This little exercise came about as an explanation for a Facebook post that sort of left people hanging. As a result of a YouTube video, I thought I'd finally determined the real reason why Deep Purple wouldn't take the stage at William and Mary Hall back in 1971 on the "Fireball" tour. We were told it was because the sound system was so bad, and yes, it was horrible. But I never lost the idea that was more to the story . . .
So, it was Saturday, October 23, 1971. At the time, “The French Connection” was still playing in theaters, Rod was lamenting his tumultuous relationship with Maggie May, and it would be another 8 months before George Gordon Battle Liddy and the rest of his fellow plumbers would break into the DNC Headquarters.
We had tickets to see Deep Purple
and made it to William and Mary Hall in plenty of time. The story is pretty
simple at first - the sound system was horrible, Christine McVie complained
about it, and Deep Purple said "Forget it, we ain't playing."
I can tell you that all that
"peace and love" stuff went straight down the drain when the poor guy
told the crowd it was over. A considerable amount of damage was done to the
place that night. For our part, we walked around, cussed, and left after a few
minutes. The one image I still have is some guy so stoned and angry that he
tried to throw a chair and somehow threw himself instead.
Well, we figured the only thing left
to do was head over to the dorms and listen to some music there from the local
bands.
Funny thing happened. After a few minutes at the first dorm, some of the other guys left before we did. A little while later, I had reached the landing at the top of the
entry stairs of the second dorm and was heading for the stairs that took you
down to the basement rec hall when I saw Ronnie, our keyboardist, flying up
toward me – and I mean flying . . .
Ronnie was wearing one those ridiculous looking (now) leather jackets with the fringe everywhere and hair nearly long enough to sit on. All of it seemed to be extended in a straight line behind him, like he was running 182 miles an hour. In that first instant, I looked at him and then behind him, pretty much expecting some college dude to be chasing him because Ronnie tried to steal his girlfriend. I thought, okay, Ronnie can’t fight his way out of a recliner, so I may have to step up. Gladly, because I wasn't much of a fighter either, nobody was behind him except Tony, a hanger-on of sorts with the band and he was just slowly climbing the steps. But Ronnie, with his eyes about the same diameter as his John Lennon glasses, made it to the top of the stairs, took one step to the right and fell back against the wall.
Me, with incisive logic, trying to determine what this was all about, said “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Right to the point, that’s me.
“Jon Lord is down there.”
Ronnie was wearing one those ridiculous looking (now) leather jackets with the fringe everywhere and hair nearly long enough to sit on. All of it seemed to be extended in a straight line behind him, like he was running 182 miles an hour. In that first instant, I looked at him and then behind him, pretty much expecting some college dude to be chasing him because Ronnie tried to steal his girlfriend. I thought, okay, Ronnie can’t fight his way out of a recliner, so I may have to step up. Gladly, because I wasn't much of a fighter either, nobody was behind him except Tony, a hanger-on of sorts with the band and he was just slowly climbing the steps. But Ronnie, with his eyes about the same diameter as his John Lennon glasses, made it to the top of the stairs, took one step to the right and fell back against the wall.
Me, with incisive logic, trying to determine what this was all about, said “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Right to the point, that’s me.
“Jon Lord is down there.”
I don’t know what kind of
punctuation to use at the end of that quote, because Ronnie sounded like he’d
just seen the keyboard player for Deep Purple . . .
“What?”
“What?”
“Jon Lord is down there!”
“What? Nooo . .”
Jon Lord was down there.
“What? Nooo . .”
Jon Lord was down there.
So was Roger Glover. But I thought he might have been Ritchie
Blackmore. I asked him if he was and he sort of nodded his head and made some
kind of sound, maybe like what you'd hear if Johnny Cash was moaning from the bottom of a swimming
pool full of Jello. I’ve seen people
stoned before. Roger made them all look
like amateurs.
Yep, sure enough. We were standing with two members of a rock
band so big that Fleetwood Mac opened for them.
I remember it being a little hard to
talk, mostly because you had to scream to do it, what with Barry Scott and his
crew in the “background” torching out a familiar tune by – Surprise! -
Deep Purple.
Deep Purple.
I asked Jon if he would come outside. He agreed, so up the stairs we went and had
about a 10-minute conversation. Jon and
I did about 90% of it. The other guys
seemed at a loss to say anything. I don’t
know why. Something about the guy being
famous, I guess. Jon talked about the
hardships of touring, how they were glad if they had as much as $100.00 in
their pockets when they got home after it all.
And yeah, he specifically said one hundred dollars, not pounds. He said the next time they’d bring their own
equipment. Then it was time to go back
downstairs.
Somewhere in all this, I think
before we went upstairs, Ronnie managed to ask Jon if he could “bum a
cigarette.”
Yeah. Like he’d ever see him again to pay it back.
I was kind of surprised because all this time
my friend had been looking like he was up next for a rectal exam at the
recruitment center. Ronnie was never
emotionally robust. I’d seen him literally go into convulsions when he was
badly frightened. And it was obvious he
was having a difficult time processing what was happening. No matter, he got it done.
So Jon gives him his last cigarette, a Dunhill. Somehow I wound up with the empty box. Long since lost, I have no idea what I did with it. I showed it to my Mom and she asked me where the autograph was. What? Autograph? Seriously? I didn’t ask for one. Never have. I’ve met maybe a dozen famous people. None of them ever asked me for my autograph. I really have no idea why people do that. Yet I have an autographed engagement bill from Garrison Keillor that I treasure. The roommie got it for me when he drove for him a few years ago. It would never occur to me to ask Mr. Keillor for his autograph, yet I treasure having it. Weird, hunh?
So Jon gives him his last cigarette, a Dunhill. Somehow I wound up with the empty box. Long since lost, I have no idea what I did with it. I showed it to my Mom and she asked me where the autograph was. What? Autograph? Seriously? I didn’t ask for one. Never have. I’ve met maybe a dozen famous people. None of them ever asked me for my autograph. I really have no idea why people do that. Yet I have an autographed engagement bill from Garrison Keillor that I treasure. The roommie got it for me when he drove for him a few years ago. It would never occur to me to ask Mr. Keillor for his autograph, yet I treasure having it. Weird, hunh?
How did I get on that?
So anyway, Ronnie has managed to take away the last cigarette of probably the biggest rock keyboard player on the planet and is ready to light up.
So anyway, Ronnie has managed to take away the last cigarette of probably the biggest rock keyboard player on the planet and is ready to light up.
Except he doesn’t have a lighter, either.
The Weird-o-Meter has just registered an upward tick with this latest development. Ronnie is standing there now with the fingers of his right hand curled up and his thumb pumping up and down like he’s trying to wear out a Bic pen. Not only does he have the last cigarette of the biggest rock keyboard player on the planet, now he’s asking for his lighter. I’m beginning to register feelings of mild disbelief. And then there’s Roger.
Ever since his incoherent yet seemingly affirmative mumble when I asked him if he was Ritchie Blackmore, I was largely convinced that Mr. Glover would have had a difficult time telling you the first and last letters of his name. Evidently I underestimated this stoned out Rickmeister, because he floats into the scene like he materialized out of a dark cloud that’s been hovering on the outskirts of the action and he’s holding a lighter in his right hand. Amazing. Where’d he come from?
What comes next is, except for the story of Kevin Force, easily the most offbeat thing I’ve ever experienced.
Roger has his plectrum hand out and now a flame is emanating from the lighter. With long hair and highly flammable clothing everywhere, he is in full control of his motion as he brings the lighter into proximity with the cigarette which is now precariously retained between Ronnie’s lips. It was one of those scenes that, in the moment it is occurring, you know you will remember for the rest of your life. I’m convinced that the only reason the cigarette wasn’t lying somewhere on the floor was because Ronnie’s lips were so dry and sticky that the paper of the filter was glued to them. This makes more sense when you picture the end of that cigarette travelling up and down like it was the end of a seismometer needle during the Good Friday earthquake. Closer and closer the lighter gets.
Until Ronnie blows it out.
He’s so close to a complete nervous fit that his breathing has him close to hyperventilating, and a blast of carbon dioxide extinguishes the lighter.
Did I mention the guy holding it was the bass player in one of the biggest rock bands on the planet?
The Weird-o-Meter has just registered an upward tick with this latest development. Ronnie is standing there now with the fingers of his right hand curled up and his thumb pumping up and down like he’s trying to wear out a Bic pen. Not only does he have the last cigarette of the biggest rock keyboard player on the planet, now he’s asking for his lighter. I’m beginning to register feelings of mild disbelief. And then there’s Roger.
Ever since his incoherent yet seemingly affirmative mumble when I asked him if he was Ritchie Blackmore, I was largely convinced that Mr. Glover would have had a difficult time telling you the first and last letters of his name. Evidently I underestimated this stoned out Rickmeister, because he floats into the scene like he materialized out of a dark cloud that’s been hovering on the outskirts of the action and he’s holding a lighter in his right hand. Amazing. Where’d he come from?
What comes next is, except for the story of Kevin Force, easily the most offbeat thing I’ve ever experienced.
Roger has his plectrum hand out and now a flame is emanating from the lighter. With long hair and highly flammable clothing everywhere, he is in full control of his motion as he brings the lighter into proximity with the cigarette which is now precariously retained between Ronnie’s lips. It was one of those scenes that, in the moment it is occurring, you know you will remember for the rest of your life. I’m convinced that the only reason the cigarette wasn’t lying somewhere on the floor was because Ronnie’s lips were so dry and sticky that the paper of the filter was glued to them. This makes more sense when you picture the end of that cigarette travelling up and down like it was the end of a seismometer needle during the Good Friday earthquake. Closer and closer the lighter gets.
Until Ronnie blows it out.
He’s so close to a complete nervous fit that his breathing has him close to hyperventilating, and a blast of carbon dioxide extinguishes the lighter.
Did I mention the guy holding it was the bass player in one of the biggest rock bands on the planet?
I’ve reached the point of
mesmerization. I don’t know if face-palming
had been invented yet, but if I could have torn my eyes away from what I had just
seen, I’d have probably indulged. It has
almost completely sunk in that I am standing within 3 feet of two staggeringly
well-known musicians, men around whom my entire world revolved, and my friend
has just blown out one of their lighters.
This cannot be happening . . .
This cannot be happening . . .
Roger, though, he’s cool. No big deal.
Merely another thumb stroke, and the fire to enable nicotine
satisfaction once more emanates from the famous fist. Closer and closer, carefully as to not
accidentally ignite that long hair on my buddy’s head.
There was no need to worry.
There was no need to worry.
Ronnie blew it out again.
This just cannot be happening . . .
I am frozen in concentration. The entire planet I am standing on has, in the last 13 seconds, silently collapsed into a space roughly the size of a small walk-in freezer. I know, unconsciously, that what I am witnessing will be the subject of a story I will repeat numerous times, and I am recording it with a precision that would make an IMAX film look like a crayon drawing.
As simple, unremarkable, and yet totally bizarre as this whole thing has been so far, the exciting climax is yet to come. Whereas other bassists might have just put their lighters back in their pockets, grabbed the nearest groupie, and headed off for another toke, Roger Glover, bassist for Deep Purple, with his trademark tri-corner hat reaches out again.
I am frozen in concentration. The entire planet I am standing on has, in the last 13 seconds, silently collapsed into a space roughly the size of a small walk-in freezer. I know, unconsciously, that what I am witnessing will be the subject of a story I will repeat numerous times, and I am recording it with a precision that would make an IMAX film look like a crayon drawing.
As simple, unremarkable, and yet totally bizarre as this whole thing has been so far, the exciting climax is yet to come. Whereas other bassists might have just put their lighters back in their pockets, grabbed the nearest groupie, and headed off for another toke, Roger Glover, bassist for Deep Purple, with his trademark tri-corner hat reaches out again.
This time with two hands.
No, really. I swear I am not making this up.
His left rises up and deftly catches
the end of the still-wildly-oscillating cigarette between thumb and forefinger,
right thumb then spinning the spark wheel and depressing the gas flow lever for
the third time. The cigarette is now
motionless, the lighter and its flame confidently arriving at its
terminus. Ronnie full, I’m sure, of
relief, gratitude, and probably no real desire for a cigarette at all by this
point, manages to inhale long enough to sustain the burn. All of this has transpired in roughly 20
seconds. Mission accomplished, Roger
seemed to dissolve back into darkness. It
was to be the next year when I figured out he wasn’t Ritchie Blackmore.
I have but one other memory of that
encounter. As hilarious and weird as
everything might have been up to this point, this other memory is one I
treasure with deep feelings of wonder and regret.
We had said our goodbyes, I
reluctantly, because I knew something had occurred that would never see any
form of repeat. I knew as well as I
could know any such thing that I would never say hello to either of these men
again. I would never get the chance to
see if either of them remembered the night, although I tried hard to do so a
number of years ago when the current Deep Purple iteration came to town. It just didn’t work out.
We had made it away from the dorm building when something occurred to me. I told the rest of the guys to wait for me, and ran back to the dorm and down the stairs. To see Jon again.
“I forgot! It’s customary here for friends to ask each other if they’d like to get high.”
I was asking the keyboard player for Deep Purple, a classically trained organist who managed to become the best friend of one of the most difficult and mercurial guitarists in the world, to join us for a smoke.
What I still remember, and even feel, are those hands, attached to what felt like enormously powerful arms, come up to press my shoulders between them. A smile broke out on that unique British face.
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough tonight!”
We had made it away from the dorm building when something occurred to me. I told the rest of the guys to wait for me, and ran back to the dorm and down the stairs. To see Jon again.
“I forgot! It’s customary here for friends to ask each other if they’d like to get high.”
I was asking the keyboard player for Deep Purple, a classically trained organist who managed to become the best friend of one of the most difficult and mercurial guitarists in the world, to join us for a smoke.
What I still remember, and even feel, are those hands, attached to what felt like enormously powerful arms, come up to press my shoulders between them. A smile broke out on that unique British face.
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough tonight!”
I knew he was politely declining,
thinking my invitation unwisely accepted. I wasn’t bothered by his
declination. But I had to ask . .
In fulfillment of my expectation, John Douglas Lord died on July 16, 2012. I mentioned the wonder of that night. The odds that the circumstances would exist that would lead me to meet these two men that I adored seem astronomical. But then, isn’t that the way with virtually everything we experience?
And the regret. The regret that I never had the chance to get to know either of them beyond that brief encounter, especially Jon. He was accessible, easy to be around, and apparently possessed with a gentle spirit and a good sense of humor. Roger was more like me, preferring a distance and comfortable with merely disappearing when he felt his role was filled. We’d be the friends that wouldn’t see each other for years and think it perfectly normal.
We drove home that night a little elated at the events – at least until we got to the old James River Bridge. Measuring, I’m convinced, about 4 feet, 2 and 3/16 inches wide, that bridge was a curse. I can’t remember if the 90 cent toll was still in place at the time, but if it was, it leant a new meaning to highway robbery. Coming down off the excitement and the marijuana, I drove a steady 25 m.p.h. right down the middle of the road, moving fully into the right lane only once when a car approached from the opposite direction. No one ever came up behind. We were all afraid the whole thing was going to collapse around us.
We never really bought the idea that it was just the sound system that kept Purple off the stage that night. We had brought it up with Jon in our outdoor conversation, but he largely passed over the whole thing as if it were a given that the PA was the only reason for their refusal. We let it go at that, of course, but in the years that followed we’d bring it up every now and then.
In fulfillment of my expectation, John Douglas Lord died on July 16, 2012. I mentioned the wonder of that night. The odds that the circumstances would exist that would lead me to meet these two men that I adored seem astronomical. But then, isn’t that the way with virtually everything we experience?
And the regret. The regret that I never had the chance to get to know either of them beyond that brief encounter, especially Jon. He was accessible, easy to be around, and apparently possessed with a gentle spirit and a good sense of humor. Roger was more like me, preferring a distance and comfortable with merely disappearing when he felt his role was filled. We’d be the friends that wouldn’t see each other for years and think it perfectly normal.
We drove home that night a little elated at the events – at least until we got to the old James River Bridge. Measuring, I’m convinced, about 4 feet, 2 and 3/16 inches wide, that bridge was a curse. I can’t remember if the 90 cent toll was still in place at the time, but if it was, it leant a new meaning to highway robbery. Coming down off the excitement and the marijuana, I drove a steady 25 m.p.h. right down the middle of the road, moving fully into the right lane only once when a car approached from the opposite direction. No one ever came up behind. We were all afraid the whole thing was going to collapse around us.
We never really bought the idea that it was just the sound system that kept Purple off the stage that night. We had brought it up with Jon in our outdoor conversation, but he largely passed over the whole thing as if it were a given that the PA was the only reason for their refusal. We let it go at that, of course, but in the years that followed we’d bring it up every now and then.
Ronnie had the most interesting
conspiracy theory. He thought it
possible that Ian Gillan was in Norfolk.
I’m confident all of you remember Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Jesus
Christ Superstar.” What you would be
forgiven for not knowing was that on its original recording, Ian sang the lead
role.
Guess what was playing in Norfolk that night.
A few years ago on the Web, I found a reproduction of an obscure periodical produced at William and Mary. I’ve been unable to locate it again. It told about the aborted performance on the night of October 23rd, and it mentioned one tantalizing item that I knew nothing of, and about which I was never able to learn anything else until early this morning – that Ritchie Blackmore had been hospitalized right around the time of the concert.
Guess what was playing in Norfolk that night.
A few years ago on the Web, I found a reproduction of an obscure periodical produced at William and Mary. I’ve been unable to locate it again. It told about the aborted performance on the night of October 23rd, and it mentioned one tantalizing item that I knew nothing of, and about which I was never able to learn anything else until early this morning – that Ritchie Blackmore had been hospitalized right around the time of the concert.
What was known for certain was that
the next night, the band played in the Auditorium Theatre in Chicago – without Ian. He had contracted hepatitis, and the
remaining American shows were postponed until January. (None of us really thought he was in Norfolk
the previous night!)
That leaves Ritchie’s whereabouts on the 23rd. He was in Chicago on stage the next night, after all. But was he there at William and Mary Hall?
That leaves Ritchie’s whereabouts on the 23rd. He was in Chicago on stage the next night, after all. But was he there at William and Mary Hall?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RaAcCsHNGec
I’m not absolutely convinced Ritchie’s hospitalization occurred that same day or night, but I have that feeling you get when you just know . . .
