Apathy for the Devil: A Seventies Memoir by Nick Kent

Author:Nick Kent
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Publishers, Music Journalists - Great Britain, Journalists, 1971-1980, Rock Music, History and Criticism, Editors, Rock, General, Nick, Personal Memoirs, Great Britain, Music, Kent, Rock Music - 1971-1980 - History and Criticism, Biography & Autobiography, New Musical Express, Music Journalists, Genres & Styles, Composers & Musicians, Biography
ISBN: 9780306819155
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 2010-08-31T00:00:00+00:00

That unfortunate incident still looms large in my memory, as do the events throughout the week leading up to it. Rod Stewart and the Faces had arrived in town to play a series of sold-out shows at a nearby enormodome and the stars came out in force to welcome them. Backstage on the first night I was standing around jawing with Stewart when a deeply tanned, well-heeled middle-aged couple stepped in to greet the singer. It was the actress Joan Collins, accompanied by her obscenely wealthy husband of the hour. Rod was his usual charming self and Collins wasted no time in then introducing him to a friend of hers whom she’d also brought to the concert. The face, form and flowing blonde hair looked distinctly familiar. ‘’Ere Nick – say hello to Britt Ekland,’ he shouted at me. ‘Rod ’n’ Britt’ soon went on to get designated as the ersatz Burton and Taylor celebrity couple of the rocktastic seventies but this was the moment they first actually met. I don’t recall the Rodster being much impressed by Miss Ekland’s charms at first glance. ‘She’s all right,’ he told me after she and Collins had exited the dressing room. ‘But I’m really waiting for Wednesday. Julie Christie’s supposed to be coming down to the show that night.’

After the first-night performance, Cher threw an impromptu party for the group at her well-appointed Hollywood eyrie. It was meant to be a celebrities-only bash but Ronnie Wood very kindly invited me along to mingle in the glamour, and it was just too good an opportunity to refuse. Fortunately no one bothered to inform the hostess of my profession or else I’d have probably been turfed out without further ado. The sultry songstress was getting a rough old time from the international press at this precise juncture because of her peculiar love life. On the one hand, she was bona fide well-respected Hollywood royalty with a hit TV show still high in the ratings. But ever since she’d broken up with husband/Svengali Sonny Bono, she’d been making distinctly catastrophic choices when it came to finding new suitors and the tabloids were hauling her over the coals for her oddball trysting. She’d recently been linked romantically with feared entertainment-industry power broker David Geffen. Unfortunately he turned out to be gay. Now she’d turned her amorous gaze on Gregg Allman. Allman was the vocalist and gaunt blond-haired figurehead of the Allman Brothers Band, arguably the most popular and successful home-grown US rock act of the early seventies. The Southern rockers were loved nationwide for their often turgid blues-rock improvisations but they were feared too, particularly by industry insiders who’d already seen their barbaric side at close quarters. Their roadies were supposed to have been homicidal thugs. One of them had even done jail time for stabbing a Mafia-affiliated promoter to death in his own club. But the definitive legend surrounding the group involved their guitarist, one Dickey Betts. Apparently he’d been out riding his Harley one day when he became peckish.

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