HOME IS WHERE THE ALLIGATORS ARE
My first Florida trip was with Paul Thompson. We rented an apartment in Fort Myers Beach. We arrived at Miami airport—the noisiest I’ve ever been in. Then we rented a car. Paul looked shocked. I’d have thought that years with Bryan Ferry’s wardrobe in Roxy Music would have readied him for this, but no. It was a Ford Shitehawk. We had to get out of Miami.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but whenever you drive out of a rental car park, you always end up in the area where all the murderers and gangs hang out. I was only shot once; Paul caught a bullet in his teeth (drummers can do that).
We headed west to the other side of Florida, but first we had to get across “Alligator Alley.” This road was notorious. It was dead straight and at night you couldn’t tell how far away the oncoming headlights were, which made it deadly to overtake. Alligator Alley was also famous for the alligators on the side of the road, so getting a puncture or breaking down was definitely a bad thing. And this car was rotten. I mean, it was brand-new and it couldn’t pull your cap off, and we frightened ourselves. Well, I was driving, and it was dark and the wrong side of the road. We arrived at Fort Myers Beach, checked in, and immediately checked out—fell asleep, I mean. We were knackered.
But we’d survived. And it can’t have been too hard, as I would return in 1984 to buy an apartment there.