On the "Roadie " with Fleetwood Mac

[vivfox]

Dinky Dawson and the Legendary Gig Wagon Races
by Dinky Dawson


In April, 1969, Fleetwood Mac had just finished Top of the Pops for the BBC, and I headed straight to my favorite watering hole, La Chase on Wardour Street, right above the Marquee Club. Sitting at the bar was an old friend from my days as a DJ at the Mojo Club in Sheffield, Long John Baldry. As we chatted over a pint, I learned Clifford Adams, Fleetwood Mac’s manager, had been talking to him about a short tour with B.B. King and the Mac with Duster Bennett opening. Baldry would be the master of ceremonies. I thought that would be brilliant. John said he had always wanted to see B.B. King and was ecstatic that he would be touring with him for eight shows. After another drink, John and Jack Barry, the owner of the bar, took off downstairs to see a new band playing at the Marquee.

As Jack was leaving, he said he had seen Baz, an old friend and roadie for Keith Emerson’s new group, the Nice, heading to a corner pub with Keith Moon. I said, “They must be going to get trashed,” and decided it was time to leave myself.

As soon as I stepped out to Wardour Street, I could hear some very loud voices coming from the corner pub. It was a bit early for the lads to be plastered, but whatever they were up to, I knew it would be fun. As I walked into the pub, Baz was yelling something to Noz, the roadie for the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band.

Suddenly I heard a familiar voice booming over the noise, “How’s the Mac?”

“Moonie,” I yelled, looking to where the voice came from. “Top of the Pops!” Then I saw him—Keith Moon holding court with Peter Frampton, a couple of ladies, and some of the other lads from the Herd.

“How’s your gig wagon,” a grinning Keith yelled back at me, referring to an incident from the Who’s Magic Bus days. Just after they had released their single, I was driving down Regent Street in the Mac’s transit van behind a wildly-painted, double-decker bus covered with Who posters and banners and a big Union Jack. At the rear of the bus, staggering down the stairs from the upper deck, was none other than Moonie himself, frantically waving a bottle of beer. As he pointed at me, I blew my horn and gave him the two-finger salute. Keith, laughing hysterically, responded by throwing the bottle at my windshield. As the big, brown bottle hurtled towards me, I instinctively slammed on the brakes. Crash! All the equipment at the back of the wagon slammed forward, pushing my seat. The empty bottle smashed harmlessly on the grill of the gig wagon. Quickly, I jammed my foot on the accelerator, and the equipment moved back towards the rear of the small van.

“You bastard, Moonie,” I yelled, sticking my head out of my window. Hearing the ruckus, Pete Townsend and Roger Daltry rushed to the back of the bus to see the cause of all the commotion. By now, Moonie had found another beer bottle, and it looked like a full one. Worried that he’d bust the windshield, I drove up beside the bus, shaking my fist and yelling. By now, everyone on the bus was on hand, chortling and yelling at Moonie and me. As the other band members tried to restrain him, Moonie opened the beer and yelled, “Why waste a good pint on the Mac!” I have often wondered what spectators on Regent Street were thinking as they watched a psychedelic bus being chased by a madman in a transit gig wagon that day.

Tonight was the first time I had seen Keith since the Magic Bus incident, but he hadn’t changed at all. If anything, his legend as a wild man was growing. Not waiting for a reply to his question about the Mac’s van, Moonie stood up and yelled, “Everyone ready for the Speak?” The Speakeasy Club, 48 Margaret Street, London, was a late-night haunt for the music industry from 1966 to the late 1970s. It was more of a declaration than a question, but I wanted to talk to Baz before going to the club.

“No way Baz can talk,” said Moonie, bleary-eyed and smiling. He was right. Baz was well plastered, doing his Buddy Holly impersonation on the stage and challenging anyone in hearing range to a strong man contest. Baz was always bragging about lifting Keith Emerson’s Hammond B3 organ by himself. Even if he had only dragged the heavy keyboard, Baz was a strong lad, but seeing his condition, I thought it best to speak with him the next day. So I told Moonie I’d follow them to the Speak in the Mac gig wagon.

Parking near the Speak was almost impossible—cars and vans were everywhere on the narrow streets. By the time I walked down the stairs and into the club, I was ready for a drink. Keith had commandeered a large table in a recessed booth near the stage from the Herd’s roadie, Chris Adamson, and I headed straight to where they were seated, waiting for Frampton and some of his band lads. I began moaning about the parking around the club when Chris started bragging about the Herd’s gig wagon.

“Nothing can touch it, man,” boasted Chris. “It’s the best.” Not to be outdone, Moonie protested, “The Who’s gig wagon has a V8 and no one can touch that.” After ordering some food and a couple more drinks, we were all declaiming loudly about the virtues of our vehicles. In fact, at one point, the bouncers came over to calm us down—we were louder than the band on the stage. “Eat your corn on the cob and strawberries and cream,” they ordered, “some folks want to hear the band!”

Eventually, everyone calmed down except for Moonie and Chris, who challenged each other to a gig wagon race from the Blue Boar, a well-known roadie rest stop on the M1, to the end of the Motorway in London. The M1 was a big deal for us lads who traveled throughout England, especially when we did two or three shows a day or night. Roadies knew this motorway well. But now it was late, and although for weeks after folks talked about the challenge, no one gave it serious thought. I left with the Mac for a short tour of the continent.

Then one night about a month later, I made a pit stop at 3am at the Blue Boar. Walking into the restaurant, I spied Keith Moon, kicking the jukebox. As the Who’s “My Generation” sputtered and was ejected, I called out, “Moonie!”

Keith jumped back. “Dinky,” he declared, “you’re here for the gig wagon race!”

“What?” I said, “What race?”

“Remember the Speakeasy challenge?,” Moonie impishly replied.

I had forgotten, but not Moonie. He further elaborated that gig wagon races had been going on for the past three weeks. I was flabbergasted.

“We’ve been gigging abroad and this is the first trip back in England,” I confessed.

Moonie understood. “Look around,” he said, gesturing at the four other road crews having a cup of tea.

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part two part two part two

The following week, after Fleetwood Mac had played a gig in London, Peter Green and Danny Kirwan headed to the Speakeasy to jam with Hendrix and the Who. I decided to join them. It was Chris Adamson’s birthday, and the party had already started. Peter Frampton had brought some girls, and some of the lads from the Move were all over them.
I last saw Baz at a gig in Antwerp, Belgium. Fleetwood Mac was on a bill playing a soccer stadium with Yes, the Nice, Jon Hiseman’s Colosseum, and Aynsley Dunbar’s Retaliation. Everyone traveled on two prop airplanes, one a cargo plane carrying the band gear. The old, small passenger airplane was full to the max with bands and roadies. The roadies had been up all night, coming from shows all around England. Despite being tired, we were suspicious of the planes, which looked as if they had seen better days. Before we set off, Baz began yelling for the free drinks from the only stewardess on the plane. And by the time we were ready to rumble down the runway, everyone wanted a drink. As I looked around the plane, I could see a couple of stress areas that looked like they had some rivets missing. The seats looked worn and old.

“We’re all going to die,” rasped John McVie, looking around as the plane lurched down the runway.
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Part Three PART THREE PART THREE

The airplane creaked and groaned as the pilot gave it more gas. Mick Fleetwood and Danny Kirwan were not too happy either, but Peter Green, Jeremy Spencer, and I nervously started laughing to cover our fear. The stewardess came out with more drinks and I managed to get a bottle of Scotch for John McVie and me. Although it seemed like days, within hours we were landing at Antwerp, just as John and I finished the Scotch. Even Peter, usually a teetotaler, had been drinking. As our landing gear met the tarmac, the plane erupted with applause. After a quiet and quick customs stop, the bands were taken to the hotel, and the roadies sorted out and loaded the gear into the trucks.

We all felt good as we entered the soccer stadium, where there were two big stages with a six-foot gap separating them. The promoters had built two stages, thinking one act could play while the next group set up. The sound system was a huge hodgepodge of every group’s sound gear and nothing was compatible. To top it all, Baz was in charge of setting up the sound system. It was a mess and, for once, I was glad the Mac had left our gear in England. Walking to the trucks, I saw a line of equipment heading to the stage, carried by an army of English roadies that seemed to appear from out of nowhere.

“Hey, where did these worker ants come from?” I asked Baz, pointing to the roadies. “They weren’t on our plane.”

“Yeah, they came over earlier to set up the stage. Nothing for you to do,” said Baz. “Put that over there,” he called out to a roadie. “Here, Dinky, you take this. The lads have already emptied the plane and don’t need it anymore!” Baz handed me half a bottle of Scotch.

“I’ll drink to that,” I laughed, taking a big gulp as I watched the drunken crew move the equipment. It wasn’t even noon.

Baz had decided to put the mixing consoles in between the two stages, figuring it would be easier to move between the two stages this way. Fortunately, the weather was fantastic, which was a good thing since the stage had no cover. And, amazingly, the hodgepodge sound system actually worked really well. Most of the speaker cabinets were columns containing four in-line 12-inch speakers. The 20-plus columns on each side of the stage were loud. As soon as Baz and his crew cranked up the system, the gates opened and people poured into the gig, ready for a noon start. No one even thought about a soundcheck.

I checked out the first act and then went to the backstage bar. It felt as if I was back at the Speak with all the different popstars hanging out ready to play. I found John McVie having a great old time and had a few drinks with him. I was starting to get a good buzz on when I decided it was time to work onstage during the next set change. As the set ended, Baz tried to jump up onto the stage from the mixing consoles. Whack!—he missed his footing and fell back, knocking one of the consoles over. I rushed over to help him, but Baz was laughing sheepishly. He was okay but his ego was bruised. Later, just before the Mac’s set, I slipped off the stage, barely missing the mixing consoles by a hair. Didn’t feel a thing, though. By now I was seeing double. We played to a very large, enthusiastic crowd who kept cheering for more, but when I leaped up to fix a loose cable, I fell off the stage again, feeling very embarrassed as I picked myself up. I sat down behind the consoles, mixing on autopilot. Seeing my predicament, Peter laughed uncontrollably while Jeremy jumped out from behind his amplifier to see what was going off. From this point on, I knew I was plastered. I had no idea what the mix sounded like, but I was told the next day that I had done well. Yet after the show, it was tough packing up the gear.

John McVie came looking for me to make sure I was okay. “Dinky,” he said, “I can be your guide. You’ve been drinking too much!” But we both needed a guide as John had hit the bar as soon as he was off the stage and he, too, was feeling no pain. Peter couldn’t stop laughing. I don’t remember much more, but I do remember waking up in a big, puffy bed with a big, bad hangover. The worst was making the return journey to England in the same prop airplane. Peter was still laughing, but Mick was very serious about the gear and the show.

“Dinky,” he said sternly, “this is our work. We can’t afford to lose our gear. And people pay to see us play.” But Dennis Keane, Fleetwood Mac’s band roadie, told him that the gear was taken care of and would be waiting for us in England. Then Mick opened the morning newspaper to find a large photo of Fleetwood Mac on stage. The article praised the whole show, complimenting the Mac for a great performance. Mick started to lighten up. I haven’t seen Baz since this gig but I’m sure he has the same fond, foggy memories as I do.

On the 22nd of April, Fleetwood Mac, B.B. King, and Duster Bennett (with Long John Baldry as master of ceremonies) played the Royal Albert Hall, London. Though much loved, the old Victorian hall presents a challenging load-in with its numerous, narrow stairs making it difficult to move gear. To help, my good friend and mentor Charlie Watkins, from Watkins Electric Music (WEM), sent extra roadies, including some of my good friends from the Speakeasy. Charlie also sent extra sound equipment to augment Fleetwood Mac’s WEM system. We had been talking for some time about how great it would be to have a sound system with a separate vocal system that would add clarity and midrange to the sound. For this gig, Charlie decided it was time to try one out. He set up two red, six-foot-round, parabolic dishes with a black 10-inch speaker facing into each focal point. We hung these parabolics on both sides of the Royal Albert Hall organ and powered each with 40-watt WEM amplifier. I sent just the vocals to the dishes and what a difference it made. The sound was awesome. Even B.B. remarked how good it sounded.

After the show Mick Jagger came up to Mick and me. “I liked the giant boobs on the organ,” he said. “And they sounded good, too.”

I thought that was the best comment all night.

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