Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [145]
Plant and Page from Led Zeppelin came to the 8.00 performance, which brightened things up a little. We greet each other like old friends now. Suddenly someone shouted ‘Led Zeppelin!’ as we talked and, as the chant grew, we moved discreetly away – for they can cause riots.
Monday, April 28th, New York
To see Clive Davis at Arista. He smiled benignly round at us all. Chided us for doing a nude spread in Vogue, but not Playboy, which is where the market is. The Matching Tie album has been out a week and a bit and already he’s getting a good demand for it, he says. He even gets us to talk to eighteen countrywide reps, who are at this moment all connected up on a conference line. So we say ‘hello’ to disembodied voices in LA and Chicago and Davis encourages them to ‘break records, to sell records’.
The whole tenor of our discussion today is that of an enlightened headmaster to his star pupils. He’s giving us a lot of rope, but he still firmly holds the end.
To a sound studio to record some radio commercials for Don Rugoff. Terry and I manage to write and record three 30-second commercials before Rugoff finally turns up. I’ve noticed the look in people’s eyes when he’s around. He seems so harmless and yet he must have a reputation, for there is a look of anticipated fear and anxiety which flashes across people’s faces in his presence. I’ve seen it with Sue, the PR lady, and I saw it again today in the eyes of the girl who was organising this voice-over session. Rugoff grumpily accused people of not doing their job properly. He introduced an air of tension and then accused everyone of not being relaxed. He asked me to do it more upbeat, which was completely wrong, and had to change his mind afterwards. The only light in this hour of greyness was when we played him the three commercials we’d done – and he liked them all. He actually smiled. So everyone relaxes and is happy and Rugoff wins hands down because he is a lovable bastard.
So, on to the party, held in the massage parlour of the Commodore Hotel in honour of Python. As we swept in, high in the sky with our well-nurtured popularity, the photographers looked past us to see if there was anyone famous around. It was a total, unreal, fantasy. Clive Davis ushered me over to meet Andy Warhol. I talked a while to the King of the Beautiful People. Led Zeppelin were there and Jeff Beck and Dick Cavett, but no Norman Mailer or John Lennon or anyone really interesting!
I just remember Loudon Wainwright III, to whom I was very effusive and gave my address, and the rather lovely dark eyes of one of the masseuses.
Thursday, May 8th, Southwold
A perfect May morning – a slight haze clearing away from the trees and fields in the distance. Cows munching the lush, rain-soaked grass in the sunshine. A nine-hour sleep behind me. I feel as contented as the cows.
Have promised to take Dad to Lowestoft – which we do. He needs someone around all the time, and I have to try and get to his stream of dribble before it hits the newly polished floor of a shop. A wonderful piece of Englishness – there is a new and splendid library in Lowestoft, and here my father would have been really happy. However, on approaching it, we are faced with a notice on the door: ‘OPENING OF THE NEW LIBRARY …’-encouraging so far – ‘… THE LIBRARY WILL BE CLOSED ALL DAY FOR THE OPENING’.
Father had given me an excellent birthday present, conceived, bought and wrapped entirely by himself. It was a big Adnams poster showing all their pubs, and we used it to find ourselves a splendid little place called the Wherry Inn at Geldeston, a little village tucked away a mile or two off the Beccles-Norwich road. A friendly pub in a friendly village; everyone stopping for a chat with each other. We were able to sit out in the sun, on our own, with beer and sandwiches, and Father could droop and dribble to his heart’s content and still enjoy himself.
A trip which cheered us all up. And Father