Stones: Acclaimed Biography, The

  His first guitar, bought during his RAF service, was a Spanish model, so badly made he could hardly hold down the strings. He played with scratch groups, in and out of the service, for the next year or two. ‘I was never much of a guitarist. I was no good at playing chords. That’s why I switched to bass as soon as they started coming in.’

  In December 1962 he was already semi-professional, playing bass regularly in the Cliftons and, occasionally, in stage shows presented by the great pop impresario Larry Parnes. He had risen as high as backing Parnes’s discovery Dickie Pride, a tiny youth then billed as ‘Britain’s Little Richard’. ‘We had to wear stage make-up … little suits all the same. Horrible, they were. You always knew they’d been passed on to you from someone else.’

  It was, therefore, with no great hope or expectation that Bill Wyman walked into the Wetherby Arms in Chelsea and beheld the group with whom Tony Chapman had arranged for him to audition. His first thought – tinged with working-class resentment – was that they looked off-puttingly ‘bohemian’ and ‘arty’. They, on their side, felt no instant rapport with the hollow-cheeked, unsmiling newcomer, seven years older than Mick and Keith, and whose reserved manner suggested the superiority of a bass player who had once accompanied Dickie Pride.

  What made him desirable was the sheer magnificence of his equipment. With his bass guitar, he hauled in two enormous black and gold amplifiers. Even the one he airily called his ‘spare’ was a Vox 850, bigger than Keith Richards had ever seen outside a shop window. Plugging in his bass, he indicated the 850 and said, ‘One of you can put your guitar through that.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure – I thought I’d just try things out with them for a bit,’ Bill says, ‘even though I did think they looked too bohemian. Not long afterwards, they decided they wanted to get rid of Tony Chapman as drummer and bring in Charlie Watts. Tony came to me and said, “Well, that’s it, Bill. We can form a new group of our own now.” I said, ‘No – I think I’m all right where I am.” I think I made a wise decision.

  Initially, it seemed far from wise. Bill Wyman’s recruitment to ‘the Rollin’ Stones’ coincided with heavy snowfalls, which, as they grew steadily worse, prevented them from getting to all but a scattered few of their suburban dates. At those they did manage to reach, attendance was disastrously reduced. Even their large Eel Pie Island following seemed reluctant to brave the toll bridge over the fast-freezing Thames. Wyman, perched on his amplifier rim, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, regretted his folly in exchanging Larry Parnes’s stage shows for arty types like this, who did not even stand up to play, but sat on chairs or stools in a semicircle behind their head-shaking vocalist.

  The winter, it turned out, was Britain’s worst for more than a hundred years. The entire country became submerged in a featureless white plain, swept by unremittingly savage cold which turned milk to creamy granite and made beer explode spontaneously in its bottles. From December to mid-February, the weather was Britain’s sole talking point – apart from a brief scandal, reported from Carlisle just after Christmas, when a group called the Beatles was ejected from a Young Conservatives dance for the impossibly tasteless offence of arriving in black leather jackets.

  At Edith Grove, the water pipes were now all frozen solid: Mick, Keith, Brian and Phelge could not wash or pull the lavatory chain. What puny room heaters they had barely took the edge off the biting cold. Bill Wyman, the settled married man, could hardly believe the squalor of the conditions. ‘They weren’t cooking – just living on pork pies and cups of instant coffee,’ Bill says. ‘I used to get through pounds, just feeding that electric meter of theirs.’

  Their diet was mainly potatoes and eggs, which Brian and Keith would pilfer from Fulham Road grocery shops, and stale bread scavenged from the debris of parties given by other tenants in the house. Bill Wyman, when he dropped by, would bring food and cigarettes as well as shillings for their ravenous coin meter. Once a week, Ian Stewart would hand them a supply of six-shilling (30p) luncheon vouchers, bought up at a shilling each from weight-conscious secretaries in his office at ICI.

  On many days, Keith remembers, it would not be worthwhile even getting out of bed. ‘We hadn’t got any gigs. Nothing to do. We’d spend hours at a time just making faces at each other. Brian was always the best at that. There was a particularly horrible one he could do by pulling his eyes down at the corners and sticking his fingers up his nostrils. He called it “doing a Nanker”.’ Even when every pipe in the flat was frozen, Brian somehow managed to wash his hair every day, and find a shilling somewhere to blow-dry it into its elaborate cresting wave. He seemed, for all his fastidiousness, the most adept of them all at living rough. Even Keith did not have Brian’s sublime assurance, as each frozen midday dawned outside their filthy, iced-up windows, that the wherewithal of keeping warm and not starving could always be borrowed, begged or stolen.

  An unexpected windfall was the reappearance of Dick Hattrell, fresh from Territorial Army camp, his £80 gratuity in his pocket, and willing as ever to do anything Brian told him. Within a week, Brian had annexed every penny of Hattrell’s money for meals, drinks, even a brand-new guitar. On Brian’s orders, Hattrell took off his army greatcoat and handed it to the shivering Keith. He would obediently follow them to their local hamburger bar, hand them more money and, at Brian’s command, stand patiently in the snow until they came out again. When Dick Hattrell’s money ran out, so did his welcome at the flat. One night as he lay in bed, Brian threatened to electrocute him with a guitar lead. Hattrell fled into the snow, terrified, wearing only his underpants. ‘He wouldn’t come back for an hour, he was so scared of Brian,’ Keith says. ‘When they finally did bring him in, he’d turned blue.’

  The new year 1963 found Britain still snowbound, with villages, towns, even whole counties cut off, most transport paralysed, all sport fixtures cancelled, a whole nation gone to ground and huddled round the fitful blue warmth of its television screen. On January 12, the Saturday night pop show Thank Your Lucky Stars provided its snowed-in bumper audience with the spectacle of the Beatles, in the mop-top haircuts and crew-necked suits, miming their new record Please Please Me, not with scowls and prissy dance steps like Cliff Richard’s Shadows, but jigging about uninhibitedly, grinning at the camera and each other. To viewers over twenty-one, the interlude seemed no more than faintly comic. But on a million British teenagers, pent up by so much more than cold, that zesty ‘Whoa yeah’ chorus had an altogether different effect. By February 16, Please Please Me was number one on the Melody Maker’s Top Twenty chart.

  The Beatles were also beginning to make regular radio appearances on the BBC Light Programme’s Saturday Club, giving live performances from their stage repertoire in a far-off Liverpool cellar club called the Cavern. Much of their material was rhythm and blues which they had copied from import discs brought from America to Liverpool by stewards on the transatlantic ships. Brian and Keith, listening to Saturday Club, huddled under their blankets at Edith Grove, were astonished to hear Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley songs on the stuffy BBC.

  Since Saturday Club had a reputation for booking groups which had not yet even made a record, Brian sent off one of his prosy letters to the BBC, requesting an audition for the Stones. A fortnight later, they received a summons to report to a BBC rehearsal room. Before they set off, Brian shampooed and blow-dried his hair into a Beatle cut thicker and more eye-enveloping than the Beatles wore. ‘It shocked even us a bit,’ Keith says. ‘He looked like a Saint Bernard with hair all over his eyes. We told him he’d have to be careful or he’d bump into things.’

  The audition took place under the eye of the show’s producer and of its compere, Brian Matthew. Both men based their musical judgement on the hidebound prejudices of a corporation which, for years, had banned even the phrase ‘Hot Jazz’ as being sexually suggestive. ‘We got a letter back from the producer in the end,’ Bill Wyman says. ‘He said they liked us as a group but they couldn’t book us because “the singer sounds too coloured”.?
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  Wyman still did not quite know why he stayed on in the Stones, especially now that his friend Tony Chapman had left. The country-wide thaw, and consequent improvement in suburban club dates, only emphasized their desperate need of a regular drummer even as semi-reliable as Chapman had been. Brian’s idea was to bring in Carlo Little, a bravura performer with Cyril Davis. But to Mick, Keith and Ian Stewart, there was only one possible candidate. ‘One night, we all just looked at each other and that did it,’ Stew says. ‘We went up to Charlie Watts and said, “Right, that’s it. You’re in.”’

  The boy with the long, thin, dourly soulful face and the neat mod three-piece suit came from several social worlds away. Charlie Watts was a true Londoner, born at least within a rumour’s distance of Bow Bells, and with that air peculiar to many cockneys of being older than his years. His father worked for British Railways at King’s Cross station as a parcel deliveryman. His mother had formerly been a factory worker. The family lived in Islington, North London, in a house which, however modest, was ruled by Charles Sr’s punctilious tidiness. ‘My dad made me cover all my books with brown paper,’ Charlie says, ‘– even my Buffalo Bill annual.’ He cherished that annual, with its colour portrait of William F. Cody, looming ferociously from a Wild West that was – and remains – Charlie Watts’s abiding passion.

  Charlie, at twenty-one, seemed set on a promising professional career. Since leaving Harrow Art College, he had worked as a lettering and layout man for the Regent Street advertisement agency Charles Hobson and Gray. It was a prestigious and – for that time – well-paid job which Charlie was reluctant to jeopardize, even for his beloved jazz. He had, indeed, recently given up playing with Blues Incorporated for fear that too many late nights would impair the daytime steadiness of his hand.

  For the Stones, it was not simply that Charlie Watts owned a handsome set of drums and played them with an unobtrusive skill that held each ramshackle blues song together like cement. He was also warmly liked by each of them. He seemed to get on best with the group’s shyest and most uncertain member, Keith. Dapper as Charlie himself was, something in Keith’s incorrigible raggedness stirred him to wistful admiration. He would sit for hours at Edith Grove, listening to Keith play guitar duets with Brian, listening to their accumulated wisdom concerning Chuck Berry B-sides and, every so often, putting another shilling in the electric meter.

  The drawback, in Charlie’s eyes, was that he loved jazz above everything, and saw no prospect, via these hard-up student types, of realizing his ambition to visit New York and see Birdland where Charlie Parker used to play. At the time the Stones pounced on him, he was also considering the offer of a regular place in the far more respectable Blues By Six. ‘He came to me, agonizing about it,’ Alexis Korner said. ‘I told him I thought the Rolling Stones were likely to get more work than the others, in the long run.’ So at last, with that resigned shrug – that look of placidly expecting the worst – Charlie Watts was in.

  On Sunday evenings in the sedate Thames-side borough of Richmond, crowds of teenage boys in corduroy jackets and peg-top trousers, accompanied by white-faced, bare-kneed, shivering girls, could be seen emerging from the railway station and streaming up a narrow passageway by the side of a Victorian pub. At the end, under an improvised sign, CRAWDADDY CLUB, a black-bearded young man, somewhat like Captain Kidd in the comic books, stood guard on the door into the pub’s mirror-lined committee room, chaffing his customers in an accent exotically and indeterminately foreign. ‘Any girls who want to come in …’ Giorgio Gomelsky would say, ‘we’re so full, you’ll have to sit on your boyfriends’ shoulders.’

  Giorgio was a twenty-nine-year-old Russian emigré, born in Georgia, exiled to Switzerland, educated in Italy and Germany, and now one of the best-known figures on the London jazz scene. He had worked for Chris Barber in the Fifties, helping to set up the National jazz league and, later, organizing the first of the League’s annual Jazz Festivals at Richmond Athletic Ground. He had discovered blues while working as a courier, escorting American blues singers on from London to Continental dates booked for them by Barber’s organization. ‘Sonny Boy Williamson lived in my house for six months. I travelled all over with him. We were in Liverpool when the Cavern was still only a Trad Jazz club.’

  In the early Sixties, Giorgio combined the role of assistant film editor and West End Jazz Club manager, running the old Mississippi Room, with earnest attendance at classes to study Stanislavsky’s Method acting. Among his fellow students in the class was a young Irishman named Ronan O’Rahilly, whose family was rumoured to own the greater part of County Cork, and who was also trying to crash into the London entertainment scene by managing Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated.

  Gomelsky’s first blues club was the Piccadilly, set up on a Russian shoestring in the old Cy Laurie folk cellar. The Rolling Stones played there just once, shortly before Harold Pendleton and Cyril Davies squeezed them out of the Marquee. Much as Gomelsky liked them as individuals, he thought their playing ‘abominable’. Counting Mick Jagger’s younger brother, Chris, only twenty or so people turned up that night to see them.

  In early 1963, the Piccadilly Club had closed and Giorgio needed a new venue that could be hired with the single five-pound note he had in his pocket. He knew the landlord of the Station Hotel in Kew Road, Richmond, and knew that the pub’s substantial back room had not been in use since its regular trad jazz sessions had petered out. ‘I said, “Let me try blues here, just for one night …”’ The club was called the Crawdaddy, after a Bo Diddley song, Do the Crawdaddy. Sessions took place on Sunday nights within the Station Hotel’s licensing hours, 7 to 10:30 p.m. Its first resident attraction was the Dave Hunt Group, featuring Ray Davies – who would one day lead the Kinks – and playing in Louis Jordan’s 1940s ‘jump band’ style.

  Brian Jones had long been pestering Giorgio to do something to help the Rolling Stones. ‘He had that little speech impediment – kind of a lisp. It used to be part of his charm. “Come and lithen to us, Giorgio,” he’d plead with me. “Oh, Giorgio, pleathe get us some gigs.”’

  Since their first disastrous tryout at the Piccadilly Club, Giorgio had seen the Stones again – at the Red Lion in Sutton – and had noticed a vast improvement. ‘But what could I do? Dave Hunt’s group already had the Richmond gig.

  ‘It was the weather, really, that got them their chance. Dave Hunt’s band couldn’t make it, because of the snow – and anyway, I didn’t go so much for that jump-band stuff Dave was playing. So, Monday, I rang Ian Stewart – it was so funny: to get the Stones you had to go through to ICI. I said, “Tell everyone in the band you guys are on next Sunday.”’

  That first Sunday night when the Rolling Stones played the Crawdaddy instead of Dave Hunt’s group, attendance was disastrously reduced. ‘I even went through to the main pub to try to round some more customers up,’ Giorgio says. ‘Anyone who’d buy a ticket was allowed to bring in another person for nothing.’

  Giorgio himself stood in the half-empty room, watching a group that, in the few weeks since their Red Lion date, had changed almost beyond recognition. The principal change was Brian Jones with his new, heaped, yellow Beatle cut, coaxing and caressing the blues harp in his cupped hands to produce sounds like silvery minnows darting in and deftly out of Keith’s guitar riffs. Another change was the boy in the dapper three-piece suit, seated behind his drums with all the pleasure of a convict trying out an electric chair, yet playing with an impeccable, light-handed touch that pulled every loose thread together and closed up every crack. Everything had come right behind the lead singer who was so far from right, but compulsively wrong, in the sweater that slipped off one shoulder like a teagown, his smear of a mouth parroting a black man’s words as his opaque eyes searched for his reflection in the mirrors all round him. That snowy Sunday night, behind a Thames-side pub, where bottles clashed into basketwork skips and feathered darts thudded against targets, the Stones began to be brilliant.

  Within three weeks,
they had attracted a huge following, of whom r & b enthusiasts were only a minor part. Richmond, Twickenham and Surbiton on a Sunday night offered little enough excitement of any kind. The larger and larger crowds that converged on the Station Hotel and flooded down its side passageway contained samples of every teenage faction that had ever done battle on Brighton or Margate beach. There were Mods in high-button suits, newly dismounted from Lambretta scooters. There were black-leather Rockers, in studs and cowboy boots. Unified by the bond of the polo-neck, there were art students and shop assistants and well-brought-up boys and girls from middle-class riverside homes at Putney, Hammersmith and Strand-on-the-Green. ‘And do you know – there was never one fight in that place,’ Gomelsky says. ‘All that glass on the walls, and not even a mirror broken.’

  At first, the Crawdaddy crowd behaved like jazz fans, merely standing and watching the Stones in the red-spotlit dusk. Then one night, Giorgio’s young assistant, Hamish Grimes, jumped up on a table top and began to leap and flail his arms with the music like a dervish. From Hamish’s impromptu outburst there evolved a dance peculiar to the Crawdaddy Club, partly derived from the Twist and the Hully-Gully but unique in that it could be performed by single males or even pairs of males, locked in a strange, crablike embrace, each gripping the other’s elastic-sided ankles. The climax of each Stones session was a Bo Diddley song, either Do the Crawdaddy or Pretty Thing, when, at Giorgio’s encouragement, the whole 300 would form a solid mass of corduroy, op-art strips and red-spotlit shirt collars, jumping and gyrating together for as long as twenty minutes at a time.

  Giorgio Gomelsky became the Rolling Stones’ first manager, mainly through his own reluctance to be considered anything so bourgeois. ‘It was always a partnership. I used to divide the door receipts from each Sunday equally with them. They would help me keep the club going. For instance, we never paid to advertise the Crawdaddy Club. The Stones and I would put illegal fly posters all over. I got them printed for four pounds a thousand, and the Stones mixed up the paste in the bath at Edith Grove.’