I’m aware that I am constantly observed for my drinking habits, and that my enjoyment of Scotch (with Coke) in particular is frequently seen as the reason for something not going according to plan. Well I’ve never made any secret of that pleasure, which I’ve certainly indulged in during moments of prolonged stress, but also out of sheer enjoyment. However, and as mentioned earlier, it’s something I drifted into in the early days, and something I also learned how to deal with. I know when I’ve nearly had enough, and I’ve never blamed alcohol for any part of my life going wrong. Apart from one particular incident, it has never affected my ability to perform as a professional artist, although it has certainly helped me to cause considerable embarrassment from time to time. So you might think to question how and where I draw the line when I’m driven or driving close to it, and it’s certainly difficult territory to articulate and negotiate without being face to face in convivial company! Suffice for now, that there are times when I just have to say it’s not my fault if some people can’t take a joke!
As for the ‘one particular incident’ I mention above, B, my wife of just a few months, and I had spent the day at the Grand National, courtesy of Radio City, Liverpool, and, when that was over, we’d also been invited, along with others on the guest list, to a Battle of the Bands competition at the Royal Court Theatre, where I was to be one of the judges! Well of course that took me back a few years, to the Essoldo with the Javelins, but different from that experience, our hosts on this occasion had arranged for a ‘top’ band to close the evening, and it turned out they were my old mates, the Climax Blues Band, with Radio City rock jock and dear friend Phil Easton also present.
Anyway, some of the guests had their wives or girlfriends with them, and a few of the gals, who were already fuelled up with racecourse hospitality, started to moan about the cold and everything else under the sun. So, while Phil and I went backstage to decide how we’d cast our votes, his lady went and bought a bottle of vodka, to encourage them to stop complaining; but, of course, it wasn’t going to work, and it also wasn’t long before they were well and truly pissed. Anyway, we got through judging the competition, and then the Climax Blues Band wonderfully came on, even as two of the menfolk in the party wisely got up to take their other halves home. Unfortunately, we’d later hear that, on the way back, the girls, being much the worse for drink, ran into difficulties, as the one who was the front passenger, with her window down, decided to throw up, which meant the one sitting immediately behind her, with her window also open, copped the whole lot, as it came straight back through her window. With everybody now most surely moaning, and the owner of the car the most, I expect, I’ll guess there’s a moral somewhere in all of this – and ‘poetic justice’ for the girls (at least) comes to mind!
In the meantime, I did something I rarely do, and came on stage to guest with the band. So, having arrived to some considerable applause from the floor, I began to realise that I too was drunk, and somehow incapably so, and this meant that the great blues number I’d started to perform was destined to go on for a very long time. It’s hard to gauge how far into the song I’d got before I became vaguely aware of the venue starting to empty, and, moments later, the musicians started to lay down their instruments. In fact the drummer was the first to quit, and so I thought I’d have a little go at that, before I went back to singing. Well it was a case of ‘this is going great’ as I caught sight of a guitar lying idle, and with that a temptation too hard to resist, I picked it up and played a few chords and notes, before deciding B should also sing. It wasn’t difficult to find her. For one thing, there weren’t a lot of people now left in the venue. But I also became aware of a rather forceful instruction coming from the wings, saying, ‘Enough is enough’ and ‘We’re going home!’ So I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder, still singing my heart out until I was satisfied there was absolutely nobody left to entertain!
By this time, I was a roaring Oliver Reed character, and I felt so great I just had to share my happiness with everyone, even though there was virtually no one around. However, there was another person left, and he was outside the venue, packing up his hot-dog stand; indeed, he was packing it up very quickly as I approached him. However, once I got alongside him, I courteously asked if he’d like my autograph, to which he replied that not only was he not too keen but he didn’t know who the fuck I was anyway, and would I get out of his face! He kept calling me a ‘fockin’ yeti’, and I took exception to this by grabbing him by the throat.
I think it was Bron who hit me over the head with something heavy, and we eventually returned to the hotel, where we emptied the lounge bar of late-night drinkers!
I’d first met B when I was making the Magic album for Virgin, and she and a couple of other girls joined the UK section of the tour, travelling as backing singers called the Cucumbers. In fact, one of the other girls later married Phil Banfield. At the time in question, B was going through a divorce, and I was at a pretty low period of my life, so it all conspired that we’d live together in Westbourne Grove, London, where she became pregnant with our daughter, Grace.
Quite a few people seemed to give her a hard time about our relationship, saying that I’d soon dump her and so forth; but we talked things through in every detail, and she understood the kind of lifestyle that goes with my work. Otherwise, B will sit alongside me at some of my business meetings, but she also knows my manager is Phil Banfield, and that we leave all such matters with him. However, when it comes to my health, she is more forthright, and, during the period when Gillan were coming to an end after the Magic tour, she picked up on the fact that I was throwing up before and after shows, and told me I was a mess. Well I suppose that may have been true, because I had broken ribs from a football mishap, and my hair was falling out, about which it was thought a decent cut would help its recovery. And so I agreed to cooperate on this, justifying the momentous decision by the fact it was quite frankly getting in the way of my beer!
It was about that time that we decided we should also have a family motto, and ‘Oh, Dear, Never Mind’ also comes to mind and served its purpose then – and still does!
So, with a child on the way, and a commitment to B, there was a need for many things to be reviewed and understood; and, of course, I realise that goes for everybody, in all walks of life. However, in rock ’n’ roll we lead very different lives, and I know a lot of musicians find mine even more different from the norm. So B knows I love her more than life itself, but that, when I’m on the road, I like to party, to which extent I suspect that friends like Roger, Phil and others who have to share my company along the way, find it all strange, and sometimes embarrassing. Still, that’s how it is, and I remember the time when her mother, Sheila, and her sister, Julie, once asked me what I’d think if I heard B was behaving like me while I was away. I think my reply might have surprised them. This is not the reply, but it’s about the one I love:
I love you darling
When you’re feeling sad and lonely
I love you darling
When you put your arms around me
When we talk on the phone
You make me feel like coming home.
It’s a measure of the love, support and sometimes very stretched tolerances shown by B, Phil and those close to me that my peccadilloes are under much more control these days. I still drink and like a cigarette, but most days you’ll find me with a cup of tea in my hand; and, as for smokes, well, I can take them or leave them. I’m a proud father now, with a growing teenage daughter, and I shall never forget the moment, when, after a particularly heavy night some years ago, my darling little Grace whispered into the cloud on my pillow, ‘Daddy, your head smells terrible!’ And that sort of thing stops you in your tracks!
The last time I’d seen Deep Purple was when Phil and I went to America to meet the band and Ritchie’s manager, Bruce Payne; and, on that occasion, I’m told I behaved very badly, got extremely drunk, poured a pint over my head and went mooning in the streets, returning in due course to find that Ritchie and Roger had left.
A little while later, in the lead-in to Christmas 1983, Bruce called Phil to see how things were with me. He knew I was with Sabbath on the Born Again project, but just wanted to run a check to see if the reunion idea was worth another try. In fact, the timing was quite timely, because I’d already seen the end approaching with Tony Iommi and the lads, which meant the Purple idea had to be worth listening to; and so Phil spent some time in America with Bruce, bringing a reunion closer, initially as a one-off major concert, but then into something as long-term as the ‘players’ could work together!
So I crossed the pond in January to meet up with the managers, plus Ritchie and Roger, who lived in New York, and also Jon and Paicey, who flew in from the UK. We had dinner in a private suite, and a few hours later the classic Mk. 2 Deep Purple was back ‘on’, subject to closing ‘matters of business’ being agreed. It was great, and so we parted company, to return whence we’d come from, but just for the time being.
With diaries being pencilled in to begin rehearsals and recording around late spring into summer, everyone needed to bring their current band commitments to a close, and that was fine, except for a temporary glitch, when Phil called to say that Ritchie was after 50 per cent of the band, and willing to leave it up to the rest of us to work out how we wanted to share the other 50 per cent. Well that didn’t please me one bit, and so I told Phil to tell Ritchie to fuck off, that it was equal shares or no reunion. I did this without consulting the others, but expected them to go along with whatever might be sorted out, which in translation meant it was straight back to the ‘good old days’, with Gillan already being the awkward sod!
My firm stand worked this time, as Ritchie agreed to the equal-shares deal, and even began writing in the New Year, while he planned winding up Rainbow after their shows in Japan. Jon similarly made arrangements to leave Whitesnake, the situation with Roger being that he’d obviously be coming out of Rainbow, and Paicey was apparently a free agent, having recently left Gary Moore’s band. Finally we all came together for a civilised and progressive meeting in April, after which Tommy Vance made the news public on his Friday Rock Show.
From then on, the news spread like wildfire, as Deep Purple returned under two managers, with Bruce representing everything except my interest, which Phil would continue to look after. In fact, that part of the reunion also caused some early difficulties, because Bruce obviously saw himself in the driving seat, which in many ways was the case, given the arithmetic of the numbers each manager represented. However, the initial idea was that ‘the management’ would be run on a sort of joint basis; although, when it came to commissions on royalties and other such matters, Bruce told Phil that the band had screwed him down too hard, and so Phil helpfully agreed to take a knock, in everybody’s interest. It wasn’t easy for him, and he quite rightly came and discussed the matter with me. I told him not to worry, that he was still my manager, and that he’d earn from everything I was making with Purple. So, while the main effort went to Bruce’s office in America (Thames Talent Limited), Phil spread his wings in the UK and developed what is now Miracle Prestige International Limited (MPI) in London, tying up with Miles Copeland, who managed the Police and Sting.
We began rehearsals for Perfect Strangers as planned, although I must tell you that rumours of a $2 million advance for the album were grossly exaggerated, a figure nearer to half that amount being a closer bet. Also most of the advance was necessarily held for making the record for Polydor, as well as providing for the organisational costs incurred in setting up the touring that would follow. Still, as in the earlier days when Bill Reid was around, I could have always asked about these details, but, once again, I didn’t. I suppose I could also have asked Ian Paice what the deals were, because he was as interested in matters of money as ever, and was still the only one among us who had any grasp on the subject. But I didn’t even do that, while story has it that he used to go window shopping at the Nat West Bank, just to watch them change the rates of exchange – surely not? In the end, though, I just left it for Bruce to report to Phil as necessary!
Soon into the new project, Roger and I spent some time together, putting ideas down, before we went to Bass Lodge in North Vermont to rehearse. It was a great location, owned (I’m told) by the Von Trapp family, and it came with a house (including personal chef), plus separate accommodation for the band and crew and of course the necessary studio. Set in many acres of mountain landscape, it was beautiful, except that we quickly discovered that scenic bliss has its limitations, and that we’d arrived to work in a very lonely and isolated spot, with nowhere close enough to go and find a few beers with people, other than ourselves – let alone to find a party! So that was disappointing, but then, I suppose it was Ritchie who indirectly forced the change, when he came up with the idea that we should have the speakers out in the natural environment, and play the sound back through Le Mobile (our studio on wheels). Well needless to say, the state authorities didn’t think it was such a great idea, and so we needed to find an alternative location and facility ASAP!
Very early on, we discovered The Pub in Stowe (Vermont), and, more importantly, its owner, an Englishman called Richard Hughes, who was a larger-than-life character, and a future friend. The situation with Richard is that everything is possible, and so he soon found us a place called Horizons, where we set things up, and put a call through to a fella called Guy Charbonneau, who owned Le Mobile, which he brought over from Montreal.
Once settled in, we started jamming in the basement, although in the early days it wasn’t so much me, because I didn’t do anything much except listen to the guys putting ideas down. And it all sounded so good that it actually brought a smile to my face! Engineered by Nick Blagona, the whole album came together quite easily in a mood of good vibes and a lot of momentum with very few problems – so much so, that we were there for only about a month, from July 1984, which isn’t long for a Deep Purple album. Ritchie and Roger then went to Tennessee Tonstudio, in Hamburg (Germany) for the mix, and it was finally mastered by Greg Calbi at Sterling Sound in New York. It was so great to be together again!
Can you remember, remember my name
As I flow through your life
A thousand oceans I have flown
And cold spirits of ice
All of my life
I am an echo of your past
Talking of the past, I’m suddenly realising that, although I’ve mentioned my love of ‘the beautiful game’, football, and how I’ve also played in goal for the local police team, so I’ve crucially failed to mention Ritchie’s similar love for the game. Well, I see it as more of an obsession than love, really, and having learned how he approaches a game – from the moment I first joined Purple to the 1983–4 reunion – I could see that nothing had changed, including his competitive approach to winning. The lengths Ritchie will go to for the right result are incredible, as the process will always begin with the accepted and well-tried rules applied, which means that, when both sides take to the field, they will each have their own players lining up in their correct teams. In our case the squad is mostly (if not entirely) members of the band, our engineers, roadies and so forth; while our opponents can be from a variety of people and backgrounds: factory workers, perhaps a lawyer, someone from the post office, a person who’s jobless – whoever fancies a game against Deep Purple, I suppose!
However, once the whistle’s been blown and the game’s underway, it’s quite probable that Ritchie will spot a player on the opposing team who looks a bit useful, and so he’ll say to our tour manager, Colin Hart, ‘I want that player over there, in our team,’ and Colin would somehow arrange for a swap, using Ian Paice, maybe me, or perhaps Roger, depending on which of us Ritchie thought was playing below his absolute best. Not only that, but he’d then tell the opposing captain where he wanted the player he’d just transferred across to be positioned. After that, the game would resume, and go on, and on, and on, until the right side won – preferably with our guitar player scoring the winning goal! I can’t tell you just how serious a game of soccer, ‘Ritchie style’, can be, but the teams we’ve played against have always taken what was necessary in good heart, and I suppose it gave them something to talk about in the pub!
So Ritchie’s a very competitive person, and it shows a lot in the music as well. There was a time when he approached me at a rehearsal, and said something like, ‘If you start putting on a good show, really doing well, then I’m going to try and blow you off stage, and that’ll make you do better, and it’ll make me do better!’ So, despite the ever-present and underlying tension between us, there was still the potential for a wonderfully creative collaboration, and I think it came out on Perfect Strangers, with songs like ‘Knocking at Your Back Door’, ‘Under the Gun’, ‘A Gypsy’s Kiss’ and the title track itself.
At the close of 1984, Perfect Strangers had climbed to No. 5 in the UK charts with Polydor, and it went to No. 17 in the States on the Mercury label. In February 1985, the title track was released as a single (No. 48 in the UK), and ‘Knocking at Your Back Door’ made No. 61 in America.
It was during the Perfect Strangers project that Roger introduced me to his friend Chet King, and over a period of time we became great mates. As you’ll by now appreciate, downtime between tours and recording is so precious, and Chet introduced me to serious scuba diving as a sport and a means of relaxation, away from the business. I’d already done a little of it and had the bug, but Chet showed me the more demanding skills of ‘going over the side’, with a dive on the Carrie Lee, a sunken vessel that was perched on the edge of a reef about two hundred feet down; and thought to be ready to topple into the depths of the Caribbean. Just before we set off, Chet asked if I’d ever ‘narked out’, which brought my enthusiasm to a temporary halt. I said, ‘Do you mean, nitrogen narcosis?’
‘Yes’, he said, adding, ‘Well, you’re going to get it when we go down tomorrow!’
He explained that we’d be dealing with some fearsome currents, and to make it to the vessel we’d be dropping down like the clappers on an anchor line, with the air supply turned off in order to decompress on the way up. To be honest, I don’t remember the full detail of what it all really entailed, but it’s sufficient to say that we didn’t drink or smoke the night before, and, come the morning, my excitement was tinged with a little concern. At the start of the dive, four of us bombed down, and reached a hundred feet in seconds. After that, we continued on a ‘buddy basis’ to reach the boat, and then to drift through its cabins. The sight and experience was fantastic, with bicycles still lashed to the deck, and, when we reached the stern section, I looped a Deep Purple pendant around the rail in a symbolic gesture. The dive was inspirational, and is featured in my music, when Roger and I recorded Accidentally on Purpose for the Virgin label in 1988 (the track is ‘Cayman Island’). Otherwise, I didn’t nark out, because it was decided that people who drink on a regular basis are unlikely to do it!
Go diving on a coral reef
One eye open for the girls on the beach
Chet and Bob on the quabbin’ boat
Oh life afloat
Save money you can live tax free
While I go down on the Carrie Lee
Running out of air like I knew I would
Oh life is good
Chet is one of those people who have a special quality that is impossible to describe, but people like him (my buddy Mike Curle in England is another) exude a calm nature, which touches me deeply.
Meanwhile, back at Vermont, there was a lot of ballooning done, and plenty of wining and dining, which we’re all pretty good at. As ever, we’d all find our favourite restaurant and generally enjoy drifting around together, having a good time. I suppose they soon realised that I’d not changed that much, which was confirmed (I suspect) the night I emptied my trousers of various things, including a candelabra! There was also quite a lot of ‘afterburning’ going on, and seeing how quickly you could get a girl to take her clothes off and do a swap. It’s just something I like to do from time to time, and I think the fastest I managed at Stowe was twenty seconds!
On one occasion, Bruce brought his girlfriend to the restaurant we were in, and at that stage she’d not met any of the band. He’d left me at the table to go and collect her, and, by the time they’d returned, I’d moved to another spot. So they came in, and she was saying, ‘What does he look like!?’ which had Bruce looking around the bar, eventually to find me sitting in the corner, wearing a blue dress, high heels and long black hair! He turned to his girlfriend and said, ‘You see that girl over there in the blue dress? Well, he looks remarkably like that!’
Those sorts of things happened quite a lot, and the band took it all in good spirit. In fact, the reunion was working, and Polydor Records were pleased with what was going on. (Did I once say I’d never make another album with them?) It seemed to me that we’d captured the chemistry of what Roger once referred to as an ‘old love affair’, where ‘love can be very close to hate’. Well, that chemistry was in Perfect Strangers – it felt wrapped up in warmth, care and love, which was how our best work always happened; and the album went gold in the UK and Germany and Platinum in Canada and the USA, while Kerrang! rated it ‘Top album of 1984’.
Can you remember, remember my name
As I flow through your life
A thousand oceans I have flown
And cold spirits of ice
All my life
I am the echo of your past
We rehearsed for the world tour in England at the Attico Room in Bedford, and worked on a set that included our old material such as ‘Lazy’, ‘Space Truckin’’, ‘Child in Time’ and ‘Woman from Tokyo’, while of course the new stuff from the album was also there. Tommy Vance was an early interview for the BBC, and so was Phil Easton from Radio City. In fact, the media willingly picked up on most of the project, and the whole world seemed delighted we’d got together again.
We kicked off the Perfect Strangers tour in New Zealand and Australia, travelling via Los Angeles, where we rehearsed again for a few days. After that, the gear was shipped out, and we took a more leisurely flight, stopping off in Tahiti. Here, then, was a chance to further enhance my knowledge of different cultures, as I contemplated the old colonies and found myself concluding that we British and the French were raving expansionists, at least in those early days, and here in Tahiti was just another territory touched by the two great countries. I mentally ran through the list of ‘fortunates’: America, Guadeloupe, India, Algeria, Malaysia, Vietnam, Australia, Lebanon – and so it goes on. Who ended up where and why is beyond me, but it surely couldn’t have been because of the food!
On which matter, well, I’ve always enjoyed French cuisine. I ate it all the time during my year in Paris, but I also suspect its reputation travels somewhat better than its substance, and I’ll illustrate this by recounting a time when we went to a certain French restaurant in Tahiti. Well, first of all, the ‘starter’ we ordered was most surely made up of bits the cooks usually throw away. It looked, smelled and then tasted appalling, with fish heads and all sorts of rubbish swimming around in the soup like swill. In fact, it brought back memories of my swim in the River Orwell, but instead of ‘swill’, this concoction was called ‘bouillabaisse’. So, while we spent time discussing the merits – or not – of French food, Bruce Payne, who was next to me, said, ‘Well, what did you order for the main course?’
‘Duck,’ I said, and, unfortunately, he didn’t, so he got my hand round the back of his head, about which he was not amused. In fact, he was furious, shouting, ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’
‘Well, I said “duck”, didn’t I?’
And so the band continued on its happy way to Australia.
I’ll say one thing for Purple: they do a lot of things in style, and, on long-haul trips, it would usually be first class. Apart from the fact that it’s a great way to travel – extravagant, of course, but comfortable – it does help keep you in shape, which is important when you’re hauling yourself out of bed in the early morning to get to another city, and doing that routine day in and day out. The peace and quiet of first-class airport lounges helps to make these downsides of rock ’n’ roll seem worthwhile.
Our road manager Colin Hart, who’s been with the organisation since we nicked him from Rod Stewart’s crew, always looked after these details (he still does!) and he’ll pick up on the smallest of details, including where it concerns something like, ‘You spent a long time on the phone last night, Ian?’
‘I know, Colin,’ I’d say. ‘I was talking to B.’
‘Yes,’ he’d say, ‘I recognised the number!’
Or, after we’d checked out of a hotel, he’d say something like, ‘The bar bill was a bit high this morning.’
‘Yes,’ I’d say, ‘had a bit of a bender last night, Colin!’
He’d never query the figure, but you knew that, if you tried to fool him by pretending you hadn’t used the minibar, or whatever, he’d have quietly checked it out and would then make known that he was certain!
Despite the constant talk about the millions of dollars we supposedly had sloshing around, it’s never quite that way, and managers need to keep some sort of grip on budgets, however famous and successful their band might be. Looking through the logistics of touring with Deep Purple, it might interest some readers to get a feel for just what goes on behind the scenes of a show; and I’ll borrow from a later schedule to illustrate the point, using the 1988 Japan leg of the Purpendicular World Tour.
Setting aside the management cost of Bruce Payne and Phil Banfield’s offices, a world tour has a ‘cast of thousands’. So there’s Colin Hart (tour manager), Charlie Lewis (production manager), Rick Taylor (tour accountant), technicians such as Mickey Lee Soule (keyboard – former Ian Gillan Band), Scott ‘Porno’ Porterfield (drums tech), Warren Lyndon (guitars), Michael Ager (bass), Moray McMillan (house sound technician), plus Xavier Theys and Ton Maesen. Then there’s Steve Arch, Andrew Mills and Craig McDonald on lighting, John Dall (rigger), Patricia Tervit (wardrobe), Sally Hogg, Mary Caird and Graeme Morrison (catering), and, last, but by no means least, people like Ron Tasker (band bus driver), Steve Howson and Ken Atkinson (crew drivers) and Steve Elsey, Les Martin and Nigel Hudson, all truck drivers.
Many others are variously involved, and that’s before budgeting for the cost of studios, where you can pay a fortune, while they have to be right for the project. It’s often talked of in terms of ‘vibe’, and I think I mentioned one earlier on as being ‘funky’! Anyway, I’ve worked in the best and, at the other extreme, the most basic, but both can work for you, although hiring a preferred choice can also depend on the record advance available, and the commitment in general from the label behind a particular album. So, when the millions of pounds are spoken of, I hope these notes help put things into some kind of perspective.
The Perfect Strangers tour in Australia was one long party, with sellout shows and great audience reactions everywhere we went. The spirit within the band was also fine and, in Brisbane, I had a surprise call from B.
‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘I’m at the Townhouse,’ she said, which struck me as strange, because the Townhouse is a studio in London, and I couldn’t figure out why she should be there. So, when I queried it, she said, ‘No, the Sebel Townhouse Hotel in Sydney,’ which was where we were heading for our next show!
Well, of course, there are long separations in this business, so it was a great call, and we had a good time. The Sebel Townhouse was one of those party hotels (it closed in 2000 and is now private apartments), and did we party! There was one member on the tour who was feeling very horny when we arrived at the hotel, so I fixed him up, telling the girl to pretend she was my friend, before I gave her the money. ‘Just give him a good time,’ I said, and a bit later my ‘girlfriend’ returned, followed soon after by a grinning colleague, who gave me a very quizzical look. He’ll know who he is and will, at last, have his suspicions confirmed!
Another of the highlights of that tour was the arrival at the Sydney Entertainment Centre of a friend of Jon and Ian Paice: George Harrison, who came on stage to do a version of ‘Lucille’ with us. Now, as fans know, I’ve recorded ‘Lucille’ many times, so, when it was suggested we do it, Ritchie said, ‘What key?’to which I replied, ‘No problem, any key you like, ’cause I can yell that song any way you want!’ What I wasn’t expecting was the Everly Brothers’ version, which, as you’ll probably know, is done in ‘slow time’, and I was then given the worst possible key of all! I introduced George as ‘Arnold from Liverpool’ and, of course, as quickly as the crowd recognised who was on stage, they went potty! A prized possession is the photo with Phil Banfield, Jon Lord, George Harrison and me after the show. I was in the shower when the idea of a pic came up, so, when they told me to put something on, I went and found a sock!
The Australian leg brought back memories of a Purple tour down under some years before, when we went out with Manfred Mann and Free in what was a very strong package, promoted by Sammy Lee. We’d arrived in Perth at about five on the morning of the show, and were playing the Olympic Pool that night. So I took myself off to my room, where I quickly dozed off, only to be woken by a spider creeping across my eye and down the bridge of my nose. I gently closed my mouth and, as the spider got to it, I blew it across the room. I then took a close look at it, and noticed it had a very bright orange spot on the middle of its back. Fancying a cold beer, I went down to the desk to organise one, and, when asked if I was having a problem sleeping, I told the porter, ‘Just a few,’ and mentioned the spider on my face. After I’d described it, he identified the species as a kind that had killed three or four people quite recently; which caused me to ponder on the wisdom of travelling to such far-flung places! However, while I’d just escaped danger with a spider, I had yet to meet our promoter, Sammy Lee, who instantly came across as an amazing but formidable character with a penchant for big sweaters and oozing a confidence that must be easy to feel, if you have a minder like Jake alongside, and in whose attaché I’d learn he carried guns!
Sammy was from Melbourne, and he was short, busy, very charismatic and very much wanting to be associated with me, to the extent that he ‘blew out’ the rest of the band. Remember, we’re looking back to early Purple days, when Jesus Christ Superstar was so big, and I’d of course recorded the lead part. So, in Sammy’s book, I was definitely somebody to be seen with, and once, when the press were advancing towards me, he extended his arm up towards my quite distant shoulder and said in this unmistakable Aussie twang (and with a husky voice), ‘Hey, boys, this is the greatest singer since rock was invented. In fact he’s the greatest singer in the world!’ He then paused, looked up at me and said, ‘What’s your name, boy?’
Sammy was truly amazing, and so enjoyed the visit by these three great bands from the UK that he told us he’d added another show, on one day’s notice! Not surprisingly, because nobody knew about it, only about a hundred people came along, and it then turned out that the deal had been made with cash upfront. So, when it wasn’t there, Manfred’s manager phoned Sammy from the hotel, asking for payment before the band left for the venue, and this caused Sammy to get very indignant. He just didn’t like being thought of as a crook, and so he arrived with his cohorts, whom he left around the hotel lobby, before taking a couple of them upstairs to give Manfred’s manager a serious hiding. The noise was unbelievable, but the hotel refused to do anything about it, until I thought enough was enough, and walked in to find Sammy almost having a heart attack with rage, as they beat shit out of the manager.
Fortunately, it happened that Sammy liked me (aside from the Superstar bit), so, when I said, ‘Hang on, Sammy, this isn’t very good for your image,’ he backed off. Sammy also paid on the upfront money, we did the show to the handful of punters, and flew out a little after. I believe Sammy later died of the heart attack he must nearly have had in the hotel room, but that was my first introduction to Australia, and I’ve gone back there as often as possible.
Back to the Perfect Strangers tour, and in 1985 nothing so dramatic happened during that visit, and so we moved on to America, where arenas were booked and sold out, with extra dates added, and where we apparently ‘out-earned’ every artist that year, except Bruce Springsteen. That leg of the world tour was simply huge, and driven along similar lines to the Black Sabbath visit I’ve talked about, and had so much respect for. However, where this tour was so very different was in the fact that I was with my own people now, and playing to audiences who were glad to see Deep Purple back. The tour schedule began at Ector County Coliseum in Odessa, Texas, and went on to include:
| January | |
| 19th | Amarillo, Texas |
| 20th | Wichita, Texas |
| 24th | The Summit, Houston, Texas |
| 25th | Reunion Arena, Dallas, Texas |
| 26th | Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center, San Antonio, Texas |
| 28th | El Paso County Coliseum, El Paso, Texas |
And so it continued: Arizona, San Diego, Colorado, St Louis and Kansas. Deep Purple have always been a working band, and the tour went through to the end of March, when we flew into Canada for shows that took in Montreal, Quebec, Toronto and Vancouver, with more added almost at the last minute along the way. It was incredible, and we apparently took $7 million for that section alone!
With the tour finally grinding to a halt, what else to plan for but another album? Except that I ‘accidentally’ made two, and here’s how that came about!
Roger and I had started preparations for what would become The House of Blue Light, only to discover that Ritchie wasn’t really interested in listening to us. After trying out a couple of studios, we ended up back at Stowe, Vermont, where we set up in the Playhouse, but got a disturbing feeling that this one was going to be a struggle. There was no spirit, no cohesion, and it reminded me of Rome 1972, when we made Who Do We Think We Are and where Ritchie vetoed ‘Painted Horse’, which he hated.
Now, for The House of Blue Light, we had first developed ‘Mitzi Dupree’, the story about my airline flight from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City, next to seat 3A, and were at the point of adding a lyric to the rough backing tracks we’d made. However, when it was presented to the band, and as with ‘Painted Horse’ before it, Ritchie hated it so much he refused to record it, which means that what you hear on the album is the original demo!
This sort of thing used to piss me off big time, until I began to realise it’s what Ritchie seems to get off on. So Roger and I set up camp in the Playhouse, working in a tiny room with no windows, and in no time at all the walls were covered with bits of paper, song titles and lyrical themes, as we kept ourselves busy trying to turn arrangements into songs. It’s an arse-about-face way of writing, but there it is – what else can you do?
Well, the question’s rhetorical, because, for one thing, I went to the pub in Stowe to enjoy the company of Richard Hughes. It was where we used to spend many a happy hour, sometimes at work, and sometimes not! The House of Blue Light was far from finished when everybody packed up and left, so Rog and I took the mobile and parked it at the back of his house in Greenwich. There, away from the Prince of Darkness, as Ritchie is affectionately known, the mood lightened, and we made some progress: ‘Mad Dog’, ‘Bad Attitude’, ‘The Unwritten Law’ and ‘The Spanish Archer’ were all finished in Roger’s basement studio, with the aristocratic Russian/Canadian hippy-cum-teddy bear of an engineer, and the amazing Nick Blagona, helping to make it happen.
Take a look at these dirty hands
Take a look at this face, these blazing eyes,
Do you see me as a broken man,
Tell me are you really that blind…
Other songs on the album were ‘Call of the Wild’, ‘Hard Lovin’ Woman’, ‘Strangeways’, ‘Dead or Alive’ and of course, ‘Mitzi Dupree’, all of which Roger took to Germany to mix; and, after he was done, his condition was fairly described in terms of ‘brains like scrambled eggs’!
I’ve already made comparison to this album against Who Do We Think We Are, and, you know, it’s a funny thing but, if you look at a top athlete or, in fact, anybody at the top of their tree, their wizardry seems effortless, while others struggle to emulate them. And it’s the same with Deep Purple. If the chemistry isn’t right, if the spirit isn’t there, then an album can sound like a struggle, and I think The House of Blue Light and Who Do We Think We Are fall into that category, while albums like Deep Purple in Rock and Machine Head show a band at ease with themselves.
And so came the day when the final touches had been put to the mix, and our work was over. I looked at Roger and said, ‘You look fucking drained!’ He said he was, so I came back with, ‘I tell you what. I’ve got an idea. Let’s go and make a record!’ Well, he just stood and looked at me totally dumbfounded, so I followed it up with, ‘Look, Rog, we’ve just finished a record, and it’s like a bad fuck.’ So we got hold of Nick Blagona, and took off for the Caribbean to write and record something joyful: Accidentally on Purpose. No sooner had we arrived at the AIR Studios Montserrat than we immediately settled into a good attitude, and started this by arranging for a little ‘inspiration’ to be delivered. Once it had arrived, and with the marijuana duly shaken out on the table and fashioned into a pyramid, I said to Roger, ‘This is going to be a great album!’
We went and put down the acoustic and bass to ‘Dislocated’; then we had some food, before climbing into our cars – Hillman Avengers, I believe – to go and find our way into town, and a bar called the Plantation, which we walked straight into, and continued, without a pause, upstairs. The first thing I noticed on arrival was a fan turning slowly, and, when I say slowly, I mean its rotation was very, very slowly. It was also very hot and sultry, the floor was layered with dust and the shuttered windows did little to help ease any discomfort. And then my eyes picked out this very large Teutonic sort of woman, swaying about on her stool and about to fall off. Gallant as ever, and with no lessons from the past remembered, I instantly went over to steady her, but everybody said, ‘No! Go away!’
It was obvious that there were a number of expat types sitting around, and so we just watched what was happening until, finally, she fell off the stool. There was a huge crash, said dust flew, and, as we moved to pick her up, two or three guys pushed us away, while some of the others were seen to be setting their diving watches, and looking down on her.
After what seemed an eternity, they started going, ‘No … No … Now!’ at which moment watches clicked, and they returned to the bar, leaving her on the floor. They were all roaring with laughter, and then a couple of them hauled her to her feet, and she was taken home. It turned out that she was some kind of travel agent who’d settled out there, and that every Friday she’d turn up at the bar, get completely wrecked and fall off her stool. The lads had picked up on the fact that, due to her large and independent breasts, when she crashed to the floor, her bosom would continue to move for some considerable time afterwards, until they settled down, so to speak. So the Friday night wager was on just how long it would be until all was calm and still, and, on the evening of our arrival, I believe the winning time was forty-five seconds!
With order restored, I moved across to the bar, and ordered drinks from this guy, who had this immaculate Oxford accent. He greeted me with, ‘Hello, my name is English!’ to which I replied, as so many must have before me, ‘Would you mind telling me why you are called English?’ It turned out that English had been sent to England to secure a fine education, after which he became a barrister, and went about his profession. However, while he was walking through Lincoln’s Inn one miserable January morning, a thought crossed his mind along the lines of, ‘What the fuck am I doing here? I’d rather be back in Montserrat, my home, serving rum punch!’ So he jacked it all in, returned and started working behind the bar, getting drunk, smoking a little and occasionally writing, usually for people who needed legal advice such as in letters. And, yes, that’s right, English was as happy as … well, English!
Since the volcano disaster, I’ve often wondered what became of English. He was such an inspiration – I mean, what a fine life choice to make, from being a barrister in London to serving B52s to visitors on that wonderful subtropical idyll. So we smoked a little, and then Roger said he wanted to get back, and I offered a lift to Nick as well.
Now, Nick trusts me to drive with care – I drive slowly – and so we got into the car, rolled a couple of large ones, and off we went. The whole moment was so fantastic, as we cruised along, saying how great our new song was going to be, and playing with the melody – ‘dang de clang, dang de clang’ – until very suddenly we happened upon a cow lying in the middle of the road. In fact, it was fast asleep with its back to us, so, after a polite pause, I tooted the horn a few times, then leaned out and coughed, finally to call, ‘Excuse me, but I need to get home now!’
Well, it reluctantly got up, gave me a baleful stare, stepped to the side, and looked at me as if to say, ‘Sorry, pal, be on your way, then!’ I thanked the beast most kindly, let out the clutch, and we continued – ‘dang de clang…’
Everything was fine for several minutes, and then I happened to glance at Nick, who’d gone very pale (despite the dark!) as he looked past me, and out of the window.
‘Nick, what is it?’ I said.
‘Look,’ he replied in a hushed voice. So I turned to look, and there was our friendly cow walking along, and now overtaking the car! As Nick will confirm to anyone who needs to know, I’m a very slow driver!
Ears are screaming
Vase a leaning tower
On my plate at the party
There was no party
There was no suitcase
There was no back seat
There was no car
Dislocated, dislocated, dislocated, dislocated.
About half the album was done in the Caribbean, but we had to stop to pick up on the tour with Purple. Although The House of Blue Light would not set the world on fire – it was released in January 1987 – it still did good enough business, hitting No. 10 in the UK and No. 34 in America. The tour had also started well, and was continuing as such; in fact, it got better, although Rog and I decided to travel by bus, while the others flew; the idea being that we’d be better able to continue our writing for Accidentally on Purpose that way. So we just cruised through the countryside, took in the scenery, partied when we felt like it (and when the opportunity arose) and slept it off in the bunks. There was no rush, no airport lounges, no irritating packing and unpacking; it was the only way to go!
Chet King flew up from the Cayman Islands to spend a few days with us. He loves his rock ’n’ roll, and on one occasion he picked up the internal phone in the toilet, poked his head out of the door and said, ‘Can I call home from here?’
‘Who wants to live in a telephone box?’ was the reply. Well it was a pretty odd exchange, but I picked up the guitar, and the song ‘Telephone Box’ was born. It sounded good on the radio a year or so later. And ‘Lonely Avenue’ also sounded good in Rain Man, the Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise movie.
Again with Purple, we did a show at Phoenix, where the band were now performing at their very best. However, Ritchie threw his guitar in the air and temporarily forgot where he put it. Too late, he reached into the ‘spot’, mistimed his catch, and broke one of his more important fingers! The tour had to be cancelled, and Roger and I went to Minot Sound Studio in New York, and then the The Power Station, to finish our wonderfully personal project!
We brought in some great musicians, including Doctor John, Randy Brecker, Joe Mennonna, plus the exquisite Vaneese Thomas, and we’re still chuffed with the results! However, due to politics (or whatever) at Virgin, the record was almost completely unsupported. The managing director at Virgin/Ten was Richard Griffiths, and his enthusiasm had been fantastic, right from the beginning. He’d really stuck his neck out for us but, sadly, he left the organisation just before release, and so it floundered in the market.
I have to say that everybody I know who has a copy of Accidentally on Purpose, tells me it’s their favourite; and, of all the records I’ve made, it’s the one I play the most. As for Roger, well, he has been an inspiration to me, and the nearest I’ve ever had to having a brother. I love him.
I may be crazy but hear me well
Don’t want you ding a linging on my bell
Communication is a good thing
But I like to let the mother ring
There’s no extension on this line
I’ve lost your number tear up mine
Who wants to live in a telephone box…
Accidentally on Purpose was released in 1988, and is a clutch of songs: ‘Clouds and Rain’, ‘Evil Eye’, ‘She Took My Breath Away’, ‘Dislocated’, ‘Via Miami’, ‘I Can’t Dance to That’, ‘Can’t Believe You Wanna Leave’, ‘Lonely Avenue’, ‘Telephone Box’ and ‘I Thought No’.
Once Ritchie’s finger had mended, the Purple tour picked up again in Europe, but the spark had gone, and tensions were back! There was an incident in Italy, when I said at a press conference (in reply to a question about why the routing was so strange), ‘The problem is that our manager, Bruce Payne, is a dickhead!’ or something like that. It was a cruel remark, born out of frustration, and partly because I think I’d just heard Paicey say he never went near his drum kit between tours. It got me thinking, It’s all going down the tubes again; but I apologised to Bruce, and guess I’m forgiven. Bruce Payne is actually a very funny guy, and we’ve been together long enough now to have learned the ropes – at least so far as we’re both concerned.
As the tour struggled on, there was a dressing room incident towards its close – in fact, after a UK date. I had a cold, and was sitting quietly, when Ritchie burst in, eyes blazing, and with a china plate in his hand, on which there was spaghetti, which someone had smothered with tomato ketchup. He charged over to me, and said, ‘Did you do this?’ But, without waiting for my answer, he smashed the plate into my face as if it were a custard pie. I slowly stood up, and he started dancing around me, fists raised, saying, ‘Come on, then. Come on.’
‘I don’t want to hit you, Ritchie,’ I said, and turned away to go to the bathroom to clean up. Once there, I cried with rage and frustration, and said to myself, ‘I quit’; except I instantly changed my mind because I realised how pleased he would have been. It was downhill all the way from that moment, and the next album, Nobody’s Perfect, would complete the three projects we’d committed to with Polydor Records, and it included stuff we’d recorded live on our tour: songs such as ‘Perfect Strangers’ (California, May 1987), ‘Hard Lovin’ Woman’ and ‘Black Night’ (Oslo, August 1987), ‘Lazy’ (Phoenix, Arizona, May 1987) and even ‘Hush’, which was taken from a jam session at Hook End Manor (Hook End Recording Studios) in 1988! Although my views on this kind of project are well known, I still approached it with a positive and ambitious approach, saying, ‘Let’s make this as good as we can!’
However, when we took the material into the studio at Hook End for post-production, the difficulties became very obvious. OK, you can use a studio to make bum notes come out right, but other issues, which are more problematic, need to be addressed. For example, what happens when the tape runs out in the middle of a song, or when there are crackles and screeches? We didn’t seem to go into this project with an absolute will to make a great live album, otherwise I suppose we’d have taken more than one tape recorder!
There was another scenario, where the band wanted to use a lot of the Made in Japan stuff, but add newer songs, to show how we had changed; but, sadly, it was clear that we’d hardly changed at all – we’d just become more slick, and adding ‘Hush’ was (for me) the strangest decision of all! Nobody has yet owned up to that idea, although I did try to get it across that Rod Evans could have done a much better job than I managed with the newer version. An original is always best!
At some time I remember offering the idea that we make the album in New York, and justified it on the basis of the management being there; as did Ritchie and Roger (who also had a studio we could use); plus the equipment was kept there, and the tour manager and many of our crew lived in the city, etc., etc., etc. So, having presented the idea, and why it seemed to make sense, I’ll never forget Jon’s memorable reply: ‘The thought of recording in New York fills me with dread!’ So, with that suggestion comprehensively rejected, Los Angeles was proposed, only for Ritchie to knock it down.
The atmosphere in the Deep Purple camp was now extremely difficult, to which end, Bruce tried to resolve the impasse by suggesting that perhaps we should get some studio brochures together, a solution that I found unbelievable! I mean, had he not considered that most decent studios were long since booked out? After this, I’m afraid I resorted to the ‘dickhead’ description again, for which he’d so generously forgiven me the first time around! I also said, ‘Bruce, you are supposed to be picking the stones from out of our path, instead of which all I hear is, “I don’t want to do this” or “That’s not possible.”’ I told him it was driving me crazy, being with a ‘band I’d die for’, when all I got was negatives.
Finally, I said, ‘You are fucking useless!’ at which point Ritchie walked out without saying a word. Jon said something I didn’t quite catch, and also left, with Bruce not far behind him. That left Roger, my dear friend of all those years, who leaned forward across the table, knuckles bunched, and stared me in the face.
‘Ian,’ he said, ‘you have gone too far this time!’
The snow was down in Stowe, and I began drinking more and more heavily – my presence not really required. And then one night I arrived back at my accommodation to find the door locked. For some reason I was now naked, except for two bin liners tied below the knees to keep my feet dry. So I moved across to where Ritchie stayed, and kicked the door down. My arrival was greeted by an open-mouthed tableau, because there was Ritchie with his girlfriend, Tammi, and Colin Hart, who I think was trying to help sort out a domestic between the guitar player and his lady, who I also believe was about to take a flight back home, or something like that. I think somebody else may have been in the room, but it mattered not, as I realised that the momentum caused by kicking in the door had become an unstoppable force. And so I lurched forward, mouthing silent words, eventually to hit the settee, which I crashed over, bringing down a couple of glass shelves with their cut-glass contents. And so, stark naked and dressed only in my improvised ‘wellies’, I fell asleep at Ritchie’s place.
I was sitting at home in England, when I got a call from Phil Banfield, saying I’d been fired.