‘Excuse me? For starters, my band isn’t here. Secondly, even if it was, that album has a full orchestra and a massive choir on it. Plus Chaka Khan and some of the most talented musicians and singers on the face of the planet. And I don’t sing anyway.’
‘Not a problem, Rick – you will be miming.’
How the hell do I mime an overture on my own?
I thought. But I resisted the temptation to swear at him. ‘How do I mime the New World Symphony Orchestra, the English Chamber Choir and Chaka Khan and my band all at the same time?’
‘No problem, we have got you keyboard, Rick.’
One keyboard! Oh, that’s all right then. Sorted.
I travelled to the show and, sure enough, there were 20,000 people there. They introduced me very soon after the car pulled up and I walked onstage, smiling and waving at the massed crowd. It was at this point that I noticed there were no other instruments on stage . . . apart from a very small Casio keyboard on a cheap stand, the kind you would buy for a kid’s Christmas present.
I had no choice – I couldn’t
not
play anything.
So, for six and a bit excruciating minutes, I stood before 20,000 people randomly hitting keys on a £50 keyboard, pretending to actually be playing one of the most complex and sophisticated compositions I had ever been involved with. Then, just after Chaka Khan started singing on the tape and I wanted the ground to open up below me, the compère came on stage and started asking me questions. I have to be honest, I’m normally pretty docile even in the most testing of situations, but for once I was pretty cross.
‘So, Rick, you like playing live shows, yes?’
‘Not when I’m given a toy keyboard like this to use . . .’ I snapped, pointing at the Casio. He turned to the crowd and obviously told them something completely different because they cheered and clapped and shouted their approval.
Backstage after the Casio debacle, I was approached by this chap who said he was from a British submarine crew docked locally and would I like to go out drinking with him and his colleagues. Given my bad experience of the day, I jumped at the chance, not a little intrigued about what life on a submarine was like. I’ve often been accused of plumbing the depths so I thought this was just one way to find out exactly what that meant.
Bloody hell, they could drink.
We started gently with a solid eight hours. We did have a plate of prawns between us in one establishment, but mainly it was a hard drinking session and I was pleased to be holding my own. The crew were the loveliest guys you could wish to meet and
I’ve kept in touch with a couple of them. Now, with numbness setting in, I asked if I might be able to board their submarine.
‘Sorry, Rick, we’re not allowed – HMS
Olympus
is a nuclear sub, you see, there’s all sorts of classified material and sensitive stuff on board. We’re about to go out on a six-month mission. We’re just waiting for the captain to receive his instructions.’
After many more hours of alcohol-drenched revelry, we were walking to the next bar when the crew member on to whom I was holding, as falling over would have been very much an option should I have had no support, said, ‘I don’t reckon the captain would mind if we sneaked him on for a little look. After all, he’s a fan too and he knows we were going to see Rick.’ The others nodded their approval. I was about to become a nuclear submariner.
Walking to the port where the
Olympus
was they told me about life below the waves. It was really interesting: they were explaining how most navy vessels changed their personnel on quite a regular basis, but subs are underwater for months at a time and it’s a special kind of atmosphere, so the crew hardly ever moved on, and they become quite a tight family.
I should also explain that I had a photographer from
NME
with me who was covering the trip to Portugal. The reason I have not mentioned him up to now is simply because he did not feature – he was an extremely poor drinker and we’d left him where he had collapsed after twelve minutes in the bar we had started in. We went back to collect him on the way to the port. He was semi-conscious but after reminding him of his name and why he was in Lisbon he perked up a bit. I told him we were going on a nuclear submarine and he said, ‘Have we missed our plane then?’ and fell over.
We literally dragged him off to see the sub. It was way past midnight now and it was the job of the submarine crew to sneak on board one somewhat unsteady-on-his-feet rock musician and
a completely pissed photographer. We got to the gate and the submariner who’d approached me backstage said we’d probably get through the security gate with no problem provided I looked like I should be there, so as long as I tucked my hair in behind my collar so that I didn’t stand out too much he reckoned it would be fine. I did exactly that and was amazed when we did indeed sail through with a cheery wave from the Portuguese security guards. We walked/staggered over to the sub. She was absolutely magnificent. The conning tower seemed to reach up to the sky. It was one of the most majestic sights I had ever seen. Once inside the submarine, I got the full tour: we walked the entire length many times, I went in the private quarters, the kitchens, the control rooms, I even sat on a bloody nuclear torpedo (it wasn’t armed; I asked). Then there was a little commotion and the captain said, ‘Sorry, Rick, you gotta go, we’ve just had our instructions and we’re leaving immediately on a NATO exercise.’ I later discovered that they were out at sea on this exercise for six months and submerged for most of it.
After I disembarked and watched them sail away I couldn’t help thinking about how much alcohol had been consumed over the previous hours, but I assumed that the police didn’t tend to breathalyse submarine crews.
Years later, I was doing some promotions for Olympus cameras and was invited to a press day aboard HMS
Olympus
, the very same submarine I had been on which had since been decommissioned. It was moored on the Thames, down by Tower Bridge next to HMS
Belfast
.
The chairman of Olympus cameras said to me on the telephone that this was a great opportunity to see inside a nuclear sub, as so much secrecy surrounded them.
I told him that I’d been in it already.
He said that I must be mistaken. I must be thinking of another non-nuclear sub on Navy Day in Portsmouth or something.
I said,
‘No, it was in Lisbon. I was legless and sat on a nuclear missile as well.’
Quite simply, he didn’t believe me. He said, ‘Impossible,’ etc. and that he looked forward to seeing me at HMS
Belfast
.
When I arrived, all sorts of celebrities and dignitaries were there, standing in front of the captain, who was explaining the secrecy surrounding these highly sensitive nuclear vessels. Firstly, he welcomed Olympus cameras and then continued: ‘Such is the top-secret nature of these vessels that the strictest clearance has to be applied for even a momentary visit, if the sub is on active service. We know for a fact that other countries have tried on several occasions to infiltrate these vessels so they are guarded with absolute priority. Only a few select submariners and very senior politicians have ever boarded this particular vessel. She has since been decommissioned. You are among a very privileged few who have been invited on board for a tour. We will split the group into two parties, one will come down with me . . .’
Then he looked across at me and with a grin on his face said, ‘. . . and the notable rock musician Rick Wakeman, who knows this vessel very well, can escort the second party.’
I have never felt so proud in my entire life, as I was aware that every person there was now wondering if I was a rock musician or a spy.
The chairman I had spoken to on the phone was speechless, and as I walked past him I whispered in his ear, ‘The name’s Bond . . . Rick Bond.’
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Sometimes with my job I have laughed until my sides would split; occasionally the opposite is true. I was one of the last Europeans to play in Argentina before the Falklands crisis in 1982. I was down there just before the war started and I had no idea what was going on. The people there had always made me very welcome and I made a lot of friends over the years; there was rampant unemployment in Argentina at the time and a lot of unrest among the younger generation; yet on my return to the UK I already had lots of lovely letters waiting for me on the mat from people I’d met.
Then the war started.
It was very weird for me because I was reading these letters from people who had been at my shows, knowing that some of them would now have been called up to fight the British forces. Worse still, I was living down near Aldershot at the time and I knew friends in the UK military who had been flown out to fight the Argentinians. Both sets of friends loved music, and it was upsetting to think that, in different circumstances, they might have been sitting next to one another at a concert instead of trying to kill each other.
The dilemma for me was that I agreed with Thatcher and felt she was right in what she was doing; for sure the Argentinian government were keeping things from their people, so I had little enthusiasm for them; against that, I really felt the repercussions personally. The thought of two sets of friends being face to face across a battlefield was very troubling to me. So I did what I often do in these situations – I wrote a piece of music. It was called ‘Gone But Not Forgotten’, an instrumental piece. Tim Rice actually wrote some words for it, but that version was never recorded and it has only ever been performed as an instrumental.
Years later I revisited Argentina for some shows and a woman came to my hotel and asked to see me. I went down to reception and shook her hand. Then she said, in quite broken English, ‘Mr Wakeman, I wrote to you, remember?’
I have to be perfectly honest, I didn’t recall her letter. I do get rather a lot of mail and it’s impossible to remember all of it, obviously. She explained that she had written to me when her son had been serving in the Falklands against the British army. She said she hadn’t understood what was going on; she also said her son had been to a show of mine a couple of weeks before he was called up, his last social outing, that I’d signed a record for him and that he’d been delighted by this. She explained how he was very young, seventeen, and very confused and that he’d told her, ‘What is going on? The British people are fighting us, but Rick is British and he is my friend, he signed my record.’
Then she told me that he had been killed in action.
It was very hard to know what to say. I admit to feeling the tears well up in my eyes.
Then she held up this bag, carefully wrapped, and said it was a gift for me. She’d read an article about ‘Gone But Not Forgotten’ and sought out a copy; she told me the music had been a great comfort to her. I thanked her very gently for the gift and expressed my genuine sorrow at her loss. The meeting left a big mark on me.
People in South America give you presents all the time, so I carefully placed this wrapped gift in my suitcase and later that day headed back to the airport and home.
When I arrived home there was a lot of catching up to do with the post and other messages, and so it was a couple of days before I was able to unpack my case. When I opened it up, there, sitting on the top, was the carefully wrapped parcel that the Argentinian lady had given me. I gingerly folded back the paper and opened it.
It was her son’s army hat. The tears started to well up again.
Music has that ability to move you. It is a proven scientific fact. One of the charities I have been involved with for many years – the Nordoff–Robbins Foundation – is based entirely on the premise that music can significantly help a variety of disabilities, particularly autism in children.
I’ve been involved with various charities over the years but this one, set up by two doctors, Nordoff and Robbins, is especially remarkable. Nowadays it’s a high-profile charity hosting yearly extravaganzas crammed with celebrities – I believe their annual Silver Clef Lunch is now one of the biggest-earning charity events in the world: it makes millions. I was involved with the charity from the outset after hearing their theories about the therapeutic potential of music.
In those initial stages, back in the early to mid-1970s, they called on various musicians and record companies to get involved and had a great response. When we first started, we needed somewhere to meet. The idea quickly outgrew the A&M offices we initially used, and then they were offered the Moët & Chandon offices just off Sloane Street. At the very first meeting I was somewhat surprised but extremely pleased to see dozens of bottles of champagne on the tables and, sure enough, many champagne-fuelled and, I have to say, very productive meetings followed over the ensuing years.
One day I got a call from a man by the name of Willie Robertson, who was a founder member of the charity and boss of Robertson Taylor, which was one of the few insurance companies that would cover reprobates like me and other rock stars. ‘Rick, would you like to go to Champagne?’ he asked.
I didn’t know this was the precise and only region where genuine champagne can be produced. He explained where it was and why I was being asked, as a participant of the charity.
‘It is where Count Frederick de Chandon lives and he’s invited a group of us to go down there – his family are great believers in the power of music. He wants you to be in that group.’ I was delighted and flew down there with great excitement. The count was only about forty and was a splendid fellow, really entertaining and, best of all, he
loved
music. We did all the tours, drank our way through about nineteen miles of cellars – it was phenomenal.
Then Fred came up to me and said, ‘Rick, my mother would like to meet you, if you will.’ I was more than happy to do so, although I was a little perplexed as to why she had asked for me. He escorted me to the part of the magnificent château where she lived, which was quite a sight. It had God knows how many rooms and chambers, all filled with clearly priceless antiques and period furniture: it really was an impressive country pile. Fred took me into this massive room where his elderly mother was sitting.