A Stray Cat Struts (14 page)

So I was sitting at a roulette table in a casino on the Mediterranean Sea with my movie star wife next to me and over $10,000 in chips in front of me. We had hit a couple of other times with different numbers, and it was looking good. The real trick is to quit while you're ahead. Everybody knows this, but very few pull it off. The long and short of it is that we sat there for another hour or so too long, tried to hit big again, bet too much on the spins, and gave back all the winnings plus any money we had brought with us. I asked the casino manager to borrow the equivalent of ten dollars for the taxi fare back to the hotel. He lent me the money in exchange for my promise to come back the next day to pay him back. I agreed.

Britt and I sat in the taxi on the way back to the hotel talking about where we went wrong with certain bets and that maybe we should've quit while we were ahead—$10,000 or even $5,000 would have been nice. But there wasn't so much regret and no anger. Easy come, easy go; it was a fun night. The next afternoon, I went back to the casino and paid the manager back his ten dollars. He was cool and looked much different in his street clothes. I had a beer with him in the empty, dark, air-conditioned casino while the staff got ready for the night ahead. There is a certain sadness to being in a nightclub during the day. It never looks as glamorous, and it's easy to see that the illusion is done mainly with low lighting and alcohol. I still dig it.

Over the next few days, I joined the band somewhere in Europe for some shows, and the movie went on filming. We may have gotten together with Rod Taylor and his wife a few times back in LA. We always talked about the boxer who freeloaded at his own restaurant, and Rod seemed like he was still mad about it. After all, he was the one who paid the bill in the end.

On one of the last days of the shoot, the scene was in a dockside bar. A stray puppy of the Heinz 57 variety was running in and out of the shot, and the action had to be cut a few times. The director got mad, and some of the crew chased the puppy around in vain trying to catch him. Britt fell in love with this dog, bribed him with peanuts from the bar, named him Pepe after the name of the place, got all the necessary shots and paperwork, and brought him back to LA. I got home from the tour at night after she had been home a few days. I was greeted by a pair of eyes on the dark stairs and a puppy's growl. Pepe was a good dog, and he lived a long, happy life in Bel-Air, West Hollywood, and then saw out his last days in Malibu, but he was definitely from Marbella.

 

9

Where's Me
Pepper
Suit?

George Harrison always liked me. He was a smart, thoughtful, worldly guy. He didn't suffer fools and I'm sure was immune to bullshit, so I was pleased when I realized he genuinely liked me. There had to be more to it than my initial obnoxious charm. We hung out a number of times, and with a cat like George, you tend to remember them as little life markers.

We met in 1985 at the rehearsals for the now-legendary
Carl Perkins and Friends
TV special, “Blue Suede Shoes: A Rockabilly Session.” It was a show done by Stephanie Bennett for Channel 4 in England, and it turned out be one of those rare things that you just do and it winds up having longer legs than anyone thought it could.

Dave Edmunds, longtime Stray Cats producer and influence, was putting together a band for a show honoring the musical life of Carl Perkins. With Dave at the helm a few years before, Lee and I had been the rhythm section for a version of “Blue Suede Shoes” that was on the soundtrack for the cinematic triumph
Porky's.
We did “Blue Suede Shoes” in one take. When we were finished, Carl said, “I've done more versions of that song than you boys have had hot meals, and that's the best one ever!” We wanted to believe him. The night was young, the studio was booked, the song for the movie was in the can, and the gear was there. Dave just rolled the tape all night. I have a copy of it somewhere in a giant box named “Cassette Hell.” I'm pretty sure Jeff Lynne came by and played piano.

Carl was a supercool, humble, original rockabilly pioneer. We were longtime fans. He had come to see the Stray Cats a number of times in the past, and we had played together before. Once was at the Grand Ole Opry, which was a milestone for us as rockabilly kids. I remember hiding all signs of partying from Carl back at the hotel, not really knowing or understanding that he had seen it all before. So when Dave was putting together the band for the Carl Perkins TV show, he called Lee and me to be the rhythm section. We brought Earl Slick with us. He strummed an acoustic; it was good to have him be part of it.

The rehearsals and show were in London. We turned up at the rehearsal studio and watched George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Ringo Starr file in. I had been around for a few years, had a couple of hits, and was comfortable to hang with anyone, anywhere. But this was the Beatles. I was a Beatles nerd, and this was a little different. Those guys introduced themselves and were very nice. They'd all known each other since the '60s and had all sorts of memories and shared experiences, so during the breaks, they kept to themselves in the English super rock star section of the room. I played the songs, and everyone seemed to like it. On the third day of rehearsal, I worked up some nerve to talk to George. I'm always the icebreaker, class clown, used to being the cool guy, but like I said, it was the Beatles and a little different this time. I also wasn't drunk in the daytime, so you'd think I have been a little smarter with words. So I walked up to George and said, “Hi, George. It's Jim.”

“Hello.”

“Whatever happened to Pete Best?”

A very puzzled look from George. “I haven't thought about that guy in twenty-odd years.”

“Erm, that's cool. Great to see Carl, huh?”

“Yeah, great.”

I thought I'd lost him. It was a stupid question. You had your chance, and you blew it. I didn't usually care about anything like this, but I was feeling like a fool who was trying to fight above his weight. I couldn't hang here. As I was walking away, he called, “Hey.” I looked over, and he gave me the famous Beatles nod/wink with a thumbs-up. Suddenly I was in
A Hard Day's Night
. I felt much better.

I think George had an instinctual feeling for situations like that. I'm sure he's had more people say more stupid things to him than anyone. We had the rest of this day and then the show the next. I didn't want to be awkward. He knew it would've kept me thinking for two days and wanted to put my mind at ease. It was a very kind, sensitive act with just a simple gesture. I know this now, but at the time I was just relieved.

It took some years to figure it out, but meeting someone whose work you admire can be daunting. I still meet fans all the time, and I try 99 percent of the time to be just plain nice, a little engaging, and let the stupid questions roll off my back. Because it is a big deal to meet the Beatles, and on a smaller scale the Stray Cats, since both were more than just bands with a song that was on the radio; they were more meaningful to those who really dig music. I think George, like me, behind all the bluster was a little uncomfortable with it and didn't like hurting anyone's feelings. There is a softer way to suffer fools that's ultimately easier on you, too. I think he saw that in me and felt a kindred spirit and thought he could help. For him, it took two seconds and a nod/wink; without saying anything heavy or uncomfortable, we had a moment. It was a delayed lesson that I learned that day from George.

The show was a special filmed in live time. There was a small studio audience of rockabilly types who danced and sang along and listened to the quieter moments. Carl Perkins was endearing, and the songs are some of the best rockers ever. He and George did a duet that was touching; you could tell that George really loved him, musically and as a person. I've heard that George hadn't played in public in five years and was maybe a bit nervous. We did a campfire-like circle where everybody sang and played acoustics. Ringo and I shared tambourine and shakers and hammed it up. He's my biggest influence, and I should have been more intimidated, but he's a drummer, so I related on that level, and we got along immediately. Rosanne Cash was on the show and sang like a bird. Eric Clapton was his brilliant Slowhand self on rockabilly songs, too. He and George were pals, you could tell. Britt was at the taping with me, and she sat with Olivia Harrison.

After the show, everyone hung out for a while in a TV station greenroom and had a drink, and that was that. Since then, that particular show has become a classic cult favorite. It gets shown on British TV every year during the Christmas season, and I'm always asked about it and feel like I was part of another quirky, great rock-and-roll happening.

Since the show was in London, Britt and I stayed at our little house in Chelsea. About a week later, Olivia called Britt to organize a dinner. I guess they had planned it during the taping and were following through. Dave Edmunds and his wife, Leslie, joined us, too. We met at a restaurant near where they lived in Henley-on-Thames. The people seemed to know George, and it was an easy dinner. We talked about rockabilly, cars, pop culture stuff. Now that I sensed he liked me, the floodgates opened, and I asked George all sorts of questions about Beatles trivia and minutiae. He was happy to answer. I think he knew I was actually interested, but he answered in a tone that suggested, “Why do you want to know this? Why do you care?” He always referred to the Beatles as the Fabs. I thought this was amazing inside jargon.

After the dinner, he and Olivia invited us back to their house. We must have taken one car and left ours at the restaurant. Driving up to Friar Park was an experience in itself—I had never really seen anything quite like it. There were huge iron gates and a sign that reminded me of a bureau de change at an airport. It had little flags from each country with a sentence next to the flag in the corresponding language. The last one was a USA flag that said, “Get your ass outta here.” We drove on a leafy paved road past a good-sized English country–looking house.

“Wow, that's a nice place,” I said.

“That's the gardener's house,” George answered.

We drove past another two or three houses: the swan keeper's cottage, the rose keeper's cottage, a caretaker's lodge. All of these were as big as our little house in West Hollywood. When we drove onto the gravel driveway, the main house appeared through the hedges and fog. It looked like Buckingham Palace. The foyer had a museum-quality model in a glass case of the grounds and houses. It was a magnificent, regal-looking place perfectly decorated with everything you'd expect with a cool vibe.

The girls walked around to look at the kitchen, and George said to me, “C'mon, I'm going to take you on the silly boot tour.”

I gave my standard answer to George: “Erm, okay, cool, yeah, great!”

We went up some stairs to what was like an attic. The room was mostly empty except for some antique carved wooden armoires that lined the walls. I kept thinking this was what Louis XIV's closets must have looked like. George opened the first one and showed me the leather jackets that the Beatles wore in Hamburg. That led into the collarless suits from
The Ed Sullivan Show,
which led to an array of all the mod colorful “top gear” from Carnaby Street. He had all four
Sgt. Pepper
suits and a story with full-on Liverpool accent and impersonation.

“Paul calls me the other day and says, ‘Where's me
Pepper
suit? 'ave you got me
Pepper
suit? I'm doing a video, and I need me suit; I can't find it.' I says, ‘Paul, I've had it for twenty-odd years. A couple of more days won't hurt now, will it?'”

This is a private, never-before-heard scene from
A Hard Day's Night
. All I could think of saying was “You mean Paul McCartney?” I didn't; I just smiled and nodded, listened. I had my free swing with the Pete Best question. I was honored to be the one that first heard this story.

There were some more closets and crazy clothes. Then we came to a huge pirate's chest on the floor. It was right out of
Treasure Island
. George got on the floor and opened it. It was filled with shoes. The ski boots from
Help!
were in there, the fuzzy Tibetan boots from the
Let It Be
era, everything. He was throwing them over his shoulders; it was raining shoes and boots. From the bottom of the chest, he pulled out an original pair of Beatles boots. They were battle-tested ones—worn out, worked in, not an extra pair.

“Here, take these,” he said.

“Erm, okay, yeah, great.”

“Wait. Give 'em back.”

I handed them back. George produced a ballpoint pen, scribbled in them, and handed them back.

“Well, read it.”

Inside one, he had written, “To Slim Jim from Fat George,” and then signed his name.

In the other, he had done a perfect forgery of Ringo's signature. He told me they often signed each other's names. One of them would sign four signatures, and then it would be a different one's turn. A picture with all four different people having signed it could be rare. More inside stuff. He also said, “If you ever need money, sell them! It's just a pair of old boots.”

I came home with a pair of silly boots and a few original buttons. What a night! It could have been just that, a great story and souvenir.

A few months later, the phone rang back in LA.

“Hello,” I said.

“Is this Slim Jim from the Stray Cats?”

“Yes,” I answered, slightly annoyed, thinking someone was playing a trick on me.

“This is George from the Beatles.”

“Erm, yeah, cool, great. Hi, George!”

He was in town and called to have dinner. Britt and I met him with a few others at a restaurant and had a fun evening chatting away. This type of thing would happen every now and again over the next ten years. One time he was staying at the Bel-Air Hotel, and I went over to visit him, and we drove around in my 1961 Corvette smoking a joint. All the while not saying anything particularly heavy. I always walked away feeling like I had hung out with a pal, but then a few years later remembered something he said each time that was very wise and perhaps meant to teach me something in a nonaggressive way.