Grumpy Old Rock Star: and Other Wondrous Stories (8 page)

They pushed the doors open and started guiding my trolley through.

That’s when I read the words above me.

It said ‘Cardiac Arrest Unit’.

I was twenty-five.

I found myself in a quite big room and noticed that I had started shaking. I just kept thinking,
This can’t be possible, I can’t have had a heart attack
. Then this really nice doctor came and talked to me, she was called Dr Speed. She explained they would need to run extensive checks and then she said, ‘I think you live life quite hard, Mr Wakeman – am I right?’

‘You are.’

‘Do you drink?’

‘Oh, yes. Like a fish.’

‘And smoke?’

‘Only cigarettes. Like a chimney.’

‘I see you are a rock musician. Do you take drugs?’

‘Nope. Nothing.’

‘It will show up if you are not telling the truth.’

‘Drugs won’t show up, I can guarantee it.’

‘When you say you drink quite a lot, what do you mean exactly?’

I saw no point in not being honest.

‘Very heavily – into double figures of pints of beer a day, plus probably a couple of bottles of wine and at least a bottle of Scotch.’

‘Right, yes, we would consider that to be heavy drinking. Suicidal, actually. Well, I’m sorry to say you are exhibiting all the symptoms of having suffered a heart attack, Mr Wakeman. However, at your age, I’d like to investigate further because there might be other causes . . .’

One of these other possibilities that she explained was pericarditis, which I think in layman’s terms means the heart has effectively caught a cold. That sounded far more preferable, so my spirits lifted considerably. They ran some ECGs and various other fairly invasive tests, then left me alone for two hours.

Your heart’s just caught a cold, Rick, you’ll be fine
 . . . I tried to reassure myself. Then Dr Speed returned, looking pretty grim. I knew it was bad news.

‘Mr Wakeman, I’m afraid you have had a heart attack after all. In fact, we think you’ve had two. Not massive ones but you will have to stay here for between six and nine weeks. We have to get to the bottom of this.’

I was stunned.

It’s amazing to think that nowadays you can have a quadruple bypass and be out within two days, wandering around and playing golf. Back then it was different: they thought it was best to keep as still as possible whereas now they know exercise is an essential part of the recovery.

They carted me off to the ward, where two more incredible – and very touching – things happened. First off, Jon Anderson came to see me. Although there had been no lasting acrimony when I left Yes, his was not a face I expected to see. Initially,
it was not the friendliest of splits because the other guys thought I should have hung on in there and tried to sort something out musically – maybe they were right, maybe I should have stayed and fought my corner . . . ?

Anyway, Jon came in and sat by my bed. He always used to call me Wake-Up.

‘How are you, Wake-Up?’ he said.

‘I’ve been better, Jon, I have to admit. This isn’t very nice.’

‘Do you want to come back to the band?’ he asked directly.

‘No, Jon – why do you ask?’

‘Because I need to satisfy my own mind that the reason you are here has nothing to do with your decision to leave the band.’

‘Jon, that decision didn’t have any bearing on my situation now. My lifestyle hasn’t helped matters but it is certainly not the band decision that caused this. I still feel I made the right decision, by the way.’

‘I needed to hear that from you,’ said Jon, visibly relieved.

‘Thank you very much and bless you for coming.’

I asked him if it had been a band decision to send him down, but he said no, it was purely a personal thing. I hate to use the word, but that little incident ‘bonded’ us; Jon and I had never really talked together very much in the previous three years I’d been in the band, but that time he came into the hospital set a marker for a friendship that has stayed there since.

I started to get bored in hospital, as you do, but then I discovered the fun I could have with the bromide tablets that were dished out daily. I collected as many as I could and when the consultants came round, always with their cup of tea, I used to slip a tablet in their drink. It’s rumoured that bromide suppresses the sex drive, so I think during the six weeks I was in hospital, I influenced most of the consultants’ sex lives. They certainly seemed to smile less as the weeks went by.

One day, my manager, Brian ‘Deal-a-Day’ Lane, came in with Dr Towers – a very esteemed man who actually did the first baboon-heart transplant on a human. He said to Deal-a-Day, ‘Is Mr Wakeman financially secure?’

Why on earth does he need to know that?
I thought.

‘You see,’ he continued, ‘it looks as if Mr Wakeman really does need to take it easy from now on. It is obvious that his occupation is not entirely conducive to either an easy life or one bereft of temptation. I really have to advise him . . .’ and at this point he looked straight at me, ‘. . . to stop the touring and the antisocial hours and excess, I really can’t condone that in light of his current condition.’

I sat there listening and thinking,
Bugger that, I’m not going down that route, what else would I do?

After the surgeon had left, it did nonetheless get me thinking about my finances and my future. If what he was saying was true and I could never tour again, then I needed some form of backup.

If that’s the case, I better write another album, quick
.

So that’s how I came to write
King Arthur
.

I’d already started work to a small degree on the new project, but Crystal Palace and my failing health had snubbed out too much progress. So, picking up where I’d left off, I got some paper and pens and I wrote most of
King Arthur
in the hospital. Not surprisingly, perhaps, much of that project became quite autobiographical – for example, because of my situation in the hospital, The Last Battle (the one where my skater friend had to commit suicide! You’ll see . . .) was as much about my predicament as it was King Arthur’s – there were a lot of parallels going on. I’ll tell you more shortly.

Anyway, six weeks later I was discharged from hospital some way on the road to recovery. With Dr Towers’s advice about not touring and not working long antisocial hours still ringing in my ears . . . I headed for the studio to record
King Arthur
.

So did I take any of his advice?

Not really, no.

I stopped smoking cigarettes as they insisted . . . but simply moved on to cigars; I did cut back on the drinking at first, but that didn’t last long and within months I was downing vast amounts again.

Why?

I’m one of those people who does everything to excess. At that stage, I could not have gone out and had a glass or two of wine with dinner, it would have to be a couple of bottles and half a bottle of brandy.

When I smoked cigarettes, it was always thirty-plus a day.

I never had one car, I mean, at one point I had twenty-two.

Wives – I’ve had three divorces, and my fourth marriage is imminent.

Hair – long, down the back ideally.

I didn’t just support a football club, I bought one.

Everything to excess: drink, cigarettes, cars, wives, hair, football . . . And they all cost me!

THE JOURNEY OF THE HUMPING DINOSAURS

OK, I’ve kept you waiting, so now do you want to hear about those dinosaurs? Yes? You know all about
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
being a hit album, you’ve heard about me leaving Yes and having those heart attacks. What you don’t know is the really important bit – the humping dinosaurs . . .

. . . Can I just tell you about Peter Sellers and my nan, first?

Then I’ll do the humping dinosaurs, I promise.

It’s an odd universe where Peter Sellers, one of the finest actors and comic geniuses in history, crosses paths with my nan; however, by explaining how these two titans came to meet, I will at least also explain how I came to be recording a musical version of Jules Vernes’s classic novel
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
. We need to get in a time machine (sorry) and go back to before Crystal Palace, before I left Yes, and back to just after my slurred interview with Whispering Bob Harris on
The Old Grey Whistle Test
.

‘Have you ever heard of the book
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
, Brian?’ I asked Deal-a-Day Lane as I sat in his office.

‘Of course I have, Rick,’ came his blunt reply.

‘Have you actually read it?’

It’s one of those books that tons of people know about and even know the story fairly well, but haven’t actually read. I’ve read it several times and I absolutely love it. Jules Vernes was a genius, a true visionary. His books dealt with science and science fiction generations before these ideas were in general circulation; he was actually a geologist and every book he wrote had huge elements of futuristic truth in them. He even got certain calculations such as the re-entry angle into the earth’s atmosphere correct – he had a very specific expertise. We’re talking about 1864 here. Genius. Ironically, a journey to the centre of the earth is one of the few predictions he made that has not come true although many of the geological facts he wrote are incredibly accurate.

So I said to Deal-a-Day, ‘I want to do
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
.’

‘What do you mean, Rick, dare I ask?’

‘I want to do a full stage production, big orchestra, the works.’

‘So it’s not gonna be cheap then, Rick. One question, Rick . . .’

‘Anything . . .’

‘Why?’

I explained that it personally fascinated me and that also, from a commercial point of view, if you had a book that so many people thought they were familiar with – whether that was because of the film or the novel – then there was clearly a market for a production. Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice had this off to a tee by using stories that people at least knew a modicum about, or thought they did. The familiarity gives that comfort zone. It still made no sense to Deal-a-Day but I’d made my mind up. I consciously took a leaf out of David Bowie’s
book – he was a friend and had once said to me, ‘If you want to move forward, you have to do what your musical heart wants you to do, otherwise all you are doing is what people would like to be able to do. But they won’t have your imagination. Just go ahead.’

I knew the exact venue I wanted and I wasn’t aiming low – the Royal Festival Hall. I spoke to David Measham who was one of the main conductors of the London Symphony Orchestra, as I’d played on the live show of
Tommy
with them with David conducting, and he said they were well up for it. I also contracted the English Chamber Choir so we were already talking about the very highest calibre of musicianship. Lou Reisner had produced the
Tommy
shows and I asked him to produce
Journey
for me, so the team was almost complete. Now all I needed was a band.

Deal-a-Day had a dream line-up sorted in his mind: I was old friends with John Entwistle of The Who from back in the day playing at the Red Lion pub, if you recall, and Brian said we could easily get Clapton in too. Aiming high, then!

‘You are missing the point, though, Brian. This is not
my
album – when people come to the concert, I want them to be coming to see
Journey
, not coming to a show by Rick Wakeman and his celebrity musician friends.’

I had a much better idea.

Cue local boozer the Valiant Trooper.

On a Sunday night, I used to go down the Valiant Trooper to play with a great bunch of musicians, share a tale or two and a pint or ten. Yes were hot to trot at the time and I’d already had success with
The Six Wives of Henry VIII
, so I was used to playing with very high-profile and talented people. However, at the same time, I really,
thoroughly
enjoyed playing in such a relaxed atmosphere with the pub band from the Valiant Trooper. OK, it wasn’t exactly Clapton and Entwistle.

We had Ashley Holt singing. I knew him from days spent playing at the Top Rank Ballroom in Watford.

We had Roger Newell on bass . . .

And Barney James on drums . . .

I added a session-guitarist friend of mine called Mike Egan, and the line-up was complete.

I tell you what, though, those boys could play. The pub wasn’t that big and we used to have people cramming in there, regularly spilling out onto the car park. So one Sunday, after we’d played and were sinking a few afterwards, I enquired as to the band’s availability.

‘So, chaps. You got any gigs coming up over Christmas?’

‘Oh, yeah, Rick, we’ve got some good bookings. There’s the Nag’s Head on the fourteenth of December and then we’ve got two gigs in two weeks at the White Hart.’

‘Great, great. And have you got anything booked for mid-January?’

‘Er, no, I don’t think so, the Harrow’s in the last week of January so we have got room. Why, what you got?’

‘A couple of performances of something I’ve written called
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
,’ I said as I was getting in my car.

‘And where is it, Rick?’

‘Er, the Royal Festival Hall.’

There was already a lot of press and public interest in
Journey
, so Brian Deal-a-Day was keen to hear my update.

‘Did you get any joy out of Clapton and Entwistle, Rick?’

‘Oh, I’ve got the band sorted, Brian.’

‘Great. Who’s in it?’

‘Well, not Eric Clapton or John Entwistle. I’ve got Roger Newell, Ashley Holt . . .’

‘Never heard of ’em, Rick.’

‘Well, Ashley used to sing at the Top Rank Ballroom and I
play with all these guys every Sunday down at the Valiant Trooper.’