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| Out Of Print And then he came on stage, greeted with a chorus of cheers and a resounding echo of "EEAAANN, EEAAANN." With a casual "Alo," Ian Hunter, all 61 years of him, graced the sold-out Bowery Ballroom that hot summer night in New York, and pages upon pages of memories came back to me. An obsessive Mott The Hoople fan. It's important to differentiate between being obsessed with a band that still records and tours and one that broke up over 25 years ago. Basically, it's pretty damn hard to fuel an obsession for a band that broke up before I was even a glimmer in my mother's eye. Especially when that band was so under-appreciated during its heyday, and only in recent years (and by that I mean 1998) started gaining some credit for its important role in music history. Bluntly, I was on my own with this one. No fan clubs, no record swapping, and certainly no discussions among friends about the meaning of Hunter's tirade at the end of "Through The Looking Glass" when he yells into the microphone, "You're just a stupid, four-eyed cunt!" Was he talking to himself? Beats me. These kinds of topics tend to be checked at the door in 1993, when most people were debating whether or not Eddie Vedder was drinking wine during Pearl Jam's performance at the MTV Video Music Awards. Nope, it was up to me to remain a rabid fan. And rabid I remained. In August of 1993, Sony Records released a two CD collection called Ballad Of Mott The Hoople: A Retrospective, and needless to say, it changed my life. The collection contained just about all I needed to hear from Mott to push them to the forefront of my obsession list. Finally, I had some liner notes to read about Mott, and just about every song they recorded during their three-year stint on Columbia Records. As a high schooler with no social life, these kinds of discoveries became extremely important for my fragile adolescent psyche. In reading the liner notes, and in subsequent painstaking research throughout the next four years, I began to piece together the mystery surrounding Mott and Ian Hunter. The band formed in 1969, and were told by crazed manager Guy Stevens to closely resemble Bob Dylan, especially during his Blonde On Blonde period. The band's self-titled first record is about as close an impression of Dylan as you could get. But they peppered the album with a growing flair for rockin' numbers. It wasn't hard to spot Hunter's developing genius in originals "Backsliding Fearlessly" and "Half Moon Bay," but both were essentially rewrites of Dylan's "The Times They Are A Changin'." The band toiled with Stevens on Island Records, releasing three more critically-acclaimed albums (including 1972's beautifully chaotic Brain Capers) and amassing poor record sales along with a cult live following. The group was a paradox: they'd sell out club after club, but never could translate their live success into album sales.
All of this changed, of course, when Mott's bassist Overend Watts in 1972 told a fan named David Bowie that the group were calling it quits. Bowie, just before he donned make-up to become Ziggy Stardust, offered Mott a song that could be the hit single the band couldn't score. The song, "All The Young Dudes," catapulted Mott to the front of the glam rock scene, and gave the band the commercial success that had alluded them for so long. But like all bands, success ended up spoiling the show. Guitarist Mick Ralphs left the group in 1973, following the release of Mott, the group's follow-up to the Bowie-produced All The Young Dudes. The band's popularity continued to grow, though, and they even sold-out a week of shows on Broadway in 1974, with an unknown band named Queen opening most of them. With nothing but fame and fortune ahead, Hunter did the logical thing and left the group the next year to begin his spotty solo career. Of course, all of that history was irrelevant to me in high school. For me, hearing Hunter's bluntly personal lyrics matched up with driving, old-school guitar riffs was all that mattered. As a love-troubled high school student, hearing Hunter's personal and bluntly honest songs about failure and personal shortcomings — and eventually riding through the pain — literally set me free. "Ride on my son/ Ride on until you fail," Hunter sang in "Sea Diver." And ride on I did. Hunter as a songwriter will not stand up to Dylan, and he never will be compared to John Lennon, but so what? Those two guys already had their loyal devotion of followers. They already spoke to millions; Ian spoke to me. Sure, while my friends tried to figure out the meaning of Pearl Jam's "Jeremy," I was picking apart "The Original Mixed-Up Kid," Hunter's rootsy masterpiece from 1971's Wildlife. "And he can't make up his mind / where he wants to go / ain't there a heaven, ain't there a hell / well he just don't know," said Hunter. It just made more sense to me. There was something about Hunter's honesty in his lyrics that struck me. Sure, a lot of people use music as an escape from reality. People listen to fantasize about a better life, or girls or the beach, or whatever. Not Hunter, and certainly not me. Hunter took on his shortcomings in a confrontational manner that was quite refreshing to me in 1993, an era dominated by the "woe is me" school of songwriting. Nothing resembles "Runaway Train" in Hunter's songbook, nor is there an "All Apologies" or "It'sA Shame About Ray." No, Hunter's lyrics were all about facing up to personal shortcomings, and realizing there may be nothing you can do about them but deal with them. Take "The Moon Upstairs," from Brain Capers, for example: "And my head is down and I'm called a clown by comedians that grace / the living stage in ev'ry page of worthless, meaningless space / Well I swear to you / before we're through / you're gonna feel our every blow / We ain't bleeding you / we're feeding you / and you're too fuckin' slow." Damn. In doing further research on Hunter, I found out he had about seven solo records, and I had to have them all. Of course, at this point, I was probably the only teenager inquiring about Mott and Ian, so finding them was no easy task. The local Tower Records was no longer enough. So it was off to the hole-in-the-wall record stores. You know, the ones you have to drag a friend too only because you're afraid you'll get lost and never return. It took one year, and even some mail orders, but I got 'em all. Even after my Dad got rid of his record player. So I couldn't even tape the records I bought, I had to find friends' dads with lots of vinyl, and sometimes I had to go to my grandparents in New Jersey to tape this stuff. But it had to be done. After all, no one else had them. And maybe his solo career wasn't all that brilliant. Hell, while some albums contained no weak tracks, at least two sucked donkey cock. All Of The Good Ones Are Taken? Ian, what were you thinking? Overnight Angels? C'mon man, get it together. But hey, I'm a loyalist. After all, this is a guy who kept me sane after losing my girl to my best friend. "You know I think most folks agree / a little put down / makes 'em think / you ain't no chain / you're just a link / and that's why / she made me think / I'm gonna be somebody· someday," Ian so eloquently stated in the 1976 piano-driven ballad from his critically-acclaimed All-American Alien Boy. And it was this loyalty that brought me to New York City, six years later, seeing the man in action. A chill ran through my spine as he hit the opening chords of "Irene" and I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and paid my respects to Ian Hunter. |
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| Rodeo Rob is one of NATN's most beloved and enigmatic staff writers. If you don't believe us on the enigmatic tip, check out his picture in the rants section. He has been bugging us to launch something about Mott The Hoople for some time now, and we're glad Obsessions finally gave him the chance. |
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