by Rod Stewart
378 pages, Century
Review
by Pat Black
If
you’ve been to a big football match in Scotland in the past thirty-five years,
the chances are Rod Stewart was there, too. Rod was born in London during the
Blitz, but his father was Scottish, and the old Stewart clan ties are strong:
Rod can’t keep away from all things Caledonian.
When
it comes to matey, blokey stuff like going to watch the football, getting bladdered
and having a big song-song later, Rod’s cornered the market. And if Rod appeals
to the blokes, well, he has been known to appeal to the ladies as well.
One
thing’s for sure; back in the day, if a blonde, long-legged lady should stroll
across Rod’s path, the football and the pranks and the gruff manly laughter
would go in the bin, and he’d be off after her.
This
curious mix of rough n’ ready, matey larks and his at times pathological
adoration and pursuit of women is apparent in this autobiography, a leisurely
jaunt through Rod’s life and times from a long-haired Carnaby Street wannabe in
the early 60s to the stadium tours and elephantine record sales of today.
The
elements are all there; the youngest of five, Rod benefited from the tough love
and camaraderie of his father and older brothers, desperate to join them on the
football pitch. He doesn’t quite mention his older sisters having so much of an
influence, but I would bet that they did. Image and appearance was important
for Rod, even before the singing.
As
he grew and the 1960s started getting into gear, Rod turned into a bit of a
scenester. He discovered Dylan, went “hippy” and joined ban-the-bomb marches
(it’s on one of these foetid camp-outs that he met the lady who would inspire
Maggie May), eschewing soap and water simply to fit in. Then he went the
opposite direction, going all Mod – smart as a new pin, fabulous shoes, Savile
Row suits, the lot. And don’t forget the hair.
It’s
during this period that British bluesman Long John Baldry discovered him
playing the mouth organ at a London train station late at night, and gave him a
spot as backing singer in his band. Just like that, Rod was on his way.
When
I was a kid, playing my guitar and wanting to start bands and what have you –
so terribly serious about it all! – it frustrated me that I didn’t have time to
practise as much as I’d like; to “get good”, as Bill and Ted would put it.
Knowing what I know now about certain major recording artists – the Beatles,
and Rod, here – it would seem that these guys were exactly the same. The
difference was, they got out there and got into it, they learned on the job and
made their mistakes as they went along, instead of sitting in bedrooms,
fretting over the most complicated chord changes in the book.
It’s
long been stated that the John Lennon of skiffle band days in his teens did not
actually know how to play the guitar. Ignoring the not inconsiderable question
of his natural talent, which I completely lack, it seems that Rod, similarly,
didn’t know what he was doing when he started. He had a mouth organ and could
blow a few notes, but he couldn’t suck any… No-one had told the young Rod how
to play the instrument properly. But he bluffed it out and got away with it.
What an absolute chancer!
But
still, he wasn’t just mouth and trousers. Rod has a voice – one of the most
distinctive in the world, a natural gift that he used to the full. It’s this,
as well as large dollops of charm and chutzpah, that allowed him to ease into
other bands after adventures on the road with Long John Baldry. His big break
came with another very serious man with a guitar, Jeff Beck. There are many
laughs to be had when, after playing breakthrough shows in the States with The
Jeff Beck Group, people would come over to Rod and go, “Great show, Jeff!” One
hardly has to imagine Beck’s scowl.
But
it was with a less serious man with a guitar that Rod formed a lasting bond.
Ronnie Wood and Rod formed the Faces with the remnants of the Small Faces (I
always wanted to start a covers band of the latter called the Small Faeces, but
sadly this never came to fruition). These two formed an intense fraternity that
continues today. Even before playing music together, they started off admiring
each other’s clothes and hair in clubs. Even consider the names – Ron and Rod.
They’re comic strip characters, a pair of ragamuffin brothers always getting
into scrapes.
They
are very similar in appearance, apart from the colour of their hair – the
cheekbones, haircuts, twinkly eyes and, of course, gigantic beaks. Their
affinity has echoes of the mirror of Narcissus. There’s a touching moment where
Rod admits that they used to do each other’s barnets, each trusting the other
implicitly to ensure they were perfectly groomed before concerts. Although the
pair were notorious pranksters, and the opportunity for lifetime-lasting
pre-show humiliation was available here at a shake of the scissors, they were
deadly serious about making each other’s hair look as beautiful as possible. It
puts me in mind of a documentary I saw about veteran British rockers Status
Quo, where frontmen Rick Parfitt and Francis Rossi had a ritual of getting
ready at the same time; they moved in tandem, mirroring each other
unconsciously, even down to the number of brush strokes they would put through
their hair, perfectly in time.
Anyone
scrambling for a homoerotic subtext to this closeness misses out on the idea of
comradeship and brotherly love. But it’s true that Stewart, in some of his
outfit choices if not his demeanour, was as fey as Jagger in his time. Again,
alongside the earthy charm, there’s a sensitive, vain, almost effeminate side,
a curious blend that was irresistible to women.
What
I will say is that there’s only one moment of pure jealousy Rod admits to in
this book, and that’s when he confronts Mick Jagger at a nightclub. “Are you
going to steal Ronnie Wood for the Rolling Stones?” “I’d never do a thing like
that,” Jagger replies, without blushing.
As
well as the singing and football, Rod is famous for bonking. While he may
cringe a little at the sight of his bum bobbling around for the video to Do Ya
Think I’m Sexy, he is less embarrassed about it bobbling around the world in
service of any number of blondes. Whether it was on the road with the Faces, or
during his rise to megastardom as a solo artist, Rod is candid that there
followed “scenes of a sexual nature”.
Rod’s
long-term love affairs were intense, and he went to great lengths to charm the
pants off his quarries, no matter what time or expense was involved. It must
have been astonishing for these ladies in question, whether they were famous or
not; imagine a rock star, sending dozens of red roses wherever you go, jumping
in a private jet at the drop of a hat, hiring yachts in the tropics for weekend
breaks. It must have been hard to resist, and indeed it was. Not many escaped
Rod’s rod in the 1970s.
And
yet, for all the book is rich and ribald in its details of his picaresque lifestyle,
Rod’s behaviour was sometimes appalling. No sooner had he got what he wanted
(including Britt Ekland), it seems that the younger Rod’s eye drifted
immediately – even after babies were born to some of his partners.
This,
then, is the true insight into the world of the rich, famous and powerful rock
star: do what thou wilt.
Rod
would think very little of leaving the missus back home in London and going on
little adventures to far-flung places including Australia and New York, picking
up models he was obsessed with, shagging them, being caught in the press, and
then going home to “face the music”. In one memorable episode, Rod tries to
separate himself and his paramour on a Concorde flight in order to avoid a
stramash with the paparazzi on his return to London, only to turn around and
see that the girl was sat beside Rupert Murdoch. Nae luck!
He
does accept that this behaviour was indefensible and must have caused intense
psychological pain. A dalliance with Kelly Le Brock almost under the very nose
of Kelly Emberg is particularly breathtaking. Later, when he admits to cheating
on his pregnant partner, he admits: “This was the behaviour of an arsehole.”
That
said, Rod does write one of the all-time great love letters, in the form of a
telegram dispatched to Britt Ekland, composed when he was feeling lonely while
she was filming abroad. “I’m fed up pulling me plonker. Please come home.”
In
the late 80s and early in 1990, a newly single Rod’s behaviour tallied with
that of the court of Caligula. When shooting the video for It Takes Two in
Cannes with Tina Turner, Rod hired out a villa and had a “long hot summer”,
where basically his mate and himself would make phone calls and bring out
whatever model they fancied. Details are not gone into, but are easy to
imagine.
The
drugs admissions are there, too – Rod liked cocaine. It’s almost a shame to put
Rod’s superb nasal instrument to waste in this regard, but after Ronnie Wood
showed him clear daylight coming through his septum one afternoon, the pair
followed the “French method” of taking cocaine – rectally. Rod says he doesn’t
do that sort of thing anymore, but there is a weird section where he details
getting a bit silly with steroids, in order to protect his voice, which would
fail him on several alarming occasions later in his career. It’s hard to
imagine a ‘roid raging Rod Stewart, but he assures us it all happened.
We
all slow down a bit – even Rod. Well into his forties, he became obsessed with
Rachel Hunter, a 21-year-old Kiwi model who ticked all his boxes (long legs,
blonde). After a four-month romance, the pair were married in December 1990.
For the first time, Rod was properly serious; he wanted the kids and family
thing. He says he was never unfaithful to her.
And
yet Rachel Hunter did the unthinkable. After eight years of marriage, and
bearing him a couple of children into the bargain, she left him.
This
was the great tragedy of his life, and had probably never happened to him
before. Here, at last, the horror of the broken heart that he used to sing
about so beautifully. We are treated to the incredible image of Rod Stewart
reading self-help books, going for therapy and lying on the couch watching
daytime TV in his big empty house in Los Angeles, a hot water bottle clutched
to his chest, listless and devastated.
Rod’s
since found wedded bliss, and even more children, with Penny Lancaster, another
lady with very familiar attributes. A cancer scare came and went for Rod, which
he seems to have ridden out with his usual immense good fortune. A malignant
tumour on his thyroid was completely cleared up through surgery within weeks of
discovery without need for chemotherapy, thus preserving his sacred locks, and
sparing him his voice. The book strikes a fine note to finish on, looking
forward to another year of touring and recording, as well as some big football games
coming up. On top of this, there’s an over-arching feeling of well-being and
gratitude for Penny and all the children he has in his life. So far, so good,
eh?
The
book’s style has that same twinkle and up-for-a-carry-on swagger which charmed
millions of people on the stage. The “Digression” chapters were among the best,
in particular the ones detailing his obsession with model railways (which he shares
with Neil Young, the subject of the next entry in this series), fast cars (he
had to help one fellow steal his Porsche after the thief couldn’t get it
started) and of course football. In the latter I learned for the first time
that Rod was on the pitch at Wembley with the Tartan Army after Scotland beat
England 2-1 in the Lion’s den – the famous day when fair Caledonia’s fans
invaded the sacred turf and tore down the goalposts, an iconic punk rock moment
in the summer of 1977. There’s an incredible photo of Rod being carried
shoulder-high on the Wembley pitch. He says that when he rejoined his father in
the stands, he discovered that his Cartier watch was missing. But once the
story got to the press, the watch turned up in the post, unharmed.
This
is probably one of the best rock star autobiographies I’ve ever read, and
doesn’t seem to have been ghosted. Although his editor, the journalist Giles
Smith, was possibly a factor in the flow of the prose, the voice is
unmistakably Rod's. Whether you’re a fan, insatiably curious, or even if you
simply want to be shocked at the antics of a rock star in his pomp, this is
well worth a read.
In
these days of easy-access online music and more and more diffuse musical
platforms, is this a story of a fading era? It’s quite telling that there are
comparatively few modern band-based male megastars in the music world. In Rod’s
day, he was vying with his pal Elton John and David Bowie, as well as bands
like Queen, the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, the Who… That sense of rock
royalty, the old stagers of white boy British rock and their unlimited excess,
appears to have gone. It’s telling that these dinosaurs are mostly still here,
in rude health into their late sixties and seventies, still at the top. Who is
the next Rod Stewart - Michael Buble? Bruno Mars?
Rock
star behaviour will never go out of fashion, though. As Rod says: if you were a
millionaire, world famous, with women falling at your feet wherever you go,
would you behave any differently? A very serious question.
I’d
add a rhetorical one: have you ever wished it was you?
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