Chapter Seven 1 страница

In which, in the late 1960s, I discover open tuning, and heroin.

Meet Gram Parsons.

Sail to South America.

Become a father.

Record "Wild Horses" and "Brown Sugar" in Muscle Shoals.

Survive Altamont, and re-meet a saxophonist named Bobby Keys.

We'd run out of gas. I don't think I realized it at the time, but that was a period where we could have foundered -- a natural end to a hit-making band. It came soon after Satanic Majesties, which was all a bit of flimflam to me. And this is where Jimmy Miller comes into the picture as our new producer. What a great collaboration. Out of the drift we extracted Beggars Banquet and helped take the Stones to a different level. This is where we had to pull out the good stuff. And we did. I remember our first meeting with Jimmy. Mick was instrumental in getting him involved. Jimmy came from Brooklyn originally, grew up in the West – his father was entertainment director of the Vegas gambling hotels the Sahara, the Dunes, the Flamingo. We turned up at Olympic Studios and said, we'll have a run-through and see how things go. We just played -- anything. We weren't trying to make a track that day. We were feeling the room, feeling Jimmy out; and Jimmy was feeling us out. I'd like to go back and be a fly on that wall. All I remember is having a very, very good feeling about him when we left the session, about twelve hours later. I was playing the stuff, going into the control room, the usual old trek, and actually hearing on the playback what was going on in the room. Sometimes what you're playing in the room is totally different from what you hear in the control room. But Jimmy was hearing the room, hearing the band. So I had a very strong thing with him from that first day. He had a natural feel for the band because of what he'd been doing, working with English guys. He'd produced things like "I'm a Man" and "Gimme Some Lovin' " by the Spencer Davis Group; he'd worked with Traffic, Blind Faith. He'd worked a lot with black guys. But most of all it was because Jimmy Miller was a damn good drummer. He understood groove. He's the drummer on "Happy"; he was the original drummer on "You Can't Always Get What You Want." He made it very easy for me to work, mainly for me to set the groove, set the tempos, and at the same time, Mick and Jimmy were communicating well. It gave Mick confidence to go along with him too. Our thing was playing Chicago blues; that was where we took everything that we knew, that was our kickoff point, Chicago. Look at that Mississippi River. Where does it come from? Where does it go? Follow that river all the way up and you'll end up in Chicago. Also follow the way those artists were recorded. There were no rules. If you looked at the regular way of recording things, everything was recorded totally wrong. But what is wrong and what is right? What matters is what hits the ear. Chicago blues was so raw and raucous and energetic. If you tried to record it clean, forget about it. Nearly every Chicago blues record you hear is an enormous amount over the top, loading the sound on in layers of thickness. When you hear Little Walter's records, he hits the first note on his harp and the band disappears until that note stops, because he's overloading it. When you're making records, you're looking to distort things, basically. That's the freedom recording gives you, to fuck around with the sound. And it's not a matter of sheer force; it's always a matter of experiment and playing around. Hey, this is a nice mike, but if we put it a little closer to the amp, and then take a smaller amp instead of the big one and shove the mike right in front of it, cover the mike with a towel, let's see what we get. What you're looking for is where the sounds just melt into one another and you've got that beat behind it, and the rest of it just has to squirm and roll its way through. If you have it all separated, it's insipid. What you're looking for is power and force, without volume--an inner power. A way to bring together what everybody in that room is doing and make one sound. So it's not two guitars, piano, bass and drums, it's one thing, it's not five. You're there to create one thing. Jimmy produced Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers – every Stones record through Goats Head Soup in 1973, the backbone stuff. But the best thing we ever did with Jimmy Miller was "Jumpin' Jack Flash." That song and "Street Fighting Man" came out of the very first sessions with Jimmy at Olympic Studios for what would become Beggars Banquet,

in the spring of 1968--the May of street fighting in Paris. Suddenly between us this whole new idea started to blossom, this new second wind. And it just became more and more fun. Mick was coming up with some great ideas and great songs, like "Dear Doctor"-- I think probably Marianne had something to do with that - and "Sympathy for the Devil," although it was not in the way he envisioned it when it started. But that's in the Godard movie--I'll deal with Godard later - where you hear and see the transformation of the song. "Parachute Woman," with that weird sound area like a fly buzzing in your ear or a mosquito or something--that song came so easily. I thought it was going to be difficult because I had that concept of that sound and wasn't sure it would work, but Mick jumped on the idea just like that, and it took little time to record. "Salt of the Earth," I think I came up with the title of that and had the basic spur of it, but Mick did all the verses. This was our thing. I'd spark the idea, "Let's drink to the hardworking people, let's drink to the salt of the earth," and after that, Mick, it's all yours. Halfway through he'd say, where do we break it? Where do we go to the middle? Where's the bridge? See how long he would take this one idea before he turned to me and said, we've got to go somewhere else now. Ah, the bridge. Some of that is technical work, a matter of discussion, and usually very quick and easy. There was a lot of country and blues on Beggars Banquet:

"No Expectations," "Dear Doctor," even "Jigsaw Puzzle." "Parachute Woman," "Prodigal Son," "Stray Cat Blues," "Factory Girl," they're all either blues or folk music. By then we were thinking, hey, give us a good song, we can do it. We've got the sound and we know we can find it one way or another if we've got the song--we'll chase the damn thing all around the room, up to the ceiling. We know we've got it and we'll lock on to it and find it. I don't know what it was in this period that worked so well. Maybe timing. We had barely explored the stuff where we'd come from or that had turned us on. The "Dear Doctor"s and "Country Honk"s and "Love In Vain" were, in a way, catch-up, things we had to do. The mixture of black and white American music had plenty of space in it to be explored. We also knew that the Stones fans were digging it, and there were an awful lot of them by then. Without thinking about it, we knew that they'd love it. All we’ve got to do is what we want to do and they're gonna love it. That's what we're about, because if we love it, a certain thing comes across from it. They were damn good songs. We never forget a good hook. We've never let one go when we've found it. I think I can talk for the Stones most of the time, and we didn't care what they wanted out there. That was one of the charms of the Stones. And the rock-and-roll stuff that we did come out with on

Beggars Banquet was enough. You can't say apart from "Sympathy" or "Street Fighting Man" that there's rock and roll on Beggars Banquet at all. "Stray Cat" is a bit of funk, but the rest of them are folk songs. We were incapable of writing to order, to say, we need a rock-and-roll track. Mick tried it later with some drivel. It was not the interesting thing about the Stones, just sheer rock and roll. A lot of rock and roll onstage, but it was not something we particularly recorded a lot of, unless we knew we had a diamond like "Brown Sugar" or "Start Me Up." And also it kind of made the up-tempo numbers stand out even more, against a lovely bedrock of really great little songs like "No Expectations.

"I mean, the body of work was not to smash you between the eyes. This was not heavy metal. This was music. "Flash!" Shit, what a record! All my stuff came together and all done on a cassette player. With "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and "Street Fighting Man" I'd discovered a new sound I could get out of an acoustic guitar. That grinding, dirty sound came out of these crummy little motels where the only thing you had to record with was this new invention called the cassette recorder. And it didn't disturb anybody. Suddenly you had a very mini studio. Playing an acoustic, you'd overload the Philips cassette player to the point of distortion so that when it played back it was effectively an electric guitar. You were using the cassette player as a pickup and an amplifier at the same time. You were forcing acoustic guitars through a cassette player, and what came out the other end was electric as hell. An electric guitar will jump live in your hands. It's like holding on to an electric eel. An acoustic guitar is very dry and you have to play it a different way. But if you can get that different sound electrified, you get this amazing tone and this amazing sound. I've always loved the acoustic guitar, loved playing it, and I thought, if I can just power this up a bit without going to electric, I'll have a unique sound. It's got a little tingle on the top. It's unexplainable, but it's something that fascinated me at the time. In the studio, I plugged the cassette into a little extension speaker and put a microphone in front of the extension speaker so it had a bit more breadth and depth, and put that on tape. That was the basic track. There are no electric instruments on "Street Fighting Man" at all, apart from the bass, which I overdubbed later. All acoustic guitars. "Jumpin' Jack Flash" the same. I wish I could still do that, but they don't build machines like that anymore. They put a limiter on it soon after that so you couldn't overload it. Just as you're getting off on something, they put a lock on it. The band all thought I was mad, and they sort of indulged me. But I heard a sound that I could get out of there. And Jimmy was onto it immediately. "Street Fighting Man," "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and half of "Gimme Shelter" were all made just like that, on a cassette machine. I used to layer guitar on guitar. Sometimes there are eight guitars on those tracks. You just mash 'em up. Charlie Watts's drums on "Street Fighting Man" are from this little 1930s practice drummer's kit, in a little suitcase that you popped up, one tiny cymbal, a half-size tambourine that served as a snare, and that's really what it was made on, made on rubbish, made in hotel rooms with our little toys. That was a magic discovery, but so were these riffs. These crucial, wonderful riffs that just came, I don't know where from. I'm blessed with them and I can never get to the bottom of them. When you get a riff like "Flash" you get a great feeling of elation, a wicked glee. Of course, then comes the other thing of persuading people that it is as great as you actually know it is. You have to go through the pooh-pooh. "Flash" is basically "Satisfaction" in reverse. Nearly all of these riffs are closely related. But if someone said, "You can play only one of your riffs ever again," I'd say, "OK, give me 'Flash.' " I love "Satisfaction" dearly and everything, but those chords are pretty much a de rigueur course as far as songwriting goes. But "Flash" is particularly interesting. "It's allllll right now." It's almost Arabic or very old, archaic, classical, the chord setups you could only hear in Gregorian chants or something like that. And it's that weird mixture of your actual rock and roll and at the same time this weird echo of very, very ancient music that you don't even know. It's much older than I am, and that's unbelievable! It's like a recall of something, and I don't know where it came from. But I know where the lyrics came from. They came from a gray dawn at Redlands. Mick and I had been up all night, it was raining outside and there was the sound of these heavy stomping rubber boots near the window, belonging to my gardener, Jack Dyer, a real country man from Sussex. It woke Mick up. He said, "What's that?" I said, "Oh, that's Jack. That's jumping Jack." I started to work around the phrase on the guitar, which was in open tuning, singing the phrase "Jumping Jack." Mick said, "Flash," and suddenly we had this phrase with a great rhythm and ring to it. So we got to work on it and wrote it. I can hear the whole band take off behind me every time I play "Flash"--there's this extra sort of turbo overdrive. You jump on the riff and it plays you. We have ignition? OK, let's go. Darryl Jones will be right next to me, on bass. "What are we on now, 'Flash'? OK, let's go, one two three..." And then you don't look at each other again, because you know you're in for the ride now. It'll always make you play it different, depending what tempo you're in. Levitation is probably the closest analogy to what I feel--whether it's "Jumpin' Jack" or "Satisfaction" or "All Down the Line"--when I realize I've hit the right tempo and the band's behind me. It's like taking off in a Learjet. I have no sense that my feet are touching the ground. I'm elevated to this other space. People say, "Why don't you give it up?" I can't retire until I croak. I don't think they quite understand what I get out of this. I'm not doing it just for the money or for you. I'm doing it for me.

The big discovery late in 1968 or early 1969 was when I started playing the open five-string tuning. It transformed my life. It's the way of playing that I use for the riffs and songs the Stones are best known for--"Honky Tonk Women," "Brown Sugar," "Tumbling Dice," "Happy," "All Down the Line," "Start Me Up" and "Satisfaction." "Flash" too. I had hit a kind of buffer. I just really thought I was not getting anywhere from straight concert tuning. I wasn't learning anymore; I wasn't getting some of the sounds I really wanted. I'd been experimenting with tunings for quite a while. Most times I went into different tunings because I had a song going and I was hearing it in my head but I couldn't get it out of the conventional tuning no matter any way I looked at it. Also I wanted to try to go back and use what a lot of old blues guitarists were playing and transpose it to electric but keep the same basic simplicity and straightforwardness--that pumping drive that you hear with the acoustic blues players. Simple, haunting, powerful sounds. And then I found out all this stuff about banjos. A lot of five-string playing came from when Sears, Roebuck offered the Gibson guitar in the very early'20s, really cheap. Before that, banjos were the biggest-selling instrument. Gibson put out this cheap, really good guitar, and cats would tune it, since they were nearly all banjo players, to a five-string banjo tuning. Also, you didn't have to pay for the other string, the big string. Or you could save it for hanging the old lady or something. Most of rural America bought their stuff from the Sears catalogue. Rural America was where it was really important. In the cities, you could shop around. In the Bible Belt, rural America, the South, Texas, the Midwest, you got your Sears, Roebuck catalogue and you sent away. That's how Oswald got his shooter. Usually that banjo tuning was used, on the guitar, for slide playing or bottleneck. An "open tuning" simply means the guitar is pretuned to a ready-made major chord--but there are different kinds and configurations. I'd been working on open D and open E. I learned then that Don Everly, one of the finest rhythm players, used open tuning on "Wake Up Little Susie" and "Bye Bye Love." He just used the barre chord, the finger across the neck. Ry Cooder was the first cat I actually saw play the open G chord--I have to say I tip my hat to Ry Cooder. He showed me the open G tuning. But he was using it strictly for slide playing and he still had the bottom string. That's what most blues players use open tunings for, they use it for slide. And I decided that was too limiting. I found the bottom string got in the way. I figured out after a bit that I didn't need it; it would never stay in tune and it was out of whack for what I wanted to do. So I took it off and used the fifth string, the A string, as the bottom note. You didn't have to worry about bashing that bottom string and setting up harmonics and stuff that you didn't need. I started playing chords on the open tuning--which was new ground. You change one string and suddenly you've got a whole new universe under your fingers. Anything you thought you knew has gone out the window. Nobody thought about playing minor chords in an open major tuning, because you've got to really dodge about a bit. You have to rethink your whole thing, as if your piano was turned upside down and the black notes were white and the white notes were black. So you had to retune your mind and your fingers as well as the guitar. The minute you've tuned a guitar or any other instrument to one chord, you've got to work your way around it. You're out of the realms of normal music. You're up the Limpopo with Yellow Jack. The beauty, the majesty of the five-string open G tuning for an electric guitar is that you've only got three notes--the other two are repetitions of each other an octave apart. It's tuned GDGBD. Certain strings run through the whole song, so you get a drone going all the time, and because it's electric they reverberate. Only three notes, but because of these different octaves, it fills the whole gap between bass and top notes with sound. It gives you this beautiful resonance and ring. I found working with open tunings that there's a million places you don't need to put your fingers. The notes are there already. You can leave certain strings wide open. It's finding the spaces in between that makes open tuning work. And if you're working the right chord, you can hear this other chord going on behind it, which actually you're not playing. It's there. It defies logic. And it's just lying there saying, "Fuck me." And it's a matter of the same old cliche in that respect. It's what you leave out that counts. Let it go so that one note harmonizes off the other. And so even though you've now changed your fingers to another position, that note is still ringing. And you can even let it hang there. It's called the drone note. Or at least that's what I call it. The sitar works on similar lines--sympathetic ringing, or what they call the sympathetic strings. Logically it shouldn't work, but when you play it, and that note keeps ringing even though you've now changed to another chord, you realize that that is the root note of the whole thing you're trying to do. It's the drone. I just got fascinated by relearning the guitar. It really invigorated me. It was like a different instrument in a way, and literally too. I had to have the five-string guitars made for me. I've never wanted to play like anybody else, except when I was first starting, when I wanted to be Scotty Moore or Chuck Berry. After that, I wanted to find out what the guitar or the piano could teach me. The five-string took me back to the tribesmen of West Africa. They had a very similar instrument, sort of a five-string, kind of like a banjo, but they would use the same drone, a thing to set up other voices and drums over the top. Always underneath it was this underlying one note that went through it. And you listen to some of that meticulous Mozart stuff and Vivaldi and you realize that they knew that too. They knew when to leave one note just hanging up there where it illegally belongs and let it dangle in the wind and turn a dead body into a living beauty. Gus used to point it out to me: just listen to that one note hanging there. All the other stuff that's going on underneath is crap, but that one note makes it sublime. There's something primordial in the way we react to pulses without even knowing it. We exist on a rhythm of seventy-two beats a minute. The train, apart from getting them from the Delta to Detroit, became very important to blues players because of the rhythm of the machine, the rhythm of the tracks, and then when you cross onto another track, the beat moves. It echoes something in the human body. So then when you have machinery involved, like trains, and drones, all of that is still built in as music inside us. The human body will feel rhythms even when there's not one. Listen to "Mystery Train" by Elvis Presley. One of the great rock-and-roll tracks of all time, not a drum on it. It's just a suggestion, because the body will provide the rhythm. Rhythm really only has to be suggested. Doesn't have to be pronounced. This is where they got it wrong with "this rock" and "that rock." It's got nothing to do with rock. It's to do with roll. Five strings cleared out the clutter. It gave me the licks and laid on textures. You can almost play the melody through the chords, because of the notes you can throw in. And suddenly instead of it being two guitars playing, it sounds like a goddamn orchestra. Or you can no longer tell who is playing what, and hopefully if it's really good, no one will care. It's just fantastic. It was like scales falling from your eyes and from your ears at the same time. It broke open the dam. Ian Stewart used to refer to us affectionately as "my little three-chord wonders." But it is an honorable title. OK, this song has got three chords, right? What can you do with those three chords? Tell it to John Lee Hooker; most of his songs are on one chord. Howlin' Wolf stuff, one chord, and Bo Diddley. It was listening to them that made me realize that silence was the canvas. Filling it all in and speeding about all over the place was certainly not my game and it wasn't what I enjoyed listening to. With five strings you can be sparse; that's your frame, that's what you work on. "Start Me Up," "Can't You Hear Me Knocking," "Honky Tonk Women," all leave those gaps between the chords. That's what I think "Heartbreak Hotel" did to me. It was the first time I'd heard something so stark. I wasn't thinking like that in those days, but that's what hit me. It was the incredible depth, instead of everything being filled in with curlicues. To a kid of my age back then, it was startling. With the five-string it was just like turning a page; there's another story. And I'm still exploring. My man Waddy Wachtel, guitar player extraordinaire, interpreter of my musical gropings, ace up the sleeve of the X-Pensive Winos, has something to say on this topic. Take the floor, Wads.

Waddy Wachtel:

Keith and I come to the guitar with a very similar approach. It's funny. I sat with Don Everly one night, Don was a real drinker at that point, and I said, "Don, I've got to ask you something. I've known every song you guys have ever done"--that's why I got the job in their band; I know every vocal part, I know every guitar part--"except," I said, "there's something I've never understood on your first single, 'Bye Bye Love,' and that is the intro. What the fuck is that sound? Who's playing that guitar that starts that song?" And Don Everly goes, "Oh, that was just this G tuning that Bo Diddley showed me." And I went, "Excuse me, I'm sorry, what did you say?" And he had a guitar, so he's putting it in the open G tuning and he goes, "Yeah, it was me," and he plays it and I go, "Oh, my fucking word, that's it! It's you! It was you!" I remember when I discovered this weird tuning--as it seemed to me then--Keith had adopted. In the early '70s, I went to England with Linda Ronstadt. And we walked into Keith's house in London and there's this Strat sitting on a stand with five strings on it. And I'm like, "What happened to that thing? What's wrong with that?" And he goes, "That's my whole deal." What is? He goes, "The five-string! The five-string open G tuning." I went, "Open G tuning? Wait a minute, Don Everly told me about an open G tuning. You play open G tuning?" Because growing up and playing guitar, you're learning Stones songs to play in bars, but you know something's wrong, you're not playing them right, there's something missing. I'd never played any folk music. I didn't have that blues knowledge. So when he said that to me, I said, "Is that why I can't do it right? Let me see that thing." And it makes so many things so easy. Like "Can't You Hear Me Knocking." You can't play that unless it's in the tuning. It sounds absurd. And in the tuning, it's so simple. If you lower the first string, the highest string, one step, then the fifth is always ringing through everything, and that's creating that jangle. The inimitable sound, at least the way Keith plays it. Those two strings he travels up and down on, you can do a lot with them. We got on stage with the Winos one night and we're about to do "Before They Make Me Run," and he goes to do the intro and he starts to hit it and goes... "Argh, I don't know which one it is!" Because he has so many introductions that are all based on the same form. The B string and the G string. Or the B string and the D string. He just went, "Which one are we doing, man? I'm lost in a sea of intros." He's got so many of them, a whirling dervish of riffs, open G intros.

When I fell in with Gram Parsons in the summer of 1968, I struck a seam of music that I'm still developing, which widened the range of everything I was playing and writing. It also began an instant friendship that already seemed ancient the first time we sat down and talked. It was like a reunion with a long-lost brother for me, I suppose, never having had one. Gram was very, very special and I still miss him. Early that year he'd joined the Byrds, "Mr.Tambourine Man" and all that, but they'd just recorded their classic Sweetheart of the Rodeo, and it was Gram who had totally turned them around from a pop band into a country music band and expanded their whole being. That record, which bemused everybody at the time, turned out to be the incubator of country rock--a major influence. They were touring, on their way to South Africa, and I went to see them at Blaises Club. I expected to hear "Mr.Tambourine Man." But this was so different, and I went back to see them and met Gram. "Got anything?" was probably the first question he asked me, or the more discreet "Erm, anywhere, erm...?" "Sure, come back to..." I think we went back to Robert Fraser's to hang out, do some stuff. I was taking heroin by this time. He wasn't unfamiliar with it. "Doodgy" was his word for it. It was a musical friendship, but also there was a similar love of a similar substance. Gram certainly liked to get out of it--which made two of us at the time. He also, like me, liked to go for the highest quality --he had better coke than the Mafia, did Gram. Southern boy, very warm, very steady under the drugs, calm. He had a troubled background, a lot of Spanish moss and Garden of Good and Evil. At Fraser's that night we started to talk about South Africa, and Gram asked me, "What's this drift I'm getting since I got to England? When I say I'm going to South Africa, I get this cold stare." He was not aware of apartheid or anything. He'd never been out of the United States. So when I explained it to him, about apartheid and sanctions and nobody goes there, they're not being kind to the brothers, he said, "Oh, just like Mississippi?" And immediately, "Well, fuck that." He quit that night--he was supposed to leave the next day for South Africa. So I said, you can stay here, and we lived with Gram for months and months, certainly the rest of that summer of 1968, mostly at Redlands. Within a day or two I thought I'd known him all my life. There was an immediate recognition. What we could have done if we'd known each other earlier. We just sat around one night, and five nights later we were still sitting up talking and catching up on old times, which was five nights ago. And we played music without stopping. Sat around the piano or with guitars and just went through the country songbook. Plus some blues and a few ideas on top. Gram taught me country music--how it worked, the difference between the Bakersfield style and the Nashville style. He played it all on piano--Merle Haggard, "Sing Me Back Home," George Jones, Hank Williams. I learned the piano from Gram and started writing songs on it. Some of the seeds he planted in the country music area are still with me, which is why I can record a duet with George Jones with no compunction at all. I know I've had a good teacher in that area. Gram was my mate, and I wish he'd remained my mate for a lot longer. It's not often you can lie around on a bed with a guy having cold turkey in tandem and still get along. But that is a later story. Of the musicians I know personally (although Otis Redding, who I didn't know, fits this too), the two who had an attitude towards music that was the same as mine were Gram Parsons and John Lennon. And that was: whatever bag the business wants to put you in is immaterial; that's just a selling point, a tool that makes it easier. You're going to get chowed into this pocket or that pocket because it makes it easier for them to make charts up and figure out who's selling. But Gram and John were really pure musicians. All they liked was music, and then they got thrown into the game. And when that happens, you either start to go for it or you fight it. Some people don't even realize how the game works. And Gram was a bold man. This guy never had a hit record. Some good sellers, but nothing to point to, yet his influence is stronger now than ever. Basically, you wouldn't have had Waylon Jennings, you wouldn't have had all of that outlaw movement without Gram Parsons. He showed them a new approach, that country music isn't just this narrow thing that appeals to rednecks. He did it single-handed. He wasn't a crusader or anything like that. He loved country music, but he really didn't like the country music business and didn't think it should be angled just at Nashville. The music's bigger than that. It should touch everybody. Gram wrote great songs. "A Song for You," "Hickory Wind," "Thousand Dollar Wedding," great ideas. He could write you a song that came right round the corner and straight in the front, up the back, with a little curve on it. "I've been writing about a guy that builds cars." And then you listen to it and it's a story--"The New Soft Shoe." Written about Mr. Cord, innovative creator of the beautiful Cord automobile, built on his own dime and deliberately crushed out by the triumvirate of Ford, Chrysler and General Motors. Gram was a storyteller, but he also had this unique thing that I've never seen any other guy do: he could make bitches cry. Even hardened waitresses in the Palomino bar who'd heard it all. He could bring tears to their eyes and he could bring that melancholy yearning. Guys he could rub pretty hard too, but his effect on women was phenomenal. It wasn't boo-hoo, it was heartstrings. He had a unique hold on that particular string, the female heart. My feet were soaking from walking through tears. I remember well the trip with Mick and Marianne and Gram to Stonehenge under Chrissie Gibbs's leadership early one morning, a jaunt photographed by Michael Cooper. The pictures are also a record of the early days of my friendship with Gram. Gibby recalls it thus:

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