All that remained of the band’s all-night security detail was Jim Callaghan, who was shifting nervously from foot to foot in front of me. He was wearing one shoe. I ignored him. Keith Moon was stretched out in black nylons and a blue silk kimono behind a tea service set for him on a small Victorian table. His hotel suite window showed whichever lake was next to Chicago. It was early morning, sometime in the late seventies. He was wearing Callaghan’s other shoe. At mid-tour, he was worn and beginning to look like an unshaven Judy Garland during her last difficult years, but I kept this to myself. “Spot of tea, Regis?” he offered, not caring there was not a second cup. “Did you take in some theater before you rushed here to help me?” he jabbed. “I wanted to pick up more cash,” I offered, working to deflect him. The band still made me nervous in my first years.” I learned early that rock stars had no concrete understanding of cash, they liked it, but it stalled and confused them. This drummer viewed me as a magically tall money fountain and understood vaguely that I needed a refill on occasion. It was our primary working link. “We have disturbing confidences to consider you and me,” he began slowly, almost like an accusation. “I have met the wrong woman.” He paused here, investigating our faces for sympathy. None came. But we didn’t laugh either. Days seemed to pass as I was blank for any response. Callaghan cracked first,” He’s got the clap.” “Quiet!” Moonie shot at him in a shrill hiss, “this is a grave intrigue; no one can ever know.” ” I’ll find you a doctor,” I swiftly convinced him, and then after brief but genuinely stupid pleasantries, I headed off to solve the problem.
I could make anyone do anything for Who tickets and cash. An Indian doctor arrived at his suite in under an hour to take a culture. Soon after, Keith understood he had an especially hateful strain of Vietnamese gonorrhea. That afternoon I headed back up to his room with the doctor and his bag in tow. We found him with his intimate friend Dougal hunched over the suite’s dining table with pens and paper resembling Hitler and Goebbels plotting a North African tank campaign during WW11. I made my first mistake while the doctor got ready. I asked: “Should we let the girl know?” “Girl?” he sniffed as though I had demanded the definition of a two hundred letter word. They both snickered at me; he said, “Reg, there are constellations of girls, and we are connecting those dots as you can see on our chart, pointing to the table. With that, he turned back to his diagrams with Dougal, who was now so stimulated about the probable sexual connections he was practically drooling. They were tracing who they had slept with and who else had been there. The enrollment grew and grew like a virus. No one, at least in the imaginations of these two, could be innocent. ( Except me, of course, because I would be paying the doctor.) There is nowhere on earth like a rock tour when it comes to women. And yes, occasionally, the odd girl might have a condition of one kind or another. It did happen. But groupies get a bad whack in music mythology. Commonly they had far higher IQs than the road crews, the traveling staff, and the band members they coveted. Most of the famous ones are ambitious, conniving, and breathtakingly forward advancing. Sometimes it is sad, but only rarely. I understood that innocents were fingered, caught up as they were in Moon’s fabulously infectious net. Many were wrongly doomed that afternoon. Dougal and I called nearly everyone on tour that day, and the glum suspects marched in to get their shots. Even some of our lawyers succumbed to the flimsiest of evidence. Still, the English are reliably the last to guess at a lie. They will nearly always misjudge what to do in favor of caution. It was just good unclean fun, after all. With sick looks on their faces, they dropped their pants. This doctor was now working for me full time. He made a small fortune and walked away with enough tickets to start another Ticketron in Chicago. Everyone hung around all day and into the night—a major party. A photograph exists of everyone standing or kneeling together in that suite at night’s end. It resembled a U.S. baseball team card. The Indian doctor was sitting in the center, holding a lap-full of Who tickets and syringes. I don’t know who has that photo today. I would pay for it.
From a letter: written by Jackie Curbishley, (Bill’s wife) about me and Pete Townshend. “You’re right. He was easy to love, but so difficult to trust. I never quite knew whether he was about to spit at me or kiss me. He was totally in awe of you and so jealous of you that he could hardly articulate when you were around. I have vivid recollections of the night you poured the whole jug of orange juice over his head. I’m pretty certain that nothing like that had ever happened to him before. I had to admire the way he recovered – getting his stash out of his top pocket and with those big hands spread out in front of him saying “Look what you’ve done!” as he held out the dripping little package. It was in Salt Lake City. Remember that? Jackie
I saw this picture of Bill Graham posted by Lisa Seckler- Rhode this morning, and it grabbed a memory from that section of my mind that is usually only aroused by drugs. We were doing a deal with him for The Who to play San Francisco sometime in the 1970s. He was bawling that we were cheating him. Predictably his negotiating tactics relied chiefly on shouting or screaming. When doing deals with him in the old day’s, Bill Curbishley, the Who’s manager, would be on his suite’s phone, and I would be in the bathroom on an extension. In Graham’s case, and there are pictures, we put the phone on a coffee table between us and still hear him screeching. He stubbornly believed he was singled out for disadvantageous treatment by God himself every minute of his day. He was a formidable adversary. Few promoters dared to stand up to certain bands — the Who had become too big to lose. That said, when I started with Genesis, he did me endless favors, which he did not have to do. The other variable was that the band (The Who) loved him, so we never really tried to fuck him. No doubt, he did them favors too, early on. We had settled on the particulars for one show, maybe the Cow palace in San Francisco. After the contracts were issued, Graham returned his signed copy. His shows represented at least 100,000 tickets per performance ( most likely far more, I can’t recall), to be sold at an agreed ticket price. Graham would get his percentage cut from that. He raised the face ticket price ( which he printed) one dollar, hoping to keep the money without telling us. When confronted, he responded, “but you were stealing from me” — We didn’t let him keep the money but with our admiration.
Bill Curbishley, on the right, is the manager of The Who. If he had chosen to, he could have managed The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and Lynyrd Skynyrd as well. He quietly changed the live music touring business, but what he enjoyed most was robbing deli’s with me on off days.
Keith always insisted they had a connection. The trajectory of my mother’s last years was not unlike what was finally to be his own. They both headed south like programmed seasonal geese into jet engines taking off from God’s airport. Neither jet nor psychosis was willing to alter course. Their broken feathers scattered all around me while Moon’s drifted across the globe. I showed him a picture of my mother once; she was beautiful by any standard. Someone had snapped it in the decade of the flowered smock. He was instantly smitten. Over tours, he would bring her up to me out of nowhere. The smock dress, a product of the 1950s, was the church’s last effort to stifle any hint of a woman’s sensuality. But unfortunately for repression, the more one tries, the hotter girls get. I owe all my sexual fantasies to those inhibited Puritans who raised me. When my mother died, conveniently between Who tours, he took it in pace and reluctantly gave back my picture. He did, on occasion, sidle up to me to ask if I had any luck yet in finding a flowered smock in his size.
Roger Daltrey would not stay in hotels whose windows would not open. John Entwistle wanted long stay overs in cities where the deep sea fishing was good. Pete Townshend insisted his room be as far away from Moon’s as possible. And Keith asked only to be informed they were touring in time to get his outfits together. Louis XIV, France’s Sun King, had the longest reign in European history (1643-1715). During this time, he brought absolute monarchy to its height, established a glittering court at Versailles, and fought most of the other European countries in four wars. Had he been offered the choice, he would have opted to go on tour with The Who. It was far more fun. Entwistle was stone-faced impervious to the un-uniqueness of his fishes. He stuffed them all, and we shipped them to his home. He would rent a boat and take whoever wanted to come for the day. There was no career advantage in landing the biggest one. It would have been not polite. One such early morning in Miami, Moon arrived at the dock unexpectedly and dressed in a white Admiral’s outfit, with a sixteenth-century captain’s hat, shoulder tassels, and a monocle. It was a rare accuracy for him to even roughly guess where the fuck he was going, let alone to be in sync with any dress regulations. In fairness, it could have been a coincidence. Keith was drinking heavily before the boat began dawdling out toward deeper seas. Drinking after a night of drug-taking was nearly medicinal in his mind—a sensible pharmaceutical rebuttal in Rock terms. Anyway, the fishing went poorly. After only a couple of hours of seafaring, the drummer began crying and baring his soul to anybody who would listen. Listening to Keith was always a dangerous mental bear trap because he was very talented and deeply deceptive. It was routine to find yourself neck high in especially embarrassing shit. He had crashed into an epiphany. He ordered John to turn the boat around and put it into a port near the ablest hospital in Miami. He intended to apply the three days remaining in our stopover, to “purge himself” under the guardianship of “master doctors.” Forfeiting a show because he passed out on stage was yet to be routine, but it was a deadly threat. This plan grew support from everyone but Entwisle, who was fishing and not buying a word. So we continue to troll while Bill Curbishley and I tried to bribe hospitals to take him in. After admitting a weepy Moon and depositing him in a hospital bed, we set off back to the hotel for lunch, feeling pretty damn smart about everything. Later that day, we got a desperate call from the hospital saying that the police were on the way, and we had to get Moon out. The administrator said the drummer was on a payphone in the hallway in his dressing gown doing interviews with the local radio stations. He was inviting the kids to come to the hospital for a party. When we got there, the crowd was a couple of hundred deep.
It was the seventies, our hotel, seven or ten hours after the show had ended in Dallas.
“Do you have him?” I asked, knowing full well they did or calling me would have been a waste of time because “the hunt would be on” by all the security. I would have been irrelevant.
“Buttoned down, he can’t get away, but he’s been pestering for you,” he whined.
I got dressed and palmed a couple of hundred dollar bills and headed up.
His elevator opened to a sea of teenage girls wandering the drummer’s hallway like confused chickens. They cocked their heads towards me but drooped because I was a grown-up.
One of Jim’s guys was standing at the door to the Moon’s suite, being sturdy and earnest.
“What’s he doing?” I asked, putting the cop money in my pocket.
The likable young tough shrugged at me like muscular people imagine they can, “He’s been ringing up hookers for the last couple of hours with Jim, Tiny, and Dougal.”
Moon’s living room was empty except for Tiny, one of Jim’s security guys, standing lookout at the bedroom door.
He was naked except for the laminated security pass that hung around his neck.
Tiny was a goliath ex-New York cop who got shot and lived on a pension. He irregularly carried The Who’s only gun storing it on his ankle where he could not reach it in a crisis without a chiropractor.
He had shoulder-length greasy black curly hair. His eyebrows, arms, and whiskers were testicular sparse. He resembles the sad outcome of a high school custodian’s wet mop attack on a fat black bear.
Though gulpingly repulsive, Tiny always had the prettiest girls with him. He could outdraw Daltrey. Roger, of course, destroyed him on volume.
After a favor, he did me. I told him to order anything he wanted from room service. Passing by his room later, I caught him on his bed with a girl and two serving spoons. He had a glass bowl of forty or so ice cream scoops balanced on his stomach. They looked like life was at its summit. Tiny was not a man to fret the absence of inner experience.
Tiny bathed, as the tour joke went, only before major surgery.
“You’re a picture,” I said as I passed him to knock on the bedroom door.
Jim Callaghan cracked the door to peek at me. He was naked, “No clothes, governor’s orders.” was what he said.
I undressed except for my briefcase. I kept my shoes out of curious modesty.
I like hookers because they are a little like The Who. They are real.
Seven of them were on his king bed, staring at something in its center.
It was a Scrabble board.
A forest of breasts had blindfolded the drummer. He batted a few to clear his view of me.
“Well, finally, we took our time, didn’t we?” He charged.
“You better be winning,” I challenged him.
I lose his attention as he turns again to the board.
“Well Reg, you’re in time enough, I may need to buy a vowel,” he loudly confused our two most important American letter games, Scrabble and The Wheel of Fortune. They must have had a British equivalent from somewhere in his past.
“Come sit, he patted the bed beside him seductively, shoving a blond to the floor. I sat covering myself with my leather case.
For the first time, I noticed Dougal, his lifetime best friend on the floor, stewing in four girls. Callaghan had returned to one corner and was working on swapping blowjobs for backstage passes. The exercise was stupid because the girls all had been paid for already by Moon. But Jim had been at this for so many years it was an erotic accessory for him. I think he started with the Osmonds.
“I have these ladies on the run, but the play is getting crowded. The board is very condensed.” Moon groaned competitively to me.
I glanced at it. Three words had found their way into the match, but none of the wooden squares forming them were touching each other.
“You guys ever play this game before tonight?” I said to the girls. One or two expressed some confidence. They were beautiful by any standard.
A stunning black girl with bruised blood-colored hair and long bone earrings heaved in a dark voice, (like a lonely cow’s moo), “I got one.” She carefully laid down “dog,” forever impressing four of the other girls who I judged must be on her team.
So Moon kicks the board into the air in a losing hissy fit and banishes the poor black girl off the bed. She promptly goes from pride to tears, her spelling days over and in tatters.
He pushes himself up to lean on the puffed pink silk headboard beside me. I don’t sit next to naked men regularly, and so I worry about sweat.
“Can I hold it?” he draws my eyes to his.
My briefcase is likely the most valuable item on tour except for the guitars. Our security would rescue it before any attention came my way.
I hand him my case. He flattens it to his stomach and balls and says brightly, “Does it have lots of tonight?”
“You bet,” I said.
He tosses the case to the middle of the bed, and the girls lunge on it like it was a deep jungle musk genital pouch.
I was half thinking of getting hold of a spray bottle of Fantastic from housekeeping or a new bag before breakfast.
Moon, his mouth now on my ear, says in his whispering British spy voice, “I have my eye on that little blond down there, think she could be mine?”
I have this job owing to two strengths; I am trustworthy with money, and my reality is not easily overwhelmed by the unreality of anybody else’s.
“Please,” I offer, “she has not taken her eyes off you, even while her mouth is on my case.”
Jim and Doughal know their call girls.
“Girls, the case please,” he commanded, putting his arms out like the prongs on a forklift.
“I will need quite a bit tonight,” now back to me.
“How much?” I said.
He began gravely calculating, employing his taxing” pin the tail on the donkey” arithmetic.
He fixed on a number, immediately giddy with relief that the stress of the mathematics was finally over.
Opening the case, I counted out the packets, handed it to him, and made him sign for it, which he did, dramatically sweeping my pen in semi-circles like a crashing propeller plane before landing close enough to the dotted line.
He threw all the money to Doughal, who couldn’t disengage his hands fast enough from women’s body parts, so most of it hit him on the head.
Jim and Doughal sprang for it before the girls did.
On my way out, I told Jim to pay the girls himself, if he could, and to drop the balance back to me at the next show.
Keith Moon was out on the street, working as a doorman/bellboy at the Navarro Hotel in New York City in between shows at Madison Square Garden because he was running out of money. I got him that job thinking it might be a character-building experience. It also relieved, for a little while, everybody’s constant anxiety over where he was. The hotel manager, Mr. Russell, a personal friend of mine, arranged it because he felt obliged. After all, the band had rebuilt three of his hotel rooms over the last two tours. I always turned to the word ” shredded” in reporting what Moon had done to them. It was August 6, 1978. I think. We were in one of the suites playing scrabble and waiting for something to happen when Mr. Russell called to warn that Moon and his entourage were heading upstairs and that he was carrying two bags from a new guest that he had forgotten to leave in the lobby. The initial confusion of having their taxi door opened by a rock star wearing a six-foot-long Indian headdress was working out in the manager’s estimation. The regular bellmen seemed please at the increase in tips coming in. He was also sharing his gratuities with everybody conscientiously though he got ill-tempered with the math. It has, in fairness to Moony, been my experience that no rock star can count. In minutes the drummer blasted into the room like a one-person Apache raiding party. Behind him trailed our security guys, five groupies, two bellmen, and I guessed from their suits the people chasing their stolen bags. ” Have you heard the news?” he was nearly moaning with excitement. “Some Pope is dead! “ Feathers whipping in his breeze, he whirled on Anne Wheldon, our publicist who lives in a barely suppressed nervous hysteria, ordering her to ” get me someone on the line right now from The New York Times and Billboard Magazine!” He started to wring his hands like an early Adolf Hitler slavering over a defenseless prewar France. “Go right to the top, Anne, tell them I am throwing my hat into this Papal ring.” His eyes had an almost religious luminescence. She had the entertainment editor from the Times on the phone within minutes. He straightened his feathers and hunched over the desk phone. The room grew silent. We hung on his side of the conversation.” “That’s right; I have wanted to leave the band for years,” he confirmed to the guy. ” “Given this emergency, I believe that moment is ripe.” He listened, and his face seemed to droop. “No, I am not Catholic,” he paused, perhaps sensing his tactical error.” “But I am a quick study, ask Pete Townshend,” he attached smoothly. “And don’t let that motherfucker Mick Jagger hear about this. He is the devil, you know,” cunningly racing to blot any competition quickly. By this time, we were rolling on the floor, and Anne was standing next to him, trying to get his attention waving her arms and mouthing that she had Rolling Stone on the other line. He put both hands over the phone and, in confusion, shouted at us,” Fuck, he wants to know what I think qualifies me to be the next Pope.” Ever quick, Bill Curbishley, his manager, shouted back to him”, Tell him twenty-five platinum albums.”
We lugged this stupid Space Invaders game from show to show for an entire tour. It was Pete’s only observable outside activity. I vaguely remember it being a gift from Harvey Weinstein. Courtesy Jackie Curbishley
It may have been the same tour Daltrey had the cost-saving epiphany regarding all the loose backstage wine and liquor after each show and taking it with us. Keith Moon, never a man prone to bitterness, was sorely tested with this short-lived cottage industry. It tragically also slowed our crew’s growing intimacy with two-hundred-dollar French wines. We had to add another small truck and driver, which comically trailed the endless 40 ft tractor-trailers from gig to gig.
So Townshend shows up in this gigantic stuffed puffy coat someone convinced him was “hip” at the beginning of one winter tour. He had to wear it because it was too big to carry. His purse had to take it from him before getting into a limo because it wouldn’t fit. The guy raced to the venue to be there when he got out.
He soured badly on this coat when he realized it had no buttons and had to be held shut.
A few of us barely got any sleep because we were laughing so hard. The coat disappeared in the middle of the tour.