Rock Star Babylon: Outrageous Rumors, Legends, and Raucous True Tales of Rock and Roll Icons

Table of Contents

A PLUME BOOK ROCK STAR BABYLON

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Introduction

Status Quo and the Kangaroo

Almond Surprise

Girls Aloud Fought the Law and the Law Won

James Brown Has Powerful Testicles, Given to Him by the Government

Puff Party

Not a Well(er) Man

It’s the Wrong Dave Stewart, Gromit

Shit Hot

Wet Wet Dry (Ice)

A Man Called Jim Webb

Holy Pigs

Heaven Is a Place on Eargghhth

Hey, You, Get off of My Pie

I Warn You, This Is Quite Unpleasant

Manic Street

The Baker Street Irregularity

Boys Who Like Girls

The Adventures of Brinsley Schwarz

The Bones Is Mine

Who’s Gonna Drive You Home . . . ?

Pink Sabbath

Lost in Transfusion

Mercury Rising

Oh What a Feeling, When You’re Stuck up in the Ceiling

My Heart Will Go On, but I Won’t

The Devil in Mr. Johnson

The Best to You Each Morning

No Sleep ’til Dresden

Fleetwood Crack

Blondie: Portrait of a Serial Killer

Papa’s Got a Brand-New Bag

Games Without Frontiers

Too Young to Live, Too Fat to Fly

‘I Said No Squeaks!’

Bring Me a Gun, Mr. Piano Man

New Sensation

One (Pissed) Man Went to Mow

The Myths and Legends of King Rick and the Knights of the Round Table

Toxic Rock Syndrome

Simply the Bezst

Billy, Don’t Be a Hero

Spinal Twat

Motley Spüe

By Royal Appointment

Snyder Remarks

Always on My Dad

When Pop Stars Divorce

Trying to Get Blood out of a Stone

Taking Libertines

Stairway to Hell

Jaz Mag

’Chute Me, I’m Only the Piano Player

Holding Back the Beers

A Fine Time

That Man Called Jim Webb Again

One-Armed Band Git

Chuck Up

Little White (Stripes) Lies

Dear Satan . . .

Curiosity Time

Born to Canoe

‘Leave It, Omar, He’s a Raspberry’

Where Eagles Fear to Tread

Private Dancer

Honestly, Pop Stars Today . . .

Dude (Looks Like a Cokehead)

Fall from Grace

You Give Accountancy a Bad Name

Pavarotti Goes to the Toilet

Queen Elton of John

Pete Townshend Strikes Again? (Or Rather, His Cat Does)

Dinner for Three

Johnny B. Bad

Ryder on the Storm

Eatin’ the Blues

Ozzy Osbourne and the Exploding Mouse

He’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain

One Final KISS

Endpiece

Further Reading

Acknowledgements

A PLUME BOOK ROCK STAR BABYLON

JON HOLMES is an award-winning writer, broadcaster and comedian whose writing has appeared in The Guardian, The Times, The Sunday Times and Time Out (London). He proudly holds the record for the largest ever fine for taste and decency offenses in British broadcasting history, achieved with his on-air game of Swearing Radio Hangman for the Under 12s.

PLUME

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Michael Joseph edition, under the title Status Quo and the Kangaroo, in Great Britain.

First American Printing, July

Copyright © Jon Holmes, 2007

Illustrations copyright © Roger Drew, 2007

All rights reserved

002 REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

CIP data is available.

eISBN : 978-1-101-09765-6

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For Mum, Dad, Kelda and Vicky

Introduction

‘When the legend becomes truth, print the legend.’

John Ford

I think, probably, that legendary, be-ponytailed, waist-coat rockers Status Quo are quite possibly the only band in the world ever to have put the word ‘margarita’ into a UK Top 10 hit. How fitting then that up to ten of those very drinks had been consumed on the night that the idea for this book was born.

We were in the pub and, to misquote Pirandello, we were six characters in search of a pointless conversation. The jukebox was playing Van Halen’s seminal classic ‘Jump’ and thus the conversation drifted like a bass player’s concentration toward the story of Van Halen’s rider—that long list of requests provided by bands to venues regarding their backstage requirements. We all knew, of course, of the story in which Van Halen once asked for a bowl of M&Ms with all the blue (or brown) ones taken out, but soon stories began to flow as fast as a cliché involving flowing beer. How we laughed at the idea that Iggy Pop once asked for seven dwarves, that J.Lo’s coffee must only be stirred counterclockwise or that, wherever she goes, Mariah Carey always insists on a horse whisperer.

Another drink and the chat veered toward our favorite rock ’n’ roll myths. The usual suspects emerged: Ozzy’s bat snack, Mama Cass choking on a sandwich, Marilyn Manson starring in TV’s The Wonder Years when he was young and Led Zeppelin sharing a fish with a groupie in such an original way that you certainly wouldn’t find it in a Rick Stein cookbook.

But then someone told the story of Status Quo and the Kangaroo and the idea for this collection of stories and apocryphal tales from rock’s highway to hell hewn roughly into the shape of a book was born.

Between its covers you will find both classic and perhaps lesser-known rock ’n’ roll myths, paraphrased pop stories and terrifying, tawdry tales destined to be passed down from generation to generation as fact. Even though I’m legally obliged to point out at this time that some of them may not be. In the spirit of the excellent gossip website Popbitch and the fact that I’m indebted to musicians, journalists, DJs, writers and their potentially libelous (yet anonymous) mouths, I will leave you to decide which is which.

These stories were out there, so now they’re in here, all lovingly annotated and remarked upon as we go along—sort of like a DVD commentary in written form. Get used to footnotes, you’re going to need them.¹ These rock ’n’ roll fables come from the road, from backstage, from the studio, from the bars, the hotels and most importantly from the hearts and minds of those about to and/or who have rock(ed). And for that, we salute them.

And yes, I know ‘apocryphals’ isn’t a real word.

Jon Holmes, Los Angeles, 2006

²

Status Quo and the Kangaroo

It’s the mid-1980s and, having been busy rockin’ all over the world and opening Live Aid,³ the mighty denimed and ponytailed combo that are Status Quo find themselves on tour travelling between cities through the vast, scorching, bleached desert of the Australian outback. All was going well aboard the tour bus (drinking, smoking, swapping amusing anecdotes about the time Francis Rossi’s cocaine-flustered septum fell out) until, in the middle of nowhere and 300 miles from the nearest town, it happened.

Yes, that was the moment that Status Quo hit a kangaroo.

In the ensuing face-off that was tour bus vs. marsupial, the ’roo, rather unsurprisingly, had fared least well and the band piled out to find that, sadly, the bepouched creature’s bouncing days were over.⁴ It was then that they did what any self-respecting rock band would do. That’s right, they dressed the dead kangaroo in a denim jacket, a pair of sunglasses and a bandana and lined up with it to have their photo taken.

It was at this point that things went a bit wrong. Startled by the flash,⁵ the actually-only-concussed kangaroo woke up, pushed the Quo aside with its meaty fists and bounded off into the desert.⁶ It was soon lost over the horizon, still dressed like Lemmy out of Motorhead. How Status Quo laughed as they climbed back aboard the bus, thinking that the notion of a heavy metal kangaroo forever hopping off to the Bungle Bungles⁷ was the funniest thing in rock history.⁸ How they stopped laughing when they realized the bus ignition keys were in the pocket of the jacket.

Kangaroo 1, Status Quo 0.

Almond Surprise

Out of the dry ice-based mist of the British new romantic scene, an especially pointy 80s cheekboned face emerged. And it belonged to Marc Almond. Marc Almond was one half of Soft Cell, the synthesizer-wizard-based electrosexuals⁹ with front-projecting hair who, until their breakthrough hit ‘Tainted Love’,¹⁰ were jobbing DJs in some northern club or other. The back half of this pantomime cowlick was Dave Ball, whose job it was to stand around looking mustachioed.

This is a story that is destined to pass from generation to generation. A bit like the family silver, or chlamydia. That’s right, this is the story of Marc Almond and the stomach pump. Now, if you know what’s coming¹¹ then you may look away now. It stands to reason that you may already know this story of course because it’s a classic, hence its inclusion.¹² And it goes like this:

The popular singer and homosexual Marc Almond goes to a party. The details of what sort of party it was aren’t clear but I think we’re safe to assume that it’s not the sort of party that ends in cake and balloons.¹³ It’s an 80s pop party and he’s probably hobnobbing¹⁴ with Limahl, China Crisis and the Blow Monkeys.¹⁵ Everyone’s there, drinking Top Deck Shandy, nibbling on Space Invaders¹⁶ and pickled onion Monster Munch and dancing to their own records, when suddenly Marc remembers that he’s due onstage in Soho that very evening and is already late. He quickly gathers up his things¹⁷ and heads for the door. He pauses to say hello, wave goodbye, to Kraftwerk, who are in the lounge playing Twister with Kenny Loggins, when suddenly it hits him. Disaster! He’s about to leave, yet he hasn’t even sucked anybody off.

At this point we’ll gloss over the details. Suffice to say, satisfied, our party pal arrives at the gig just in time and takes to the stage. Then, half an hour in, he collapses, bringing the gig to an abrupt halt. Doctors quickly diagnose severe stomach pain and, what with him being a pop star and everything, assume that some sort of overdose is in progress and summon a stomach pump. And then they pump his stomach.

They were right. It was an overdose. Of sorts. From his stomach they removed a pint of semen. That’s right, semen.¹⁸ Mr. Almond had been admitted to the hospital with possibly the first-ever recorded case of sperm poisoning.¹⁹

Not a storyline that crops up often on Holby City, that one. ²⁰

Girls Aloud Fought the Law and the Law Won

Hahaha. Girls Aloud. Girls ‘Allowed’. Girls Aloud. That’s right, it’s a pop pun. Hilarious. Girls ‘Aloud’ were forced together in 2002 for the reality shitcast that was ITV’s Popstars: The Rivals and have done surprisingly well, given that they’re still making records,²¹ unlike, say, Gareth Gates²² or Hear’say.

Being a group of girls manufactured for the purposes of a TV show and having your every move, smile and topless magazine shoot for Zoo or Nuts magazine orchestrated to within an inch of your fixed smiles was, and probably still is,²³ some kind of living hell but with such acquiescence comes success. Sadly though, such success means that the gates of inevitable tabloid hell will eventually swing open in your direction. And so it was on one day early in 2003 when it nearly all came crashing down like a hippo in a child’s hammock.

One of the band members—it was the drummer, Cheryl Tweedy²⁴—was in a nightclub in Guildford, where she was simply doing what any girl of 19 would do.²⁵ She then went to the toilet, where on duty that night was a lady called Sophie Amogbokpa (39), a toilet assistant. ²⁶ What followed turned into an allegation, a court case, a racist slur and a fistfight. Not necessarily in that order. The tabloids gleefully reported that Cheryl Tweedy punched Ms. Amogbokpa in the face and let fly with what I imagine they called ‘a torrent of racial abuse’. The other members of the band were aghast.²⁷ Ms. Amogbokpa was even aghaster, claiming to the newspapers:

I was shocked. I don’t care how many number ones she’s had,²⁸ if she was nobody, she shouldn’t have said those things to me or hit me. I had done nothing to her and whoever gives me an eye like this should be punished.

She then claimed that Ms. Tweedy had been irate and called her ‘a black bitch’,