michelej1
05-28-2008, 04:32 PM
Crawdaddy has excerpted Dinky Dawson's writings about his life on the road. He mentions FM in passing. I have copied the mentions. The full article is posted in Crawdaddy in two parts:
http://crawdaddy.wolfgangsvault.com/Article.aspx?id=6780
In April, 1969, Fleetwood Mac had just finished Top of the Pops for the BBC, and I headed straight to my favorite watering hole, La Chase on Wardour Street, right above the Marquee Club. Sitting at the bar was an old friend from my days as a DJ at the Mojo Club in Sheffield, Long John Baldry. As we chatted over a pint, I learned Clifford Adams, Fleetwood Mac’s manager, had been talking to him about a short tour with B.B. King and the Mac with Duster Bennett opening. Baldry would be the master of ceremonies. I thought that would be brilliant. John said he had always wanted to see B.B. King and was ecstatic that he would be touring with him for eight shows. After another drink, John and Jack Barry, the owner of the bar, took off downstairs to see a new band playing at the Marquee.
As Jack was leaving, he said he had seen Baz, an old friend and roadie for Keith Emerson’s new group, the Nice, heading to a corner pub with Keith Moon. I said, “They must be going to get trashed,” and decided it was time to leave myself.
As soon as I stepped out to Wardour Street, I could hear some very loud voices coming from the corner pub. It was a bit early for the lads to be plastered, but whatever they were up to, I knew it would be fun. As I walked into the pub, Baz was yelling something to Noz, the roadie for the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice booming over the noise, “How’s the Mac?”
“Moonie,” I yelled, looking to where the voice came from. “Top of the Pops!” Then I saw him—Keith Moon holding court with Peter Frampton, a couple of ladies, and some of the other lads from the Herd.
“How’s your gig wagon,” a grinning Keith yelled back at me, referring to an incident from the Who’s Magic Bus days. Just after they had released their single, I was driving down Regent Street in the Mac’s transit van behind a wildly-painted, double-decker bus covered with Who posters and banners and a big Union Jack. At the rear of the bus, staggering down the stairs from the upper deck, was none other than Moonie himself, frantically waving a bottle of beer. As he pointed at me, I blew my horn and gave him the two-finger salute. Keith, laughing hysterically, responded by throwing the bottle at my windshield. As the big, brown bottle hurtled towards me, I instinctively slammed on the brakes. Crash! All the equipment at the back of the wagon slammed forward, pushing my seat. The empty bottle smashed harmlessly on the grill of the gig wagon. Quickly, I jammed my foot on the accelerator, and the equipment moved back towards the rear of the small van.
“You bastard, Moonie,” I yelled, sticking my head out of my window. Hearing the ruckus, Pete Townsend and Roger Daltry rushed to the back of the bus to see the cause of all the commotion. By now, Moonie had found another beer bottle, and it looked like a full one. Worried that he’d bust the windshield, I drove up beside the bus, shaking my fist and yelling. By now, everyone on the bus was on hand, chortling and yelling at Moonie and me. As the other band members tried to restrain him, Moonie opened the beer and yelled, “Why waste a good pint on the Mac!” I have often wondered what spectators on Regent Street were thinking as they watched a psychedelic bus being chased by a madman in a transit gig wagon that day.
Tonight was the first time I had seen Keith since the Magic Bus incident, but he hadn’t changed at all. If anything, his legend as a wild man was growing. Not waiting for a reply to his question about the Mac’s van, Moonie stood up and yelled, “Everyone ready for the Speak?” The Speakeasy Club, 48 Margaret Street, London, was a late-night haunt for the music industry from 1966 to the late 1970s. It was more of a declaration than a question, but I wanted to talk to Baz before going to the club.
“No way Baz can talk,” said Moonie, bleary-eyed and smiling. He was right. Baz was well plastered, doing his Buddy Holly impersonation on the stage and challenging anyone in hearing range to a strong man contest. Baz was always bragging about lifting Keith Emerson’s Hammond B3 organ by himself. Even if he had only dragged the heavy keyboard, Baz was a strong lad, but seeing his condition, I thought it best to speak with him the next day. So I told Moonie I’d follow them to the Speak in the Mac gig wagon.
Parking near the Speak was almost impossible—cars and vans were everywhere on the narrow streets. By the time I walked down the stairs and into the club, I was ready for a drink. Keith had commandeered a large table in a recessed booth near the stage from the Herd’s roadie, Chris Adamson, and I headed straight to where they were seated, waiting for Frampton and some of his band lads. I began moaning about the parking around the club when Chris started bragging about the Herd’s gig wagon.
“Nothing can touch it, man,” boasted Chris. “It’s the best.” Not to be outdone, Moonie protested, “The Who’s gig wagon has a V8 and no one can touch that.” After ordering some food and a couple more drinks, we were all declaiming loudly about the virtues of our vehicles. In fact, at one point, the bouncers came over to calm us down—we were louder than the band on the stage. “Eat your corn on the cob and strawberries and cream,” they ordered, “some folks want to hear the band!”
Eventually, everyone calmed down except for Moonie and Chris, who challenged each other to a gig wagon race from the Blue Boar, a well-known roadie rest stop on the M1, to the end of the Motorway in London. The M1 was a big deal for us lads who traveled throughout England, especially when we did two or three shows a day or night. Roadies knew this motorway well. But now it was late, and although for weeks after folks talked about the challenge, no one gave it serious thought. I left with the Mac for a short tour of the continent.
Part Two
http://crawdaddy.wolfgangsvault.com/Article.aspx?id=7412
The following week, after Fleetwood Mac had played a gig in London, Peter Green and Danny Kirwan headed to the Speakeasy to jam with Hendrix and the Who. I decided to join them. It was Chris Adamson’s birthday, and the party had already started. Peter Frampton had brought some girls, and some of the lads from the Move were all over them.
I saw Moonie chatting with Aaron Russo, the owner of Kinetic Playground, where the Mac often played in Chicago. Moonie and Aaron had been drinking for a while and were just starting to get a little rowdy. Whiz—I felt a strawberry fly by my head. Then plop, a corn cob burst through the air, scattering a few of us. Next thing I knew, fruit and vegetables were flying and we were ducking for cover. Fortunately, Peter and Danny were hanging at the stage out of harm’s way, and were ready to go up and play. As the melee of vegetables continued, the owner of the Speakeasy made a beeline for Moonie.
“Oy, not me,” said Moonie, pointing to Aaron, the perpetrator. “It’s him. Make him pay!”
Although Aaron had to pay for any damages, Keith still got scolded by the owner. In truth, Aaron did admit to provoking the food fight, although he insisted Moonie encouraged and joined him. In the end, everyone laughed and had a good time.
Shortly after the birthday party, I shared a flat with Baz, who was a roadie for Keith Emerson's group the Nice. That lasted all of two weeks. One night, Baz came back to the flat completely drunk and knackered. Instead of peeing in the bathroom, he whizzed in the clothes closet. The next night I was knocked out of a deep sleep by loud banging and running water. I turned on the light and there was Baz, whizzing on the wall. That was it. I left the next day.
I last saw Baz at a gig in Antwerp, Belgium. Fleetwood Mac was on a bill playing a soccer stadium with Yes, the Nice, Jon Hiseman’s Colosseum, and Aynsley Dunbar’s Retaliation. Everyone traveled on two prop airplanes, one a cargo plane carrying the band gear. The old, small passenger airplane was full to the max with bands and roadies. The roadies had been up all night, coming from shows all around England. Despite being tired, we were suspicious of the planes, which looked as if they had seen better days. Before we set off, Baz began yelling for the free drinks from the only stewardess on the plane. And by the time we were ready to rumble down the runway, everyone wanted a drink. As I looked around the plane, I could see a couple of stress areas that looked like they had some rivets missing. The seats looked worn and old.
“We’re all going to die,” rasped John McVie, looking around as the plane lurched down the runway.
**Stay tuned for the conclusion of Dinky Dawson’s Gig Wagon Race tales in the coming weeks.**
http://crawdaddy.wolfgangsvault.com/Article.aspx?id=6780
In April, 1969, Fleetwood Mac had just finished Top of the Pops for the BBC, and I headed straight to my favorite watering hole, La Chase on Wardour Street, right above the Marquee Club. Sitting at the bar was an old friend from my days as a DJ at the Mojo Club in Sheffield, Long John Baldry. As we chatted over a pint, I learned Clifford Adams, Fleetwood Mac’s manager, had been talking to him about a short tour with B.B. King and the Mac with Duster Bennett opening. Baldry would be the master of ceremonies. I thought that would be brilliant. John said he had always wanted to see B.B. King and was ecstatic that he would be touring with him for eight shows. After another drink, John and Jack Barry, the owner of the bar, took off downstairs to see a new band playing at the Marquee.
As Jack was leaving, he said he had seen Baz, an old friend and roadie for Keith Emerson’s new group, the Nice, heading to a corner pub with Keith Moon. I said, “They must be going to get trashed,” and decided it was time to leave myself.
As soon as I stepped out to Wardour Street, I could hear some very loud voices coming from the corner pub. It was a bit early for the lads to be plastered, but whatever they were up to, I knew it would be fun. As I walked into the pub, Baz was yelling something to Noz, the roadie for the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice booming over the noise, “How’s the Mac?”
“Moonie,” I yelled, looking to where the voice came from. “Top of the Pops!” Then I saw him—Keith Moon holding court with Peter Frampton, a couple of ladies, and some of the other lads from the Herd.
“How’s your gig wagon,” a grinning Keith yelled back at me, referring to an incident from the Who’s Magic Bus days. Just after they had released their single, I was driving down Regent Street in the Mac’s transit van behind a wildly-painted, double-decker bus covered with Who posters and banners and a big Union Jack. At the rear of the bus, staggering down the stairs from the upper deck, was none other than Moonie himself, frantically waving a bottle of beer. As he pointed at me, I blew my horn and gave him the two-finger salute. Keith, laughing hysterically, responded by throwing the bottle at my windshield. As the big, brown bottle hurtled towards me, I instinctively slammed on the brakes. Crash! All the equipment at the back of the wagon slammed forward, pushing my seat. The empty bottle smashed harmlessly on the grill of the gig wagon. Quickly, I jammed my foot on the accelerator, and the equipment moved back towards the rear of the small van.
“You bastard, Moonie,” I yelled, sticking my head out of my window. Hearing the ruckus, Pete Townsend and Roger Daltry rushed to the back of the bus to see the cause of all the commotion. By now, Moonie had found another beer bottle, and it looked like a full one. Worried that he’d bust the windshield, I drove up beside the bus, shaking my fist and yelling. By now, everyone on the bus was on hand, chortling and yelling at Moonie and me. As the other band members tried to restrain him, Moonie opened the beer and yelled, “Why waste a good pint on the Mac!” I have often wondered what spectators on Regent Street were thinking as they watched a psychedelic bus being chased by a madman in a transit gig wagon that day.
Tonight was the first time I had seen Keith since the Magic Bus incident, but he hadn’t changed at all. If anything, his legend as a wild man was growing. Not waiting for a reply to his question about the Mac’s van, Moonie stood up and yelled, “Everyone ready for the Speak?” The Speakeasy Club, 48 Margaret Street, London, was a late-night haunt for the music industry from 1966 to the late 1970s. It was more of a declaration than a question, but I wanted to talk to Baz before going to the club.
“No way Baz can talk,” said Moonie, bleary-eyed and smiling. He was right. Baz was well plastered, doing his Buddy Holly impersonation on the stage and challenging anyone in hearing range to a strong man contest. Baz was always bragging about lifting Keith Emerson’s Hammond B3 organ by himself. Even if he had only dragged the heavy keyboard, Baz was a strong lad, but seeing his condition, I thought it best to speak with him the next day. So I told Moonie I’d follow them to the Speak in the Mac gig wagon.
Parking near the Speak was almost impossible—cars and vans were everywhere on the narrow streets. By the time I walked down the stairs and into the club, I was ready for a drink. Keith had commandeered a large table in a recessed booth near the stage from the Herd’s roadie, Chris Adamson, and I headed straight to where they were seated, waiting for Frampton and some of his band lads. I began moaning about the parking around the club when Chris started bragging about the Herd’s gig wagon.
“Nothing can touch it, man,” boasted Chris. “It’s the best.” Not to be outdone, Moonie protested, “The Who’s gig wagon has a V8 and no one can touch that.” After ordering some food and a couple more drinks, we were all declaiming loudly about the virtues of our vehicles. In fact, at one point, the bouncers came over to calm us down—we were louder than the band on the stage. “Eat your corn on the cob and strawberries and cream,” they ordered, “some folks want to hear the band!”
Eventually, everyone calmed down except for Moonie and Chris, who challenged each other to a gig wagon race from the Blue Boar, a well-known roadie rest stop on the M1, to the end of the Motorway in London. The M1 was a big deal for us lads who traveled throughout England, especially when we did two or three shows a day or night. Roadies knew this motorway well. But now it was late, and although for weeks after folks talked about the challenge, no one gave it serious thought. I left with the Mac for a short tour of the continent.
Part Two
http://crawdaddy.wolfgangsvault.com/Article.aspx?id=7412
The following week, after Fleetwood Mac had played a gig in London, Peter Green and Danny Kirwan headed to the Speakeasy to jam with Hendrix and the Who. I decided to join them. It was Chris Adamson’s birthday, and the party had already started. Peter Frampton had brought some girls, and some of the lads from the Move were all over them.
I saw Moonie chatting with Aaron Russo, the owner of Kinetic Playground, where the Mac often played in Chicago. Moonie and Aaron had been drinking for a while and were just starting to get a little rowdy. Whiz—I felt a strawberry fly by my head. Then plop, a corn cob burst through the air, scattering a few of us. Next thing I knew, fruit and vegetables were flying and we were ducking for cover. Fortunately, Peter and Danny were hanging at the stage out of harm’s way, and were ready to go up and play. As the melee of vegetables continued, the owner of the Speakeasy made a beeline for Moonie.
“Oy, not me,” said Moonie, pointing to Aaron, the perpetrator. “It’s him. Make him pay!”
Although Aaron had to pay for any damages, Keith still got scolded by the owner. In truth, Aaron did admit to provoking the food fight, although he insisted Moonie encouraged and joined him. In the end, everyone laughed and had a good time.
Shortly after the birthday party, I shared a flat with Baz, who was a roadie for Keith Emerson's group the Nice. That lasted all of two weeks. One night, Baz came back to the flat completely drunk and knackered. Instead of peeing in the bathroom, he whizzed in the clothes closet. The next night I was knocked out of a deep sleep by loud banging and running water. I turned on the light and there was Baz, whizzing on the wall. That was it. I left the next day.
I last saw Baz at a gig in Antwerp, Belgium. Fleetwood Mac was on a bill playing a soccer stadium with Yes, the Nice, Jon Hiseman’s Colosseum, and Aynsley Dunbar’s Retaliation. Everyone traveled on two prop airplanes, one a cargo plane carrying the band gear. The old, small passenger airplane was full to the max with bands and roadies. The roadies had been up all night, coming from shows all around England. Despite being tired, we were suspicious of the planes, which looked as if they had seen better days. Before we set off, Baz began yelling for the free drinks from the only stewardess on the plane. And by the time we were ready to rumble down the runway, everyone wanted a drink. As I looked around the plane, I could see a couple of stress areas that looked like they had some rivets missing. The seats looked worn and old.
“We’re all going to die,” rasped John McVie, looking around as the plane lurched down the runway.
**Stay tuned for the conclusion of Dinky Dawson’s Gig Wagon Race tales in the coming weeks.**