After three barren years following their inception in early 1969, that encompassed four wildly inconsistent albums and an endless round of touring where they gave energetic performances to a small but smitten following, by March 1972 raucous English rock quintet Mott the Hoople were out of plans, patience with each other and on the verge of breaking up.
But with their future looking negligible to the point of non-existent, Mott-devotee David Bowie came forward with an alternative plan to dissolution. He gave them a song specifically designed to create a hit, only for his ‘Suffragette City‘ composition to be rebuffed by the band. But a second Bowie offering, ‘All the Young Dudes‘ was welcomed not least by the group – the track also embraced by record buyers when issued as a 45, reaching number three in their U.K. homeland during the summer of 1972.
Such was the faith Bowie had invested, not just in Mott the Hoople but also the songwriting prowess of front man Ian Hunter (guitar/piano), he remained present to produce their fifth album (September 1972) which took its name from the ‘Dudes‘ hit single. The record showcased an outfit who at this stage still consisted of original members, Hunter, Mick Ralphs (lead guitar), Pete ‘Overend’ Watts (bass), Verden Allen (keyboards) and Dale ‘Buffin’ Griffin (drums), one who now incorporated some much needed focus into their efforts.
Released to positive reviews ‘All the Young Dudes‘ became their first L.P. to chart, Mott the Hoople arriving in the big time just as glam-rock was beginning to dominate the scene, the band sailing in the glam-slipstream as acts such as T. Rex, Slade and Sweet went to the front of the fleet.
It was already apparent, however, that despite a new-found inclination for sequins, make-up and platform boots, the eloquent, sometimes Dylan-affected material of Hunter set them apart from their glam contemporaries. His creative juices were found in full flow on the outstanding ‘Mott‘ (July 1973), an album which contained the pounding ‘All the Way from Memphis‘ that simply put was the best single recorded by anyone that year, while the wry ‘Ballad of Mott the Hoople‘ depicted success in bittersweet terms.
Yet the emergence of Hunter as the pivotal figure, along with gravitation toward the glam-set proved too much for keyboardist Allen who quit prior to the making of ‘Mott‘ (Morgan Fisher enlisted as his replacement) – and while Ralphs remained to share in the glory of that record, it had only been in the shops a month when he departed to form Bad Company with ex-Free front man Paul Rodgers.
Prior to sessions for their seventh – and would what ultimately prove their final album – former Spooky Tooth and Stealers Wheel guitarist Luther Grosvenor (who took the pseudonym ‘Aerial Bender’) joined the ranks. His tenure in the band proved short but lasted long enough to complete ‘THE HOOPLE’ (March 1974), although as an enitity Mott the Hoople themselves would be over by the end of the year.
After creating a wealth of stylish, nay dazzling music during the past couple of years, it was fitting a band of their deportment should leave in style with regard to a memorable album (their very last release would be the magnificent Hunter-penned minor hit single ‘Saturday Gigs‘ of October 1974). The witty, often vivid imagery of his lyricism is evident right across ‘The Hoople‘, their principal songwriter responsible for eight of its nine tracks.
As a prelude, four months before it was released the band had scored a Top Ten U.K. hit with ‘Roll Away the Stone‘ that would appear on the L.P. as the closing track, this delicious slice of power-pop paving the way for an album that embodied the joyous element of rock while still diligent of the world at large.
The infectious positivity that Hunter loaded into those songs crafted to be catchy, engaging singles is immediately evident on uproarious opening cut ‘The Golden Age of Rock ‘n’ Roll‘. Beginning as pastiche of a late-50s number, the introductory piano chords are lifted with tongue firmly in cheek from ‘Amercian Pie‘, the ultimate evocation of that era.
The writer introduces the piece (‘Ladies and gentlemen/The golden age of rock and roll‘) before making a case – to the accompaniment of boogie-woogie sax breaks – for the empowering effect of music:
‘Everybody hazy/Shell-shocked and crazy/Screaming for the face at the window/Jeans for the genies/Dresses for the dreamies/Fighting for a place in the front row.’
Working as affirmation of how spirits can be raised by its uplifting power, or merely as celebration of rock itself, this attention-grabbing track reached number 16 on the U.K. charts when issued as a single, the big sound theatrics resonating across the pond in sounding akin to the E-Street Band, only after their recognisable roar had been established.
Indeed, it does not take a great leap of imagination to envisage the Boss himself delivering the bridge:
‘The golden age of rock and roll will never die/As long as children feel the need to laugh and cry/Don’t wanna smash, want a smash sensation/Don’t wanna wreck, just recreation/Don’t wanna fight/But if you turn us down/We’re gonna turn you around, gonna mess with the sound.’
If the album opens with a track that predates where Bruce Springsteen was heading, the next-up ‘Marionette‘ was noted much closer to home by an outfit who in these fledgling days of their career had been the support act at several Mott the Hoople gigs.
The infleunce of the headliners on any number of early Queen songs is therefore unmissable. ‘Now I’m Here‘ (written by guitarist Brian May for their ‘Sheer Heart Attack‘ album of November 1974), has many similarities to a Hunter composition that, lyrically speaking, bemoans the corporate machinations of the music industry and fickle nature of fame:
‘I’ve had enough of this/The pantomime’s reversed/I need, you feed/I greed, you bleed/Marionette/I ain’t one yet.‘
But most embedding itself in the songwriting conscious of May & co is the piano-based pomp of the structure. The operatic, dare it be said rhapsodic overtones were clearly absorbed by Freddie Mercury, who in at least two places through ‘Marionette‘ can be imagined throwing ‘Scaramouche‘ into the mix.
Inspired by the clinical, unforgiving ambience of New York, ‘Alice‘ depicts a prostitute who Hunter equates with the city, (‘Alice you remind me of Manhattan/The seedy and the snaz/The shoeboys and the satins’).
Decorated by a distant saxophone (played by noted sessioneer Howie Casey) that eventually comes closer, the striking piano refrain is not far removed from that of ‘Honaloochie Boogie‘ from ‘Mott‘ but has less hooks and more uneven contours than its cousin on the previous album.
The more aggressive side of Mott the Hoople comes to the fore on the propulsive, protopunk of side one closer ‘Crash Street Kidds‘. Observing the disillusionment of angst-ridden youths as the mid-70s fast approaches, Hunter and his sneering vocal are chased through the track by thumping drums and angry electric guitars.
One lyrical couplet is particularly resonant given an infamous confrontation, still over two years in the future, when punk forerunners the Sex Pistols would cause national outrage by swearing at presenter Bill Grundy during a television interview:
‘Hear me swear/Hear every word/I ain’t just a number/I wanna be heard/The TV announcer he talks to the scum.’
During the middle section the song stops and for a few seconds there is silence – only for things to return with increased beligerence, (‘I ain’t been solved/I’m uninvolved/I’ve been annulled/And I can’t seem to prove it/You’re so pure/You know the cures, just keep us poor/The juvenile delinquent bit‘), this after apparently stopping for a second wind in what is a boisterous performance.
Written by bass player Watts, side two opens with more stomping rock in the form of ‘Born Late 58.’
Not by any means the first song to draw upon fast car/female temptress metaphors – Mott doing such themselves with the Mick Ralphs number ‘I’m a Cadillac/El Camino Dolo Roso‘ on their previous album – this is another which is not especially original. With its frenetic guitars and rowdy piano lines the track, while capably performed, could be any one of several rock/boogie bands from the period. Ironically, it is more in keeping with the Bad Company aggregation Ralphs was now part of rather than the group he had recently left.
In complete contrast ‘Trudi’s Song‘ is a poignant acoustic guitar ballad Hunter wrote in honour of his wife. Giving full rein to his tendency for Dylanesque phrasing on songs of a more sedate pace, the lyrics are written and conveyed with heartfelt simplicity:
‘She doesn’t have to say/She only has to look/I think she sees through me/Reads me like a book/And I’m in love with her/And she’s in love with me/And the love goes sailin’ on, across the stormy seas.’
Sounding familiar due to a likeness to ‘Ballad of Mott the Hoople‘ Hunter showed he could bring the same eloquence to writing about his bride as he had to describing fellow band mates.
From the personal he moves to the political with ‘Pearl ‘n’ Roy‘ (England), commenting satirically on the English class system.
Very much an early 70s period piece, it comes across as how glam-act Wizzard would sound had they a social conscience. While there is buoyancy in the sax-infused melody, the lyrics, for all the joviality Hunter brings to the vocal, cannot hide some dark observations, (‘It’s clean the chimneys kids/And it’s 1974/Shake a fist, make Oliver Twist/There’s no way you ain’t poor‘) that are rooted firmly in the present.
While his sympathies are with the have-nots, it is hard to detect from some abstract lines whether he feels sorry for Pearl and Roy or scornful of their cowtowing, (‘Roy atta’ boy, silk suit slicker/Easy fee degree/Cute boot licker‘), to those with wealth and power, Hunter in his narrative suggesting a policy of if can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
‘It seems like the rich dudes live in the sun/And if Eton be a democracy, well I’m gonna get me some/They got no chins and they always win/Piece of glass hides the class from the mass.‘
An exercise in self-reflection from both a literal and metaphorical standpoint, ‘Through the Looking Glass‘ finds Hunter (on piano) giving his demeanor critical scrutiny, (‘I’m feelin’ ugly/I’m feelin low/Mornin’ mirror/You ain’t no rose/And did I mean it/Or did I lie/Or did I dream it/Oh! Christ I’m tired‘).
Mick Ronson, bottom left, joins (briefly) September 1974.
In creating a scene of just him and a reflected image, on occasion he slows his vocal to a speaking tone. Behind him the dense orchestration takes the piece dangerously close to being overwrought, begging the question of whether Hunter now had too much freedom of expression as the chief source of Mott material. Nevertheless it is hard to disparage the Lennon-like candour of the last verse, despite being wrapped in swirling strings:
‘Oh I’ll never look at you again/’Cause I’m really not that vain/Seven years bad luck ain’t that long/Before I smash you, hear my song.‘
Sequenced as the final track, ‘Roll Away the Stone‘, that had already continued a run of superb Mott the Hoople hit singles (‘All the Young Dudes/Honaloochie Boogie/All the Way From Memphis‘, the sequence about to be extended by The Golden Age of Rock ‘n’ Roll‘), brought the album to a rousing conclusion.
While the L.P. was greeted warmly by the critics and sold well on both sides of the Atlantic (U.K. 11/U.S. 28), an extensive American tour exposed cracks no amount of greasepaint could gloss over. On their return to England in Septmber 1974 the services of guitar player Grosvenor were dispensed with, Hunter later recalling:
‘Luther was one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life, but he never was a Mott the Hoople guitarist.‘
Grosvenor had appeared on the minor U.K. hit ‘Foxy, Foxy‘ (an unused track for ‘The Hoople‘ album) that reached 33 in July 1974, but no sooner was he gone than former Bowie sideman Mick Ronson came through the door. He appeared an inspired choice, the portents both encouraging and ominous when the ‘Saturday Gigs‘ single appeared, being a superbly-crafted rock song yet one whose nostalgic theme amounted to waving goodbye.
It would prove the only Mott the Hoople track on which Ronson would play, a run of British tour dates through December 1974 cancelled when Hunter fell ill from exhaustion. The demise of those shows was followed by that of the band itself – their leader announcing he had quit to go solo in the early weeks of the following year.
Despite the nagging sensation they drifted apart at the precise moment when the possibilites looked endless, (Watts, Buffin and Fisher with two new recruits would release a couple of decent albums as ‘Mott’ before disbanding, Hunter in 1975 cutting the first of several fine records of his own), from 1972 through to 1974 the output of Mott the Hoople had been irresistable and inspiring.
‘Rock and roll’s a losers game/It mesmorises and I can’t explain‘ sang Hunter on ‘Ballad of Mott the Hoople‘. They might have gone too soon, but were far from losers, ‘The Hoople‘ album being another triumph of theirs to celebrate.
MOTT THE HOOPLE – THE HOOPLE (Released 29 March 1974):
The Golden Age of Rock ‘n’ Roll/Marionette/Alice/Crash Street Kidds/Born Late ’58/Trudi’s Song/Pearl ‘n’ Roy (England)/Through the Looking Glass/Roll Away the Stone;
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NEIL SAMBROOK is the author of ‘MONTY’S DOUBLE‘ – an acclaimed thriller available in paperback and as an Amazon Kindle book: