Freddy, someone's beaten up Roger Daltrey
BRISTOL has always been a great city with an atmosphere all its own, partly, I suppose, because it is a port and partly because of the merchants the port attracted, but whatever the reason, there is no doubt that it produced people with great character. It is also Britain's sixth largest city and in 1963, apart from regular seated pop shows in the Colston Hall, there was surprisingly little going on. Searching for a suitable venue we came across the Corn Exchange.
'You won't get that for pop, ' one of the local promoters said. 'We've all tried and always been turned down.'
Strangely enough we were accepted.
Even stranger was the fact that the only other weekly event held there was the 'Chinese' Jazz Club run by 'Uncle' Bonnie Manzi, an eccentric but very capable promoter from Brighton.
The Corn Exchange was situated in the centre of Bristol just a couple of hundred or so yards from the Colston Hall, and drew a rather different crowd from Bath. They always seemed just a little more sophisticated and rather more fashion conscious, although I was somewhat taken aback when I asked one of our stewards where his girlfriend was one evening and he replied 'Out with Cary Grant'.
My immediate reaction was to think it was his way of telling me to mind my own business. But, no, it was true. It seemed that Cary Grant's mother lived in the city and whenever he visited her he had a standing date for dinner with this young lady. Another of our stewards called Steve, not his real name of course, was an Adonis, tall, good-looking with a bodybuilder's physique, combined with a pleasing personality. The girls loved him and he was a great hit with our female artists, especially Marianne Faithfull, who, I think, given the opportunity, would have had him gift-wrapped and delivered to her hotel.
If ever we had a situation that called for tact, Steve was the one I would send, so you can imagine my horror when one evening in the middle of the main foyer, he started beating up his girlfriend. He was quickly stopped by a couple of our other stewards, who when I asked them what the hell was going on, explained that it was probably just the pressure he was under as he was joining the police force the next day - obviously highly qualified, I thought.
Normally our stewards were excellent - conscientious, loyal, tactful and tough when required. Nevertheless there were occasions when one or two of them could misjudge a situation. On one memorable evening I was in the foyer chatting when Brian (Brian K Jones, stage manager and Western Daily Press columnist) came hurrying up and told me that Colin, our largest steward, had just hit one of The Who. My immediate reaction was 'Oh my God'. Hurrying backstage I found Roger Daltrey lying on the floor clutching his stomach and moaning pathetically. Looking up at me, he said dramatically: 'He hit me, Fred.'
Well, that much was obvious. 'What happened?' I asked a still rather belligerent Colin. 'He tried to bring a girl backstage, ' he replied. He explained that following my long-standing instructions he had told Roger that because of the very limited space, he couldn't bring anyone backstage until after the show.
Roger had continued to insist and things got a little out of hand. 'I didn't hit him hard, ' Colin added in justification. That was also obvious, because if he had Roger would have been on his way to hospital. Looking down at Roger I noticed he was by now neither groaning or holding his stomach.
'Come on, ' I said, 'Get up, you're going to be late going on, ' and with that he got to his feet and left.
Roger was a great guy and never said another word about it, at least to me.
The Who, in fact, were one of my favourite bands, both musically and as individuals and I got on with them very well, especially Roger, who like me, was a car nut.We were always discussing the relative merits of my E-Type Jaguar and the Chevrolet Stingray he owned.
Live they were terrific, generating so much drive and excitement, thanks in no small part to their maniacal drummer Keith Moon. I must have worked with them more than 40 times and I cannot remember them ever giving a bad performance.
Eventually, of course, they became one of the world's biggest groups.
However, I always felt it was when they first burst on the scene during the mid-Sixties that they were at their most electrifying and anarchistic best.
We played a lot of groups at the Corn Exchange over five years, including the first UK date of Them, the Irish group in which Van Morrison came to prominence. Even at this stage in his career he showed signs of his neurotic personality, asking endless questions about the size and behaviour of the audience.
Other legendary artists who played there included Gene Vincent, the Rolling Stones and the Byrds, as well as my particular favourite, Bo Diddley.
We always seemed to draw big crowds and in fact at one point the dances became so popular that we were actually turning people away. Now, no self-respecting promoter likes to do this and even to this day I start to get the shakes even thinking about it.
The day I bribed Hell's Angels to save the show
IN 1970, promoter Freddy Bannister hired the Bath and West Showground at Shepton Mallet and books a staggering array of talent. Led Zeppelin headline a two-day event featuring Jefferson Airplane, Frank Zappa, Santana, The Byrds, Moody Blues, Canned Heat, John Mayall, Pink Floyd, Johnny Winter . . . and many more. More than 150,000 people turn up.
The roads around the Somerset town are grid-locked, bands can't get to the ground. Corruption and chaos rule. And then there are the Hell's Angels, who came close to turning the event into a disaster. IT happened that Fairport Convention were late arriving because of traffic and, eyeing the bikers on the road, scrounged lifts straight to the stage. It just seemed natural then to invite the scruffs in for ringside seats in the press enclosure.
While the Fairport jig band zapped through their fast electric bluegrass and amplified polkas, the Angels did their Aztec two-step, staged mock fights and French kissed for anyone with a camera. Had I known all this at the time, I don't think I would have used Fairport ever again. The Hell's Angels were an absolute pain and a problem that I could have done without. Although they were nothing like as tough as their American counterparts, their presence was inflammatory and as the day wore on they became more outrageous.
For a start, they stopped John Peel from reaching the stage. If he had only walked the short distance over to my office and told me, I would have got him on, even if it meant using a tank. I knew little about these events until Brian (Brian Jones, the stage manager) sent me a message outlining the situation. He didn't make it sound too serious, just an irritant, so I sent a message back telling him to offer the Hell's Angels some money to leave.
They obviously declined his offer, as some time later Brian came over to the office and explained that things were getting a little out of hand, and the Angels were starting to attack members of the audience. I have never been a hero, in fact yellow is my favourite colour and I have a streak of it a mile wide running down my back. But a man has to do what a man has to do and it was with some trepidation that I made my way backstage.
In later years I wouldn't have dreamed of such a confrontation without taking with me a small army of heavies, but this time I went alone. I was relieved after all their bluster when the Angels turned out to be more West Country than West Coast. It seemed they really didn't want to become involved in a pitched battle. Especially after I explained that my stewards outnumbered them by at least ten to one and I was prepared if necessary to use rather a lot of force to remove them.
To soften the threat and as an added inducement, I increased the amount of money Brian had previously offered - and I was enormously relieved when they accepted my terms and agreed to go. At last it was over. Although by now I was totally shattered, I decided I really had to tour the showground before grabbing some much-needed sleep. It was a pretty depressing sight that greeted me; litter everywhere, missing and damaged fences including most of the jumps used in the equestrian centre.
Worst of all, about 500 small tents had been stolen or vandalised.
Inwardly wincing and mentally adding up the cost ofthe damage, I continued my inspection of what I was now referring to as the disaster area . . .
AT this point I really started to feel worried that the festival was going to show a fairly heavy loss. So I was really relieved when I heard that the Bath and West Society were prepared to let Mike and our team repair the damage rather than insisting on bringing in specialist firms who would have charged considerably more.
However, my relief was short lived, when I suddenly remembered the missing tents. Panicstricken, I rang our brokers to be told that they were covered under a different policy - thank God! Late on Tuesday, after leaving a colleague to finish restoring the showground, we left the site, never to return.
Whereas the 1969 event had been easy and unexpectedly profitable, the 1970 festival had been a real ordeal. We made less than a quarter of the previous year's event, about £5,000, not the half a million pounds quoted in the papers.
