Diary of A Rock 'n' Roll Star by Ian Hunter

Author:Ian Hunter
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 1897783094
Publisher: Independent Music Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Friday, 8 December 1972

And now it’s raining, ‘like hell on a fire engine’ as Stan would say. The open curtains reveal a huge block centre, at least 50 storeys high with a red neon ‘Grants’ stuck on top. A masterpiece of understatement. ‘Hotel Edison’, ‘Hotel Madison‘, ‘-otel -aft’, (that’s all I can see) and more immediately opposite, an 18-storey office block with girls busily working type-writers and a man looking straight at me watching if I'm looking at him. Neither of us can tell, as we can't see each other’s eyes.

Down below Crescendo is playing on the right of 7th Avenue. ‘Off Track Betting’, ‘Jack Dempsey’s Bar‘, ‘Chock-full-O-Nuts’, buses, taxis, hundreds of those huge American cars (which look as normal here as they do abnormal in England). I can see one of those Volkswagens with Cadillac radiators that they are selling at the moment. Immediately below, two fountains, one of which is drained in front of a huge 80-storey building with no name. Rain everywhere and people scurrying. Christmas is in the air. A block across and a few streets down is where I wrote Angel of 8th Avenue — looking at Manhattan three years ago, after a very drunken night at ‘Nobodies’ in the Village.

It's one of those days in which nothing happens at all so let me skip to about 6 o’clock in the evening when we find that Stan's got us tickets to the Jethro Tull, Roxy Music concert at Madison Square Garden. You‘ve probably heard of this place; if you can imagine Wembley Pool only twice as big, you‘ve got the picture. We all meet in the lobby at 7:15 and Pete says he’s tired because he’s walked round looking for guitars all day, and Buff’s not bothering either, so it's me, Tru, Phally, Elaine, Stan and Mick for the evening out. Phally, me and the girls pile into a yellow cab hailed for us by an oilskin-covered doorman. He stands out in the middle of the rainswept street madly gesticulating and blowing his whistle. Other whistles can be heard from rival doormen and the avenue is alive with the chords of sirens, cars and whistles.

Straight on down Broadway, past Allied Chemical (where you can get a very thin Daily Mirror if you get up early) and about half a mile on down to the Garden. I give the cabby $2 and we run under the cover of the foyer. Dozens of escalators, lifts everywhere, makes you feel very small. You clutch your ticket in amongst thousands of kids all jostling to get in. We sway through with the crowd to the ticket gate. On the way, people shout the sale of T-shirts, photos, and tickets; others shout they want tickets. Tower D - Gate 14 - Seat 35A; there are so many numbers on this fuckin’ ticket you’ve got to be an accountant to work it out. Up three escalators and finally we find the gate. A health-food bar is opposite the entrance and I notice coconuts with straws in them.

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