Alan McGee and the Story of Creation Records by Paolo Hewitt

Author:Paolo Hewitt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2015-05-17T16:00:00+00:00

SIMON STEPHENS

SIMON STEPHENS: I was working for an agency in Tin Pan Alley in Wardour Street and working for a guy called Richard Cowley. Alex Nightingale [Primal Scream manager] got me the job. I’m originally from a council estate in Brighton. I grew up with Alex Nightingale in Brighton. The Primals moved down there. They all had their leather chaps on. We used to see them in the local pub with all this leather gear on and we were like Casuals, early Acid House Casuals and we used to punt a few fucking pills and stuff. My dad used to sell pills to Keith Moon down in Brighton at the Regent, so when I got involved in all this pill selling, he didn’t say, ‘Don’t fucking do it.’ He said, ‘Be careful, the Cockney boys will come in and undercut you and you’ll be out.’ And that’s exactly what happened. The beginning was when the Scream used to hang out in this boozer with all their leather gear and we used to go up there at night, and I used to be a cheeky little sod and slap Bobby’s arse. Through that we used to take the piss out of them but when I saw the band I thought, ‘Fucking hell, that is fucking top-notch. This is one of the best bands that I’ve seen for ages and ages.’ One day, this was when ‘Loaded’ was a white label, someone rang up and said, ‘Primal Scream have lost their tour manager, he’s had a breakdown, we need someone to do it.’ I’ve gone from the other side of the desk and said, ‘I’ll do it.’ He’s like, ‘Go on. Alright, you’ve got to meet Dick Green and Alan McGee at the Mary Chain gig at the Kilburn National.’ I’ve gone home to a bedsit to Willesden, told my girlfriend that I was off to Greece, McGee gave me £150 in cash and tapped me on the back and said, ‘Good luck son.’ I said, ‘Where’s the band then?’ He replied, ‘They’ve said they’ll meet you down at Gatwick at four in the morning.’ I got the milk train down and started to think, ‘What have I done here?’ I’ve got a passport, £150 and I don’t really know these cunts. I don’t know them at all. So I meet up with them. Throb’s got his suppository of liquid coke up his arse, Toby, the drummer at the time, is a real big geezer going [crunches his knuckles] and Bob comes up to me and says, ‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for, but I’ll make sure it’s alright.’

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