(The following spread is an excerpt from Diary Of A Rock Star. a documentary book by Mott the Hoople frontman tan Hunter. In his preface, Hunter explains: “It was written as it happened; on planes, buses, in cars, hotels, dressing ^ rooms - anywhere I could put pen to paper. It's riot meant to have literary merit, nor to be a journalists' delight. •( No\ it's more like a letter to a fan in the front row... a diary to keep in touch, It's meant as a buzz for thy people who dig us and wttl never be able to go to the places we travel. ”

? It was set down (hiring the last two months of 1972, when Mott were mak] mg a tour of the States to reinforce the '■ success of “All The Young Dudes. "At that time, they were beini produced by David Bowie and managed by the Bowie-Tony Defries Mainman organization. As to the names you Tl encounter in this excerpt, Mick is Mott guitarist Mick Ralphs; Pete is bassist Pete (Overend) Watts; Buff is drummer extraordinaire Buffin; and Phally is organist Verden Allen. David is Bowie and Tony is Defries. Since the book was written, both Ralphs and' Allen have have departed the Mott line-up, and any asscn ciation with Bowie,or Defies has been terminated

Rather than a view from the commercial peaks Mott the Hoople scaled in the past year, it's a document from a time when they were still scuffling; {clawing through the day-to-day disasters that had plagued the band for four turbulent yeah prior to their 1973 success. This condensed excerpt is not only an informative footnote to that ; success, but also offers an uncommonly f v;; straightforward glimpse of the no man s land halfway up the gladder that album jackets and sales charts seldom acknowt_ edge. - Hd)

Wed., Nov. 29, 1972

Here we are, Wednesday afternoon in Philadelphia on a grey and overcast English morning. Lee comes around and Stan is doing his usual panic bit. Nobody really is in the mood and his arm waving and shouting are subdued somewhat by several slamming doors. and early morning cries of “fuck off.” We sign a form for a radio station who I. want to record tonight’sconcert and . put it out next Monday. Me and Tru [Ian's wife Trudy - ed.J cross Walcott Street and wind up walking down Chestnut Street — me oh my never ehding quest for pawn shops, and Trudy putting up with my mania sensibly. Nothing doing. Not a hock shop in sight and we get down to Market and 11th Street and read a sign that says, “On this spot Thomas Jefferson drew up the •draff.for die American Declaration of Independence” — it’s a parking lot now. Cute how they destroy what tradition they have. '

Walking back up Chestnut Street we hind a place called the Record Museum. My God, I knOw a few people who would go mad in this place. You name it and they haw it - all on original labels and all costing 65 cents. Mot bad when you consider a new record costs 10 and something in England.

The catalogue is unbelievable. You name ‘it and they’ve got it — from way back. Alt I can say is Thought 31 singles and God knows how many Mick and Pete will havei i know Mick wants the whole of Rick Nelson and the Buffalo Springfield line-up, and that’s about ,25 before he starts looking through "everything else. Pete will go mad — he always does.

Pm still frantically underlining masterpieces in the catalogue at the hotel, when Stan starts hassling for the sound check h a necessary evi when you are short of time.

We whiskthrough the evening rush to up aroundx65 ih Street and there we are. Top of the bill in America Tor the first time! There are just over 2,000 in a 2,500 seater and that’s pretty good, considering the gig was just put in last Friday only five days ago! Things start moving faster. Pete; and Robin, Bowie’s sound men, turn up shattered from an all-day dash^but immediately throw in their lot for tonight’s show. Mow they don’t get paid by us - they just do it because they want Mainman to be a family. They are inspiring, and what can you say about two blokes like

■they’ve got a night off and they t their balls off with us instead.^ The sound check is great. The place is like your average ABC and eyejrything’s working but the organ, eventually farts into life and passes Phally’s hypercritical try-out.

Back to the hotel. Tony’s la now with hfis lady, Melanie, and Sue Bowie’s hairdresser) shouts heBo. She’s with two other blokes in David’s entourage David and Stuey (his bodyguard) and George (photos) are on their way from Pittsburgh in a yellow cab as something went wrong with his car. He*s running he wants to introduce us.

The amphetamine builds m Jj ready, and meet the lads in the huge sombre foyer. Into the limos and up to the gig. Security police pull back barriers (big time - great feeling) and straight in the back door. The dressing rooms are O.K. — the bare essentials -mirrors, chairs, a bog and a couple, of aluminum dustbins full of ice, beert, cola tod wine; a system: which En^h promoters never quite adopted. I’wonder why.

Brownsville Station, the support band, are already plating tod they’re cashing in a bit on the current glam fag rage. It’s a bit upsetting to watch guys who you’ve played with before (we were in Chicago and New Orleans with them), who were hard driving and straight, turn poovy. Perhaps the -manager’s been working hard on them — it’s time they were getting the gigs now. Good luck to them.

It seems all these acts have never seen David perform. David is David; when he goes on stage he is a complete natural, and his act is totally valid - he doesn’t cloak. He’s the only pretend, but dons ad one whoTl_corne through because he is talent i himself and the talent is there. To see ordinary performers trying to imitate the extraordinary is the original sellout. Cheap, tasteless and temporary; I hate the lack of intelligence tod wild general-' Ization In bands like these. They tend to L clog the media, making it appreciably harder for • the real artist to achieve recognition.

Back in the dressing room. Tony’s happy; the ever-present cigar rin hand. Two young guys are complainirig about the lack of outlets for Philadelphia rock bands — I sympathize as I always have. Geography’s got a lot to do with the make or break of a group. Brownsville are off and chants are dimly heard from the dressing room. David, Stu and George appear just in time. Embraces all round — We /'haven’tseen eachother for 3 months land David looks tired but great. Looks like hevs not been eating again: he’s the only star I know who regularly suffers from malnutrition. The charming, disarming urchin from Brix\ ton who never misses a move or a point. Innocence, cruelty, the nearness ye! the H distance, all the qualities of the star he |||§§ only he knows what he pays for , this coveted title,,,.but I’ve caught x * glimpses of the sadness.

Anyway, it’s great to be together ■ again and out he goes to a thunderous welcome. He comes off shaking like a ||| leaf, and we go on to the final deafening crash of the tape. He’s watchirtg and sussing all the way through. It will be | him tomorrow night.

Mick does a blinding solo in “Ready I x for Loveland all doubt disappears after IgS “Angelina” - it’s the feeling “we’ve got • ’em.” Off we come; beers go down.in 30 ||\ seconds and then the wait for the right time. We hurriedly converse and decide to do “Dudes” and then “Honky Tonk Women.” The chaos*rises higher as Mott becomes six — David throwing out the harmonies with Mick and Pete. “Dudes” finishes, we acknowledge the guy-who wrote our half-million seller, and then we finish on our own. A great gig — not a thing to moan about. That’s two in a v | row — I can’t believe it!

Back to the hotel now and David, although knackered from his trip, troops downjto the local all-night ham burger cafe with our lot. Tony pilts Al Jolson on the jukebox:. We talk of the tours — the eternal problem of Ziggy being Ziggy and Mott being Mott. There’s always media confusion which has to be handled delicately. I tell him of the groups we’ve seen, and he enthusiastically ^speaks of the New York Dojis — loves their attitude -and he’s even more convinced about Iggy. Recording too, is discussed; the relative merits of various studios etc. Anybody thinking musicians work an hour a day are mugs. I’ve worked 16 hours a day for Mott since the band’s .creation; so have Mick, Pete, Buff and Phally. Mott has been our lives; our love life centres around it, inconveniences and long separations are demandedN by it. 100% cooperation is ^required at all times. Attitude is a big word, if you really want to make it. In a group you’re a diplomat, nurse, confidant, taxi driver, labourer, electrician, tailpr, designer, and J few other things I can’t mention, before you even get on Stage.

1 may look flashy, but it’s over and you’re finished before you know it — if you aren’t already broken by one thing it will be another. They come and they go is the old saying, and you see it. Eyes. Record company’s eyes,1 promoter’s eyes, agent’s eyes, media’s eyes — they’re all watching for that slightest' slip — which will get around like wildfire. If this sounds like self-pity, it’s not meant to — you have to be realistic, and -the rock business is a dirty business full stop.

Sat,* Dec. 2,1972

The Providence (R.I.) Palace plays a small but memorable part in Mott’s history. It was here on a previous tour we did a walk-off after IQ minutes. We’# not had the all-important sound check that day and hadn’t even heen billed outside the theatre. When we got . on the sound was awful and instead of getting better, it got worse as the guy in the sound box got more and more stoned. In short, I’d thrown my guitar across the stage and stormed out.. This had produced chaos; we refused to go back on and no kidding, our treatment had been so bad that the promotor had paid up in full. So here we are again, and it promises to be another bummer. Putting us on the same bill with John McLaughlin isn’t a gfeat idea. On the one side Rock & Roll and on the other rangeless sounds and never-ending twochord jams from brilliant but misguided musicians.

There were about 2700 people in the 3200 seater and we went on first about 8:30 to good applause. Now the sound wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either, slightly blurred at the front but clearing as it got to the back of the hall and was pretty good on the balconies. All went well until just after “Ready for Love,” when I started to hear spasmodic cries of “play music” and “fuck off.” It came from only a few people to the right of us and I could dimly see them waving their arms about. This lot were definitely not here to see us.

TURN TO PAGE 74.

MOTT DIARY

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 37.

I made a brief statement to the effect that they were stupid, narrow-minded bastards and we launched into “Sweet Jane.” This went down well too, but I had to silence the hecklers again while Dick tried in vain to get a good grand piano sound. He didn’t, and the audi-. ence had to put up with a very loud vocal and a very quiet piano throughout “Seadiver.” Applause again and onto “Angeline.” We must have beeri 2/3 of the way through when the music suddenly stopped. I was at the front without guitar, singing witji a hand mike. What was happening?

Buff was off his drums, white faced, and Pete was swearing through his mike. Phal looked bewildered and Mick shduted something about a bottle hitting his guitar. I jumped off the stage — Buff was right behind me, and Ritchie leapt from the side. Instinct lead me to pointing fingers and a guy ran from his seat hurriedly collecting his coat. I screamed at him “Who was it?,” and he pointed the guy out before running for cover. The bloke sat back in his seat. Search spots swooped over the nowstanding crowd and he looked squarely at me as I swore at him. I knew it was him, so I let him have it — right between the eyes. The crowd erupted and Mick started the beat agin. 1 ran back over1 the rail into the orchestra pit, flash bulbs popping all the way, and climbed back onto the stage... rip... my trousers split — oh no, not now — quick, I squatted on my haunches and sang the last verse in that position pointing to the area of the incident. We finished and the whole cfowd were up — what an ovation! The police want Mick to press charges but he won’t, so they take the guy outside for a once-over. And fucking right' too. Had the bottle been a couple of feet higher, it would have hit Mick’s face.

Thur., Dec.7,1972

We got to the gig in St. Louis last night and it was absolute bedlam. As was expected, Dick Heckstall-Smith opened, and then backstage it was a deadlock. Bloodrock were refusing to go on before or after us. Fleetwood Mac didn’t want to end the show but Bloodrock wouldn’t either. The arsehole promoters hadn’t got a bloody clue, they just hopelessly stood there. Why do these silly sods promote? They’d given Bloodrock 2nd on the bill contract, and us an identical one. Bloodrock would not budge an inch and neither would we; finally we gave in at the time we’d originally planned to do and went on. The poor kids had waited so long because the promoter’s totally ignorant, or extremely snidy and just let the incident occur.

What with no sound check and all the hassles backstage, we were going on pretty miserable. If ever a gig should have beeri pulled out, it was this one. Tony just wasn’t sure of the procedure on dpwn-the-bill acts and let it happen. We went on even though we shouldn’t have. The sound, although good out front (as we found out afterwards) was terrible onstage. We slowly dissolved in front of a curious crowd. Two spots comprised the complete lighting system, Bloodrock not even allowing one of their lights to be used. And the spots careened crazily around the stage missing most of the points in the music. We bravely carried on, me waggling my arse in a none-too-hopeful attempt to attract a few females. What an act. I felt like a prostitute — it was nothing to do with music. It was a profesiional con, forced on us by circumstances, and we hated every second of it.

A good ovation but stamping died all too quickly for reappearance, and we trooped angrily back to the dressing room. The atmosphere was electric. We can’t stand bummers, especially those not our fault. Briefly, we’d sold out on the gig and it left a horrible taste in our mouths. We all knew now it should have been a walk out. We had every right in doing it, but it’s too late now; we played.

We try to discuss it seriously and Bob C., a light man who’s watching us arid getting ready to light the 5 or 6 other, headliners we have to do, gives us the benefit of his considerable experiences; Big Bob reckons on him going out early with Ritchie the next day to Springfield and checking out the lay of the land. If it’s at all dodgy Tony will cancel it altogether. By now Bloodrock have actually gone on and we have a quick look at them before leaving.

I turned, and at the side of the stage the little assistant guy was talking to a couple of the at least 50 chicks who were hanging around. As a parting gesture, as I passed him I whispered “That’s what happens when you treat your groups like shit.” I walked onto the ramp, happened to turn and saw him waving his fists egged on by the girls, who’ll agree with anything and anybody. I walked back and calmly shouted, “The people you work for are a bunch of utter cunts” into his face.

“What?” came a yell. And five guys, one who I knew as a promoter, ran over. “What are vou talking about?”

‘‘You’re useless; you shouldn’t be allowed tp run gigs.”

“You jackass, get out of here. Go on, get out you jackass, you jumped-up cunt. Your group sucks. Get out before I put a hole in yuh.”

“Bollocks, you load of idiots — you fuckin’ idiots.”

The little one came fist held back and I squared onto him. He held back and the promoter came up near — really near. He threatened and I just stood there facing them. The blood had gone from my face and my lips were quivering. Tony pulled them away as calm as eVer and they waved their fists and yelled.

We walked down to the lower level. My lips were jerking and I was in that cold rage you get when nothing could hurt you. Tony just took me out and we got in the car without exchanging a word. I don’t know what he must have thought; I knew what I thought though. I knew I had been what the guy said I’d been. A jackass. I knew the group had been bad, but what I also knew was this pathetic apology for a promotion by complete idiots made us like that. The band had missed the whole episode, Tony and I being the last out of the Convention Hall and now they all ached to go back since they were put in the picture.

The streets were silent as we travelled back to the hotel. How was I going to get rid of the rage? As Pete and I laid on our beds, we talked of the suspicious circumstances of Wishbone Ashe’s disappearing equipment from the same town, putting them into debt again on new gear and breaking off their tour halfway through. The mirror in the room broke at the top from my badly aimed ashtray. Pete expertly finished the job off with a tumbler.

Sat., Dec.9,1972

New York. Angela Bowie rings up arranging a tentative party with Bowie, the Spiders and ourselves after David finishes recording but it’s not certain, just a maybe, David rings Mick too, to find out how Roxy Music went. He never misses keeping up the tabs on the competition. Tony’s out Christmas shopping with Melanie and it’s been decided that Stuart and Zee, David’s heavy men, will now accompany us on the remainder ot the tour, owing to tne St-Louis incident.

Penny Valentine showed her ignorance when confusing the reasons for David having Zee and Stu on his tour. They are not supposed to protect him from over-zealous fans, they’re just there to keep you from maniacs who haunt British musicians every tirite you visit the States. Today I took a walk to the Sam Ash Music Store and on the way a guy asked me if I’d like to jam in the Village. I politely (and I mean politely) declined. He then changed from a groovy guy to a complete bastard. “You ginger-headed cunt, who do you think you are. A big-headed English bastard musician. You’re all cunts!” Acid freaks stare at you and you don’t know what is going through their minds. All sorts of scenes I can’t handle. I’m not a heavy, I just sing. I just want to stay nice and sane. I don’t need all this. God knows what old Rod, Elton or Jeff go through. Perhaps we’re alright where we are; forever on the way up. ^