Grumpy Old Rock Star: and Other Wondrous Stories Read online

  Tables of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Grumpy Old Rock Star

  Content

  Introduction

  My life as a Russian doll

  Ever been conned?

  ‘Bruddy hell, they done it again!’

  ‘Help yourself, tuck in’

  Drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney

  The journey of the humping dinosaurs

  The healthiest man on earth

  Herr Schmidt’s fishing trip

  The victor, the consul and the roller

  A bloody nice curry

  ‘Probably best to book it in your name, Rick’

  The tin-bath technique and the small-hours hooker

  Gone but not forgotten

  The police were very good about it

  ‘Have I done something wrong here, gentlemen?’

  ‘No, Mr Wakeman, six months to live’

  ‘I’ve got Che Guevara in the shed’

  ‘Hello, Rick, I’m Ronnie Biggs’

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Illustration Credits

  Index

  Picture Section 1

  Picture Section 2

  RICK WAKEMAN is the most gifted keyboard player of his generation, as at home on stage at a rock concert as in the organ loft of a great cathedral. As keyboard player for the 70s supergroup Yes, his extraordinary live tours and multimillion-selling albums are legendary. He has also appeared on Top Gear achieving a lamentable lap time of 1.55.26.

  MARTIN ROACH, who collaborated with Rick Wakeman on this book, is a five-time Sunday Times bestselling author who has written more than a hundred books on music, entertainment and youth culture.

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409050322

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  This paperback edition published by Preface 2009

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  Copyright © Rick Wakeman and Martin Roach 2008

  Rick Wakeman and Martin Roach have asserted their right to be identified as the authors of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Preface

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  ISBN 978 1 84809 005 7

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  I actually consider myself extremely fortunate to still be alive after all I’ve been through (well at the time of writing this dedication in June 2008 I was still alive anyway), and therefore be able to share some of my tales of the ‘unexpected’, ‘inexplicable’ and ‘unbelievable’ adventures as both a musician and a grumpy old man.

  So many of my musician friends that I grew up with and worked alongside are sadly no longer with us, and so it is to all of them that I dedicate this book, as in their own way, they have all contributed greatly to my becoming a Grumpy Old Rock Star, of which I am immensely proud!

  GRUMPY OLD ROCK STAR

  AND OTHER WONDROUS STORIES

  Rick Wakeman

  with Martin Roach

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  My life as a Russian doll

  Ever been conned?

  ‘Bruddy hell, they done it again!’

  ‘Help yourself, tuck in’

  Drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney

  The journey of the humping dinosaurs

  The healthiest man on earth

  Herr Schmidt’s fishing trip

  The victor, the consul and the roller

  A bloody nice curry

  ‘Probably best to book it in your name, Rick’

  The tin-bath technique and the small-hours hooker

  Gone but not forgotten

  The police were very good about it

  ‘Have I done something wrong here, gentlemen?’

  ‘No, Mr Wakeman, six months to live’

  ‘I’ve got Che Guevara in the shed’

  ‘Hello, Rick, I’m Ronnie Biggs’

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Illustration Credits

  Index

  INTRODUCTION

  Simple maths . . .

  On the day this book is published I will have been a professional musician for forty years.

  People who know me well, know that nothing ‘ordinary’ ever happens to me and a ‘Spinal Tap’ tale of one sort or another will always seem to come about whether I am on the road touring, in the studio recording or just simply walking down the road!

  So where does the maths come into it?

  Well working on the very conservative estimate that at least three ludicrous things happen to me every year, then a simple calculation will tell you that at least 120 completely farcical events have happened in my life since 1968.

  Work backwards through my semi-pro years, college and my schooldays and you’ve just added at least another hundred such stories.

  Therefore, the final maths sum will tell you that potentially, this book is the first of a possible twenty volume set.

  I never did like maths much.

  MY LIFE AS A RUSSIAN DOLL

  You know those Russian dolls, the ones that are made to fit inside each other? Well, I was one of those once.

  Funnily enough, it was in Russia.

  Music has gifted me the opportunity to travel all over the world – touring with Yes, taking my own solo shows around the globe, promotional trips abroad, it’s a lot of air miles. And I’ve come back with as many bizarre experiences as I have souvenirs. On one occasion it was the souvenir itself that put me in a very peculiar situation indeed.

  I was booked to do a TV show in Moscow, deep behind the Iron Curtain. The trip was right in the middle of the Cold War, and East/West relations were not good. I’d travelled there before and loved the country – I used to come home with my suitcase crammed full of souvenirs. With $20 in cash, you could buy the world. The kids and
family all loved the red T-shirts with the hammer and sickle on them, the woolly fur hats . . . standard tourist fayre.

  Luckily, the customs officers at the airport tended to turn a blind eye to all this black-market stuff.

  Apart from the KGB uniform I bought from a total stranger in a dark alleyway.

  What’s all this got to do with a Russian doll, you say? Bear with me . . .

  My hotel was typical of the type used by Westerners. Police guards on the main doors and barricades outside. You were told there were places you could go, places you couldn’t, things you could do, things you couldn’t. Admittedly, it could be quite difficult because the British and American politicians didn’t trust the Russians and the Russian politicians didn’t trust the British or Americans.

  I loved the Russians and got on with them great. The TV show went very well and myself and the band had a lovely time. It was only after the filming that things started to get complicated.

  It was no secret that the Russian black market couldn’t get enough dollars. The buck could buy you anything, and I mean anything! Funnily enough, the dollar bills themselves had to be crease-free, in absolute mint condition. They also needed to be low denominations, one or two dollars ideally.

  This one particular day I slipped a dollar into the hand of the policeman on guard at the door of my hotel and went off wandering. It was freezing, properly cold. I was wearing this absolutely huge coat I’d bought in America which was like a rancher’s coat – it was massive. As I trotted off down the street, I looked like Mr Blobby crossed with J. R. Ewing. Any Westerners wandering around certain dingy backstreet lanes were so easy to spot and with my hair, height and rancher’s coat I was like a beacon of the West crunching loudly through the snow. It wasn’t long before I was approached by a very suspicious-looking character who’d clearly bought his battered old brown suitcase from Arthur Daley or Del Boy Trotter. Most of these characters actually knew me because, as I’ve said, I’d been over a few times and was always a willing customer. You’d walk along a main street and from the shadows of a dark alley you’d hear, ‘Mr Wakeman, over here, you buy T-shirt?’ These ‘entrepreneurs’ would then open some dusty old suitcase and offer you perhaps five T-shirts for a dollar. They weren’t exactly the finest quality but I always bought quite a few and enjoyed our little chats.

  However, on this occasion, it wasn’t a paper-thin T-shirt that I was offered.

  It was a genuine KGB uniform.

  Out of a suitcase.

  From a complete stranger down a back alley, off the beaten track in the middle of Cold War-entrenched Moscow.

  Don’t ask me why, but when this man whispered for me to go down this shadowy dead end to look at what would obviously be illegal merchandise, for some reason unknown to my right-thinking mind I did. He huddled behind a wall and opened up his case, saying, ‘Here, KGB uniform. Is good.’

  I knew this was playing with fire. Being in possession of a KGB artefact or uniform was considered a very serious crime.

  I knew all of this.

  However, it was a really very splendid uniform.

  Splendid.

  At first I assumed it was a fake and I told him so. He was having none of it.

  ‘No, really, this is KGB. My brother’s uniform. I got hat too.’

  ‘But how do I know it’s real?’

  ‘It was my brother’s. He was in KGB and then . . . he . . . er . . . left.’

  ‘Right. And how the hell am I supposed to get this thing back to my hotel room?’

  ‘You take off big coat, put on KGB uniform underneath, put big coat over top and put hat in bag – nobody know.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five dollar.’

  ‘Done.’

  I took off my Dallas coat, furtively changed into this long KGB greatcoat and, with my fingers struggling to grasp the buttons in the cold, put my own coat over the top. Looking like a blimp, I started to walk away, back towards the main road.

  ‘Mr Wakeman . . .’ It was the same guy, shuffling after me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You want to buy admiral’s jacket?’

  Great. I couldn’t resist.

  He opened up his case again.

  ‘It’s splendid, very nice. How do I know it’s real?’

  ‘Is really real, this is actual admiral jacket. It was my other brother. He was an admiral and then . . . er . . . he wasn’t.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot of family in the military, haven’t you?’

  ‘Er, yes, well, er, I did have.’

  ‘Right, and how do you suggest I get this back to the hotel as well?’

  ‘Is easy. You take off coat, put admiral’s jacket over KGB one of my other brother, then put your coat over top.’

  At least I wasn’t going to be cold.

  He took this admiral’s uniform out of his suitcase and it really was beautiful, resplendent with these magnificent shiny buttons and badges. Every bone in my body was telling me I was sailing a little too close to the wind, but it certainly was a splendid uniform.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Eight dollar.’

  ‘Done.’

  By the time I’d got changed again I made Pavarotti look like Twiggy. I could barely walk down the alleyway without turning sideways. I’m thinking, This is absolutely preposterous. I got back to the hotel and the guard on the door just laughed out loud when he saw me. I slipped him a dollar and he didn’t care any more. He just carried on chuckling as this six-foot-plus multilayered Russian doll with blond hair waddled across the foyer.

  Sweating and rather breathless, I got back to my room and peeled off all these layers, then laid the two uniforms neatly out on the bed, next to the dolls and T-shirts I’d also ended up buying. The uniforms were really very splendid. However, scary visions of decades of hard labour in a Siberian prison camp were giving me severe doubts about the wisdom of trying to smuggle these things out of the country. I felt lucky not to have got caught wearing them in the street and I was just anxious to get back home. So, despite the absolute logic of my sensible purchasing decision, it was with a heavy heart that I decided to leave the uniforms behind.

  At this point the phone rang. It was someone from the TV company; they still had our passports, which needed exit visas stamped in them. Bloody visas. Me and visas have never really got on very well, but I’ll tell you more about that later. As soon as I heard his voice, I thought to myself, Please don’t let there be a problem with the visas.

  ‘Mr Wakeman, I’m sorry but there is a problem with the visas.’

  Great.

  ‘But I have been assured that the visas will be ready for your Aeroflot flight home in the morning.’

  I put the phone down and started to head off for some food but, with my anxiety levels escalating, I turned back to my bed and carefully folded the uniforms up in my suitcase. Then, just in case a maid – or someone else – came into my room while I was away, I locked the case and hid it under the bed. Best to play safe.

  The next morning there was no sign of the passports at the hotel. I called the TV company and they assured me that the visas would be waiting for me at the airport. By now I was in a right state – all I wanted to do was go home, all I could think about was my passport, my exit visa and how I desperately did not want to miss my flight. I headed off to the airport with hours to spare. Back in those days, Russian airports were like some throwback to a railway station in the 1920s, and the ticket desks were just little wooden holes in the wall with pale undernourished faces behind them. Very few Russians flew so these decrepit buildings were often a hive of Westerners. I explained my situation and that I had been assured the passports plus visas would be waiting for us in time for our flight.

  No sign of the passports.

  Great.

  I sat down on this old wooden bench with the rest of the band while people made enquiries. There were no telephones, we didn’t know anyone and our flight-departure time was getting worryingly close. My mind w
as a whirl with what to do about these visas. We sat there for an eternity . . . but no news.

  Then our flight left.

  Without us on board.

  Just after we realised the plane had gone, a sternly dressed man in a dark suit walked over to me. Without introduction he said, ‘Mr Wakeman, can you come with me, please?’

  Of course, I complied and followed him into this tiny office. He was Head of Security at the airport. In the corner was a little cabinet with a very old kettle on it, next to a small table – not even as big as a desk – and his chair to one side. We could barely both fit in the room. It smelled musty and very 1950s. He introduced himself as Igor – I kid you not – with a second name I couldn’t understand but it did end in ‘kov’, and said, ‘Sit, please, sit. Mr Wakeman, you did not go when your plane left. Why is this?’

  I said that we didn’t have our passports or visas and explained at length all the problems we’d had. He said there was an unscheduled British Airways flight stopping at the airport that afternoon and he could arrange to get us on that. He took the phone number of the TV station that had our passports and said he would make some calls and get the visas sorted. Then he instructed me to buy these new plane tickets while I waited. I was sent to some Finnish airline with an even smaller office. Bizarrely, they accepted my AmEx card and gave me four scraps of paper that looked like old betting slips but were, apparently, plane tickets. When I looked at my credit card receipt . . . it was for $2,000! This was a small fortune back then, but by this stage I didn’t care.

  When I got back to Igor’s office he was on the phone to the TV company; he appeared to be quite irate with them and had explained that I was now $2,000 down because of their problems with the visas. The TV guy came on the phone, apologised profusely and said, ‘I have your passports and I have your visas. I come over now. I will bring $2,000 in an envelope for you to airport . . .’

  ‘No! You can’t do that – I’m supposed to leave the country with the same currency I came in with. That’s worth about a billion roubles . . . they’ll never let me out.’ By this point, I was waiting for novelist Len Deighton’s spy character Harry Palmer to walk through the door. Or Michael Caine, who played Palmer in the movies.