BAD COMPANY: A Bunch of Sissies?

The things we rock writers come up with! For my sins I recall to this day a ridiculously pompous conversation that took place between yours truly and one American scribe — now a fully paid-up member of the Rolling Stone editorial higher echelon but at thatpoint a budding punk terrible working out of Detroit — where we came to the conclusion that the only valid dialectic situation left to the rock star-rock critic was to get into highly elaborate fist fights.

Whether this concept was inspired by the much-publicised fisticuffs between Bob Dylan and venerable rock eccentric A. J. Weberman or whether it was just a kind of dumb cool thing to think up at the time doesn't really matter. Nor does the fact that both of us were yer archetypal ninety-pound weaklings.

Surprisingly enough, I've never really found myself in.a situation where I've been forced to declare arms against some irate musician following a less than complimentary review. The nearest, in fact, I ever came to an outright confrontation of any sort was at an L.A. club where a drunk and offensive John Bonham (Led Zep drummer to the uninitiated) poured a jug of cream and a couple of brandies over my coat, this being presumably his idea of a good "wheeze."

I in turn found the escapade to be thoroughly unpleasant — any retaliation on my part was scarcely the order of the day seeing that Mr. Bonham is built like the proverbial shithouse door and was constantly flanked by two even more muscular than he.

All in all though, the incident did leave a rather sour complexion on my comrade's idea of the fist-fight as viable rock dialectic, at least in my view, and I quickly forgot about the whole thing.

Until, that is, the assignment. Pretty routine stuff on the surface, it was. Fly out to the isle of Jersey off Britain, land of the aging gout-booted British tax exile thirsting for some vague replica of the Olde Country wherein to while away his retirement savings, and interview Swan Song Artistes Bad Company, themselves tax exiles but in this daunting position through their mercurial ascendancy onto the pedestal of top-flick rock superstars.

All very straightforward, but then again, Bad Company do have this reputation for belligerent boozedout boisterousness. Legend has it that even my oppressor M. Bonham was so shocked by their behavior at one Atlantic Records function that

Hunter was desperate to be Bob Dylan. Mott was a bizarre group.

he took it upon himself as co-chairman of Swan Song to chastise them for their hedonistic philanderings. (Now that little episode I would like to

have witnessed.)

And then again, how can I forget the touching scenario played out by Paul Rodgers, Bad Co's leading protagonist, just one year ago. The Faces" Christmas Party it was — a civilised enough occasion, and there I was waiting to savour the shepherd's pie and mixed veg. laid out on this large table when who but Mr. Rodgers should appear, muttering dark curses at everyone in his boozed-tinted view. He promptly laid waste the entire table tossing food-stuffs here and there with nary a thought for present company. Quite put me off my appetite, it did.

More to the point, further reports lead one to believe that Bad Co."s corporate ascendancy had worsened the Rodgers temperament considerably. A prominent Swan Song musician/cochairman who had freewheeled it over to the States to see his company's band slaying "em on the East Coast last year, mentioned to me a few months ago that the lead vocalist's unwillingness to swamp his ego with those of his three cohorts and become more flexible musically could cause great dissent within the Bad Co. ranks.

And finally there was a Rolling Stone (what else?) piece which vividly documerited the band on tour, immersed in a never-ending morose bacchanalia with Rodgers particularly obstreperous.

As it happens, almost all my colleagues in the business have their own P. Rodgers anecdote. One party voted him the single most unpleasant man in rock, while Charles Shaar Murray recalls the time he witnessed our hero almost set about a Hungarian waitress for asking him to take his feet off a chair in the hotel restaurant, lead one to believe that Bad Co."s corporate ascendancy had worsened the Rodgers temperament considerably. A prominent Swan Song musician/cochairman who had freewheeled it over to the States to see his company's band slaying "em on the East Coast last year mentioned to me a few months ago that the lead vocalist's unwillingness to swamp his ego with those of his three cohorts and become more flexible musically could cause great dissent within the Bad Co. Ranks.

And finally there was a Rolling Stone (what else?) piece which vividly documented the band on tour, immersed in a never-ending morose bacchanalia with Rogers particularly riotous'.

Ruminating over what I'd gleaned from reports on the Bad Co. temperament in regard to this Jersey venture, I envisioned at least some quotient of "aggro" emanating in my direction — principally from Rodgers, who might not like the cut of my clothes, shape of my legs etc. and would probably bottle me if I asked a question not to his liking.

Well, to remove any suspense which could be drawn from the writing of a piece on Bad Company, nothing like that happened at all. Photographer Pennie Smith and I arrived at the hotel to be greeted by two plates of slightly Stale sandwiches and a nice-guy Welsh roadie who agreeably set about farming out members of the band for the interview. The inevitable naturally occurred — I was faced with all four members at once for most of the actual interview, a gnarlingsituation which totally denied the possibility of a more intimate one-to-one heart-toheart patter which might reveal something interesting.

Instead the band palled it up and joked around, cooing forth platitudes about the new direction their music was taking and how their new album Run With the Pack was by far their most advanced and satisfying recording.

Facing the band in toto so to speak, you really can't help but be struck by the visual incongruities of the members. Drummer Simon Kirke, a genuinely entertaining and likable raconteur of "witty stories," must possess the most oppressively bulging biceps in all rock history, both muscle-packed arms just crying out for a plethora of tattoos with motifs like an anchor just above the elbow and "Mother" scrawled just below.

Kirke's whole persona reminded me of Robert Plant's "likely lad" style; their slightly North of the Border accents are almost identical, in fact. In total contrast, guitarist Mick Ralphs seems to have the physique of a postil adolescent teenager even though he

bows to holding down an age politely known as late 20's. For the years spent paying all those proverbial dues in Mott the Hoople, he still possesses the incredibly healthy wide-eyed pallor of a kid making his debut with a band at the local youth club.

Seated next to him, bass player Boz Burrell presents even further visual incongruities. Decked out in full cowpoke regalia — the frayed denim shirt, unostentatious boots and lean black stetson, his "jazzer's" beard makes him resemble the unlikely outcome of Acker Bilk signing on with the Eagles.

And finally there's Paul Rodgers, short and stocky, moving from his seat to the bar like a Jersey bullock swathed in a sheepskin-lined suedette bumfreezer which made his contours look all the more bizarre. His face looked remarkably haggard and a presumed lack of vitamins and hot sun made his hair look unheajthy and matted,

"It's ridiculous when people murmur that we're in Bad Co. for the money. But that Crimson gig — that was a pure paycheck thing."

as if he'd just donned a rather shaggy doormat in lieu of a crown topper. I do recall stepping back a few paces in agitated reverence as he stomped into the proceedings.

So what do we talk about, boys?

After a few obvious ice-breaking questions, I decided to divine the band's opinion of the Rolling Stone piece referred to earlier.

"Well you're a journalist, what did you think about it?" Kirke retorts amiably enough.

So 1 mention that — well, reading between the lines it appeared the writer felt a touch disoriented by the surroundings, didn't seem to be enjoying

himself too much and consequently wrote the article from a rather jaundiced aspect.

"The thing is" — Rodgers has just sat down — "he didn't once mention anything about the music. There was nothing said about the music."

Ah yes, the music. I mean, it's more than fair that Rodgers should bring up the whole "music is the message" schtick — after all, that is his and Bad Co."s only real claim to fame — they're musicians, not philosophers or crusading emissaries for some worthy cause. It's just that talking and writing about music, particularly of the groinal variety, is such a prime pain in the ass, ringing forth all the same old

platitudes and cliches.

As it is, Bad Company have had their talents farmed into the computercritique from the first note they ever played. The definition always tends to read, "Good hard-rock band... sturdy but unambitious," with special mention of Rodgers" very impressive vocal style and a possible merit star for Kirke's excellent trashing abilities.

The definition wasn't embellished further by the release of Straight Shooter, the second album, and one wonders if the adjectival "unambitious" won't be underlined a little heavier with Run With the Pack.

After the interview formalities have been dispensed with, Burrell and Ralphs play me a cassette tape of the Olympia gig showcasing at least five new songs which in turn showcase the patented formulas that have kept the band buoyant through two albums worth of toons thus far.

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The first formula is Ralphs" personal adaptation of the Keith Richard-Chuck Berry block chord rocker, only this time the full-blooded thrust of "Can't Get Enough" through to the excellent "Good Lovin" Gone Bad" is made manifest in "Sweet Little Sister." Obvious chord changes, obvious rockswagger rhyming lyrics — "Sweet Little Sister/You know you can't resist her/ She's got it made in the shade," borrowing not a little from the Stones" phrasebook but that doesn't mean it doesn't rock like a bitch.

It's just that one can only go so far with such limited concepts, no matter how full-blooded the performance and what with everyone from Kiss and Aerosmith down to your-local-punkband-in-Stretford or Dayton, Ohio, scraping at the bones of "70s rock killer riffs — the "Brown Sugar" patent, the "Sweet Jane" chord changes, "Hohky Tonk Women," you end up needing more than even Paul Rodgers"

supple vocalese to supply the edge.

Rodgers, for his part, appears still overly fond of his old Free stylisation if a song like the new "Simple Man" is anything to go by. That same loping, melancholic beat, same dour brooding chords (Rodgers in "soulful mood" always sounds like he^s kicking himself because he never got to write Traffic's "40,000 Headmen" before Win wood conceived the tune), the same earnest but bland utterances.

This time were faced with Rodgers waxing philosophical after a fashion with these gem-like utterances for company — "/ am just a simple man/ Freedom is the only word that means a thing to-me. "

Well at least it's not pretentious and for that I'd gladly take an outfit like Bad Company over the infinitely more ambitious but ultimately ill-postured Queen. It's just that full-blooded unoriginality and jaded pretence are pretty lean pickings when your expectations are as high as should be justified by these two bands" box office receipts.

Bad Company, for their part, tap their feet and nod agreeably at each other. They also mention that the more "advanced" stuff on Pack hasn't been fully mastered yet for stage-performance. Still, one feels just a touch cynical when Ralphs sets about defending his statement of a couple of weeks back that his band reminds him of the Beatles "in a very distinct way."

"Yeah, I read that too," he laughs for a second and then suddenly turns serious. "No, you see what I was trying to say...by drawing that parallel is that just like the Beatles we're able to cover all the bases. By that I mean you've g6t Paul on one side and me and there's melody and the rockers and...like Lennon and McCartney had that down. They covered the whole spectrum. That's what we're aiming for and now with this new album..."

And so it goes. As it happens, Ralphs is an extremely likeable bloke. I'd interviewed him several years ago when he was floundering with Mott (this was just before the DeFries union) and I was an idealistic cub reporter and the interview quickly broke down to become an energetic chat about favourite bands and music in general.

Looking back on his Mott days, I ask him whatever happened to the "budding Neil Young" image that Ian Hunter seemed so adamant about laying on the guitarist?

Ralphs fields off the Young schtick by simply retorting, "Well, with me it wasn't as bad as Hunter who was desperate to be Bob Dylan [pause]. Nah, Mott was a bizarre group in that we got into this whole thing of appealing to the loon-pants head-shaking audience. Yeah, a bit like Status Quo I suppose, only..."

Ralphs seems adamant about disowning the whole glitter-rock trip that the Bowie association set Mott up with. Indeed, Bad Company were conceived by Ralphs and Rodgers in terms of an earthy, anti-glitter backlash.

A question concerning the managerial merits of Tony DeFries draws forth1 inevitable comparisons with Bowie's own Col. Tom and Swan Songsvengali Peter Grant.

"Well, DeFries knew all the stuff about the law side of things. But I don't think he really had any feeling, though, for the human or...uh, artistic side ol the business. With Peter, well, it's like he's one of the lads really." Bad Company and Grant set their alliance rolling with just a handshake, by the way. A gentlemen's agreement. Events following directly in the wake of Bad Co."s association with Swan/ Song show a more than dramatic change in fortunes.

Kirke dismisses his earnings from Free as "a pittance...I suppose that's what you'd call it." He prefers not to muse over any potential "sour grapes." Ralphs, upon leaving Mott, was faced with departing with a debit (Mott the Hoople were in debt to upwards of 100,000 pounds at one ppint, so the story goes) or breaking free, thus nixing any personal hold or royalties arising

from the subsequently successful Mott album. He chose the latter.

And Burrell? Well, his former escapades provide the best copy of the day. A former King Crimson employee (Fripp taught him bass "parrotfashion"),, his reminiscences are scurrilous if nothing else.

"That whole period of my life was ridiculous. I mean, if I've done anything in my life purely for the money, that was it. I mean, I'd be singing these lyrics and suddenly I'd stop and think, "Christ, what does that mean?" I reckon Sinfield used to dig out his Roget's Thesaurus, find the most impressivelooking words and just throw "em all in.

"And Fripp." He laughs. "He'd be sitting on his stool just scowling at us. So every night for an encore we'd rush out

— see, the only thing Fripp can't play is a straight-forward blues, so for the encore the rest of the band would charge onstage and before he'd got a chance to plug in his guitar, we'd kick off with a 12-bar!" He laughs again.

"On the very last night, Mel [Collins] demolished a mellotron as part of the solo. He just very methodically took it to pieces, right, and Fripp turned round

— it was during "Schizoid Man" — he was on his stool [collapses laughing].

"The thing is, though, it's ridiculous when people murrher that we're all in Bad Co. for the money. Nothing could be further from the truth. But, I mean, that Crimson gig — that was a pure paycheck thing.

""It's a shame, really. People just don't get it straight."

So finally to Rodgers, who, far from the mooted belligerence of yore, is amiable enough. He even talks with mild candor about his drinking binges, saying that he and the band have cut down drastically in a tone which, to the impartial observer, appears to mean business.

Later I overhear a phone conversation where Rodgers reverently mentions that he's soon to become a father for the second time, which could well account for this new-found serenity.

Oh, and that tax-exile schtick. It appears to be not all champagne and roses even if alcohol and cigarettes are almost half the price. Kirke at least had picked up on some nookie. He had a date, he said. Taking her to the pictures, he was. To see The Jungle Book for the second time in three days.

Reprinted courtesy of NME.