Ian Gillan: The Autobiography of Deep Purple’s Singer Read online

Sat 26th Winter Gardens, Weston-super-Mare, Somerset

  Sun 27th Douglas House, Lancaster Gate, London (not open to the public)

  Wed 31st Surf City Club, Tonbridge, Kent

  September

  Fri 1st Claypidgeon Hotel, Eastcote, Middlesex

  Sat 2nd Lion Hotel, Warrington, Lancashire

  Tue 5th Depart for Germany (Dover–Ostend ferry) 6. 30 a.m.

  Wed 6th Tele recording for BEAT BEAT BEAT, Frankfurt

  Fri 8th Arrive Dover (from Ostend) 5 a.m.

  Fri 15th Depart for Germany (Dover/Ostend ferry) 6. 30 a.m.

  Fri 22nd/30th Storyville Clubs – Cologne and Frankfurt.

  October

  Tue 3rd Holland – TV film for promotion of ‘Morning Dew’

  Wed 4th Return to UK

  Fri 6th Release of ‘I Can See Through You’

  Sat 7th Tiger’s Head, Catford

  Although this itinerary is taken from fairly late in the development of Episode Six, it’s still a good example of a routine that involved many miles in a van; but with it, were many great experiences, including two visits to Germany, which I call ‘The Storyville Experience’.

  We were put into a B&B under Cologne Cathedral, and told we’d be doing six or seven shows a night, with a matinée on Saturday and Sunday. And the same went for the Star Club in Hamburg.

  Of course, these weren’t full-length sets, but we’re still talking about many hours, with lousy pay, most of which went on accommodation and expenses. Still, nobody complained, and the clubs were great, as were the audiences, who wonderfully ‘got off’ on us.

  Little things pleased in these conditions, so (for example) when we bought bockwurst, the rolls (which were always piled up in baskets) came free, and nobody seemed to care how many you had. We always looked forward to those rolls and mustard, while the beer was cheap, at least the sort we found was, and, at an exchange rate of four Deutschmarks to the pound, we sourced large bottles of it for 75 pfennigs each, and drank copious amounts of it!

  Despite the enormous amount of practice and effort we put in, things often went wrong at the gigs, and I suppose part of the problem was that we were still struggling to find an identity. We were neither the Hollies nor the Rebel Rousers, nor for that matter the theatrical Barron Knights, who’d found a particular niche. We were Episode Six, a band of mainly copy musicians, working with harmonies and showmanship. We didn’t have a lead singer, since Sheila and I shared that role, and, at times, I’d play keyboard while she sang. Our set included a medley of various hits: ‘A Hazy Shade of Winter’(Paul Simon), ‘That’s the Way Life Goes’ (Jimmy Cliff), ‘Light My Fire’ (the Doors), ‘River Deep – Mountain High’ (Ike & Tina Turner) and ‘I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight’ (Bob Dylan). We had our own material with songs such as ‘Monsters of Paradise’, ‘I Am a Cloud’, ‘I Am the Boss’ and the popular ‘Mozart v the Rest’, alongside which we’d also drop in snatches of ‘Running Bear’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ as we went along!

  Crucially, we’d unwittingly positioned ourselves at the back of the grid, because we didn’t have our own hit records, and so we continued working our nuts off, coming on stage after all sorts of acts, at all times of night, and in all sorts of places. If little else, it was an eccentric lifestyle, illustrated by the occasion we arrived at one particular club (God knows where), and it was about 1. 30 a.m. There were about fifteen people there, all hopelessly drunk, and groping one another in the dark recesses, as a comedian closed an hour of his wasted talent and time, during which he’d been entertaining the walls. Still, he gave the impression he was having a great time, and we were all cracking up on the fire escape, where the gear was stacked ready to bring in. Suddenly, it was all over, and he started hoofing it out, in case somebody woke up to assault him. Then, as he disappeared into the night, his parting words floated back to us: ‘And good fucking luck to you!’

  Talking of luck, Gloria was somehow able to swing a support spot for us on the Dusty Springfield tour. It was our first time in theatres, where we had four minutes to open the first half, and seven to open the second, and the discipline was brutal. If we were more than twenty seconds over or under, we’d be fined our fee for the night, and more than a minute either way would see us off the tour! The compere was a comedian called Jeff Lenner, and he used to walk on stage and say things such as, ‘My wife’s so thin, she has to run around in the shower to get wet.’ Really! He then used to nip off to the nearest backstage bar between acts, and on his return, he’d hang his raincoat on the doorman’s second finger, straighten his tux, and walk into the spotlight, nanosecond-perfect!

  Impressed by his professional nonchalance, I asked him one night what he thought of our performance, which is always a risky thing to do, because in my book you should never ask a question if you’re afraid of the answer. However, I wasn’t afraid, because I wanted to learn, and, because of that need, I’d learn something that would stand me in good stead for very many years, as he tiredly explained that I’d never get anywhere in the business until I could persuade the audience to ignore the band and focus on me. He said I shouldn’t be there when the curtain went up, but should make my entrance while the intro was playing; also, that I should move around within my own scope of comfort and draw individuals or small groups in the crowd into a mood of intimacy by means of eye contact. Some things stick in your mind for ever.

  Back on the road there seemed no end to the levels we’d go to try to find our niche in the business. We even did the Bee Gees with false teeth, which they loved at the Tiger’s Head in Catford, and the Black Cat in Woolwich, although it didn’t go down so well at other venues, where they thought Gene Vincent would be turning up, when he was already in his grave!

  Manchester was another place where we’d do two or three clubs a night – forty-five minutes at the first, load up the Commer (usually in pouring rain), and on to the next venue, keeping our sweaty and stinking stage clothes under macs, while we offloaded the gear and waited for our next call. Sometimes, the club would be on the fourth floor of a building, with fire escapes being the only way to get backstage without interfering with an act or the audience. Even so, we wanted to keep our dignity in case we were seen, and so we tried to look and behave like roadies.

  Another example of things going wrong for Episode Six was when I moved into the spotlight wearing my kaftan, red trousers and white shoes, while (in my opinion) generally looking and feeling pretty cool, despite the early hour. Around my neck I had about forty homemade string beads, linked with thin elastic, and so we opened our show with something frantic. Well, I was giving it my best, and generally going berserk, when, for reasons I can’t explain, I bent down in this dramatic gesture, and then straightened up. The beads got caught around my knee and the elastic snapped, so that some of the beads shot out like bullets, leaving the rest to continue in rotation around my head. Would the learning ever end? I used to wish it would, but I’d also get to reluctantly accept that it wouldn’t, and of course it never should!

  However, it being another moment when I needed some good things to remember, so that came with the red trousers just mentioned, as thoughts go back to the gig we did at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. The ‘pants’ were very loud and tight, and showed off the ‘three-piece suit’ to its very best! In the interval, the headmistress came bustling over, and said words to the effect that she found my organ offensive, and it was upsetting her ‘gals’. Well, I had to tell her there was no way we were playing without Sheila’s keyboard, and the whole thing ended quite acrimoniously! One of the newsletters deals with my dress sense at the time, telling the fans I’d recently spent a lot of money in Carnaby Street, followed by, ‘And have you seen IAN’S fantasmagorical glitter shirt yet? It’s absolutely gorgeous … and WOW … speaking of tight trousers, eh, which we were, how about IAN’S new cerise pants?!’

  Well, that’s how it was in those days, and, in looking back on these brilliant efforts from HQ, the temptation to burst into applause at the end of every publi
cation was overwhelming. It must have been a thankless task, and only gratitude and praise is owing to those responsible.

  In dealing with many problems during this difficult time, I then added to them by getting married. It was the summer of 1965, and I suppose I was vulnerable to any situation that would bring real hope to my life. I thought I was by now reasonably experienced in life’s ways, when I met this girl, Jean, at the Establishment in Greek Street, which is in London’s Soho. It was a famous venue, made particularly popular by controversial satirists of the time, with John Cleese, Peter Cook and David Frost being among them. Then, in its next incarnation, the premises went on to become a nightclub, owned by a guy called Raymond Nash. Well it seemed that Mr Nash (whom I’d never met) owned a number of other clubs in the West End, and, both typically and necessarily, they employed doormen, bouncers, personal security, and other things ‘essential’. It was all part of the day-to-day style and running of such venues, and at the Establishment the ‘head honcho’ was Dennis Raine.

  Well, Jean and I began a spectacular fling, during which she taught me a very great deal! It also seemed that she had a great deal of money, certainly more than anybody else I knew, and, although she was about ten years older than I was, here, amid all the insanity of pop and rock, was a person who gave me excitement. So, when Los Humphries married Marlene a little while after I’d met Jean, I asked him if I could bring her to their reception, and he said, ‘Fine.’ She turned up (quite late) under her own steam, and, seen from across the room, she looked stunning, and was dressed sensationally under an expensive fur coat, which was OK in those days. Then, with all eyes on her as she crossed the room towards me, I noticed something very sinister, which was that Jean had been beaten black and blue. It was a huge shock, and, with people staring at us, she told me how Dennis Raine had taken exception to her dating a musician at the club, and, although he was not entirely sure it was me, he had his suspicions. Anyway, he’d decided to discourage her from continuing the liaison, and expected her altered appearance would make the point to whoever was buzzing around her.

  Upset at her injuries, yet somehow flattered by her closeness and vulnerability, I didn’t handle the situation with great maturity. First, my suggestion that we go to the police was rejected out of hand, on the grounds they had better things to do than become involved in a ‘domestic’, and after that all other ideas were similarly dismissed. So, in the confusion and headiness of Los and Marlene’s wedding, I decided the moment was perfect for a gallant gesture, and asked Jean to marry me.

  History is littered with men who have fallen from great heights because they acted on a romantic impulse, and here stood another one about to join the ranks, and not even from a great height! It’s just that the idea of rock singer Ian Gillan saving an abused woman from gangland terror by the offer of marriage had a certain ring to it – and, I know, it’s a dickhead ring! So, with my family decidedly unhappy about the whole business, and my buddies the same, our wedding and reception was a modest affair, after which we went to live with friends of Jean’s in a one-bedroom flat, over a hairdresser’s in Copenhagen Street, near King’s Cross Station. And, about that, one thing bothered me a little, as we found our way across London, and it was that between us we had only about £3. To be clear, I had not gone into this relationship because of the money Jean seemed to have (I’ve never been that interested in it, anyway, through good and bad times), but it did surprise me that she had so little on her that particular day. Still, who wants to talk about such vulgar matters just after one’s wedding!

  That night, the telephone rang in the hall, and Jean returned with the news that Dennis Raine had committed suicide, and, with that blurted out, she simply fell apart. Through all the babbling and hysteria that followed, the truth finally came out: that Jean was in love with Dennis, and not me! Well so much for chivalry, and so much for gallantry, because here stood a girl I thought I’d rescued from hell, now showing me that I was really an insignificant, penniless twat! Indeed, so penniless were we both, that we did a ‘moonlight bunk’ from the flat, and, when things had settled down a bit, we found even less salubrious accommodation in an attic behind Baron’s Court, West London.

  It’s a funny word ‘salubrious’, because it’s the only word I remember Granddad using to describe the place where we lived, after I’d told him about it. But it was also one word more than what he thought about my marriage!

  Fortunately, a complete collapse in my morale was saved by Gloria, who kept our band careers alive with a diet of touring, and it forced me out of any feelings of self-pity I must have had. Anyway I must have been away for a week or so, when either a show was cancelled, or we just drove home through the night. I let myself in at home, there to experience the final humiliation for my naïve stupidity, because Jean had somebody with her in our bed. Well, of course it was uncontrolled gibberish, with explanations like, ‘He couldn’t get home so he…’ But I ignored her, and said, ‘Well, that’s it,’ before taking my leave, never to return.

  As we toured the country, problems festered within the band, the main one being what I guess was jealousy over the fact that Roger was doing all the songwriting. The material he was so often coming up with was consistently good, and certainly as good as the songs we were about to record on A sides, written by other artists. Unfortunately, the record company wasn’t interested in giving Rog a break, but he persevered with his B sides, while everybody else continued to moan.

  I tackled him on the matter one day, saying, ‘This is brilliant, I wish I could do that,’ to which he replied in a very tough, most un-Rog-like way, saying, ‘I’m never going to speak to you again until you’ve written a song.’ But then he mellowed a little by adding, ‘Or at least until you’ve tried!’

  Just the possibility that he might be serious, that I might lose a great friend, galvanised me. Of course I can write! I speak English, don’t I? And, if I can also put words together, then I can write lyrics. ‘Puget Sound’ aside, my first real effort was inspired at around the time of the ‘Yellow Polkadot Bikini’ hit, and my song was called, ‘I’ve Got a Green-Eyed, Curly-Headed Little Pigmy Hanging Round My Neck’. I’d started it and finished it, but it was sad that nobody took it as seriously as it deserved!

  Still, Roger and I started working together on lyrics, practising writing poems, dealing with rhythm, looking at the construction of songs written by people we admired, and just getting up, tapping and singing. ‘Ticker … ticker … ticker, ticker … ticker … ticker…’, just as I guess the master, Little Richard, did! We’d sit up all night doing exercises; then one of us would mention a subject, and the other would have ten seconds to make a poem out of it. It didn’t matter if it was a load of rubbish; we were just searching for that little piece of magic.

  Otherwise, the band struggled on, and were in quite regular demand with the BBC, where the pay was pretty reasonable: £75 as I recall. Alan ‘Fluff’ Freeman was brilliant to us, and, although other DJs were full of the ‘Hello, dear boy, I do like your record,’ it was Alan who would actually play it. Yes!

  I suppose one of the reasons we were popular with radio, or at events such as Wimbledon Speedway, Brands Hatch and even once at the Hilton Hotel (London), where Sammy Davis Jr was star billing, was that we were safe, clean and fun-loving! Unlike those terrible fellows the Rolling Stones, whose name was mentioned in whispers!

  However, it was beginning to cross my mind that perhaps being a ‘terrible fellow’ had its attractions, and so seeds were sown! In the meantime it was necessary for me (at least) to ‘hang on in’, as they say, which meant continuing to watch artists such as Tom Jones and the Walker Brothers turn up in limos to mime to their latest hits, sign autographs by the sackful and continue on their way, leaving us to do a live show! Still, our decent attitude got us onto Ready Steady Go, where we met Sandie Shaw, and later performed on Southern Television for Mike Mansfield. It was hard work, but the chart of progress was now better than horizontal!

  And so the
day came when I met Janie Jones, a gal whose early claim to fame was through her singing in various London clubs, and who had a hit called ‘Witches Brew’. However that was not the reason for her high profile and notoriety, because Janie had also moved into the fixing business, known in the sixties as ‘fixing storms’. Janie was an unofficial playlist compiler, a role I learned more about when I went with a well-known DJ to a party in a very smart London house.

  It was quite late when we arrived and walked into a very civilised party, where I quickly picked up on how the other half lives. According to my DJ buddy, we’d timed our arrival about right, and, as we were ushered into the reception lounge, there in the centre stood Janie, who, I should have mentioned, was a very pretty girl. She was dressed in a cocktail frock and surrounded by these guys talking business, and you didn’t need a university degree to realise that three or four of them were big-label record producers. Also present were many familiar-looking media people, plus, I have to say, one or two were also familiar politicians. While they were all chatting away, the same records were being played over and over again, and Janie was saying things like, ‘Don’t you think this deserves to be a hit?’ and ‘Don’t you think that’s just fine?’ as well as ‘I hope you’re going to give this release plenty of plays!’ And, all the time this was happening, she kept moving around, offering to top up the drinks in glasses that never seemed to be empty! I remember being particularly impressed because they were beautiful crystal goblets, and mine saw quite a lot of Scotch pass through it.

  It was quite a formal affair until, quite suddenly, Janie drew attention to herself, and pulled her frock up, showing she had nothing on underneath. She then leaned back in a chair, and started playing with herself, before getting back on her feet and gyrating across the floor to where I was getting pissed. She looked at me and, after a few moments, asked which of the girls present I thought the most pretty. When I said, ‘The one that’s dressed like a nun,’ she said, ‘Well off you go, then!’