On or about August 24, 1981….
The Stones held a press conference or, rather, Mick Jagger held a press conference in Philadelphia to announce the tour dates for the 1981 tour.
Tickets for the first Philadelphia concert had gone on sale immediately after Mick had gotten his ass out of the press conference. I was very rusty in those days and didn't find out about it until that night when Ticketron was already closed for the night. Remembering earlier years when I had gotten 3 AM phone calls in the Bronx to wake me up to go down to the Grand Central Station Ticketron which then opened up around 7:00 AM - two hours before all the others, - I woke up at the ungodly hour of 6:00 AM, rushed down to be at Grand Central by 7:30 only to find out that they weren't open nowadays until 9:00 just like all the other Ticketrons. To top it all off, I found out they don't take credit cards, had to find a Chembank cash machine to take out $40.00 that I don't have and rushed back to take my place in line.
The "line" was comprised mostly of beings 15-18 years old, most of whom were listening to Rolling Stones tapes on these huge ghetto blasters usually carried around in the South Bronx, then, much to my chagrin, switching to Grateful Dead music. I heard two very stoned young lads in back of me saying things like "Dey're Dead Heads…Look at dem..Man, I'm gonna go over there an…" Being 25 years old at the time, I must say I felt very out of place there, plus I was dressed for working in a Real Estate office and these people were, well, not. I was 10th in line and, nevertheless, when tickets were about to go on sale, we were informed that field tickets for JFK were sold out already. Already images were forming in my head about holding $10 bills in my hand ready to bribe the Stadium staff in order to get right up in front of the stage. I got my two reserved seats and left for my 9 to 5.
Later on in the afternoon, I got a call from my friend Marilu who worked at Atlantic Records, the Stones' label then, and informed me that I was lucky to have got tickets in the morning as they were all sold out by noon. She had all these plans to get all these tickets, but that never came to fruition. We couldn't wait to see our favorite "junkies" performing on stage.
For the next two weeks, I was trying to devise ways in which to meet Ron Wood. I began calling up everyone in NYC who had some sort of connection. There was George D's cousin on West 88th Street, Philip something or other, who had "the Woods" as a houseguest on several occasions. Easy access to chemicals for him when he stays there, I was told. George made a call to Philip, under threatening noises from me in the background, and Philip said he'd be glad to introduce me if the occasion warrants it (when his "wife" wouldn't be there). Then there was my friend Caroline's junkie friend who once shot up with Keith at his flat, so I heard - I figured SHE who hangs out with HE must know Ronnie. I even went so far as to walk into a brothel on East 46th Street to meet her. "Asia" informed me she was in that video they shot at the St. Mark's Bar & Grill ("Waiting for a Friend"). I couldn't speak with her more than a minute as this big, ugly fat thing called a "manager" intercepted us and Asia had to go back to "work".
Soon afterwards Marilu and I decided to check out the St. Mark's Bar for ourselves. We walked around the East Village after work one evening in our rather conservative work clothes, which was very inappropriate for the neighborhood. We had a difficult time finding this place. We figured it would be a small but not too decrepid of a place. Well, we were wrong. It was VERY decrepid. It was on First Avenue and was painted shocking pink on the outside with other amazing artwork, and it had an assortment of characters getting wasted on the inside. We both muttered simultaneously "This must have been Keith's idea." Marilu, under no circumstances, save for the fact that "they" could be in there, would not enter the premises. A bum with a huge marijuana leaf buckle on his belt exited and beckoned us inside. "This is the owner of the place" he said pointing to an equally wasted guy. We crossed the Street vowing never to set eyes on that hellhole again. We gourged ourselves afterwards with Japanese food and half a quaalude to erase the memory. Couldn't afford a taxi, but took one home anyway, as I couldn't walk very well to the train station.
Then there was this rumor that the Stones were going to play Philadelphia one week before the start of the tour in a small club. Marilu mentioned this to me on the way to her car one late afternoon and muttered "RIPLEYS" to me. I bought the Aquarian, which listed every club in the tri-state area and jotted down the number of that club. The next day I called the area scalpers and they all had various opinions. I asked for "Horsepower" tickets for Saturday night at the Ripley club. One said that they didn't think it was the Stones, when I hadn't even mentioned that I thought that it was!! You see, the club had sold all the tickets for this particular unknown band, when well-known bands usually play there. All of a sudden, some unknown, unsigned band is booked there on a Saturday night, who else could it be but our favorite degenerates. Apparently this one scalper bought out most of the tickets because of a hunch. Other scalpers definitely thought it was going to be the Stones. "Yeah, that's inside info, that's the name they're going under", was what one scalper told me. I quickly bought up 3 tickets at $10 each. I decided that I was going to find out through thick and thin whether it was "them" or not. I was even going to stoop so low as to call up a writer for CREEM magazine, who called me on occasion to invite me to some heavy duty music industry party or Madison Square Garden gig, to see what he knew. I noticed a photo of the Philly press conference that was taken by someone I knew as well, and called him up, but he knew absolutely nothing. But to no avail, no info was forthcoming!
Well, it was Friday, September 18th now. Only one shopping day left until the Stones gig, wherever it was. I stopped off at Atlantic Records to visit Marilu, because they were about to find out where the gig would be, and if there was going to be one. 6 PM rolled by and Amy G. was on the phone with a Rolling Stones Records exec. It was 65% certain that there would be a gig in Providence, Rhode Island. My stomach was starting to rumble. Around 7 PM we heard someone shout for Amy, and it was that same guy, Art C., from the Stones' label saying the gig was 100% on and "mum's the word, Cheerio!!". 5 seconds later the three of us were congregated in Amy's room making plans for our short-noticed trip to Providence, wherever the hell it was. We were on our way to fix Marilu's car window at a sleazy gas station and the girls offered various Atlantic Records goodies to the two attendants who managed to fix the window very quickly indeed. Could also have been Marilu's mini that did it - who knows. And now we were off to my house to pack up my troubles in my little kit bag. Then off to Amy's for hers. We rented a car because Marilu's vehicle was in no shape for long journeys. We drove to LaGuardia to pick up the rental and the girls at the rental place flipped out about Amy and Marilu working for the Stones' label. Were were off at about 10PM and got there about 2 AM. We saw the Holiday Inn where we were to be stationed and proceeded to find Ocean State Theater, where the gig was supposed to be. There was loads of traffic around and we thought everyone and their mother had found out about this. We realized soon enough that the kids were just discoing away. When we asked this one guy for directions to the theater, he said "you mean to the Stones' concert?" Marilu asked him if the news had gotten out yet. He said no, but a cop had told him about it. We got to the theater amid frazzled nerves. There were about 75 people there already. Many drove in from Boston and Worcester and other places. I think we were the only ones from as far away as NYC. It was pouring rain pretty badly and people brought blankets and chairs and food and drinks and were sharing all their booty with us. It was a very friendly place. I struck up a conversation with a young lady who went to nearby Brown University and who had a friend who had gotten into the Worcester Stones gig. About 3 AM, a stocky middle-aged Englishman pulled up in a black stationwagon and there was an immediate surge around this certain gentleman. I was trying to figure out if my friends knew him and checked certain items on him - his features, clothes, accent, the diamond initial ring, "J.C." He noticed me glancing at his ring and pulled his hand back into his pocket. He probably thought I was a New York thief. He made an announcement that the gig was cancelled and, of course, no one believed him and thought it was a plot to get rid of the hanger-outers. His announcement brought jeers of "Bullshit!" "Hey, what are ya. Mick Jagger's uncle or something?" The man left with "I'm just telling you this so you don't waste your time." I had a definite urge to follow his car to the farm where we heard the Stones were staying, or to wherever he was going and get drunk with him and make him tell me all he could…
By the time we left the theater, we were still unconvinced. The lights were still on and that is usually not the norm. Even when the Providence Journal came out with its 1 AM edition, with the Stones' cancellation making the first page, we thought we could read through the lines in the article thinking they'll surely change their minds at the last minute and put on the show. It was 5 AM and we were all exhausted. We planned a wake up call for 9 AM. Another night of no sleep for me. The television was on all the while in case of any "bulletins". The reason, they said, for the cancellation was that there was all this media attention long before the news was supposed to be let out. Big shit. They just could've rush-sold the tickets, so we couldn't have had a chance.
That morning there were people still milling about, but not that many people as the night before. Everyone was still hoping. We went back to the hotel to have breakfast. Pancakes with maple syrup and mushy butter. We tried calling up several hotels to find the entourage. "Yes. I'm trying to find my sister, Jane Rose (Keith's assistant). Is she due to check in today?" We didn't have much difficulty as there were only 3 hotels in the vicinity. The Marriott was the most expensive so I figured, as did everyone else, that the people we were looking for were there. Well those people were due in today and we found out reservations had been made so we thought, for sure, the gig's cancellation is a load of crock. Art C. would have never made those reservations today if the gig was cancelled last night.
Around lunchtime, we stopped off again at the theater to see what progress had been made, if any, and to see anyone we knew who had info. There was a guy wearing a black satin jacket with Frank J. Russo printed on it. Who the hell is Frank J. Russo? A press conference was held on Blackburn Street with Mayor Cianci about the gig and there were more people congregating around the theater to listen to the outcome. It was negative. The announcer stated that Frank J. Russo of Gemini (the promoter of the concert) was there as well. Where was that guy with that Frank J. Russo satin jacket? The girls saw him talking to a girl in the box office. Why is he talking to that chick in the box office? Why on earth was he talking to her - what about? The guy turned out to be a total shit and told us to forget about it.
We decided to waste some time, as it was only 1 PM and we figured Art C. wouldn't get in until perhaps 3 PM. First we toured Newport and the old part of Providence. Then we had a better idea - to find that bloody farm, to meet those bloody bastards, or at least find out what on earth is going on. Someone standing in front of the theater was kind enough to tell us that North Brookfield (where their farm was) was only 1 hour away. We had thought previously that it would take at least two hours. Let's give it a shot, we thought. Finding Worcester wasn't hard. Finding North Brookfield was a bit confusing and finding the farm seemed altogether IMPOSSIBLE. We looked at every little road we could possibly find and seemed to always end up by Brookfield Apple Orchards. Could that be where they'd be? Picking apples? Our Keith? Maybe, if you could figure that he'd core out the center and put some "goodies" in the middle, then that would camouflage his miserable habit (not knowing fully well if he had kicked this habit or not at this time). We passed a couple of pubs in the center of town and I was betting that I'd find my Woods passed out in the center of the bar. It was tempting as hell to go inside these few pubs as you normally don't find Englishmen anywhere else on a rainy Saturday. FEE FI FO FUM! Driving further along, we passed the town bowling alley. The only form of entertainment in dinktown. Amy was hysterical. "could you just imagine Keith and Woody there? In their tight pants with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, and , and Keith would be throwing GUTTERBALLS. Could you imagine?" Yes I could imagine, I thought. Let's fucking go inside, for christ's sake. We didn’t. Instead we drove around for two hours in Brookfield, still always ending up by the Apple Orchards. We decided to chuck the whole thing and went to buy some lunch like potato chips and devil dogs. It looked really hopeless. I asked the girl in the store if she knew "where the boys are". "No." Okay. So I look down at the local paper and saw on the front page an article on the Stones. It listed the street and name of their farm. LONG VIEW FARM. I paid the lady her 30 cents for the paper and ran out the door.
Our plans changed completely. We were very gullible. We were also very flexible. No responsibilities. So we thought what's another two hours. Drove back to beautiful downtown North Brookfield and searched for Main Street. We went all the way to the town's end and ended up nearly going off towards Braintree,, Mass. Driving back into town, not knowing anything, numb with exhaustion, we stopped this group of people we saw at the edge of town. We hadn't even said one word, when this woman asked us "You're looking for the Stones? Well, we townies don't talk" That's very admirable of you, bitch, I thought. Marilu and Amy went into their Atlantic Records rap…"You wanna see my ID?" "We work for the Stones, we were supposed to meet them in Rhode Island, we drove all the way from New York, the gig was cancelled and we don't know WHAT to do, whether there's gonna be a show tonight or not.." The woman seemed convinced. "OK. Look, I've got their number in the house, so why don't you come inside and you can call them from there. OK?" We all couldn't believe our ears. Meanwhile back in the car, Amy & Marilu were decided whether it was a good idea after all to give them a hoot on the telephone. They were just going to try to contact Art C. to find out what's going on. But they figured he'd wonder how they got the number of the house and why are they up in North Brookfield. Visions of pink slips were flashing by Amy's eyes. But then that's what everyone came up here for and it sure took a hell of a long time to find the bloody place.
They called. Apparently, there was only a Mr. Richards and Amy's "sister" Jane Rose at the place. No Art C. The girls got directions to the house and it was there all right. With a huge Ryder truck in the back. That was the only road we missed, we thought. Figures. We spotted a person jogging in a grey jogging suit. Could it be Mick? Let's give him a "lift" girls. It turned out to be just another person from their entourage, who told us Art C. wasn't in the house and to call the house first and that we should head back to New York. Go jog to the Apple Orchards, you bastard, I thought. Then there was this guy with red hair, who worked as a photographer for the Providence Journal. He said we should try this place called Schwabs. That's the restaurant they all go to. They left for dinner and maybe they're there now. Utilizing a new friendship, the girls knocked on the door of the kid doctor's residence, who had given us the boys' phone number to call and asked for direction to the restaurant. It took us around 20 minutes of winding roads past the Apple Orchards to get there. Marilu, spotted a Lincoln Continental across the street from Schwabs that had a yellow hat on the dashboard. So what, I thought. Marilu advised me that that was the same yellow hat that people from Frank Russo's company wore. We dashed into the restaurant, in the back, then downstairs, then to the loo, only to find several neighborhood rednecks. Another disappointment.
Another thing, the photographer told us that it was possible that the guys had already left for a gig -- he thought it feasible that they would play in Providence now that everyone thinks that show had been cancelled. Wasting no time, Amy took over the wheels and scooted back into Providence. Turns out, unfortunately, Art C. was a no-show at the Marriott, and when we went for dinner, our waitress notified us that the roadies had been staying there last night and all left this morning. Dejectedly, we scuttled right back to New York City. As my friend said when I got back home.."You just had a typical weekend of Life!"