with the irrevocable decision to leave Oyster made absolute the day I played a charity football game with George Best, Dave Dee and Patrick Mower, after which we went to Tramp. A guy from Polydor came over and said ‘Hi’ to George, and then Dave Dee said, ‘This is Ian Gillan,’ to which he said, ‘Hi, Ian,’ before going back to George, and then moving on. A bit later, he came back over, and was really nice. Somebody had obviously told him I was with the label, so he should ‘go and make your peace with Ian’.
I laid it on the line to him. ‘I tell you what, and nothing personal, but you and everybody at your company can go stuff themselves, because you’re not getting another album out of me.’
However, if I’m making it all seem very simple and often joyful, nothing could be further from the truth. I still had some sort of relationship with John Coletta and Tony Edwards, and lived in Paris, when we were not in the studios or touring. Also I’d often be invited to Tony’s flat, where I’d get to learn that he and John were not getting on too well; but, then, something was also different with Tony, because he and I would sometimes go to the cafés, where he’d get very drunk – and that just wasn’t his style. Neither was picking a fight, which meant I’d often find myself apologising for situations that began with, ‘What are you staring at?’
Tony was a gentleman, so I also found it quite difficult when he started slagging off Bill Reid, and then, when I saw John, he’d do the same, until both were confirming that Bill was ‘out’, which in turn brought closure to another of the ‘glory days’ period. Bill was so wise, so perceptive all the time, and this included before and after shows, when the different women in our lives caused trouble. However, it also became clear that, in treating me as a capable and businesslike person, he was mistaken, including going along with my every request for more money. So I would also end up turning on him, including expressing harsh feelings through my music, and in a particular song, ‘Money Lender’ from Clear Air Turbulence, our first album for Island. And about all of that, and with the benefit of hindsight and maturity, I am deeply sad.
Fat spender you’re a money lender
Message sender you’re a mind bender
Oh you worry me
Money you got it hot dawg
Money, you got it. I got none. Why’s that?