The Man Who Lived by Night (15 page)

Hoag:
What happened exactly?

Bartucci:
We should have stayed out of the South. But we’d gotten so much press there before … When we’d arrive in a city, the police and hotel management would get tipped off by me with regard to what type of party scene the boys might get themselves into—and how we certainly would appreciate it if this stayed quiet. They always cooperated. After all, the boys generated a lot of local revenue. I always carried a suitcase full of cash, as well. Never had a problem, until we got to Little Rock, Arkansas, where we encountered a particular police official who was not at all into the idea of some black musician getting white girls stoned and then balling them. This fellow was
not
going to look the other way, no matter how much money I offered him. Far from it—he wanted to make a statement. And he bloody well did. His men broke down the door to Puppy’s hotel room at two a.m. and found him there in bed with a naked fifteen-year-old white girl, and in possession of hashish and amphetamines. And he was in some very, very deep shit, the poor boy. Statutory rape, they called it. The drug possession charge was no small matter either. The record company, Capitol, sent down a big-time New York attorney at once. I told the other boys to take off, but they refused. They were loyal, those three, I’ll grant them that. The lawyer bargained and arm-twisted and somehow kept Puppy out of jail. He pleaded guilty to possession and to unlawful trafficking with a minor, or some such thing, in exchange for which he was fined ten thousand dollars and placed on probation for three years. We were elated—until Washington decided to get in on it. Your government was most displeased to discover Puppy was actually one of yours—it meant they couldn’t make a point of kicking him out of the country. So they kicked the rest of us out. Revoked our work visas, and made it very clear that Us was no longer welcome in America, at least not if Puppy Johnson was in the band. So we came home. Toured the Continent.
Chess Moves
sold well here. And then that bloody psychedelic thing happened.

Hoag:
They started dropping acid.

Bartucci:
The Beatles, they flourished from LSD—gave the world
Sergeant Pepper.
Everyone else produced the worst kind of self-indulgent crap imaginable. The Stones, under the influence of acid, did
Their Satanic Majesties Request,
unquestionably their worst album. And Us, oh my, they got so very weird, those boys. Withdrew to their country retreats and blasted off into their own little worlds. T. S. went into what I call his T. S. Eliot stage. Started writing unbelievably wretched stream-of-consciousness lyrics. Poetry, they called it. Rory, he got obsessed with Irish folk ballads from olden times. Derek started collecting Victorian pornographic art, as well as slender blond boys. Puppy just got into being rather glazed. Surly as well. The product of all of this, when they finally went back into the studio, was
Rock of Ages,
which they called a musical exploration of their once and future selves.

Hoag:
“Mystical vipers/Windscreen wipers/Across the twisting purple corridors/Inside our minds.”

Bartucci:
I called it crap. Christ, they expressed themselves musically as druids! Chanted! And their music of tomorrow—it was
noise.
Two entire cuts were
noise.
There wasn’t one marketable single on it. Plus they took some very nasty shots at the royal family. The EMI people loathed it, fought with them every step of the way.
Rock of Ages
was a critical and commercial failure, here and abroad. Their first failure. But you couldn’t tell the boys this accurately reflected its quality. Oh no. Their heads were too large. They actually blamed EMI for its failure—creative interference, they called it. So T. S. brought in Tulip’s father to examine all of their contracts and financial affairs. He told them they should form their own label, which naturally appealed to their grandiose delusions. He also told them I was stealing from them. I wasn’t, as I’ve made clear to you, but the more drugs they took, the more they believed him. T. S. still blames me for the tax troubles he got into—and I wasn’t even around by then. They called me the vilest names, after all I did for them. Left me with no choice but to hire a solicitor of my own. We reached a settlement. Parted company. They went on to do some of their most successful work. But the truth is they were never happy again. Look what happened to them—heroin, divorce, death. There were no good times after that, Mr. Hoag. It gives me no pleasure to say so. I bear them no grudge. The hard feelings, those went away years ago … Anything else I can tell you? I’m rather busy.

Hoag:
Just one thing: Where did you go after our interview on Friday?

Bartucci:
Why do you ask?

Hoag:
I was wondering if you happened to be around, say, Savile Row.

Bartucci:
I was right here. Working.

Hoag:
Can anyone here vouch for you?

Bartucci:
Vouch for me?

Hoag:
Yes. Do you mind if I ask some of them?

Bartucci:
I most certainly do mind. Where I go and what I do is none of your or Tristam Scarr’s damned business. And you can tell that cheap, phony bastard I said so!

Hoag:
Sure there still isn’t just the tiniest grudge?

Bartucci:
I think you should leave, Mr. Hoag.

Hoag:
I’ll do that. Again, thank you for your time and your—

Bartucci:
Get the fuck out of my—!

(end tape)

(Tape #1 with Tulip recorded in her Chelsea flat Dec. 1. Located on King’s Road directly over a shop specializing in metal-studded collars and handcuffs. Parlor is messy. The Mod Bod weighs possibly fifty pounds more than in her heyday. Face is fleshy, blotchy. Hair uncombed and greasy. Wears large silver cross on chain around her neck. Holds Bible in her lap.)

Hoag:
I’ve met your daughter Violet. Lovely girl.

Tulip:
She’s no longer mine. I’ve lost her. He’s won.

Hoag:
Do you mean Tris?
(silence)
So what are you doing with yourself these days?

Tulip:
Do you mean now that I’m the Mod Blob?

Hoag:
I mean now that you’re not nineteen, and London doesn’t swing like a pendulum do.

Tulip:
I’ve a small family income. And I’m very active in my church.

Hoag:
According to Tris it’s not one of the more established faiths.

Tulip:
It’s so like him to condemn what he doesn’t understand.

Hoag:
Could we talk about when you first met him?

Tulip:
I was thin, rich and beautiful. A spoiled little bitch as well. Anything I’d ever wanted I’d gotten. Us were the hot new group, very gear. I was at the Ad Lib one night with David Bailey and a few others. And so were the two of them, Tris and Rory. I’d heard what people were saying about them, that they chewed up pretty little girls and spit them out. Perhaps that attracted me. I don’t know. I do know I thought it couldn’t possibly happen to me. Not Tulip. It was Rory I got involved with first, actually. He was the sweetest, baddest little boy. Had this way of cocking his head to one side when he talked to me, as if he knew he was bad and couldn’t help himself. And he
couldn’t.
Rory was the first man I ever fell for, and I fell hard … And it all turned out to be true, what people had said. He
was
mean. He lied to me, slept around on me. S-So I started sleeping with Tris, to get back at him. Only I fell even harder for Tris. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? I was an awful, drugged-out bitch. I was a slut.

Hoag:
You were his wife.

Tulip:
Yes, I was. And by the time that became public I was sleeping with Rory once again, God help me, and poor Derek was wishing
he
was. Madness, all of it. A loss of self-control brought on by abandoning the Lord and his teachings.

Hoag:
What was it like being secretly married?

Tulip:
I despised it. Ours was a proper marriage—for a while, at least—but the newspapers made me out to be some kind of rock ’n’ roll tramp. And I had to take it. He had his bloody image to maintain.

Hoag:
Derek thinks you’re the only person who ever really got to know Tris.

Tulip: (pause)
Tris was … is … a vulnerable person. Shy, actually. Whatever came out of him, whether it was meanness or genius, came from this well of insecurity. As a result, I could never hate him, even when I wanted to. He never did learn how to feel comfortable with people. They in turn never wanted to understand him. When I met him he was twenty-two. The music he made, the life he led—it was all totally new. What he came to resent, I think, was that everyone wanted him to stay the same angry boy making the same angry music. They wouldn’t allow him to grow as an artist or as a person. He was, for example, very excited and fulfilled by
Rock of Ages.
Until people totally rejected it … Our life together was a fairy tale. We were lovely, special little children who could buy all the toys and candy we wanted, and there were no adults around to slap our hands and tell us no. They bought these lovely
Alice in Wonderland
cottages in the Cotswolds, and filled them with toys and animals. Tris had an elephant, a giraffe, an entire zoo of his own, just like Dr. Dolittle, until he decided one night it was cruel and set them free. The village was not pleased … London wasn’t fun anymore. Fans would hassle us. Jack would drive us in sometimes for a night out, but mostly we stayed in the country. We all had cooks, and there were always lovely people around. George and Patti Harrison, Eric, Keith, Brian, Woody. All the mates. Lots of girls. Lots of jams. Lots of magic mushrooms, mescaline, THC …

Hoag:
What kind of relationship did you have with Puppy?

Tulip:
Puppy thought I was some kind of evil witch, bad for Tris and Rory’s heads, bad for the band. He was forever mean to me. And then after the ban he was just mean to everyone. Puppy didn’t care for the country life. He only came out when they got together to play. Usually he’d crash at Rory’s, where all of the equipment was.

Hoag:
Like the weekend he died?

Tulip:
Yes. Like the weekend he died.

Hoag:
Can you tell me about that?

Tulip:
It was after
Rock of Ages
flopped. Tris and Rory were taking it very hard. They felt personally betrayed by the fans and the critics. Puppy blamed himself for them not being able to give it American tour support. The weekend he died they’d gotten together at Rory’s to talk about their next album. They were not getting far. I think their faith in each other had been shaken. It was frightening, the amount of pressure that was put on them by Marco, by EMI, by the good new groups—Cream, Traffic, Procol Harem. There was no laughter in Rory’s house that weekend. No joy. I remember this girl he was seeing then, she picked right up on that.

Hoag:
The tarot card woman?

Tulip:
Yes. That’s right.

Hoag:
Do you remember her name?

Tulip: (pause)
No. She was just some girl. Rory didn’t see her for long. He didn’t see anyone for long … They were in the music room, trying out some things, drinking some champagne, talking. Marco had just left to go back to London.

Hoag:
What was Marco doing there?

Tulip:
Hassling them, mostly. Jack and I were out in the kitchen with a few other girls and friends. They didn’t like for us to be in there with them when they were in the early stages. I remember there was an argument. Rory said something like, “Fuck this flower-power shit!” Then there was this terrible crash. Derek came rushing out, terribly pale, and said “Jackie, Pup has passed out and we can’t bring him to.” We all went in and found him collapsed amidst his drums. Jack tried to revive him while the rest of us looked for whatever it was he’d taken.

Hoag:
You didn’t find anything.

Tulip:
No. The pills weren’t to be found. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was gone. The Lord had taken him from us.

Hoag:
Do you think someone acted as His agent?

Tulip:
Agent?

Hoag:
Tris thinks Puppy was murdered by one of you.

Tulip:
We were all to blame.

Hoag:
You were?

Tulip:
He died for our sins. That’s why the Lord took him. To punish us. To
warn
us. But we didn’t heed His message. We were too blind. So things got worse. More drugs, more pain, more death … Us wasn’t the same after Puppy died. They used studio drummers from then on, none with his talent or flair. The focus shifted more to Tris and Rory.
We’re Double Trouble,
the album they turned out after Puppy’s death, was shit-kicking, wired rock ’n’ roll. They’d put away the hollow-body blues. The acid as well. From then on it was coke, smack, speed, all of the above. We three became serious smack freaks. I was getting it on with both of them then, God help me.

Hoag:
How did they handle that? Didn’t they fight over you?

Tulip:
Never. Deep down, they always meant more to each other than any woman could.

Hoag:
Even you?

Tulip:
Especially me … Their new sound clicked. They bounced back bigger than ever, and started acting like genuine bad-ass stars. Pissing people off. Getting shit-faced and disorderly in public. Seeing what they could get away with—just like two bad little boys. And when they toured, forget it. I tried going with them on their return tour to America in ’68. It was male macho madness. They trashed their hotel rooms with fire hoses. Threw the furniture in the street. One night in Detroit Rory got in a brawl with the hotel manager because they wanted to put him on the second floor. I said to him “So what?” He said “It’s no bleedin’ fun to dangle a groupie out of a second-story window.” In Kansas City, I came in one morning and found Tris in
our
bed with two girls and someone’s pet monkey. I split. I couldn’t take it. The following year, when they went over to tour promote
Skullbuggery,
Rory asked me to go with them. I didn’t want to but he begged me. So I traveled as Tris’s wife on the tour, while I was actually living with Rory. It was sick, sick, sick … My friends were always asking me which of them was better in bed. I always said it was like comparing coke with smack—they were both obscenely great and it was impossible to say which would kill you faster. At least Rory didn’t beat me.