Aside from release of ‘Kink Kronikles‘ a double compilation for the North American market released by Reprise, a label they had recently left, there was little else to report from the rock world on Sunday 26th March 1972 – indeed, only The Kinks would have an album issued in their name on the quietest day of the week.
Elsewhere the Stones, keeping well away from the clutches of the UK taxman, were recording in between outbreaks of debauchery in the south of France, Dylan was mulling over whether to take an acting role in the next Sam Peckinpah western rather than writing new songs, while every day Pete Townshend came up with an idea for the next opus from The Who, only to change his mind the following morning.
Meanwhile in Zurich the lead singer of an English rock troupe who three years into their career had released four albums containing some exhilarating, if chart shy music, was being inspired to pen a set of lyrics that were his goodbye to the band and in effect, the final testament of a struggling group.
Ian Hunter (b 1939), vocalist, piano player and rhythm guitarist of the extravagantly talented, but hugely underachieving Mott The Hopple, namechecks each fellow member of the ensemble through a track that would not see the light of day for another fifteen months. Dale ‘Buffin’ Griffin (drums, b 1948), Mick Ralphs (lead guitar, b.1945), Verden Allen (organ, b.1944) and Peter ‘Overend’ Watts (bass, b.1947), are each depicted, along with Hunter himself in the embryonic song, the band all but over due to their failure to build any momentum.
On their return to England following a dispiriting European tour, Watts approached David Bowie in regard to joining a backing unit he was putting together. Informed the ‘Spiders from Mars‘ collective had already been formed, the bassist discovered Bowie was mortified by news Mott The Hoople were on the point of breaking up, pledging help to keep afloat a group he greatly admired.
Watts duly informed the others, some of whom were barely on speaking terms, things proceeding to a meeting between the band and Bowie who offered them a new song (Mott had previously passed on a demo of ‘Suffragette City’ he sent them) and also volunteered to produce an album, should they stay together long enough to record one.
The upturn in their fortunes occurred virtually overnight. An imaginative cover of ‘All the Young Dudes‘ reached number three on the UK singles chart during the summer of 1972, an LP bearing the same title their most purposeful and polished yet. Previous producer Guy Stevens, who would later be at the controls for 1979 Clash masterpiece ‘London Calling‘ had captured Mott in all their unrestrained glory, but the new man at the mixing desk brought more clarity and discipline – a ramped up version of the Faces forsaken for a niche somewhere between Dylan and The Doors, with a touch of Deep Purple thrown in for good measure.
The finished article was impressive. Bowie, having recognised Hunter as the great songwriting talent in the team, had overseen the best album they had yet made, or as the New Musical Express later reflected, ‘Bowie tightened and focused their aggression, then stepped aside.’
But even then overdue commercial success was not enough to reestablish harmony within the ranks. Organist Allen left in January 1973, his place at the keyboards eventually taken by Morgan Fisher (b. 1950), Mott still a quartet by the time sessions began for their sixth studio album. Appearing as a self-produced, nine track collection, ‘MOTT‘ (July 1973) revealed them to be in sublime form – this masterful set a quintessential LP of the era.
Due to the times into which it was released, glam-rock being at its most prevalent, there became a tendency to label them as such, yet that was down to their association with Bowie, at this point the most recognisable exponent of the form, rather than any great similarities in the music. True, Mott may have taken to wearing spangled jackets and platform shoes, but this is wham rock beyond all else – or if splitting (glittery) hairs, glam with depth and imagination.
Which is not to decry any of those (Bowie too abstract and audacious for just one category), having a great time adorning glitter and sequins while making the pop records currently riding high in the charts – but in Hunter, Mott boasted a wordsmith capable of viewing current trends with the same feeling of detachment used by Ray Davies when observing ‘Swinging London’ in the mid-60s.
Indeed, there is a sense of Hunter pausing for breath to enjoy Mott The Hoople finally becoming successful, while celebrating and lamenting what has been gained or lost along the way. His ascendency to stardom is described in bittersweet terms, believing in the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll yet aware for him this could be a fleeting moment – being proved right, particularly in terms of Mott The Hoople, as their time would be done less than two years later.
His growing confidence as a writer is immediately apparent when the magnificent ‘All the Way from Memphis’ starts things rolling. Instantly recognisable by the pounding piano – once described by my late dad on hearing it through my bedroom wall as sounding ‘like someone trying to flatten carpet‘ – that heralds its arrival, during the verses it contains impressions from a US tour, but with each chorus Hunter makes pertinent comments on the nature of fame, the fourth instance particularly pithy:
‘Yeah it’s a mighty long way down rock’n’roll/As your name gets hot so your heart grows cold/And you gotta stay young man, you can never be old/All the way from Memphis.’
Decorated by a wailing tenor saxophone from Andy Mackay of Roxy Music and the strident, but tasteful electric guitar lines of Ralphs, the piece is both infectious and insightful, Hunter coming up with one final assertion on the perception of popularity before the song fades (‘And you look like a star/But you’re really out on parole‘), Mott having just conjured the finest rock single made that year.
On ‘Whizz Kid‘ Hunter has fun playing with words in describing how he has become the source of infatuation for a young female fan from New York. The chunky guitar work take it from Dylan to New York Dolls territory, the writer planting tongue firmly in cheek when he evokes the UK national anthem, in word and melody, when singing:
‘Send you victorious, happy and glorious/You got the stardust, the sawdust, and the smile/Don’t lose your sting/How I’d hate you to swing/Oh my little whizz kid, you got such a style.’
Written by Hunter and the recently departed Allen, the singer described the lyrics to ‘Hymn for the Dudes‘ as response to the ‘inevitable backlash from old fans in what they thought was us jumping on the glam bandwagon with the dressing up.’
In truth it is an emotional piano ballad – far removed from Sweet or Slade – on how transient being in the spotlight can be, the beam moving away in an instant. His plaintive delivery is no more heartfelt than when delivering the lines, ‘Cos if you think you are a star/For so long they’ll come from near and far/But you’ll forget just who you are (yes you will)’.
The gospel harmonies and church organ emphasise why ‘Hymn‘ was used in the title, Hunter’s sombre lamentations, which at times sound a touch obscure, coloured by a brilliant middle section guitar solo from Ralphs.
In contrast ‘Honaloochie Boogie‘ plays up to the ‘suddenly I’m famous’ theme only in far lighter tone, an admission from Hunter of the title making no sense not detracting in the slightest from an uplifting, first rate rock song. Climbing to number three in the UK charts when released as a single, it is not only catchy, but clever too, Hunter sounding delightfully assured when he sings:
‘Now my hair gets longer as the beat gets stronger/Wanna tell Chuck Berry my news/I get my kicks outta guitar licks/And I’ve sold my steel-toed shoes.’
While the influence of Mott The Hoople on the punk and new wave bands who appeared later in the 70s is rightly acknowledged, the ambience of this power-pop gem filtered down into more latter day acts such as Blur and Supergrass – whether such bands realised it or not.
Side one closer ‘Violence‘ however, is, in every way a 1973 period piece. Ralphs, who receives a co-write credit, does a passable Townshend impression with the power chords, while the whimsical chorus has Roxy Music sensibilities, Hunter drawing on confrontational scenes from the picket lines to football terraces for inspiration:
‘Get off my back or I’ll attack, ‘n I don’t owe you nothin’ (OK)/Head for your hole, you’re sick and you’re old/’N I’m here to tell you something.’
As the songs moves to its conclusion the music briefly stops, the musicians adding to the sense of drama in reenacting a street set-to – the proto-punk dimension of the piece making it sound like The Clash, three years before Joe Strummer and co came into existence.
Side Two opener ‘Drivin’ Sister‘ hangs on a hard rock framework, driving guitar riffs and intense piano fleshed out with all manner of car sound effects, as Hunter, by no means the first (or last) to make girl/car analogies, comes up with some amusing variations on the theme:
‘Hey mister bartender won’t you gimme some wine/I gotta get outta town, meet my baby on time/He put five gallons in my petrol tank/You know we just about made it but her breath sure stank.’
From July 1973 the clock is turned back to Switzerland sixteen months before and his affecting take on the imminent dissolution of Mott (the track credited to all five original members), with the sublime ‘Ballad of Mott The Hoople.’
Through this deeply resonant piece, the subtext appears to be membership of a rock band is an extension of life, where it is not disappointment that rankles but diminished hope – Hunter using the third verse to reveal how it has impacted on them all:
‘Buffin lost his child-like dreams/And Mick lost his guitar/And Verden grew a line or two/And Overend’s just a rock n’ roll star/Behind these shades, the visions fade/As I learn a thing or two/Oh but if I had my time again/You all know just what I’d do.’
While at pains to state ‘Rock n’ roll’s a loser’s game’ still he is mesmerised by the whole thing, even if it meant paying dues on soul destroying tours that landed them in places such as Zurich – ‘The greasepaint still sticks to my face/So what the hell I can’t erase/The rock n’ roll feeling/From my mind.’
But continue on, despite losing Allen along the way, they did, the lengthy, Ralphs-composed, ‘I’m A Cadillac/El Commo Dolo Roso’ at once out of kilter with the present, but forerunner of where the guitarist was heading.
Lyrically no great shakes, the vehicle/vixen connotations are far more obvious than those of Hunter (‘I’m a Cadillac, I’m just holding back/All the speed inside just to let me ride you through/You’re a thunderbird cruisin’ round my heart/But don’t push your luck, I don’t always play my part’). At seven minutes it is over indulgence in showcasing the talent of Ralphs as a guitar player and displaying what a tight aggregation, drummer Griffin and bass player Watts in exemplary form throughout, Mott had become.
In some of its more melodic passages there are overtones of the soft rock sound Peter Frampton and Fleetwood Mac would soon be purveying, which was not a million miles from where Ralphs was going. Six weeks after ‘Mott‘ appeared he left to join forces with ex-Free vocalist Paul Rodgers in forming Bad Company – whose radio-friendly mellow metal was exemplified by breakthrough hit ‘Can’t Get Enough‘ that was taken by Ralphs to the sessions for ‘Mott‘ only for the band, wisely, to demur.
But closing track ‘I Wish I Was Your Mother‘ could only be them – a stunning folk-rock ballad that finds Hunter reflecting with obvious regret on a disintegrating relationship:
‘I scream at you for sharing/And I curse you just for caring/I hate the clothes you’re wearing, they’re so pretty/And I tell you not to see me/And I tell you not to feel me/And I make your life a drag, it’s such a pity.’
Against the backdrop of a ringing mandolin he takes responsibility for the situation, ‘It’s no use me pretendin’/You give and I do the spendin’ but never indulges in sentimentality when lamenting what has come to pass, thus closing the album on a downbeat, but poignant note.
Received rapturously by the critics, the New Musical Express deemed it ‘excellent‘ while in the US, where the band had yet to make much headway, Rolling Stone magazine went even further, describing the record as a ‘masterpiece of modern rock.’ The success of ‘Honaloochie Boogie‘ and ‘All the Way from Memphis‘ when issued as singles took the LP high into the UK charts, while also serving to generate some Stateside chart action for the album.
Yet no sooner had the acclaim arrived than Ralphs was gone, his place taken by former Spooky Tooth and Stealers Wheel guitarist Luther Grosvenor (b. 1946) for the UK and US tours that followed. At many venues Mott found themselves supported by Queen, who clearly noted what they saw, formative hits ‘Killer Queen‘ and ‘Now I’m Here‘ using plenty of Mott motifs but not a single line, especially in relation to Hunter, of comparable wit or originality in the lyrics.
In 1974 Hunter led the band through another (‘The Hoople‘) majestic set, which spawned top class 45 ‘The Golden Age of Rock N’ Roll‘ that was not dissimilar in sound to the one created by Bruce Springsteen and his E-Streeters on ‘The River‘ six years later. But after a final, valedictory single ‘Saturday Gigs‘ for which he composed another set of deliciously expressive verses, Hunter, citing exhaustion, quit before the year was out.
Mott The Hoople as they were recognised ceased to be, although Watts, Buffin and Fisher, along with a couple of new recruits managed two albums under the shortened banner of Mott, which contained pleasant, if unremarkable mid-70s rock.
Hunter, meanwhile, launched a solo career in 1975, with an accomplished self-titled debut album. Produced by former Bowie sideman Mick Ronson, who was a fleeting member of Mott The Hoople the previous year, it yielded ‘Once Bitten Twice Shy‘ a consummate hit single that showed his turn of phrase in fine working order.
But in the years that followed it was his contribution to an extraordinary rock band for which Hunter would be most revered – and none more so for an album that was the synthesis of Mott The Hoople and rock music at its most eloquent back in the summer of 1973.
MOTT THE HOOPLE – MOTT (Released July 20 1973)
All the Way from Memphis/Whizz Kid/Hymn for the Dudes/Honaloochie Boogie/Violence/Drivin’ Sister/The Ballad of Mott The Hoople (26th March, Zurich 1972)/ I’m a Cadillac/El Camino Dolo Roso/I Wish I Was Your Mother;
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NEIL SAMBROOK is the author of ‘MONTY’S DOUBLE‘ – an acclaimed thriller now available in paperback and as an Amazon Kindle book.