The Pretty Things: Last Shot at America

The Pretty Things were one of rock’s most influential bands, inspiring everyone from Bowie to the Ramones to The Who.

Pretties guitarist Dick Taylor was a founding member of the Rolling Stones. However, the Pretties remained in relative obscurity. When I was asked to be their roadie for their North American tour, I’d never heard of ’em.

After about three weeks on the road with the Pretties, I’ll never forget them. This is the story of my Pretty Things tour, excerpted from my book, Unfortunately, I Was Available, which you can pick up here. 

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Minutes into my roadie debut at Seattle’s Bumbershoot Music Festival, I’m thrown to the fire.

The Pretty Things’ manager-producer Mark St. John reminds me three times to get liquids to drummer Skip Alan, a burly man with shaggy hair. “He dehydrates!” explains the flamboyant St. John, who sports a ponytail and wears black spandex shorts and a tight black sleeveless shirt. Skip does more than dehydrate. Once he vomited over his shoulder while continuing to play. St. John is also nervous about the crowd.

On this overcast afternoon, the Pretties are following a local ’50s swing group, and the audience is sedate, strictly G-rated. “These people are gonna disappear when the Pretty Things take the stage,” St. John mutters, scanning the swing dancers assembled on the lawn. “The Pretty Things are ugly!”

 

 

Indeed, the Pretties are known almost as much for their bad behavior as their music. Regarding the latter, most no-tably, in 1968, they produced the first rock opera, S.F. Sorrow, which preceded the Who’s Tommy. However, somehow, the groundbreaking S.F. Sorrow was released in the States three months after Tommy, so the Pretties were deemed imitators, not innovators. Worse, after the Beatles ignited a fever for English rock bands and subculture in America during the mid-’60s, the Pretties wound up touring New Zealand, where they were eventually banned. So while the Who and their other contemporaries like the Rolling Stones went on to international superstardom, the Pretties remained in relative obscurity.

Before my friend recommended me for this three-week gig, I’d never heard of the Pretty Things. No, I’m not a rock ’n’ roll guy. Skinny jeans aren’t in my repertoire, and as far as music-related experience, well, I’d witnessed Macarena Night at Yankee Stadium and interviewed the Indian from the Village People. I accepted this assignment because, well, it was an assignment, and I was available, unfortunately. Now, 36 years after they formed, St. John wants the Pretties to finally get their due. He amps up his English brogue — think the Clash at Shea Stadium circa 1982 — and introduces the Pretty Things as “the last remaining hope for the anarchy of rock ’n’ roll!” The band takes the stage in black suits and ties, white shirts, and dark shades, looking like “aging villains on parole to attend a gangland funeral,” according to one reporter. When they appear, the swing dancers do not flee. And suddenly, the clouds disappear, and singer Phil May, who, according to one tabloid, had the longest hair in Britain back in the day, struts like his con-temporary Mick Jagger — or maybe it’s the other way around.

At the end of the set, the crowd is on its feet, applauding vigorously. After the Pretties exit, St. John grabs the mic. “If you want more, you’ll have to make more noise than that!” he tells the audience. “These guys are a little hard of hearing!”

Following Bumbershoot, I excuse myself and crawl into one of the twelve coffin-like bunks on the tour bus. I’m seriously jetlagged. We’re on the road when I’m awoken by a muffled moaning coming from . . . well, I’m not quite sure. But I’m certain about this: someone’s having relations on this bus. Now! I’ll learn later that the Pretties participated in more than their share of sexual shenanigans. Phil was reported to have had an encounter with Judy Garland, Skip’s predecessor Vivian Prince, and Rudolf Nureyev. Prince paired off with Garland while Phil went with Nureyev, or so the story goes.

But where are these moans coming from now?

Somehow, I piece it together: Porn is on in the front of the bus, and it’s being broadcast to each bunk’s monitor — but not mine. I want to change that. Immediately. I flip on my bunk’s small screen, but I get static. I fidget with the knobs and bang the set. Nothing! Frustrated, I drift back to sleep — but I hear water everywhere. However, I remain dry. What’s happening now? I awaken to find that we’re at a rest stop, and the bus is being hosed down.

In San Francisco, there are rumblings that the Pretties aren’t happy with me. In fact, the bus driver informs me that they’re contemplating flying me home. No, the Pretties haven’t uncovered my dubious rock résumé. By not hanging out after Bumbershoot, I didn’t do myself any favors. Also, conspicuously, I didn’t sell any merchandise at the festival. Somehow, it was sent to the wrong location, so it wasn’t my fault. But the fact remains: I’m taking up space. Also, sadly, I’m probably a drag to be around because I’m not exactly Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. All in all, returning home doesn’t seem all too terrible . . . but I must stay. However, it’s not for rock ’n’ roll glory. Rather, it’s the fear of rock ’n’ roll disgrace. Getting booted after fewer than forty-eight hours would be downright embarrassing. Somehow, I must make these blokes like miserable me. San Francisco is make it or break it.

On Labor Day night, at Bimbo’s 365, the Pretties draw a nice crowd, and I’m quite busy selling Pretties vinyl 45s. Unfortunately, the band’s T-shirts have still not arrived. St. John, however, is exhilarated by the show and impressed that I’ve started a mailing list. Yes, I passed the test. At least for the time being, I’m staying with the band.

Bright and early, we’re heading down to Los Angeles to headline the fabled Whisky a Go Go. Phil tells me that 25 years earlier, Iggy Pop joined the Pretties on stage at The Roxy, another legendary Sunset Strip spot. He ran repeatedly into a wall, creating a bloody mess. This is exactly the insanity that St. John craves. “The show is going to be hot!” he declares repeatedly. But as showtime nears, St. John’s enthusiasm wanes. The Pretties are disappointed with the Whisky’s sound quality and the venue’s general indifference. I shouldn’t judge though. Mere hours ago, I was deemed aloof. But that was eons ago. Now I get it: the Pretty Things are trying to make it in America, and this is their last shot.

Hours before the Whisky show, the Pretties have another situation they’re dealing with. One of their former members, Twink, the Pretties’ drummer for a few years about two decades ago, is on tonight’s bill as an opening act. Twink filled in for Skip after he abruptly ran off to marry a young French woman. Twink has essentially crashed his former band’s gig, and I overhear a few Pretties grumbling about it. Bassist Wally Waller, a key contributor to S.F. Sorrow, is particularly peeved. Decades ago, Wally punched out Twink during a show. Twink is just one of several opening acts. I find one Freddie Mercury wannabe with a boa particularly amusing. At the Whisky, where some bands pay to play, the opening acts don’t stop coming. As bands enter and exit, I drink beverages at my makeshift merch stand in the rear of the club and take it all in. I’ll learn later that it’s one of the few venues where I can hawk and watch the show. If you’re wondering about Skip’s marriage, it didn’t last. Perhaps it was doomed because neither spoke the other’s language.

Just before midnight, the Pretties take the stage for a not quite capacity crowd, which includes Slash and Gene Simmons. While the Pretties aren’t household names, they’ve influenced a who’s who, everyone from the Pistols to the Ramones to David Bowie, who covered not one but two Pretties songs (“Rosalyn” and “Don’t Bring Me Down”).

Despite the well-known attendees, the band pronounces the show a profound disappointment because of the poor sound. After packing up, we roll out just before sunrise, and I sit up front with St. John. “God took a dump,” St. John theorizes, “and it landed in L.A.” In hours, I’ve gone from pariah to right-hand man.

Rock ’n’ roll. I dig it.

On our way to Denver, the plan is to stop in Vegas for blackjack, but it doesn’t happen. Everyone’s passed out. We stop at trucker pit stops to refuel, and I buy a plastic cowboy hat. I haven’t forgotten about almost being banished, and I feel the need to do something. With that hat, I attain a persona. Phil calls me Tex, and it sticks. On the bus, there’s half a restroom. Everyone agrees to not fully utilize it. There’s also no shower. Just as I’m starting to feel comfortable, Phil, who sleeps on the bunk across from me, complains about a foul odor. What stinks? I should be asking, who stinks? Unfortunately . . . it’s me! Phil May, one of the most iconic figures in the history of rock ’n’ roll, thinks I smell. Apologies. The band got a motel room in L.A. to shower in, but no one invited Tex. At about midnight, we roll up to a Motel 6 just outside Denver. It’s cheap, it has a laundry room, and everyone gets to shower.

The next day, we play the Gothic, a sparkling new venue, but the Rockies aren’t fertile ground for a belated Pretty Things invasion. A few hours before showtime, seventeen tickets have been sold. St. John doesn’t flinch, and he promptly conducts an impromptu publicity walking tour of the residential area. At a local lingerie shop, a few female employees accept St. John’s comps. Eighty or so people wind up showing, including the lingerie women, who show their appreciation by lifting their tops, well, supposedly. I didn’t see them do it. Actually, I never even see the women. My stand is at the entrance, blocked from the stage.

In Minneapolis, the T-shirts finally arrive, but St. John is horrified. They’re too dark, and the image of keyboardist Jon Povey lighting up a mega joint is barely visible. Consequently, St. John has a temper tantrum in downtown Minneapolis, repeatedly kicking the boxes of T-shirts. Of course, there’s not enough time to reorder, and there’ll be no do-over. This is the do-over!

No, this is far from the Pretties’ first stroke of bad luck. In the ’80s, the Pretties released their New Wave-ish album Cross Talk, which some consider their finest. Unfortunately, one hundred thousand copies of the album were printed with two A-sides, and another one hundred thousand were mislabeled, with the A-side label on the B-side and vice versa. Most DJs just tossed it. Following this fiasco, the Pretties went on an extended hiatus.

Now in Minneapolis, St. John is inconsolable. He pushed and prodded the Pretties for 19 years to complete their latest album, Rage Before Beauty, and he’s fought tirelessly to get the Pretties unpaid royalties, as well as control of their extensive catalog. What does St. John do for the Pretties? Everything. He loses his mind to put the band together . . . and then he moves heaven and earth to make sure they don’t kill one another. As for the T-shirt, it’s not just a T-shirt. It’s a keepsake from this belated invasion. History. Perhaps even worse than the T-shirts: Jeff Beck is playing across town on the same night the Pretties are playing the down and dirty 400 Bar, where some notable punk bands have played. The competition guarantees a weak Pretties turnout.

At Chicago’s House of Blues, the Pretties get a solid review in the Chicago Tribune. However, the headline is bittersweet: “Pretty Things Stir Nostalgia for Songs You Never Heard.” And once again, turnout is underwhelming. However, I’m told that Cynthia Plaster Caster, well known for making plaster casts of men’s phalluses, is at the show.

When we arrive at the Magic Bag’s parking lot in Detroit, the Pretties are in turmoil. The modest crowds already have everyone on edge, and now the flu is festering. Phil is drinking honey to soothe his sore throat. Skip misses his family and lucrative prosthetic limb business, not specifying which he yearns for more.

At some point, St. John uses a parental tone while waving his finger at Wally, which sets him off. “Don’t you wave your finger at me!” Wally barks at St. John. I’m saddened to see this. However, I’m happy that Wally doesn’t do to St. John what he once did to Twink on stage. Amidst all this, I should stay quiet, but I fall back into my Village People Indian interviewer mode, delicately asking St. John, usually the eternal optimist, the engine of this rock caravan, what hopes he has for the upcoming show. “I have no hopes,” he solemnly replies.

When the Magic Bag’s doors open, all flu symptoms disappear. The fans have turned out in force—and not just the usual brigade of, ah, mature men but lots of kids or perpetual kids, most of whom weren’t alive when the Pretty Things started. It turns out a radio station who interviewed the band earlier in the day had been playing the Pretties all week. And the Pretties do not disappoint, destroying. As usual, I don’t witness it because my stand is in the lobby.

VIDEO: The Pretty Things “The Moon is Rising”/”You Don’t Love Me”

During the post-concert autograph session, everyone’s jubilant. Skip, the band member who talks to me least and whom St. John describes as a “violent middle-aged man,” charges out to the lobby and aggressively embraces me—before we’re abruptly interrupted.

Wars have been fought for such a sight.

Fortunes squandered.

Lives lost.

A young woman lifts her shirt so the band can sign one of her breasts. Her boyfriend stands next to her, urging her and the band on. “Make that shit last forever!” he yells. That breast entered the Magic Bag palish. It left covered in black marker.

If you can’t get a platinum record, at least you can scribble your name on a boob.

After the crowd disperses, I check out the Magic Bag’s now empty main room, where a euphoric St. John is milking the moment. “This band has no business making an album this good!” St. John gushes, holding up a Pretties CD. I don’t dare interrupt St. John being St. John. Never.

Back on the bus, some female fans hang with the guys for some playful sing-along. I retreat to my bunk, but I don’t want to sleep. Actually, I can’t sleep. But it’s the band’s moment — not mine. As their roadie, I’m with the band, but I’m not in it. Because I’m with the band, people sometimes treat me with importance and confide in me. “Tell Phil I’ve got some good weed,” one aging hipster relayed to me in San Francisco. I travel with the band. I carry their instruments. I protect and sell the band’s merchandise. Outside the bus and the venue, however, I’m usually solo.

Unfortunately, Detroit’s magic doesn’t travel with us to Cleveland’s Grog Shop, where Phil is disgusted with the putrid restroom and the preshow catering, which is Indian. Worst of all: attendance is mediocre.

Back on the bus, St. John is once again in Jedi mind-trick mode, preaching to anyone conscious that this tour is the foundation for future tours. When the band tours the States again, St. John declares it’ll be “the second coming of Jesus Christ!” Of course, St. John is just being St. John, but anything is possible. Rage is earning some nice reviews, and the Pretties recently completed a very promising single, “All Light Up,” which Phil describes as “a cross between ‘Sgt. Pepper’s’ and ‘Another Brick in the Wall.’” “All Light Up” has no place in a dark dive bar. It reeks of St. John and belongs in packed stadiums. “All Light Up” has a contagious, rollicking beat—and a catchy chorus. Just as Pink Floyd did for “Another Brick in the Wall,” Pretties guitarist Frank Holland enlisted kids. Frank stood outside an elementary schoolyard and asked the kids to chant “all light up,” the song’s chorus, as he recorded them. Since the kids are essentially encouraging smoking—marijuana, I presume—the Pretties are inviting controversy. Actually, let’s make this clear: the Pretties, specifically St. John, are praying for controversy. If you’re going to make rock history, drastic measures are necessary. The plan, or at least part of it, is to release “All Light Up” under an alias—4:20 p.m.—and for the Pretties to perform the song on television wearing masks. After they hit their last note, the band will remove their masks, revealing their identities.

What’s their rationale?

The Pretties don’t want “All Light Up” to be prejudged because of their, ah, messy history and relatively advanced ages. The music industry craves the next big thing, not. . . . I’m sold on the song. And I think it could be the Pretties’ ticket for worldwide appeal, but what does Macarena Man know?

St. John is the only one mulling another tour. Everyone else is subdued—except Skip, who inexplicably goes into a garbled rage before disappearing to the rear of the bus, where he snuggles under a blanket with Wally and watches Adam Sandler movies.

When we awake the next morning, there’s another disaster on the horizon: Hurricane Floyd. As we roll east into New Jersey, it’s pouring. Our driver is terrified of falling trees and crashing. Understandably, the band is very concerned. Back in the day, the Pretties were the hurricane—banned from New Zealand, as well as Australia. Now they’re older, wiser, and very aware of their mortality. St. John doesn’t fit into this category. He’s a lifer, and he demands that we roll

onward. “The English know rain!” St. John bellows. “This is nothing!” Of course, St. John’s being foolish. Perhaps this entire tour was foolish. He’s trying to break a band in America thirty-six years after it formed. “It’s us against the world!” he tells me.

St. John’s sentiment is mutual.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve overheard St. John telling band members that I’m the son he never had. Maybe, once upon a time, St. John wanted to have a kid, but the rock ’n’ roll dragon kept getting in the way. St. John mentions flying me in for a European tour. There’s no position. He’ll create one. From everything I’ve observed, St. John is wonderful parental material. When you fall — foul odor and all — he picks you up and champions you with every ounce of his being. Fewer than three weeks ago, I was a jet-lagged stranger. Now, St. John’s struggle is mine.

Fortunately, we make it to our safe haven, The Palace, a roadside motel just outside New York City, which is covered in scaffolding. We’re getting close to the finish line. For Skip, we can’t get there soon enough, and he opts to leave the tour but only after getting in an altercation with a security guard at The Bowery Ballroom. This is Skip’s second incident with the authorities. In San Francisco, he was almost arrested at a restaurant—something about a crab. I wasn’t there. No, it’s not easy living in the shadow of legendary lunatic Vivian Prince, who was Keith Moon’s mentor. Back in the day, Prince was known for lighting a fire on stage and chopping up a venue’s chairs and tables with an axe. Post-Pretties, Prince was booted from the Hells Angels. For misconduct.

Of course, St. John desperately wanted Prince and all his insanity for this tour. He even journeyed with Phil to Prince’s home in Portugal—where he’s raising Alsatians and growing oranges—to recruit him. Prince loved Rage, but, sadly, he was no longer able to play. When he attempted to on a toy drum kit, he fell out of his seat. Skip’s absence isn’t a problem. St. John, who has been joining the band on stage for encores, playing tambourine and maracas, sits in for him. If anyone deserves to take a bow, it’s St. John. He’s paid his dues—and then some. St. John had worked on the debut albums of The Police and the New York Dolls, and he’d also drummed for the band England, who earned a record deal but never quite took off.

With the tour winding down, we start to savor every waning moment. As we ride over the Delaware River, the band sings together. In Washington, DC, Phil dedicates a song to me. Affectionately, St. John mocks my plastic cowboy hat. At one point, we’re sitting face-to-face on the bus, and he surprises me, questioning me about my musical tastes. Until this moment, I’ve been the fly on the bus. No one has asked for my opinion—until now. And with the lights on, I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I wind up stammering something, which I immediately forget. However, I do know that I didn’t mention the Village People or the Macarena.

Before the tour’s final show in Philadelphia, I deliver Phil honeyed tea for his throat. It’s fall now, and it feels like it. Following the show, St. John abruptly summons me out of the bus. He has gotten me a ride home with two of the band’s superfans. Once again, St. John is taking care of me.

But I don’t want to go. I’m not ready to leave the circus.

I’d been hoping to celebrate with the guys on their final night. Before I leave, each member embraces me. I’m numb, incredulous that it’s over. During this long overdue American tour, the Pretties added a few lines to rock history, and I’ve witnessed and chronicled it all: the good, the bad, and the ugly. And just to be clear, even the bad was amazing, and the ugly was truly beautiful.

At home, I place my plastic cowboy hat on my closet shelf. Tex is retired.