A Stray Cat Struts (6 page)

Everyone turned their heads and looked at me. I was busted. The prank was turning out to be unfunny and a bit risky. I quickly measured the impact of the joke and decided that this one wasn't worth going down in flames. I gave them the “Okay, okay” look and shrug of the shoulders. It was a big principal's office moment. I waited until no one was watching and took Dusty Bin down the back stairs and back into his own dressing room.

I like to imagine that John Lennon came up against this type of thing all the time and would have appreciated the rebellion against the stuffy old guard. Maybe something similar happened in this exact place. I like to think he would have thought that doing the gig was more important.

That night, we had another sold-out show of complete rock-and-roll abandon. Nothing more was ever said about it. I always liked those old theaters. They sounded good and had the perfect-sized stage for the Cats.

I hadn't thought about this one in a while, but true pal and Sex Pistol Glen Matlock told me this was a great punk rock story and that I should write it down. He would know.

On the way to Australia, we stopped in Los Angeles to do a little recording for the next album and to try to drum up some interest in the USA. Our record deal excluded the States, and we really wanted to get something going there. We had traveled a little bit in the States during the Stones' tour but not on the West Coast. It was my first time in LA, and I loved it right away. Still do. There were palm trees, convertibles, beaches, and blondes, exactly like on television. I knew that someday I would wind up there. We had a couple of shows booked at the Roxy again, mainly to keep the expenses going—although I never remember anyone talking about money or being paid, especially on those kinds of shows. The whole thing somehow just kept going one more day.

We stayed at the Sunset Marquis in the days before it was a posh place. It was a functioning rock hotel with little kitchens in the rooms and a laundry in the basement, always a plus. It was staffed with young people and older eccentrics who had seen it all. We fit right in. Over the next couple of years, we would stay there a lot, and most days there were adventures in and around the Marquis. There were always a few bands staying there, and everyone would walk up to the Strip to see other bands playing at the Roxy or the Whisky a Go Go. I had some fun times at the Marquis with the Pretenders, who were pals from London. They played a landmark show at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium that was the talk of the town. The Clash were there, too, and we met Graham Chapman from Monty Python, who was very friendly and looked at us like we were a comedy act. There was no bar at the place back then, so everything was brought in. Everyone left their doors open for “hall parties,” and someone always had a poolside room for easy access outdoors—and eventually someone was in the water, on purpose or not. There was always booze and powder, but I don't ever remember a dark vibe. There were plenty of local girls who loved hanging with the bands, so good, clean rock-and-roll fun was had by all. Brian and I would jump into the pool with our clothes on to announce our arrival, and besides a few regular customers looking alarmed, no one ever really gave us a hard time.

The night before the Roxy shows, we were taken to the Rainbow, a legendary rock-and-roll watering hole and restaurant. We were welcomed by the staff there, including Mike and Tony, the tuxedo-clad, fast-talking, friendly but intimidating Italian maître d's who were right out of a movie. The waitresses were all either California blondes or Goth girls with neon tans, who waited for nighttime and never took advantage of the LA sunshine but were rock chicks all the way. It was dark and packed with musicians and guys who wanted to be in the band who'd come from all over the world to get here, record company types, girls looking for fun, and a few shady characters for added ambiance. It was and still is a one-of-a-kind place. One night Brian and I were standing around with drinks in hand, soaking the whole scene up, when we were approached by a silver-haired, very tough-looking older guy who was a cross between Vito Corleone and Popeye.

“Are youse da two kids who's gonna be workin' for me tomorrow?”

We looked at each other a bit confused and nodded.

“Well, youse a too fuckin' skinny; come in da back wit me.”

He led us past the bar and into the kitchen and motioned for us to sit at a small table. He then yelled to a cook, and in an instant, a waitress had brought us a few plates of pasta and a basket of bread.

“Eat this; I can't have youse passin' out on me. Youse got two shows for me tomorrow. Go home. Get some sleep!”

That was my first meeting with Mario Maglieri. He's one of the owners of the Roxy, the Whisky, and the Rainbow. I've stayed friendly with him to this day. He's a real tough, original old guy who's overseen a lot of stuff on the Strip since the 1960s. There is a picture of him standing with Britt, holding our son, TJ, as a baby, hanging in the foyer of the Rainbow above the fish tank, next to a hundred snapshots of all the infamous characters who've hung there over the years since it opened in 1975. It was an old Italian restaurant in the 1950s, where Marilyn Monroe had kept Joe DiMaggio waiting for two hours on their first date. Years later as bachelor boys living on the Sunset Strip, TJ and I would eat countless dinners at that same table in the kitchen. The place is an institution in more ways than one, and we've become part of the family there in more ways than one, too. This night was my first visit to a place I'd go to a thousand more times.

Another thing we didn't know then was how much of an underground swell there was in LA for the Cats and the reception that was ahead. “Runaway Boys” had been getting a lot of airplay as an import on the local indie station KROQ. There was a small local rockabilly scene, and combined with the spins on the radio and the buzz around the band, we had sold out the two Roxy shows, and by popular demand, two matinee shows had also been added. Four shows, two a day, was the schedule that week. Nowadays, something like that couldn't happen without major consultations and negotiations. Back then, it just happened, and we went along with it. I don't know who would've arranged it or collected the money, but we did four shows in two days at the Roxy, all sold out and all with crazy enthusiasm from a new crowd in the States. It was a harbinger of things to come.

I remember arriving at the show and seeing a line down Sunset Boulevard in the afternoon. LA is hipper and more fashion conscious than Middle America; for us, it was ahead of the curve. We didn't know that we had broken through a little in the States. It was a peek into the new landscape: a post-MTV world was waiting ahead in the States; a lot of kids were dressed rockabilly, punk, and new-wave styles. Like in the rest of the world, the Cats appealed to all the different music-based tribes of kids who were looking for something different. The shows were all memorable, and we got through them without a hitch. We partied every night between the shows, too. We were young and had good stamina, but I guess Mario's plates of pasta really did help. Kids were climbing up to the dressing room window trying to get a glimpse and sneak into the packed-out gig. It was mayhem in the daytime on the Sunset Strip. I even saw Jack Nicholson rocking out in the audience and thought,
This is my life—isn't it great?

It was also the first time I met world-class record producer Lou Adler, who is partners with Mario in the clubs on Sunset. Lou would become a longtime friend, and we'd be linked forever in an LA extended family. “Small world” doesn't even come close to explaining it. But before all of that, Lou really liked the Cats, and like the other supersmart music business veterans we'd met, he understood what we were doing. More on this later.

We landed in Tokyo, Japan, and were greeted with an airport scene reminiscent of
A Hard Day's Night
. There were kids in the lobbies of all the hotels, and we were followed everywhere we went. The record company thought it would be a good idea to walk us through Harajuku Park on a Saturday past the rockabilly dancers with the two-foot-high pompadours that everyone has seen on postcards. These were the early days for that kind of thing. The Cats had unknowingly tapped a nerve and started a huge movement in Japan. It started out with a few finger points and low talking that turned into a few kids following us, which escalated to us being chased by a frenzied mob of Japanese rockabillies and punks through the park. It was a cool adrenaline rush, and we laughed at one another while sprinting through the park, but we knew that they would have lovingly ripped us to shreds if they had caught us. We used old-school New York skills, and the three of us easily scaled a chain-link fence and dropped to the other side while the poor record company guy got crushed. We somehow got back to the hotel. After all that, I was surprised that the gigs in Japan started earlier than everywhere else—around 6:00
P.M.
—and the audiences were a little quieter than you would expect. That's just the way it is, and you get used to it and do the shows accordingly. The first trip to Japan for anyone, especially with that kind of reception, is a fantastic experience.

We went to Australia and New Zealand next. More escapades followed, and we did a few TV shows that added to the legend building around the band overseas. Australia is still a good market for rockabilly; there are genuine people there who have a strong history of their own rock and roll and who are always welcoming and appreciative when you make the trip to play there. I've been all over Australia quite a few times and have long-term, still-current real friendships with a lot of Aussie musicians, including Jimmy Barnes, Chris Cheney from the Living End (who as a whiz kid guitarist was sneaked in by his older sister), and Mark McEntee from the Divinyls, all of whom we met on that first tour.

We came back through LA, and through a bit of luck and another kind soul, we landed a TV show that would eventually be a big break for us in the States. But first there was a gig to go to. The Stones were playing at the LA Coliseum, a little gathering of one hundred thousand fans and friends. We landed and went to the Marquis. The Stones had sent a car for us; the only catch was that we had to leave straight away—no shower, no change of clothes, no problem. We were welcomed and greeted backstage. It was even bigger than I could've imagined. The stadium was decorated with thousands of balloons, streamers, and banners like a national championship football game but with a rock-and-roll expectation and excitement that accompanies a Stones show. The backstage area had hundreds of people soaking up the sun and the decadent hospitality that the Stones always lay on. Jim Callaghan made sure that we had an extra level of access, and we went back and said hello. I spent some quality time with Charlie and Jim Keltner talking about drums. Prince opened the show that day as an unknown performer and did great under the circumstances. After a shaky first response from the giant crowd, he won them over by the end. We would have that same experience. It was a memorable day, and I remember talking to people I recognized from the movies and TV, including the late greatest-ever Robin Williams, whom I had met a few months before and hung out with a little in London. I was flattered that we were there as invited guests and had nothing to offer anyone except ourselves.

There was a newish TV sketch comedy series in the States called
Fridays,
filmed live in the style of
Saturday Night Live
. It had guest stars and a current band perform each week. Larry David was the head writer, and Michael Richards was one of the cast members. The Clash had appeared in an earlier episode and were still a little underground, but they had broken through in the States with “Rock the Casbah.” We had been living in London for the past year, and no one knew anything about it. The talent booker for the show, Chuck Hull, had been visiting in London and saw us play a show there. He loved it and had followed our success and wanted to help in the States. The show was trying to be cutting edge, but it was still a mainstream show. We did not have an American record deal yet. We were completely unknown outside the few places that “Runaway Boys” was getting airplay as an import. This guy really went to bat for us to get this big opportunity. The rumor was that he had to promise to get Journey, which was the biggest band in the USA at the time, for the week after if his bosses allowed him to have us, these complete unknowns, appear on an episode. Karen Allen, who was a big movie star riding on the heels of
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
was the guest star that week. She was cool, and the cast were all nice to us.

We really stole the show. What we did had not been seen on U.S. television before. Imagine settling down on your couch in 1981 to watch a wacky comedy show with a musical guest, turning on your TV, and seeing three very young scowling guys, two of whom are covered in tattoos, dressed in black shirts with the sleeves cut off playing a revved-up punk version of American rockabilly using only a big old slap bass and Gretsch guitar, with the drummer standing up and on top of a tiny drum kit. We were deadly serious, and it showed. I had a T-shirt made up with the lettering saying “Surgery Can Help Tattooed Teenagers” in a response to some article I had seen in a newspaper. This was one of those times in life when it was all on one roll of the dice; this was live TV in the States like Elvis on
Ed Sullivan
. We knew it and were very ready, very prepared. Everybody really played great, and we did the full act: Lee stood on the bass, spun it around, and slapped it until his hands bled; Brian played his rockabilly virtuoso best while singing his ass off and looking like a true punk rock teen idol. We let it fly and nailed it. I saw the show recently; I hadn't seen it since we did it, and I couldn't believe how good it was. We really looked the part, filled with piss and vinegar, really going for it. It's pretty shocking stuff when I look back—we looked so skinny, and the tattoos were still really colorful and looked even bigger on my scrawny arms. It was one shot, winner takes all, and we did it. We also came armed with a few soon-to-be-classic songs that are undeniable hits, and that is always the most important element. The audience included a few early rockabilly hipsters whom the camera people let move up to the front, where they swing-danced and added to the whole atmosphere. A lot of time and energy goes into being an overnight sensation.