People like Tiny, The Electric Chairs’ roadie. We called him Tiny because he was enormous. He was a fan of rockabilly, with huge sideburns eating his baby-face, and he was covered in tattoos, coming out of his t-shirts. On the inside of his elbows, he had a couple of tattoos of hinges… including the screws! During our tours, he would set up and take off the gear on stage. During the concerts, he would stand in the wings, on my side of the stage, and he maintained security by throwing menacing looks. That was enough! He also took loads of speed. No smoking, just speed. I loved that guy who looked after us so well. However, I never got to know who he really was, nor where he’d come from. He worked for us right up until we split. Then he disappeared. He was very proud to hang out with rock musicians. He loved it and I’m sure he wanted to be one too. He was ready to do anything for us, and I’m sure he expected back from us that recognition, that mark of belonging to the world of rock and roll.
And yet, it was he, more than us, that defines rock and roll.
Guys like him, completely immersed in that world, there were hundreds of them. We’d come across them at gigs, our own, and those of other bands. They’d manage to get us in, and at the end of the night, we’d hang out with them, drinking beers together while they’d recount their stories of all the tours… the stories of all the guys, the drugs, the alcohol and the girls. Rock and roll stories. We felt comfortable together.