FRANKIE MILLER’S HIGH LIFE & TIMES

The last time I was in London Cass Elliott deep-sixed on a ham sandwich in a Mayfair hotel. Spring 1977, and Sylvia of the Three Degrees took one handful of downers too many and was rushed to the hospital from a hotel just down the road...where I was staying while doing a story on Frankie Miller. Superstitious? Nah. I was too busy trying to regain use of my typing fingers after discovering the liquor supply that came with my hotel room. This is what I found after I threw my tape recorder onto my bed; 2 small bottles of cognac, 5 bottles of scotch, 4 bottles of vermouth, 5 bottles of vodka, 2 bottles of Evian water, 2 bottles of Lowenbrau, 2 cans Watney ale, 2 bottles Moet et Chandon champagne, 3 splits Moet et Chandon, ginger ale, Orange juice, Pepsi, quinine water, bitter lemon and Laughing Cow cheese cubes.

The cheese cubes were a nice touch. Nat only was this hotel ready for a journalist, they were ready for...a Frankie Miller interview. But first I made my way to the New Victoria Theatre.

There I witnessed a singular cultural phenomenon; I thought I was back in Cobo Hall in Detroit, and to prove it— there was Esther walking by, and AirWreck and Milos and Carol. Then people started yelling at the stage, and blew it. I couldn’t make out most of the heckles unless they were song titles (“Sailin’ Awoi,” for instancy). Even so, unless there’s someone flying transatlantic once a week just to make sure the kids at the New Victoria match the kids at the Garden, I don’t understand it. Large unkempt youths roamed the aisles, there was the obligatory pool of vomit in the ladies’, the lad next to me had biologically active hair, and scattered music fans would flop onto the floor every once in a while, like chemically soaked flounder. I felt right at home.

My blood sugar was right up to American coricert standards, too, and you’ll pardon me for saying that it was an aesthetically correct way to experience Frankie Miller onstage. Frankie had obviously dipped into the sauce before the show; of course, I didn’t think he was acting the drunk particularly (reading the music papers the next week told me that)—I thought that was the way he always acted, and I liked it. But then, I’d had enough vodka earlier to keep up with my English hosts, wF rh is ten times too much for any American. If Frankie wanted to be drunk, I was very receptive. The audience was of the same mind (chemically and philosophically); they greeted their favorite songs— which included everything—with screams, yowls, and singing of their own. Song requests, encouragement, and just “Frankie1” when they couldn’t think of anything else. “Love letters” Frankie called them later. Between songs he hooted back at them goodnaturedly: “Shaddup! Give us peace! The man at the door let in all my friends, I can see. And he better let them OUT before some damage is done to the seats!” (More screams, more “Shaddup!”) There was thankfully a minimum of stage theatrics, just the songs—including “The Rock,” Randy Newman’s “Sailin’ Away,” “Ain’t Got No Money”—all delivered in Frankie’s impassioned howl...and the ad libs. Before “Jealous Guy” he called out for everybody in the audience who was jealous to yell. A few girls shrilled. Frankie yelled “Doesn’t anybody out there get jealous? I said, doesn’t ANYBODY OUT THERE GET JEALOUS ONCE IN A WHILE? I do!! And I’m jealous RIGHT NOW!!” Screams. “How many of you will admit you’re JEALOUS?” A great howl rose from the crowd. “I AM! I’m so jealous right now I could get a gun! You’d best believe I wouldn’t SING it if I didn’t feel jealous RIGHT NOW!” I was jumping on my seat then, cheering for the gun. Then he segued into the song, and beat the crowd into even more of a froth. By this time he’d abandoned the bowler hat he’d come out with, and his jacket came off to reveal white shirt and vest, his trademark onstage and off. The band was hot and steamed through each number with an exquisitely controlled chaos I thought I’d seen the last of when I saw the Faces’ show. If that sounds like the kiss of death, understand that before I was a paid rock critic that was the kind of good time I used to shell out my wine money for. Raw but tight. I am also one of the few people I know who listens to Faces albums all the way through (except Lester). And I thought they were great when they were drunk; self-mocking, idiotic, fullthroated and out of their minds with juice.

I've got a bad reputation but I don't play it up. It's Just that the hard stuff makes me crazy.

Just like tonight; Frankie’s guitarist and bassist grind out the beat with the joy and sweat of newlyweds; Frankie winds up “Jealous Guy” with savage moans of “I’m gonna SHOOT somebody” like a he-animal with his heart being ripped out. Dirty filthy pumping rock ‘n’ roll—the kind of stuff our mothers tried to keep us away from. The dedication of “Let’s Spend The Night Together” to Keith Richard was the capper.

I was mildly amused to read the Sounds review the next week, which talked about Frankie’s unprofessional drunk and disorderly stage act. So promising, and he had to get self-indulgent and ruin everything...the old Soul Singer Burn-out. Ha ha ha.

When Frankie made his way up to my room to chat I was ready. Any dent I had made in my liquid refreshments had been cunningly replaced by the maids with the fresh sheets and soap.

Indeed, when I threw open the supply of goods I thought I caught a glint in Frankie’s eye...but just as quickly he suppressed it and explained that he was confining himself to white /wine...just what I didn’t have. We compromised with beer and settled down to talk while his' manager sipped scotch and soda. (Heartless.)

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I’d heard rumors Stateside that Frankie couldn’t cut a long tour because he always got too deeply into the bottle. And he was involved in the rout at the Speakeasy Club in London in early spring 77 which put guitarist (and fellow Scot) Brian Robertson out of commission for Thin Lizzy’s American tour. What happened was quite simple: Brian had gotten between Frankie and a broken glass a chap was about to meld with Frankie’s face. Frankie in fact was all ready to call in reinforcements down from Scotland, but he realized that “it would have turned into a full-scale war.” As he told Tony Parsons of the NME: “I’ve got a bad reputation but I don’t play it up. It would be bullshit if I did. It’s just that the hard stuff makes me crazy.”

It also intensifies his political views: At one break in the show he yelled some things I couldn’t make out, and then “Fuck Margaret Thatcher!,” which I did.

“Ahhh, bullshit,” Frankie dismissed it later. “I’m not interested in politics. I’m only interested in American politics.” In fact, anything American. He reminisced cheerfully about Detroit for my benefit: “The drugs, man! These chicks gave us some synthetic heroin! We said hey, let’s stick around here for a while. One time somebody knocked on my hotel door, I crawled over to open it...and they crawled into the room. That’s Detroit!” He also spoke warmly of buying drinks “in the middle of the night,” the different music scenes in every city, etc. Especially New York.

“But Frankie,” I offered. “Have you ever seen Taxi Driver? THAT’S NEW YORK!”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I love it!”

What he’s not so fond of: Bruce Springsteen (“I couldn’t understand the words and I didn’t like his singin’. I guess I should have listened to his words more.”), London at the moment* punk bands (“I like their energy, but they can’t play! They put down the Stones and yet try to play ‘Satisfaction’—they can’t even play it!”). Gabba Gabba hey.

At this point Frankie grabbed a copy of CREEM, professed not to know the magazine the other writer was from (he almost got the cover for that), and left me with these thoughts:

Black soul music these days is more often chunka chunka disco sludge than not. As for. the white soul boys, Joe Cocker’s producing more vomit than anything. Rod’s voice sounds as smooth, lush and passionless as a L. A. nymphet. Who else is there? Paul Rodgers, Robert Palmer (too pretty, eh?)...Otis Redding’s widow wept when she heard Frankie Miller for the first time. And the Scottish bastard took my last copy of CREEM.