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from RIP magazine, September 1990
[This article really makes me miss the old days of rock journalism — back then, I could get a free, all-expenses-paid trip to London just for the promise of two or three feature stories (I covered the Quireboys for at least one other magazine, but I saved the best stuff for RIP). And this trip was to cover a band that was completely new to the United States! On top of that, I got to watch Aerosmith soundcheck at Wembley Arena and have dinner with Sharon and Ozzy Osbourne. Talk about your glamour job! I enjoyed the non-glamorous parts too — when I wasn't hanging out with the Quireboys, I took the Tube and explored London (anything to get away from the dingy businessman's hotel that Capitol publicist Byron Hontas and I were staying at — it was called the Novotel, but I referred to it as the "no-tell hotel."). I loved London's subway system at least as much as New York's, and it was much, much cleaner. P.S. My favorite part of this feature is when Byron — all-American to the core — finds out he didn't have to tip the waiters at the St. Moritz. Seriously, he spent an amazing wad of cash on this trip!]
It's early Saturday evening, and Guy Bailey, guitarist and cofounder of the London Quireboys, looks a bit worse for the wear. "I woke up this morning, and I said to Helen" — here, he's referring to his girlfriend — "'Talk me through what I did last night.' And she said, 'Well, you did your dance.' And I said, 'I never did! Oh my God!'"
Apparently I wasn't the only one having a lost weekend in London. But with the London Quireboys, that's no exception to the rule. When this band is hanging out in its hometown, the warm beers flow freely and things tend to get a bit hazy. The night before, however, was an extra-special occasion — the guys got a chance to play Wembley Arena for the first time in their lives, opening for Aerosmith. A celebration was definitely in order. And, boy, did we ever celebrate!
The party mode was established even before we arrived at the arena. As the group's van made its way through London's hairy rush-hour traffic, a decision was made to stop at an "offie" — that's British shorthand for off-license, their version of a liquor store. "How many bottles of wine should we get?" asked Byron Hontas, the Quireboys' American record-label publicist and visiting host for the night.
"Three," was the response, then someone added, "Hey, Spike's got a sore throat. He's not drinking tonight."
Guy gave his vocalist a sideways glance and replied with a sly grin, "Okay, then, let's get four." The order was met, and we were off.
Aerosmith was still soundchecking when we got to Wembley, and we watched them for a few awed moments before heading our separate ways. I happened to catch Guy, bassist Nigel Mogg and the group's other guitarist, Guy Griffin, better known as Griff, in the dressing room all at the same time, so I decided to get my interview underway. After all, that's why I'd spent ten exhausting hours on a plane the day before. I was in for a twisted, jumbled and not always coherent tale — but then I'd already begun to anticipate that.
Since the Quireboys are new to American ears, I started off by asking Guy how he and Spike came to form the band. "I walked into a pub, and I was introduced to him," Guy said of his absent bandmate. "He was just sitting at the bar in a complete mess, pissed out of his head. I looked at him, and he was only about 18, and I thought to myself, 'Do I really want to get to know this bloke?' And I started talking to him, and he sort of moved into my flat, 'cause he had nowhere to live. Then, 'cause we had no money, we just sat around writing songs and just went from there, really."
Back then, in '85 and '86, the band was known as the Queerboys. "We came up with all these names," explained Guy, "and we tested them on the people we were working with, these construction workers. One man, we asked him, 'What would you think if we were gonna name this band the Choirboys?' He said, 'What do you mean? The bloody Queerboys is more like it!' — 'cause we had long hair and stuff."
"That was before I joined the band," Griff offered, "'cause I'm strictly heterosexual!"
Naturally, the room exploded with laughter. In an attempt to bring order to the proceedings, I asked about the band's long list of member changes. It turned out to be a rather convoluted topic. The next musician who wound up staying, said Guy, was "Chris, the piano player, but he used to play bass." Then he added unselfconsciously, "It's a bit like Spinal Tap, isn't it?"
"Chris used to play bass in the band," Nigel continued. "He left, and I joined after Chris left, and Chris rejoined the band about a year later — it's very complicated!"
"And then we had another guitarist and another drummer, and we sacked the first guitarist," Guy rambled.
"And another guitarist called Ginger," added Nigel.
"And then I got in after this!" Griff piped in.
"I think it's really important to get to know people," Guy reasoned. "We had people in that we didn't know, who turned out to be real assholes."
In the middle of this highly involving discourse, Spike finally made an appearance.
"What are you doin' in my dressing room?" he wanted to know. "You doin' an interview?"
"A bit...." I began.
"Oh, you're just talking to them?" he sniffed, pretending hurt.
"About that new singer," Guy mock-whispered.
"Yeah, I don't wanna talk to you — go away!" I snapped kiddingly. He actually started to leave, so we called him back. As he perched himself on the edge of a table, I asked him about his throat.
"It's just an infection," he tossed off. "When I sing high, it goes sometimes. There's another lad got it, the singer of the Little Angels. Everyone's had it. I haven't even been drinking that much, really."
There was a loud clearing of throats in the room at this last comment. Poor Spike! He was certainly getting the worst of it that evening. It seemed like a good time to chat about the Quireboys' distinctly British sound — at least it was a safer subject. Oddly enough, most young English bands have ignored the old-time rock 'n' roll of their homeland. Only a few, such as the Quireboys, have embraced the strains of early-'70s-era Rolling Stones and the Faces. Griff complained that many of his compatriots "are trying to emulate American bands. It's not natural."
"So how come you guys were just about the only band in London that was doing music that's so classic in nature?" I asked.
"It's funny you said that," Guy mused, "'cause a lot of people in America compare us to the Dogs D'Amour. You're the first person who hasn't."
"You're totally different from the Dogs!" I protested.
"You get a gold star for that," Guy grinned approvingly. But truthfully, the Quireboys' penchant for soul music and their often upbeat attitude bear little resemblance to the Dogs' dark introspection.
"We probably the only band who doesn't sound like Aerosmith," Griff pointed out. "Every band, they always say, sounds just like Aerosmith."
"They said that about us, though, as well," Nigel interrupted.
"The one thing with the Dogs D'Amour, they stuck by their guns for seven years," Spike digressed. "They're really good mates of mine. I've known them for years."
By now we were all losing our trains of thought, so I decided to find out about their manager, Sharon Osbourne, who also happens to be the wife/ manager of Ozzy.
"Didn't you tell someone, 'She bites the heads off live lawyers'?" I asked Spike.
"That's true!" Spike replied through his laughter.
"Or late bandmembers," added Nigel.
"She takes no shit...." Spike began.
"And no prisoners," finished Griff.
"She came down to a gig that we'd done, Reading," Spike recalled of their meeting. "We just sat up with her until six in the morning, having a drink and a chat. We got on really well with her. Plus, she doesn't have ten bands. She's only got two other bands." He paused thoughtfully. "She had a good apprenticeship, didn't she, with Ozzy?"
At this point one of the crew came in and asked, "You guys getting a soundcheck?"
"We don't need soundchecks. That's for musicians!" the band replied.
Perhaps they were right — about not needing a soundcheck, that is. The group kicked the butts of the impatient Aerosmith fans, and justly received an encore. After they caught their breath, we all went out to watch Aerosmith's show from the sidelines. It was one of the few times that evening that the Quireboys' animated chatter ground down to a halt.
Later that night, the band, Sharon, a very quiet and sedate Ozzy, assorted girlfriends, Byron Hontas and I all headed over to Rags, an extremely posh restaurant located in one of London's more elegant sections. This is where Guy, after dinner and drinks and more drinks, performed his dance at the incessant urging of Rudy Richman, the group's drummer and only American member. Actually it was more of a Miss Universe-style cakewalk than a dance and, luckily, the restaurant was preparing to close down by that time, so the waiters seemed more amused than incensed.
As if this wasn't enough activity for the night, a few of us cabbed it over to the St. Moritz, London's version of the Rainbow. The drinks were on Byron (who found out the next day, much to his chagrin, that you don't have to tip at pubs), and we had 100-proof chatter into the wee hours. I asked Nigel about the old blues tune the band performed at the end of their set.
"The beginning bit was 'Mannish Boy,'" he explained, "and then we go into 'Hootchie Cootchie Man.' We put two songs together just to put a bit of blues into the set, 'cause that's where it all comes from in the first place. It's a lot more acceptable to do all that stuff now. A few years ago people were going, 'Oh, pub rock, pub rock,' 'cause in England they have old men in pubs playing blues."
If anyone is capable of bringing real, old-fashioned blues rock to the English forefront, it's the London Quireboys. Not only do these six guys have a serious respect for the forefathers of rock, they also are infused with a healthy dose of fun. Sometimes too much fun, as I discovered when I woke up the next afternoon. I had to literally drag myself to the hotel pub so I could chat with Guy that fuzzy Saturday.
It was here that the guitarist revealed his true colors concerning his much-maligned corwriter and singer, Spike. "'Cause of his voice, there were lots of other offers to join bands when we were really low — known bands, famous ones," he proudly related. "But to his credit, he never accepted any of them. I mean, it's really flattering. He was that committed; he wanted to do it with us. It was like proving something, I think."
Then his broad grin broke through the haze. "I can't believe we played Wembley last night!" he sighed happily.
I could certainly believe they had. After all, we both had the hangovers to prove it.
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