Michael of Washington, DC writes in to say, “Waiting for stories about Little Richard…” Well, yeah, I have one or two.
I spent the whole summer of 1990 on the road in Europe with Ladysmith Black Mambazo. If you know anything about life in Europe then I don’t have to explain that that was a World Cup year and the whole continent goes soccer-mad for a few weeks. You can forget about getting people to come out to a music venue or festival so the whole music business pretty much shuts down. Our agent at William Morris beat the bushes for us and finally found a promoter in Scandinavia who bought the whole period for a rock-bottom price. The agreement was that we would do as many shows as he could book and he would pay our expenses. It was the best deal we could make under the circumstances.
We finished the previous leg of our tour in Tilburg, NL; the first show in Scandinavia was supposed to be the next night in Stockholm on a bill with Bunny Wailer. We would have made it on time but we got hung up at the border in Denmark and by the time we got there, we had missed the show. I was sick at heart about it (it was the only show that I ever missed in 10 years of touring) but the promoter seemed more than understanding (I found out later that any European could have told me that that would happen; Denmark was known as the guard dog of Scandinavia and there was no way a busload of Africans was going to get breezed through). He told me to just drive on to Oslo where we would do a show the following night. “But we don’t have visas for Norway.” “That’s okay,” he told me, “just tell them you’re working with Hans” (not his real name).
Huh? That makes no sense. Mambazo was from Apartheid South Africa; you didn’t just go wherever you wanted without government say-so. Besides, my guys were shot already. I wasn’t bringing them to another country just to get turned away.
So now I get started talking with the rest of the acts on the bill. Apparently this is not the only thing amiss with this promoter. Contracts are being violated left and right, venues are questionable, information is not being distributed and (dot dot dot) the money ain’t right. Billy Preston has smoke coming out of his ears. Billy tells me that there’s a hotel outside of Stockholm called the Star Hotel in Sollentuna and that Hans has an account there. “Go there, check your guys into the hotel, order room service and get a good night’s sleep.” “Hans is gonna be furious if I blow off this Oslo date.” “Fuck that guy,” says Billy, “he should have planned for that if that was what he wanted to do.”
As one often finds oneself saying in these circumstances, I said to myself, “Billy Preston is right.” I told Ronnie, our Belgian bus driver, to tank up and point the bus at Sollentuna. Sure enough, I dropped Hans’s name and we were all set up. And the place was pretty nice, too: giant atrium, big breakfast buffet, nice swimming pool… and the days are long in Sweden in the summertime. This was all right. Thanks Billy Preston!
So, what about Little Richard?
The next morning, I see Hans. Surprisingly, he wasn’t mad at all about skipping Oslo or about running up a bill on his account at the hotel. “That’s okay; I’ve got other stuff for you guys to do.” Okay, like what? He asks me, “So your act is an a cappella group singing in Zulu, is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So, let me ask you, how long can they sing before people get bored out of their skulls? Ten? Fifteen minutes?”
What the hell is the matter with this guy?! He signed our 20-page contract with William Morris; now he’s asking me this question?
“Well,” I say, “I’ve been with them for 6 months and I haven’t gotten bored yet.”
“Here’s the thing,” says Hans, “I’ve got Billy Preston on a bill tonight on Öland and Little Richard is supposed to play there, too. I need your guys to play in between them.”
“If it were my show,” I tell him, “I would have Mambazo play first, then Billy, then let Richard close the show.” That obviously made more sense, both from an audience point of view and a production perspective.
“Well, it ain’t your show! Your guys will be going on second. You’ll have to leave soon to make it to Öland on time.”
I go find Ronnie to let him know the plan. Ronnie, a dead ringer for Keith Richards, seems to know everyone up and down the highway, and there is nothing he likes better than blues and soul piano. Among other things, he is Fats Domino’s aide-de-camp for all of The Fat Man’s activities on the Continent. Of course, I tell him who we would be sharing the bill with.
“Oh shit!” says Ronnie. Why? What is it? So Ronnie starts telling me the whole story. Everyone knows that Billy had been the “fifth Beatle” but what they don’t know is that the Beatles met Billy back in their Hamburg days. In 1963, when Billy was 16, he was Richard’s pianist, valet and paramour. Richard had apparently been absolutely mad for Billy. And then, years later, Billy had become a superstar in his own right, putting some monster hits on the charts after Richard’s star had faded. According to Ronnie, this just scorched Richard, although, on the face of it, they were the dearest of friends and mutual admirers. The end result was that they might share a bill but neither one was willing to be the “opening act” for the other. There had to be someone else on the bill whose job was to go in between. Aha, so that is where we fit in. Okay, I can work with that.
We did the show in Öland that night. The show was in a bombed-out Medieval castle, real Spinal Tap-type stuff. And, speaking of Spinal Tap, one of the superfun things about Richard was that he would not leave the hotel to go to the gig unless he got picked up in a white Cadillac. It was in his contract. Have you ever gone hunting for a white Cadillac for rent in Scandinavia? Let me save you some time: don’t bother! There are none (or at least there weren’t then). And yet, Hans, miserable prick that he was, managed to find one for Richard. Yes, I saw Little Richard pull up in front of a bombed-out Medieval castle in a pristine white Cadillac. I thought I was in a Bugs Bunny cartoon! But I wasn’t. It was just another day in the music biz.
Richard and his band, Billy and his band, Mambazo and various other reggae, soul and African acts camped out at the Star Hotel for the next couple of weeks. We sat in that atrium, watched soccer, drank hideous quantities of that smooth, Swedish coffee (you must try it) and occasionally bounced in and out of Stockholm, a lovely city whose patrons know how to enjoy themselves. There was an occasional concert, always with Mambazo planted somewhere between Little Richard and Billy Preston.
I’ve never been on a military base with people shipping out to war but this is what I imagine it to be like. Hans managed to create the most static-riddled environment of any promoter I ever worked with. Everyone seemed to have their back up the entire time. Everyone, that is, except for Richard. He and his young consort came and went, always with a smile. I suspect Richard was getting paid in hard US currency.
I didn’t spend a ton of time with Richard, not as much as i spent with Billy. Little Richard maintained that mystique diligently but he was always gracious and had a kind, respectful word for his fellow musicians. If you really looked, it was apparent that he had worked harder than any of us, not just at inventing rock’n’roll, but at inventing Little Richard. He wasn’t going to let that go easily.
Years later, I was camped out at the notorious Hyatt House on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood (dubbed “The Riot House” back when Led Zeppelin used to throw TVs out the windows). One Saturday night, I was walking up the circular driveway and right at the top who do I see but Richard. He’s standing there with his new consort, smiling like a bandit with mirrored shades in place. I didn’t get to say a single word; he saw me and stuck his hand out for me to shake. I shook, we smiled and shared a few quick words of greeting.
I continued on into the hotel and checked with the desk for my messages. As I was there, I asked conspiratorially, “What’s he doing here?” “Who? Richard? He lives here!”
I assumed at the time that he remembered me from Sweden (or at least knew that he knew my face). In hindsight, I’m not so sure. Maybe standing in front of the place, greeting arriving guests, was just something he liked to do.