In honor of England’s World Cup semi-final appearance, here’s Part 3 of my Mark St. John story: “Mark St. John: The Man Who Hated Oasis.”
I recently learned that the song Wonderwall by the band Oasis has become the English soccer team’s unofficial anthem. It instantly reminded me of musician-manager Mark St. John, who was perhaps the greatest Oasis hater of all time.
Now, on to Part 3 of the story ….
On our way to Denver, the plan is to stop in Vegas for blackjack, but it doesn’t happen. Everyone’s passed out. We stop at trucker pit stops to refuel, and I buy a plastic cowboy hat. I haven’t forgotten about almost being banished, and I feel the need to do something. With that hat, I attain a persona. Phil calls me Tex, and it sticks. On the bus, there’s half a restroom.
Everyone agrees not to utilize it fully. There’s also no shower. Just as I’m starting to feel comfortable, Phil, who sleeps on the bunk across from me, complains about a foul odor. What stinks? I should be asking, who stinks? Unfortunately, it’s me!
Phil May, one of the most iconic figures in rock ’n’ roll history, thinks I smell. Apologies. The band got a motel room in L.A. to shower in, but no one invited Tex. At about midnight, we roll up to a Motel 6 just outside Denver. It’s cheap, it has a laundry room, and everyone gets to shower.
The next day, we play the Gothic, a sparkling new venue, but the Rockies are not fertile ground for a belated Pretty Things invasion. A few hours before showtime, seventeen tickets have been sold. St. John doesn’t flinch, and he promptly conducts an impromptu publicity walking tour of the residential area. At a local lingerie shop, a few female employees accept St. John’s comps. Eighty or so people wind up showing, including the lingerie women, who show their appreciation by lifting their tops, well, supposedly. I didn’t see them do it. Actually, I never even see the women. My stand is at the entrance, blocked from the stage.
The Pretty Things (photo courtesh Shindig! Magazine)
In Minneapolis, the T-shirts finally arrive, but St. John is horrified. They’re too dark, and the image of keyboardist Jon Povey lighting up a mega joint is barely visible. Consequently, St. John has a temper tantrum in downtown Minneapolis, repeatedly kicking the boxes of T-shirts. Of course, there’s not enough time to reorder, and there’ll be no do-over. THIS IS THE DO OVER!
No, this is far from the Pretties’ first stroke of bad luck. In the ’80s, the Pretties released their new wave-ish album Cross Talk, which some consider their finest. Unfortunately, one hundred thousand copies of the album were printed with two A-sides, and another one hundred thousand were mislabeled, with the A-side label on the B-side and vice versa. Most DJs just tossed it. Following this fiasco, the Pretties went on an extended hiatus.
Now in Minneapolis, St. John is inconsolable. He pushed and prodded the Pretties for nineteen years to complete their latest album, Rage Before Beauty, and he’s fought tirelessly to secure the Pretties’ unpaid royalties and control of their extensive catalog. What does St. John do for the Pretties? Everything. He almost loses his mind to put the band together . . . and then he moves heaven and earth to make sure they don’t kill one another.
As for the T-shirt, it’s not just a T-shirt. It’s a keepsake from this belated invasion. History. Perhaps even worse than the T-shirts: Jeff Beck is playing across town on the same night the Pretties are at the down-and-dirty 400 Bar, where some notable punk bands have played. The competition guarantees a weak turnout for the Pretties.
At Chicago’s House of Blues, the Pretties get a solid review in the Chicago Tribune. However, the headline is bittersweet: “Pretty Things Stir Nostalgia for Songs You Never Heard.” And once again, turnout is underwhelming. However, I’m told that Cynthia Plaster Caster, well known for making plaster casts of men’s phalluses, is in the house.
When we arrive at the Magic Bag’s parking lot in Detroit, the Pretties are in turmoil. The modest crowds are already on edge, and now the flu is festering. Phil is drinking honey to soothe his sore throat. Skip misses his family and lucrative prosthetic limb business, not specifying which he yearns for more.
Detroit’s “Magi Bag,” with photo courtesy Tales of Braveida on Instagram
At some point, St. John adopts a parental tone, waving his finger at Wally, which sets him off. “Don’t you wave your finger at me!” Wally barks at St. John. I’m saddened to see this. However, I’m happy that Wally doesn’t do to St. John what he once did to Twink on stage. Amidst all this, I should stay quiet. Still, I fall back into reporter mode, delicately asking St. John, usually the eternal optimist, the engine of this rock caravan, what hopes he has for the upcoming show. “I have no hopes,” he solemnly replies.
When the Magic Bag’s doors open, all flu symptoms disappear. The fans have turned out in force—and not just the usual brigade of, ah, mature men but lots of kids or perpetual kids, most of whom weren’t alive when the Pretty Things started. It turns out a radio station that interviewed the band earlier in the day had been playing the Pretties all week. And the Pretties do not disappoint, destroying. As usual, I don’t witness it because my stand is in the lobby.
During the post-concert autograph session, everyone’s jubilant. Skip, the band member who talks to me least and whom St. John describes as a “violent middle-aged man,” charges out to the lobby and aggressively embraces me—before we’re abruptly interrupted.
Wars have been fought for such a sight. Fortunes squandered. Lives lost.
A young woman lifts her shirt so the band can sign one of her breasts. Her boyfriend stands next to her, urging her and the band on. “Make that shit last forever!” he yells. That breast entered the Magic Bag palish. It was left covered in black marker.
If you can’t get a platinum record, at least you can scribble your name on a boob.
Part 4 of “Mark St. John: The Man Who Hated Oasis” is coming soon.
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available, the undeserved sequel to Man versus Ball: One Ordinary Guy and His Extraordinary Sports Adventures.
