Rockers and Rollers: A Full-Throttle Memoir Read online

  ROCKERS

  AND

  ROLLERS

  A FULL-THROTTLE MEMOIR

  BRIAN JOHNSON

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1 - The Last Chapter: Reflecting on the end of the beginning

  Chapter 2 - Kids in Dunston: Exploring dangerous places

  Chapter 3 - The Driving Test: The harrowing adventures of the road test

  Chapter 4 - Tour Bus: Not your father’s tour bus story

  Chapter 5 - Rovers and Rollers: Dead or alive, you will be driven in style

  Chapter 6 - Cliff Williams: Occupation: World’s Best Rock 'n' Roll Bass Player

  Chapter 7 - Beauty and the Beast: If Hell were a vacation, this would be it

  Chapter 8 - The Hummer and The Schwarzenegger: AC/DC, an Austrian, a music video, and a rather large vehicle

  Chapter 9 - Lotus Cortina Mk1: How to crash your first race car

  Chapter 10 - From Bedfords to Bedknobs: Building a car with a headboard

  Chapter 11 - The Wolseley: My first love

  Chapter 12 - Grand National: The race that stopped a country

  Chapter 13 - The Bulldog and the Chick: When an old Brit shags a beautiful Italian

  Chapter 14 - The BSA Bantam: The opposite of a chick magnet

  Chapter 15 - A Lovely Story: How not to order room service

  Chapter 16 - The E-Type Penis Extension: Too hot to run

  Chapter 17 - The Pilbeam: A lot more tit for your bang

  Chapter 18 - TVR: Two seats and a shelf

  Chapter 19 - The Mini: The Beatles of cars

  Chapter 20 - Phil Rudd: Occupation: World’s Best Drummer

  Chapter 21 - Sebring: “Does Rose Kennedy have a black dress?”

  Chapter 22 - My Dad and Mam: Trying to repay a debt

  Chapter 23 - Popular: King of the road

  Chapter 24 - The Isle of Man: Escaping the tax man

  Chapter 25 - Reckless on the Airbus 320: “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Chapter 26 - Land Rover LR3: Cheering up Cliff

  Chapter 27 - Road Trip: Drive this

  Chapter 28 - Brendan Healey: Drinking fractionally

  Chapter 29 - Crackerjack: It all starts with the toys

  Chapter 30 - Take a Backseat: “Don’t be shy, your mother wasn’t.”

  Chapter 31 - The Phantom: The black velvet humpback whale

  Chapter 32 - My First Race Meet: Finding the Autodrome

  Chapter 33 - Austin A35: A smiling pregnant snail

  Chapter 34 - Malcolm Young: Occupation: World’s Greatest Riffmeister

  Chapter 35 - Günther: If a marine were on steroids and driving

  Chapter 36 - My Brother, Maurice: Car rats in arms

  Chapter 37 - Angus Young: Occupation: Devilish Imp Schoolboy Guitarist

  Chapter 38 - Cars and Music: You can’t have one without the other

  Chapter 39 - Tour Bus Tippy-Toe: Taking on the mentally challenged moral minority

  Chapter 40 - Marital Blues 1968: Riding shotgun

  Chapter 41 - Jerry Wexler (Rock in Peace): Rhythm and blues and Saabs

  Chapter 42 - Tour Bus II: “No shitting allowed. Shagging expected.”

  Chapter 43 - The Things You Do for Vans: Parachute jumping ain’t fun

  Chapter 44 - Car Porn: Make sure the door’s locked

  Chapter 45 - Lots of Trouble, Usually Serious: What L-O-T-U-S really stands for

  Chapter 46 - Paul Newman: Gentleman of the track

  Chapter 47 - Pimp My Ride Rant: Making beautiful cars awful

  Chapter 48 - Awesome Bill from Dawsonville: How moonshine made race cars

  Chapter 49 - The Greats: Are they drivers or gods?

  Chapter 50 - The Bounder Unleashed: Too huge to drive

  Chapter 51 - Moscow 1991: Playing the sound of freedom for a million people

  Chapter 52 - Alligator Alley: Home is where the alligators are

  Chapter 53 - Teacake: Handicapped cars are dangerous

  Chapter 54 - The Italian Job: Death and destruction

  Chapter 55 - La Dolce Vita: How Italy changes you

  Chapter 56 - Aston Martin Zagato: When a Renzo marries a Zagato

  Chapter 57 - Citroën DS: “Right, I’m up and I’m staying up until I get a shag.”

  Chapter 58 - Hurley Haywood: Keeping your head horizontal

  Chapter 59 - The Memphis Belle: The noise that will live with me forever

  Chapter 60 - Concorde: Sitting on top of Mount Vesuvius

  Chapter 61 - The Anal Intruder: The terrorizing of AC/DC

  Chapter 62 - Accident-prone: Unsafe driving

  Chapter 63 - James Dean: Were directors shagging him?

  Chapter 64 - Cars on Film: The movies that get it right

  Chapter 65 - Donald “Duck” Dunn: The Blues Brother

  Chapter 66 - Notes from the Front Line: Wilkes-Barre

  Chapter 67 - The Godfather of Music Transportation: The kind of car royalties get you

  Chapter 68 - Geordie Defty: Stilletoed shagger

  Chapter 69 - The Tyne Tunnel: She crosses her legs so you can’t get out

  Chapter 70 - Brands Hatch: Supergluing your ass to the wall

  Chapter 71 - Haggis: What happens when you microwave it

  Chapter 72 - The Biggest Winning Margin Ever: From Peking to Paris

  Chapter 73 - Notes from the Front Line: Minneapolis

  Chapter 74 - Scientologist Dave: A spooky fuck

  Chapter 75 - Harley-Davidson: What you find in Australia

  Chapter 76 - Notes from the Front Line: Toronto

  Chapter 77 - Derek “Deke” Rootham: Peeing in a pint glass

  Chapter 78 - David Whittaker: Tighter than a fish’s arse

  Chapter 79 - The Unreality of The Race: Why reality television sucks

  Chapter 80 - Geordie: Starting a band in a lousy year

  Chapter 81 - Fiat 500: A cautionary tale

  Chapter 82 - Jaguar 2.8 Mk2: Owning a car you can’t afford

  Chapter 83 - Windshields: A career born

  Chapter 84 - The Dog’s Dangly Bits: How to pass time on the road

  Chapter 85 - Lincoln Continental: Safe operating speed: 0

  Chapter 86 - The Benefits of Driving in France: Siamese twins walk into a pub

  Chapter 87 - Sexy French Cars: I’m-French-and-fuck-you attitude

  Chapter 88 - Porsche Twin Turbo: Smoking is dangerous for your car

  Chapter 89 - Historic Racing Machines: When it’s magic time

  Chapter 90 - Notes from the Front Line: Atlanta

  Chapter 91 - North-East Vinyls and AC/DC: The two career choices and what I chose

  Chapter 92 - The End: The end

  Photographic Insert

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The Last Chapter

  REFLECTING ON THE END OF THE BEGINNING

  As I finish writing this exercise in fun and self-indulgence, I can only think that we, the generations of people from the 1920s till now and probably the next thirty years, we are the ones who drove cars, real cars. We are the ones who rode in the steam and diesel trains; some of us were lucky enough to fly in Concorde, to listen to the growl of a V8 Chevy engine, the purr of a Ferrari. We are the ones who could watch cars and motorcycles racing against each other and not feel like criminals. We are the ones who could still get speeding tickets, impress girls with our cars first and penis engineering afterwards.

  Someone picking this up in 2050 might be being transported in God knows what, some grass-powered hybrid. We have be
en the lucky generations. And that’s why every new car, every turn of the ignition key, is a new baby to me. It’s what man’s made out of nature. It’s rock ’n’ roll.

  Do I like cars?!

  Chapter 2

  Kids in Dunston

  EXPLORING DANGEROUS PLACES

  When we were kids in Dunston, a former mining village just outside Newcastle on the banks of the River Tyne, there were places we were told not to go. And, of course, that’s where we went—basically, anywhere dangerous. The power station was definitely off-limits, because of the slag heaps, which held water and also created a form of quicksand. But in between the dangerous bits there were old army trucks and old railway carriages. The carriages, they were red and cream with wood linings inside and beautiful lamps over the tables. The seats were a red-patterned cloth with high backs and headrests. I was completely and utterly in love with both the trains and the trucks.

  I would ride my bike down there and climb into the cab of one of those old army three-tonners. Oh, the smell, I could never figure out what that smell was. But I ignored it and, just like at home, with my bed steering wheel, I’d drive, but this was real—this had pedals I couldn’t reach and a gearstick. My God, I was at Normandy, then North Africa, Anzio—a fearless driver getting the ammunition through to the front line. Then I’d run to the railway carriages and sit in them, yeah, just sit in them, because they were posh with a capital P. And there was that smell again: what the hell was that smell?

  Years and years later, I still remember that smell, and I think I’ve figured it out. It was the smell of sadness, of things that weren’t broken but had been left to rot, surplus to requirements. Ah, shit . . .

  * * *

  P.S.: It was also at this place, one Sunday afternoon, that about nine of us gathered, and one particular lad—who shall remain nameless—said his older brother had just shown him a new trick called wanking. He got out his tadger (for that is what we called our tadgers), and proceeded with two fingers to jerk it up and down. Oh, how we laughed. Then he said, “C’mon, everybody do it, or I’ll bash you up!” He was a tough guy. We all did it, none of us had an orgasm or anything near one—how can you, when you’re thinking of a three-ton Bedford army truck?

  Chapter 3

  The Driving Test

  THE HARROWING ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD TEST

  The driving test: the final frontier, the High Noon of exams. I was eighteen years old, and I enrolled at the British School of Motoring to prepare for it. I was to drive in a Morris 1100, the Alec Issigonis–designed car with a sideways mounted engine with an 1100-cc (or 1.1-liter) power plant. It was powder blue, unlike my instructor’s nose, which was end-of-cock purple. He had what I thought was a tiny mustache, but on closer inspection turned out to be nose hairs that looked like two hairy pussies side by side. His eyebrows were like a relief map of the Himalayas. They just went everywhere. He wore a three-quarter-length coat and a five-and-three-quarter-size trilby hat on his head. He was constantly blowing his nose and checking the contents of his handkerchief. He was as friendly as a male gorilla with nothing to shag! And lucky me had him all to myself for one whole hour.

  “Get in the vehicle.”

  Christ, “the vehicle”—what the hell?

  “You will address me as Mr. Mephistopheles at all times. You will follow my instructions and you will not deviate from them. You will not turn to face me when you are driving. You vill obey my orders at all times, and YOU VILL BE SHOT IF YOU GO OVER THIRTY MILES AN HOUR!”

  Now, he didn’t look German (well, not with those nose hairs). The lesson itself was a blur. All I remember is that he shouted a lot and said “No! No! No!” all the time. Basically, he was as bad at instructing as I was at driving. And I still had five more lessons.

  In between lessons, I read the driver’s bible—The Highway Code. You had to memorize every bloody thing in it, for the theory part of the test.

  After my sixth lesson, “Hair Face” turned to me and said, “You’ve no chance of passing your test.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you’re shite.”

  Ah, nothing like a gentle letdown! Of course, he was right. I sat the test and failed. And yup, it was the questions that I screwed up.

  Examiner: “Right, when should you never overtake?”

  Me: “Erm . . . on the brow of a hill.”

  Examiner: “I need two more.”

  Me: “Erm . . . on the brow of another hill?”

  He was not a humorous man and it all went downhill from there. Dejected and hurt, I sloped off home. I applied for another shot at it the next day. I suddenly realized what I had been doing wrong, twit that I was. At home, I had been practicing with a Ford Popular with its three gears and then spending only one hour a week in the more modern Morris 1100 with its four gears, so I never really got used to it. At that time, I was in my first band (The Gobi Desert Canoe Club). Our guitarist, Trevor Chance, had a four-gear Mini Minor, so I asked him if I could drive his car when we were having band practice and sit my test in it. He said yes, no problem, Brian—after I’d handed him some money.

  The upshot was that I sat my test six weeks later. The examiner was a nice guy. He told me we were going to Dunston to do the test—that was my own backyard. At the end, he said, “You’ve passed, Mr. Johnson. Well done!” I drove straight to the pub to celebrate.

  It was one of those days that your youth gobbles up, an achievement that youth deserves, and being young you drink it in like fine wine—a bit like losing your virginity. I know I’m waxing lyrical, but shit! You’d overcome machinery. You were “the man.” You were flying solo. You could go anywhere you wanted, on your own—all the things I’d dreamt of as a kid (though I was still a kid, really, at eighteen). I’ll bet there’s not one of you out there reading this who doesn’t remember that day, that feeling of freedom.

  Chapter 4

  Tour Bus

  NOT YOUR FATHER’S TOUR BUS STORY

  A tour bus is something every groupie wants to see the roof of and every male rock fan wants to see the inside of. They are amazing vehicles; the Americans make the best ones, and they’re called Prevost and are fabulously rock ’n’ roll. The British and European ones are crrrap! The English build the coachwork, so it’s, “Let’s make really small seats and make everyone feel as uncomfortable as possible.” The chassis are usually made by Volvo, Swedish by name, Swedish by nature. Dull. One big safety bollocks after another, with tremendous discomfort on top. It’s one of the few times in life you wanna drive American.

  The adventures on American buses are legend. Take, for instance, the time when one of our drivers was a devout born-again Christian, and we got ten gorgeous groupies to get down on all fours eating and sucking each other’s thingies all the way down the bus to the driving seat, and when the front girl unzipped his pants and gave him his first blow job, his first words were “Oh, my Lord!” Other truckers passing were honking horns and calling him on his CB. All ten girls gave oral communion to our Christian friend. He never called on the Lord again, but he did maintain a steady 70 mph. What a driver!