A Non-Story about Mott the Hoople

It was kind of a routine. A group would come into town to play the Fillmore, and their manager, or the record label or somebody would call Rolling Stone to see if they couldn’t interest somebody in a story. And so, last year, somebody called on Mott the Hoople. “Anybody wanna do Mott the Hoople?” Sure, sez I, I’ll do it. J

So it happens that Steven is hanging around. Steven, and his lady Julie, live up the hill. He was a fledgling photographer, and at the time, he’d hang out at Rolling Stone now and again on the off chance he’d get a job photographing something. He also has a car, and they used to drive me to work in the mornings.

The Continental Lodge is one of the San Francisco rock and roll motels. One way you can describe it is to say that it ‘isn’t as scuzzy as a lot of motels. Not as nice, either. A lot of British groups stay there. Mott the Hoople was staying there, and that’s where Steven and I found them.

i Q: Where’d you guys get your name?

Ian Hunter (piano, vocals): From a book by an American author named, Willard Manus, who lives in Greece. It’s . a story about a character who went through America just being himself. He’d go through the South being a chaffeur for a black guy and polish this guys’ shoes. He wasn’t trying to provoke a reaction or anything, that was just the way he was. His name was Norman Mott, but he’d think of himself in terms like Mott the Invincible, or Mott the Genius, and this name, Mott the Hoople, keeps recurring throughout the book.

Q: What’s a hoople?

Ian: I don’t know. It’s an Americanism.

Mick Ralphs (Guitar, vocals): It means country buippkin or something like that, doesn’t it?

Q: I dunno. How about that — an Americanism none of us Americans ever heard of. (Laughter).

Ian: U-S. groupies scare us..

Buffin (Drums): Aw, they’re harmless.

Verden Allen (Organ): I don’t think so!

Ian: No, I’ve met a couple of nice chicks over here, but not at gigs or anything.

Voice: Aw, roobish!

Q: Interested in coming back to the States? What do you think you’ve missed this time around?

All: Money!

Q: But what about all our great cultural and scenic attractions?

Ian: We just don’t see ’em.

And they don’t, you know. What they see is hamburgers at midnight and color television,and the phony c a ble-car-Fisherman’s-Wharf-Coit-T o wer scenes on the grass mat wallpaper in the Continental Lodge on Van Ness.

All of which pissed Steven off. Understand, now, that there is nothing in the world like a native-born San Franciscan. The thought that these fine people were going to be here for five days AND NOT EVEN SEE ANYTHING was blasphemous. While I tried to get some more interview, Steven huddled with Stan, Mott’s road manager.

The tape showed that the interview wasn’t enough Tor the story. I figured I had two options — either forget it, or go back to the Fillmore on Sunday night to get some more. I would like to see them, but battling the Fillmore crowds I was not up for.

Then Julie called, on Monday, after it was too late.

“Steven’s been driving all over Marin County with that rock band you went to see Friday, and they’re all coming over to our place for dinner.” I grinned. They’d told him they had a day off, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

Road inertia, however, is hard to overcome. It wasn’t the whole band, just Ian, Mick, and Verden, who prefers to be called Fally. That — in case you were wondering — is because he's Welsh. Yeah, don’t ask. Anyway, they’d been clambering all over Mount Tamalpais, digging on the lizards (“Look, it’s an ’oople!”), squirrels (“Say, man, what’s a raccoon look like? . . . Well, it’s not one of those, and it’s not a mouse . , . ”), the air, and the rest (there’s not many people on the mountain on a weekday). Julie had made fried chicken and baked beans. Everybody had chipped in a little spiritual refreshment. We had a party.

“One thing, man, the food on the road sure gives you the toots.”

“The toots?” '£

“Yeah, gas and like that,”

“Omigod. Wait’ll the beans hit you.”

Steven broke out the guitars, Mick demonstrated how to roll. a European hash , joint tit takes about five papers, a little cardboard mouthpiece, some tobacco, and a watchmakers skill), and Fally drank Red Mountain Rhine Wine ($1.69 a gallon).

“Whoosh. This stoof fairly knocks yer teeth out, it does.” He takes another hit, more and more Welsh creeping into his voice.

Kind, of sheepishly, Ian said that it’s the first rest they’d had on the whole tour. But you could tell how much they appreciated it. Mick and Steven are doing guitar fulminations* Fally is far away, Ian is smiling a laid-back smile. Me, I had to get up early the next morning. I said the good-byes, and going down the driveway, Mick arid Steven hit on “Wooden Ships.” Harmony is added, a tambourine . . .

Julie got an address. Ian wrpte a long letter. Mad Shadows came out', with the incredible “Thunderbuck Ram.” The mail strike happened, and we lost contact. Everybody meant to write. From time to time, we wondered if they’d do another tour. We’d hear this and that about it, but nothing solid. I got a letter from the guy at Island saying the next album would be live. Julie and I left Rolling Stone. Steven got out pf photography, but he proved to be a superlative recording engineer, and started doing that instead. I started to write a review of Wildlife for CREEM, but never finished it. Bill Graham announced the imminent demise of the Fillmores. •

The phone rang. “Listen you’11 never guess. Mott’si playing the Fillmore this weekend, oh I’m so excited and Steven’s found out that they’re at the Continental Lodge and Stan didn’t get married and” well, it looked like I knew what I’d be doing tonight.

And they remembered us. Not only that, but they were glad to see us, and were looking forward to rest and recreation in Sausalito on Monday, which once again was the day off. This time, I resolved to go see them at the Fillmore.

Ian wasn’t in the motel room five seconds before he hauled out a guitar case. “You gotta see this,” he said, and out came the baddest electric guitar I’ve ever seen, obviously a, custom job, which he’d picked up in a pawn shop. The base of it was in the shape of the Iron Cross, and it was white. It weighed a ton, and the action left much to be desired, but still, it was tuff. I remembered that they were sharing the bill with Freddie and Albert "King. “Man, wait’ll Albert gets a look at that.”

“How much you pay for that?” asked Albert King, when he’d had a look at it. Ian told him. “How much you want for it?” Ian told him. Not for sale. On st^ge, Freddie King was finishing, up “Hideaway.” Mott members strolled the backstage dressing room, chatting up groupies, waiting to go' on.

It was no trouble finding a place to sit — there was nobody there on a Thursday evening. Ian spent most of his time trying to get the audience to dance. They wouldn’t, of course. Still, the band was good. Not as good as if they’d had a responsive audience, but still, the bizarre stage act looked great. Quiet, shy Buffin transformed into a maniacal drummer. Ian and Mi.ck guitar-dueling. Pete “Overend” Watts playing bass with his hair obscuring his face. All of them with outrageous,stage 'clothing. “Punish an audience — they love it,” says Ian, and, in fact, his insults finally got 3/4 of the audience on its feet on Saturday night, but I didn’t see it. But what an effort to try and explain to him why those kids don’t dance. Especially because ndw Mott the Hoople is the fifth biggest band in England (but even so, they wilLonly play wlhen the door is $2.00 or under), and over here,'nobody’s ever heard of them.

And Monday night, there was a party at Steven and Julie’s. This time, Ian, Mick, Pete, Stan, and assorted roadies and girlfriends showed up and it was a bigger affair (catered by the. Colonel), but somehow it was better, although we missed Buffin and Fally. Stan assured us that Buffin never ventures out of his motel room, ever.

Once ' again there were guitars — Steven’s new 12-string among them. I even got to jam slide guitar with Ian. I don’t know how good.it was, but it was the best I’d ever done. Stan started reminiscing, about an old British rock band called Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, and I wound up giving him an album I’d gotten a few weeks back by them. -Everybody left content, on to Albuquerque and Indian reservations. Thence eventually to Detroit. “We like Detroit,” says Ian. “They dance when we play there.”

And you know, they’ll be back, I’ll get that story yet.