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November
Hello, Marlow here, Friend To The Stars, Enemy To The Truth
Over the next 20 years I will share
with you the thoughts of a bitter and somewhat twisted individual
who has spent the last 40 odd years trapped in a man's body with
little, if any, achievement to speak of.
Having spent many years in the shadows and backrooms of the music
industry, quietly observing the machinations of the famous and
talented whilst nicking fags from their coat pockets and selling
their property on EBay, I can as you will guess, give you a
glimpse of what Geddy, Alex and Neil are really like.
After that they've promised to let me out.
Don’t
Encourage Them
Firstly
let’s get a few preliminaries out of the way. For
heaven’s sake stop sending those Three Ponces next door
favourable reviews. Bloody Brantano An Insult To Rush. It’s
hard enough trying to think in here with them twats working on
twiddly bits and screaming like Barry Gibb in a rape scene
without you bastards encouraging them.
Look, they’re not bad. We know it, they know it, no need to
keep bloody telling them, ok?
"Imagine
a time... When it all began..."
My first recollections of meeting the guys who until recently I
have regarded among my greatest showbiz friends was in L.A in the
summer of '75.
Me, Bowie and Jagger were
kicking back and having a few beers in Mad Kenny’s All Night
Drinker, down town, when in walked a rather odd looking duo. Alex
still wasn’t convinced that the band was destined for
greatness and although they were in the middle of a heavy touring
schedule, he had purchased a weekly saver from Air Canada to go
back and work at his then day job delivering pizzas to some of
the more affluent suburbs of Toronto. Don’t forget in those
days pizzas were still regarded as a bit posh.
Anyway, I remember at the time not quite knowing what was going
off. As it transpired Geddy had just lost all
the royalties from ‘Fly by Night’
on a fruit machine in a nearby nightclub and was in a really bad
mood and Neil was completely out of it on
something. To add to the confusion a bloke in the snug, who I
later found out was John Rutsey,
kept coming in hurling abuse at the somewhat already pissed off Geddy
and the totally oblivious Mr Peart.
There was a bit of beer thrown at one point but Jagger
gave Rutsey a quick slap and Bowie
took the piss a bit, then stood on a table and did a hilarious
rendition of ‘Starman’. You should
have been there, classic. Anyway after a few more Buds
we all got talking and they told us about a new concept album
they were working on. Neil tried explaining to
us what a ‘Necromancer’ was, then
giggled a bit and fell back to sleep. Geddy
borrowed a tenner off Bowie (which I don’t
think he ever got back) and got a round in.
That was that - we were partners.
"It was long after
midnight ..."
Our second meeting was as bizarre and by chance as the first.
Me and Jagger had got completely pissed off with
Bowie dressing up like a girl and showing off,
so after sending him to the bar at the Viper Rooms we had quickly
‘done one’ to the airport. Knowing he would be in hot
pursuit we took the first available flight out which just
happened to be over to the ‘Big Apple.’
From JFK we took a taxi to the biggest celeb hang out in
Manhattan, ‘Uncle Sam’s Bar' on the corner of 53rd and
3rd. And fuck me but who do you think were the first people we
ran into…
Although the gaff was absolutely packed to the rafters with major
celebs, Geddy made a swiftish bee line for me
and immediately demanded his watch back.
He had, he said, put it on the table in Mad Kenny's with his
false teeth when the Rutsey thing had looked
like turning ugly, and I must have just picked it up without
thinking.
Now, many of you know Geddy‘s reputation as
a bare knuckle fighter, and I was franticly looking for an excuse
as it all started to go quiet and smelly around me.
Suddenly, Ged smiled, threw his arms around me
and gave me a kiss on the cheek - one of those that really hard
bastards do to each other, to prove they are completely
comfortable with their own sexuality and in no way gay, not even
a bit, nor have they ever thought about it, at all. Fuck me, he
thought he’d left without it in his drunken stupor and I had
come all that way to return it.
So instead of the considerable shoeing I was expecting at any
second, I had me beer bought all night and was welcomed open
armed into the crazy world of Rush.
Which was just as well, as within 10 minutes of getting there Jagger
had got off with this ropey looking Texan bird and was never seen
again. Apparently she had been trying to cop a
’portion’ off Geddy earlier but he
knocked her back 'cos he couldn’t understand a blind word
she was saying.
Anyway, several hours later we staggered together, blind
paralytic drunk, into the warm Manhattan small hours, hindered
only by a slightly irate David Hassellhoff,
waving his arms about and ranting on about some watch I had
promised to sell him. Neil staggered over and mumbled something
incoherent, and astonishingly, there was Alex.
He had been sacked by Pizza Express after an unfortunate seafood
calzone incident. Word travels fast in a town like Toronto, and
Alex found the doors to the fast-food industry now closed to him,
with no other option than to take his chances with Rush.
From then on we were inseparable, four of the most eligible
bastards on the planet and the world was ours.
My least favourite headache
All a far cry from the ill fated night in Sheffield three months
back, when, in the middle of a serious detox, I’d gone down
town for a few shandies.
There was a whisper going round the bar that there was a Rush
tribute band on at the Boardwalk; hysterical, I thought (which it
was).
As soon as the gig was over Pod, who had recognised me from the 'Signals'
Tourbook, invited me backstage for a diet coke and
a marmite sandwich.
The last memory I have as a free man was Pod on
his knees in front of me, crying and begging me to do him a
column, whilst I laughed uncontrollably and tried to explain the
quickest route back to reality.
After that, I felt the Vimto bottle round the
back of the head and the next thing I remember is waking up in
this shithole, with Pod standing over me, saying
“Tell me everything you know”.
For a fleeting moment I actually had a modicum of respect for the
man and his determination. However he quickly ruined that by
doing the pathetic ’little finger to the mouth’ routine
like Dr Evil in the Austin Powers
films.
So that’s where we’re at are boys and girls: Marlow,
the biggest face on the showbiz circuit, kidnapped, incarcerated
and forced to reveal the innermost secrets of his three best
mates in the world until those ponces decide otherwise or I
escape, the plan of which I will begin to formulate as soon as
the lump on the back of my head goes down and I can think
straight again.
When they turn the pages of
History...
In the meantime don’t think for one minute that life with Rush
was all pink Champagne and stunning birds. (in fact it was never
like that). Neil’s considerable appetite
for ‘non-over the counter items’ meant that for 98% of
the time he was incapable of normal conversation, which in turn
meant that something as mundane as going to the ice cream van was
a major fucking incident that would often end in disaster. Which
reminds me of the last night of the ‘Permanent
Waves’ tour.
We fled Brighton for Paris and then embarked on a bender the
likes of which had never been seen. The plan afterwards was to
fly over to London to start writing material for the next album.
However we were so out of it that someone decided it should be
left to Neil to see to the tickets.
We woke up the next day in the Belgian Congo with screaming big
hangovers and a very young Jimmy Nail in tow.
With seven hours to the next available flight we found ourselves
wandering around the streets of Kinshasa, which I can only
describe as what Mansfield would look like after being attacked
by someone who thought that nuclear weapons didn’t quite
make a strong enough point.
After 30 minutes of Little Jimmy's "whyaye,
man" bleatings, we were all relieved when Ged
gaffa taped his mouth up and dumped him in a taxi.
We were supposed to follow shortly but it was so bloody hot and Alex
was moaning about wanting an ice cream. With that we spent at
next three hours looking for an ice cream man who spoke English.
(You'll soon get the hang of how protective Geddy
was of Alex.) After finding a van manned by an
ex-pat unicyclist who was apparently on the run for something I
would rather not talk about, the following conversation ensued
...
Tune in next month for more tales from the road and a shocking revelation about the true meaning behind some of Neil's lyrics.
Marlow
None of this stuff is true. If you think any of
it is, you MUST phone NHS Direct immediately on 0845 46
47 and tell them you have gullibility issues.
Or bang your head again and again and again in a door.
