“So many tickets down the Scene, honey. They’re like to blow a fuse.”

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

We walked through the doors and up some steps but got stopped by the bouncers. I said, ‘We are invited by Keith,’ to which he replied, ‘Yeah and plenty of others. No tickets. No entry.’ A few minutes later Keith turned up. I told him that we were having trouble getting in. ‘Right’ he says, and goes and demands that the manager comes and speaks with him. The manager appeared and Keith explained that he had invited some friends down from London and the bouncers wouldn’t let them in, but there was still a no ticket, no entry type attitude. ‘Hmm,’ says Keith, ‘Have you ever seen The Who play without a drummer? I tell you they are bloody awful.’ By this time there’s a reasonable sized group that had gathered around us, all listening to what was going on. The manager seeing this eventually gives in and says it’s okay for Keith’s friends to go inside. To this Keith turns to the crowd and shouts out ‘the manager says that any of my friends that don’t have tickets can go in. Who doesn’t have tickets?’

black music played by white, working class, bad skin bastards

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People might say, "Well, there's no more Knickerbockers, there's no more Count Five and there's no more Hombres, and there's no more Standells out there." Yeah, but there may be a bunch of people who can give you the same emotional feeling if you spent the time on a Tuesday night to go to the clubs and hear music, you'll see. It's still out there. You have to find it again, because you can only recycle these stories so many times; you can only reissue these songs so many times, and eventually everybody's gonna have these records in their homes. You're going to have all the versions of all this stuff on bootlegs and tape and vinyl. After a while though, you're kid's gonna eat them, you're dog's gonna shit on them and your second wife will throw them out. So why don't you guys go form your own bands, or why don't you go find some and then you'll find some dirty bitches and get laid and you'll have a good time.

People had simply never heard music that would let them rip like that

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He stayed with Giorgio and Enid, and one day they came home and heard this terrible noise. It was Sonny Boy plucking a live chicken in the bath. Another time, Sonny Boy turned up for a gig at the Marquee, and he'd bought himself a bastardized version of a Savile Row suit in grey and black two-tone. He'd also bought a bowler hat and umbrella. I think he thought that with this disguise he would fit into English society - he'd obviously never fitted into American society. He also bought an imitation crocodile briefcase, in which would be nothing except harmonicas and a bottle of whisky, an idea which Keith copied. His harmonica playing didn't influence Keith that much, just the briefcase and Scotch. He would always call us his "boys", and after a particularly good night would even shed a tear. If we played in London we'd meet in the Ship in Wardour Street, and after a while this sixteen-year-old Irish girl started to appear with Sonny Boy. Sonny Boy had this thing about prostitutes; whether she was actually servicing him I doubt, as he was probably beyond active service as we know it; I think she just helped to promote his star image. No wonder he broke down and wept when his visa ran out.