Rock matriarch writes about life, family & more

I remember one night being taken to Victoria Station, because my mum and dad were seeing off Bill Haley on the midnight train to Europe. My father used to wave all the artists off — as the promoter he had to make sure everyone was on the train and accounted for — then he would go and join them a couple of days later. He'd always be there for the Big Welcome, and then there'd be the Big Wave Off, although I don't think this kind of thing was that unusual in those days, because everything was far more courteous. Now the only place you'll get a promoter coming to the airport to meet you is Japan.

Gene Vincent and the rest of them might have been getting girls weeping and screaming in the aisles, but to me they were just people my father worked with. These artists just happened to be musicians, as opposed to ventriloquists or comedians. Some of them were arseholes, some of them were nice — just like everybody else.

One problem my father hadn't foreseen with bringing over Americans was that they had to be paid up front, and when you're talking about a whole tour, and these people were being paid over £1,000 a week, that was a lot. Fifty percent of the entire fee had to go to the William Morris Agency in New York before the artist even left America, and then the balance would have to be handed to them personally every night, in cash, and some even wanted that in advance. A year or two later I remember being on the road with my dad with Little Richard and Chuck Berry and them literally refusing to play. It was like, "Yeah. We go on, but we get the money first."

My father lived a cash-only existence. Although he carried around a checkbook twice the normal size, it didn't matter what size it was or how many zeroes were on it — you could have filled it with fucking zeroes — nobody wanted anybody's check. Not in rock and roll. It had to be bills.

Carrying so much cash on him was the reason my father gave for employing the "heavies," as they were called, who would be "handy" in difficult situations. They'd start out as drivers and if all went well he would bring them into the company as tour managers. These heavies would come from the fringes of show business, always recommended by somebody who knew somebody. The first one I really remember was Peter Grant, mainly because he would pick David and me up from school on days he had nothing else scheduled. He began his career as a bouncer in the 2i's club in Soho (where people like Cliff Richard and Adam Faith had started out) and then was a stunt double and bit-part player in films, or at least that was what he used to tell us. His first job for my father was driving Gene Vincent, and then he progressed to tour managing. With all the things he had going on, my father couldn't handle everything himself anymore.

Once, when my parents were on tour somewhere we couldn't go, we had to stay six weeks with Dolly in her flat in Elsynge Road. As this was too far for us to go to our usual school, we were put into one near Clapham Junction, and I hated it. Unlike Clermont, which was an ordinary house, this was a great Victorian redbrick building with echoing rooms that rang with the sound of desks banging and bells. There were about a hundred people in every class, and I didn't know anybody. As for the playground, it was more like a battleground. The first thing I did was tell them my father was a policeman. I couldn't possibly have explained what he really did — it was far too embarrassing. The last thing you want as a child is to stand out. And I stood out enough anyway, because I wasn't at school regularly, because my parents didn't participate in school life at all.

We never mixed with anybody who wasn't connected with the industry, other than kids at school, and we weren't even supposed to bring them back home. By now both rooms on the ground floor were used as offices and there was always some drama going on. Gene Vincent was always drunk and he'd regularly be waving a gun around. Or someone had done something against my father, and he'd be threatening to kill the bastards. Violence was never far away from my father. From as early as I can remember, people were frightened of him. Although he was quite a small man in terms of his height, because of the singing training he'd done as a boy in the synagogue, he had this barrel chest he was so proud of, and he'd take anybody on.

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