Excerpts from Paranoid: Black Days With
Sabbath & Other Horror Stories (continued)
3. London, summer 1979, where the author
is working as a PR with Thin Lizzy
Tall as a vampire and dressed from
head-to-foot in black leathers, his fingers, wrists and throat
wrapped in a clutter of expensively bejewelled baubles, his
dark afro-hair framing his long, sly face like a
publicity-shot, Philip Lynott was the most convincing player at
being a rock star I had ever met. Black leathers, black smile,
but putting out a very mellow vibe, like no big deal, please,
just don't touch…
As the singer, bassist and all-round
songwriting baddy in Thin Lizzy, Phil, in his late-seventies
prime, was as close to the genuine article as you were gonna
get: the romantic, rock'n'roll gypsy of folklore. Maybe Hendrix
was the original and the best but Jimi wasn't around anymore,
and Phil really had the rose between his teeth. Standing next
to him at some gig or wherever, you suddenly realised you had
become invisible. No-one else in the room could see you, their
eyes were so fastened on Phil. Particularly the women, for whom
he embodied a certain age-old fantasy -- the boy gone bad for
good -- which, allied to an easy Irish charm and a filthy sense
of humour made him all but irresistible to them. He was like
one of Hemmingway's existential bullfighters and the women that
offered themselves to him did so almost ritualistically,
knowing he would not be theirs to keep for long.
It was strange how it worked. It
wasn't just the usual rock star thing, either. Even Elton John
got groupies. Phil had something else going, too. Something to
do with being black and being Irish and therefore
somehow… outside the rules. Verboten. Even for a rock
star. And he played on that, stirring up highly eroticised
feelings of fear and guilt no café-crème liberal
would openly admit to, or be able to resist.
Phil knew exactly what people were
thinking as they watched him strut his stuff on TV. On stage,
he used to hold his bass much higher than most rock guitarists,
who usually opted for the Chuck Berry-Keith Richards
round-the-knees routine. I once asked Phil why he did that. Was
it simply because he could play it better that way?
“Naw,” he drawled,
“It's so's da girlies can gedda good look at me
bollocks.”
“Really?”
“Fockin right! Don't t'ink da
girls don't loik ta look too, you know. Dey look all right!
Dey're always fockin lookin' at fellas arses and checkin' out
da bulge in der trousers.”
He explained how he even got the
lighting guys in the Lizzy road crew to bounce spotlights off
his groin during the show. I looked out for it the next time I
saw Lizzy play and sure enough, there they were -- Phil's balls
swinging in the spotlight. No wonder the girls used to scream
when they saw him coming.
Even the men were a little in love
with Phil. Not in an overtly gay sense -- though there was that
too, no doubt, for some -- but some under-evolved part of all
of us who knew him, if we were honest, that wished we could be
just a little bit more like him. Or at least the image he had
created for us: the solid stoned groover with the cash and the
stash to burn. The lucky black cat who crossed your path. No
guilt, no doubt, no problem at all, baby.
I couldn't even imagine what it was
like to truly be that way and I used to watch Phil out of the
corner of my eyes, searching for clues, looking for signs.
Wanting to know how it worked. Listening to the songs and
wondering. Unlike most rock stars I'd met by then, there were
sound musical reasons for liking Phil, too. Partly because I
was also Irish and partly because they were simply a great
fucking band, Thin Lizzy, for me, had always had a little more
going for them than most. Particularly post-punk, when the
whole concept of the 'rock star' had become laughable. Lizzy
had somehow survived all that, and even the punks held a
sneaking regard for them. Authenticity was the key and Lizzy
had never lost that, no matter how many times we had watched
them on Top Of The Pops, miming for their supper. The first
time I ever clapped eyes on the Sex Pistols, in fact, was
backstage at a Thin Lizzy gig, just before the first Pistols
single, 'Anarchy In The UK', came out, in November 1976. I was
introduced and it turned out Johnny -- another London Irish
drop-out ready to do anything except find a proper job -- was a
big Lizzy man too, as were his Pistols sidekicks, Steve Jones
and Paul Cook. I didn't know about Matlock, he seemed too
foppish, too relaxed and overfed to really get it. He got the
boot from the Pistols soon after for much the same reason, as I
recall. I remember laughing when I read that ...
Hanging out with Phil, I did my best
not to crack on what a great Lizzy fan I'd always been, but
that's not so easy when you're only 21 and still going home at
night and playing the records. Especially when you've got a
gram or two of Charlie up your nose and a bottle of brandy
inside you and you're at that 5.00a.m. stage of the game where
dark and tiresome little confessions of that sort are apt to
erupt suddenly, like spilt beer, all down the legs of the table
and everywhere…
So Phil already had my number, even
if I didn't have his yet. Then one night, at a gig at the old
Marquee club in Wardour Street we were both at, he looked at me
with those famously hooded eyes and asked: “Are ya inta a
bit o'Fleetwood Mac, at all?” A lazy smile seesawing
across his face.
I was taken aback. People discussing
their musical tastes always confused me -- especially backstage
at a gig, where the subject of music usually falls some way
below more conversational dressing room topics as: 'Who's got
some blow?'; 'Who's the chick with the tits?'; and the old
stand-by, 'Is there a party after the show tonight?' Being
grilled about your musical tastes though, that was something
new.
“Er … well, I like some
of the older Peter Green stuff,” I said.
Phil looked at me, unsure of
something for a moment, then gave out a low, dry chuckle.
“Oh ya do, do ya?” he said. “Come 'ere
…”
I followed him into the tiny Marquee
dressing room. There was no-one in the room except for a
roadie, sitting on the floor writing something down. Phil gave
him a certain look and without a word the roadie got up and
left, closing the door behind him. Phil pulled a wallet from
his jacket pocket, opened it and took out a small white
envelope.
He motioned me over. “So ya
loik a bit o' de ole Fleetwood Mac, do ya?” he asked. I
nodded but I still didn't know what the hell he was on about.
He carefully unwrapped the envelope,
then using the corner of a credit card, he skilfully scooped
out a large pinch of white stuff and held it up to my nose. We
had done a fair bit of coke together at gigs before, so this
was not an unusual occurrence. But as I leaned over to snuffle
up the gear, I noticed it wasn't quite as white as usual. It
was white but it had a dull, sickly hue to it.
“What's this?” I asked,
afraid it would be speed.
He looked at me, credit card poised.
“Fleetwood Mac,” he said.
“What?”
“Smack …”
“Oh …”
I hesitated. I had never done smack
before. Up until then it had always been the Great Big No. I
had heard all the stories, read all the books, sung along to
all the songs and built-up a fairly detailed mental picture of
it. But I hadn't quite seen myself in there anywhere -- yet.
“I don't offer dis ta jess
annybody,” he said softly.
That did it. Not just the promise of
a little chemical diffusion, but the invitation to bond with a
genuine seventies rock icon. I had always been a Thin Lizzy
man. Now here was Mr Thin Lizzy himself inviting me to join him
on a little solo venture. Me and Phil. Phil and me. Not just
anybody…
I bowed my head and took it all in
one snort, then stood back and waited for something to happen.
I didn't have to wait long. The rest of me felt the blow before
I did. A wave of pleasure like a tide coming in, washing
through my body, lapping at my aura, crawling like lava up
towards my head, lugubrious and unstoppable, where it flowered
like a black rose, its succulent ebony petals bursting
languidly into bloom somewhere behind my startled, pin-pricked
eyes.
Phil scooped out a large pinch for
himself, snorted it, then wiped his nose, put the envelope back
in his wallet and looked at me.
“Well, whaddaya
reckon?”
“Fuckin' great!” I
gasped. “How long does it last?”
“Not dat. I mean, what was da
best rec'd Fleetwood Mac ever made -- yer man's 'Green
Manalishi' or 'Rhiannon' wit da boiler singin'
onnit?”
We both laughed, or at least tried to. We
made the faces but nothing came out. We stood there for a while
saying nothing, swaying gently on the waves, eyes closed, heads
drooping, basking beneath the hot indoor sky. Then Phil roused
himself and we were both out of there again, stumbling and
reeling, then back standing by the bar like nothing had
happened… continue reading
