New York 1976

New York 1976. The final album by Stackridge, Mr Mick has just been rejected by Rocket Records.

Mr Mick was to be our ultimate concept album based around a story by Steve Auguard, a poet and friend of Mutter’s. The theme of the album was old age and obsolescence and it contained 10 tracks linked by dialogue. In essence it took the form of a long extended poem with songs punctuating certain points. Rocket Record’s supremo David Croker hated it. He didn’t like the dialogue and wanted it all removed. The resulting album in that form made no literary sense at all and although we complained bitterly about the destruction of our masterpiece all our efforts fell on deaf ears.

Our American record company was Sire records and they had an option to release Mr Mick. A New York-based company, Sire was run by Seymour Stein and their roster of artists included Blondie, The Ramones, Talking Heads and Stackridge! Seymour was made aware of the controversy over Mr Mick and naturally had his concerns. Before he decided whether to exercise his option on the album, he wanted to know what was behind the controversy.

The Stackridge organisation at this time has become somewhat depleted. The band were down to 3 original members;
myself, Mutter and Crun. The management was now a one man outfit run from a tiny office
on the third floor of a huge block just off Oxford Street.  Our manager was a
charismatic chap called Alistair Rainsford.
Alistair had previously been chief accountant at Air London.

One day in the spring of 1976, I happened to be in the management office talking to Alistair when the phone rang. It was Seymour Stein. Alistair passed me the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Hey Andy, how ya doin?” he said in his familiar New York drawl.

“I just talked to David Croker about the album - he’s adamant he wants it his way - I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

“Yeah, well we’re really not happy about it Seymour,” I said.

"Why don’t you come over and we can talk some more?”

"Oh! Are you in the London?" I said.

"No, I'm in New York right now. I mean why don't you come over here to New York? I can arrange a flight for you. You could stay a few days and we can discuss your plans. You could stay as long as you like." I wasn’t going to turn down an all expenses paid trip to New York!

I was met at Kennedy airport by a smartly dressed man who led us to a sleek black limousine. We drove to the Mayflower Hotel Central Park West, where Seymour was waiting for me. Settle in, he said and please let and me know if there’s anything you need.

“Later tonight I’m going to take you to my favourite restaurant. Alphonse will pick you up around eight.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon exploring my immediate surroundings. Central Park West was a kind of newly gentrified area of New York onthe Upper West Side of Manhattan. The mayflower was right on the edge of Central Park. The hotel and especially it's bar was popular with businessmen, jocks, wise guys and even a couple of senators.

Later that evening I was picked up by Seymour’s driver, Seymour was reclining in the backseat. We drove to an Italian restaurant and as we were being shown to our table in the dimly lit room I couldn’t help noticing Seymour’s wife Linda sitting at a corner table with a client, so I smiled a hello. Seymour pointedly ignored her and continued on to be seated at our table. The buzz of the busy restaurant was shattered when Linda bellowed across the restaurant,

“Don’t talk to me - I’m only your god-damn wife!”

A deathly silence gripped the room as everyone took in what had just happened. The were a few embarrassed looks then, quietly at first, the busy chatter continued. This was my introduction to the Steins' tempestuous relationship.

Next day Seymour introduced me to Donny who was to be my new buddy-cum-minder. Donny was quite a character. It was his job to show me around New York and keep me out of trouble but in reality he was much more likely to get me into trouble.

Donny kept a gun in his glove compartment!

There are some things that New Yorkers seem obsessed with which hold no interest me at all. These include bagels, donuts, root beer and baseball. Donny tried his best to tempt me with every one. He took me to a baseball match at Yankee stadium - it was five hours of abject tedium for me.

“There’s a young lady who’d like to meet you.” Said Seymour.

“Her name is Glenda, she’s a nice girl, she does work for me sometimes and she’s dying to meet you.

She said she’ll be in the hotel bar at about 7.00 and you’re to come and say Hi.”

It sounded like an order and turned out it was. Glenda was a brash, amply proportioned woman who wasn’t inclined to take no for an answer. I’m not sure what her relationship to Seymour was or whether she’d been paid to keep me company. I’ll just say she exuded a sort of professional air and leave it at that. She immediately had me surrounded. She mistook my reticence for timidity. As the evening drew on it seemed I'd never get away from her, but I eventually escaped to my room unharmed.

Seymour and Linda's apartment resembled a museum or art gallery such was the profusion of antiques and artworks on display.  We often ate our evening meal there. They didn’t behave like a married couple half the time, but they both did their utmost to make me feel at home. They were very generous. Asking if there was anything particular I might need, I mentioned that I found it a bit of a drag not having access to musical instruments. I was amazed when the next day a Wurlitzer Piano, Fender guitar and a small amp were delivered to my room at the Mayflower!

One evening Seymour took me to Max's Kansas City a famously seedy New York club where I was introduced to the Ramones and Blondie who were sharing the bill. Blondie had not yet adopted their raw, punkish style that we know and love. Debbie Harry was wearing a long gown and the keyboard player had shoulder-length hair - quite prog I thought.

Seymour, to my intense embarrassment, demanded everyone’s attention in the dressing room,

“Andy played guitar on Imagine, you know!” I cringed but it helped me make a good impression.

The Ramones seemed surprisingly pleased to meet a member of Stackridge and after the show we all went on to a bar for a few beers. It was late when I got back to the Mayflower but there was Glenda, in the bar. Didn't she have a home to go to? She was deep in conversation with senator someone or other and I crept up to my room unnoticed.

One day we took a trip up to the Catskills and spent several hours at Woodstock - home of The Band. Though I knew and appreciated The Band back then I wasn't the super fan I am now. The limo driver Alphonse drove me passed their house Big Pink, but it looked like no one was in.

Alphonse kept a joint in his glove compartment!

We got back from our tour of the Catskills and Alphonse dropped me off at the hotel. Glenda was waiting.

"Wow, you're sure are a hard guy to pin down"

That night I wedged a chair against my hotel room door, just to be on the safe side!

When Seymour and I finally had our talk, I sensed that he knew that Stackridge were on the brink. He asked if I was writing any new stuff and what plans I had for the future.

"You know Andy; if you'd like to stay here in New York I could find you a band," he said.

I'm still not sure exactly what he meant by this. Did he mean he'd help me to form a new band or did he know of a band who could use someone like me? I'll never know.

Over the following days I took several long walks around Central Park to think things through. Had I reached one of those sliding doors moments?
Was about to turn down the chance of a lifetime of a new life in New York?

The problem I had with New York was that I was surrounded by extroverts and I found that exhausting. Plus it was the mean streets of New York - the smell of violence everywhere. Or that's how it seemed to me. I was just a shy lad from a village in Somerset.
I was tense, anxious and I was finding it impossible to relax.

After three weeks I told Seymour that I had to return to the UK. There was the business with Mr Mick to sort out and anyway Stackridge had several tour dates booked to promote the album.

Of course I often wonder if I made the right choice. The difference it might have made to my career if I had stayed I can only imagine now.

Donny drove me to the airport. I must have been in strange mood because I finally ate one of his fucking donuts.

Torrential rain greeted me at Heathrow Airport. Before going back to my little flat in Bristol I had to call in at the management office. Once through customs I took the tube over to Oxford Circus. I climbed up the winding staircase to the 3rd floor and pushed open the office door. The room looked different. Sitting at a desk was a woman I didn’t recognise.

“Where’s Alistair?” I asked.

“Who’s Alistair?” she replied.

“Is he out to lunch?”

“I don’t know anyone called Alistair. This is Travel Europa.”

I thought perhaps I'd made a mistake and was on the wrong floor. Jet lag can sometimes make you a little confused. I walked back down to the ground floor and all the way back up making sure this time I had the right floor. I was definitely back at the same office.

“We moved in two weeks ago,” the woman said. “The previous occupants left unexpectedly and we took over the remainder of the lease.”

“They left no forwarding address. This is a travel agents!”

I never saw Alistair or the management again. Although we did eventually talk on the phone.

Stackridge struggled on for a while before calling it a day a few months later.