It's Only Rock 'N' Roll: Thirty Years Married to a Rolling Stone by Jo Wood

Author:Jo Wood [Wood, Jo]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Music Trade, Memoir
ISBN: 9780062280619
Amazon: 0062280619
Publisher: It Books
Published: 2013-05-20T12:00:00+00:00

17

Just before Christmas in 1982 Ronnie and I had a few weeks in Barbados. It was a holiday of two halves – the first part was about family, then Jaye took the kids home, and Ronnie and I had a bit of a wild one – thankfully, we managed to avoid prison this time. We befriended a vacationing gang of English firemen and together we hung out and partied together, fuelled by rum and coke (the drug, not the beverage, obviously). It wasn’t long after we got home that I started to feel suspiciously queasy.

I can’t possibly be pregnant, I thought. Not after all that partying . . .

Then one chilly January morning I winced as the cold sent pain shooting through my nipples. A visit to the doctor confirmed it: I was pregnant!

I went to find Ronnie to tell him the wonderful news: not difficult to do at this time as he was so deep into freebase that I always knew exactly where he would be. I trotted down the corridor and stuck my head around the bathroom door.

‘Honey, I’m pregnant!’

‘Fantastic!’ He beamed. Then went back to sucking the pipe.

By this time we had moved our family to New York. We had been spending more and more time in the city because Keith and Patti were now living there, plus Ronnie had managed to disentangle himself from Seth Bigland’s clutches and had a new manager, an English solicitor called Nick Cowan, who was based in Manhattan. We found a fab brownstone on West 78th Street with plenty of room for the kids and Jaye: as she was originally from New Jersey, she was happy to head east with us. I loved being in walking distance of the Anglo-American school where we enrolled the kids – and, of course, the shops. After those months of freebasing, it had been a relief to leave behind the madness of LA for the relative calm of NYC.

Although the pace was a little less crazy, we still had a houseful on most nights. I might find myself cooking shepherd’s pie for Bob Dylan (a sweet guy, but very quiet) or whipping up spag bol for David Bowie. Other visitors to the Wood residence at that time included Robin Williams, Andy Warhol (who hardly said a word all night, just went round taking photos) and Michael J. Fox. Our old freebasing buddy from LA, Sly Stone, stopped by whenever he was in town or out of jail, and on one occasion turned up wearing red leather trousers and a leather jacket with padded shoulders. ‘Oh, my God, Sly,’ I howled, on seeing the shiny monstrosity. ‘What the hell is THAT?’

Physically, it was a really easy pregnancy: I didn’t get any morning sickness and – as I’d been through it twice before – I knew exactly what to expect. But in many ways it was the hardest of the three. Ronnie was almost totally absent for those nine months, which was ironic as he was always at home.

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