A Prince Among Stones (14 page)

In the first years Mustique was really like Bembridge in the Caribbean. English people who would previously have gone to the Isle of Wight found themselves constructing the same kind of rather rickety houses as they would have built by the English seashore, and the island developed the feel of a holiday village either on the South Coast or in Normandy. Many of the houses were designed by Oliver Messel (Lord Snowdon's uncle) with a Caribbean flavour.

Apart from the English backbone of Mustique's residents many Venezuelans came because the island is only 250 miles from Caracas. It would only take them two hours to get from Caracas to Mustique by plane, which was probably less time than driving to their ranch from the city.

Colin had worked out a treaty with the government of St Vincent and the Grenadines and had managed to put into place a very good agreement which included a tax-free status for new residents, which was one of the reasons that people went there: it was a favourable offshore centre, dependent on Barbados and St Vincent, large islands still belonging to the UK, which had their own regime.

As I continued to think about the tax status of the Stones, I had realised that they had to gain non-resident status, since that was the only way they could ever dream of being able to pay off their taxes.

At the time, to be considered as non-resident it was generally thought that you were obliged to spend no more than ninety days a year in England for three years with an additional absence of one complete year, and not to have a house or housing registered in your name in the UK.

Keith did not really want his life to be bothered by matters such as tax, and only reluctantly agreed to become a non-resident, although he enjoyed himself tremendously once he had done so. However, Mustique was not the right place for him, whereas I was able to persuade Mick to buy a place there quite soon after we had started working together.

He still has the same residence, though it is now much enlarged and enhanced, and very well looked after. Josephine and I were also regular visitors to the island. By and large we knew everybody who went there, whereas now that is no longer the case. Initially we stayed as guests of Colin Tennant's, and then rented houses there. Only as late as 1998 did we decide to buy a property on the island. As we already had a house in London and another in Los Angeles I was much opposed to having one anywhere else, particularly since it was a maxim of Josephine's that one should never have more than two houses. However, having decided to break her own rule, she spent twenty years trying to get me to agree to have a house in Mustique, while I stoutly resisted. Having finally been persuaded, the result was that, as usual, she was right and I was wrong.

We spent a great deal of time finding the right place and followed the advice of a friend: ‘For goodness' sake don't buy a house in an untreated area because it may be years before electricity and the other services are installed. It is much better for you to buy something, pull it down and put it up again.' This was excellent advice and is precisely what we did.

We bought an existing house, pulled down the centre block which was unfinished, and based the rebuilding on an Oliver Messel design. Originally called ‘Banana Bread', we renamed it ‘Zinnia'. Josephine has created a very pretty house adorned with enchanting murals by a young Irishman, Michael Dillon, whose father commanded the Life Guards.

As we had found during all our stays on Mustique, until the arrival of the mobile phone one was relatively out of touch except for things which were very important. It was a good place to recharge one's batteries. And if Mick happened to be there at the same time we were able to talk together and discuss issues in a relaxed, stress-free environment. I suspect not many recording artists and their business managers had the opportunity to use that kind of escape valve at that time.

In the meantime I was exploring the ways in which my pre-Stones life could be valuable to my work with the band. I always used any contacts I had in place to work closely with the British Embassy or consular staff in any country where the Stones were touring. This first became important in 1972 when the band wanted to go to Japan, and Japan refused to give them visas. It happened that I knew the ambassador, Sir Fred Warner. Although older than I was, he had also been to Magdalen and had recently been appointed to the post in Tokyo, at a time when Japan was emerging as a potent economic force.

I rang him and explained the problem; he told me he would see what could be done. When he rang back he said that indeed there was a problem. ‘Would it help,' I asked, ‘if I could discuss it with you in person?' Yes, he said, come and stay. So I went over to Tokyo and stayed at the Embassy where, in talking things over, I learnt that Fred had found out that the ban was because of the drugs raid at Mick's house in Cheyne Walk in May 1969.

In the end we managed to provide evidence that there was controversy concerning the reliability of that particular bust but I thought to myself that we should never again find ourselves in a similar situation, and I always saw to it that, if I did not already know the ambassador in a particular country, I always knew somebody who did. I would arrange that the Stones were invited to a reception at the Embassy, and for the ambassador and his wife and the staff to have tickets for the shows, which they were delighted to receive. By making such strong links – and I am sure that no other rock band at the time would have gone anywhere remotely near the British Embassy unless under duress – we had an ally if and when anything went wrong.

I started looking at other opportunities for the band to perform further afield. The Stones were anxious to see whether they could play in the USSR. They knew that their records were being played there – for which they received no royalties, of course – and like all of us were fascinated to see what the country was like. So I thought that it was worth going there to see if it would be feasible.

My mother knew a charming and extremely entertaining old Russian who went by the name of George St George. He always said, ‘I am no more called George St George than I am called Marilyn Monroe, but I was born in Siberia where all the nicest Russians come from.' I believe that his forebears had been Decembrists in the uprising of 1825 and had been moved to Siberia where they had a large estate and a comfortable life.

Kissed as a child by Lenin, George had later been involved in helping both Russia and America during the later stages of the Second World War. He explained to me that Russia and Japan did not go to war until the very end, when Stalin, as can be expected, wanted to pick up some profits from being the victor in the war against Germany. George proved to be very useful to Russia and to America via Japan because Russia needed rubber and Japan needed steel, so he entered into a complicated switch arrangement whereby this was provided.

George was of immense help when I travelled to Russia in 1973 to open discussions. The critical element was to have a conference with the cultural department of the Russian government. When we arrived in Moscow, we stayed at the historic Hotel National, where Josephine and I had a suite with a vast drawing room and a grand piano which she was very keen to play on since, by and large, she used to practise the piano every day. Opening the keyboard lid she saw that there were no keys and on further investigation no strings either. It just looked grand.

Before going I had had a long chat with Diana Vreeland, who had been over to Russia to organise an exhibition of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's collection of costumes in the Hermitage. She said, ‘You'll enjoy it very much.' ‘And what's your greatest tip for us?' ‘Tip,' she said. George St George told us ‘Bring cowrie shells, bring cigarettes, bring LPs, and you'll find you have a very enjoyable time.'

George had a great friend who was in the Supreme Soviet, the poet, author and translator Sergei Michalkov, who was then the head of the Cultural Sub-Ministry. He had been commissioned by Stalin to write the lyrics for the Russian national anthem – and subsequently had to rework them following Stalin's death to remove any reference to the former leader. In 2001 Vladimir Putin asked him, then in his eighties, to rewrite the words one more time.

Josephine and I were at dinner in the Hotel National. We had ordered our food but nothing had arrived. Suddenly a hush came over the restaurant, in a way one was only used to seeing in England when a member of the royal family entered a room. We looked up and saw a very good-looking grey-haired man of about six foot three. This was none other than George's friend Sergei Michalkov. He came over and asked if everything was all right. Josephine said, ‘Well, we've been waiting for our chicken, and they have just told us after half an hour that there is no chicken.' Michalkov lifted a finger. The head waiter scuttled up to him. ‘Chicken –
at once
,' Michalkov ordered. The chicken duly appeared – at once!

I later asked Michalkov about the fact that it appeared to me that many of the police we saw in Red Square were high-ranking, decorated officers. He answered, ‘Of course. You would not want Somebodies to be arrested by Nobodies.'

On one occasion we had gone out to Michalkov's dacha for a party where a cellist played one of Benjamin Britten's cello suites for us after lunch. While we were chatting over tea, I pointed to the portrait of a pretty lady that clearly dated from before the Revolution. Who was it? I asked. ‘That is my grandmother. She was a Princess Galitzine.' ‘I didn't realise,' I said, ‘that there were many former members of the aristocracy in the Supreme Soviet.' ‘Oh yes, there are a few of us, though Gagarin was not,' he replied. ‘There is a lot of rubbish thought about the Soviet Union in the West. We have a peaceful and tranquil society without murders or robberies and people can bring their children up safely. Periodically there are minor insurrections, but thank God we have the KGB and can usually stop them.'

Nearly thirty years later, in 1998, when we saw Sergei in Moscow again, he said, ‘When you came here before, the Soviet Union was a strong country, feared abroad and safe at home. Now Moscow is a third-rate Las Vegas with crime and disorder rampant: the centre of a country which is weak and a laughing stock to the world. Which do you prefer?'

On that first visit to Russia we held a formal meeting with the relevant minister in his large office in the Kremlin accompanied by an interpreter who was dressed in Carnaby Street modern. I made my little speech, addressing him as Excellency in every paragraph: ‘We are so interested to try and bring some of the popular culture that we have in music in England and in return we are so pleased that occasionally we do get some Russian music played in London. We are anxious, Excellency, to know whether we would be welcome, and whether it would be possible for the Rolling Stones to perform here. Four years ago you may know that there was rather an unfortunate political event in Altamont, California, when the police got very nervous and there was actually a death, but that was exceptional and that was the American police keeping order.'

The minister then answered, ‘I am afraid, my dear Prince, that you have misunderstood the aims of Russian culture. We are not prepared to have these vandals and cultural nobodies teaching the reprehensible lessons which they practise in Western Europe. All that I can say to you is if you come over you should be aware that should any Russian citizens involved in any concerts be caught with drugs, they will be open to the utmost rigours of our Soviet law. And for those who have come from England or other parts of the Western world, we will simply have a plane in permanent readiness for you at four o'clock in the morning or whenever we notice these things and you will be firmly but kindly expelled.

‘I should also point out to you that you may have noticed that we have a friendly arrangement whereby there is a concierge on every floor of our hotels. One of her jobs is to see that women who are not married do not enter the rooms of unaccompanied men at night-time. Do I make myself perfectly clear? Now I hope that you will be happy to take some tickets at the Bolshoi which we have got for you for tomorrow night to mark our pleasure of thanking you for your visit.'

It was indeed all quite clear. George St George said, ‘I told you it was probably a wild-goose chase, but at least you have been here and met the minister.' We went to the Bolshoi Theatre, where we were ushered into the former royal box and given champagne with the programmes; I saw photographers peeping out from behind curtains and taking pictures of us. Back in London I reported the conversation to the Stones, who said, ‘Thank goodness you were able to find out before we went. We may have to wait a few more years', which we did – more than fifteen years in the end.

In contrast, on the large tours of the States, New Orleans was always comfortable, welcoming and fascinating because of its history – in turn part of Spanish, French, and then British America – and the jazz that had originated around Bourbon Street. One very much felt that the city was different from the rest of mainland America and even from the rest of the Louisiana Purchase. The Garden District, which had been fashionable at the turn of the century, was a slum.

We had the greatest fun imaginable. My friend Marguerite Littmann, Louisiana-born and bred, was one of the pivots around which the city's society revolved – her friends were the old world of New Orleans. Her brother was the novelist and playwright Speed Lamkin, who in the early 1950s had achieved some success with his first novel,
Tiger in the Garden
, describing the old ‘plantation set'.