Here’s Part 4, the finale, of my Pretty Things manager-producer Mark St. John story: “Mark St. John: The Man Who Hated Oasis.”
Part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here.
…just to be clear, even the bad was amazing, and the ugly was truly beautiful.
After the crowd disperses, I check out the Magic Bag’s now-empty main room, where a euphoric St. John is milking the moment. “This band has no business making an album this good!” St. John gushes, holding up a Pretties CD.
I don’t dare interrupt St. John being St. John. Never.
Back on the bus, some female fans hang with the guys for a playful sing-along. I retreat to my bunk, but I can’t sleep. It’s the band’s moment—not mine. As their roadie, I’m with the band, but I’m not in it. I travel with the band. I carry their instruments. I protect and sell their merchandise. Outside the bus and the venue, however, I’m usually solo.
The Grog Shop back in the day (photo courtesy Cleveland Historical)
Unfortunately, Detroit’s magic doesn’t travel with us to Cleveland’s Grog Shop. There, Phil is disgusted with the putrid restroom and the preshow catering, which is Indian. Worst of all: attendance is mediocre.
Back on the bus, St. John is once again in Jedi mind-trick mode, preaching to anyone conscious that this tour is the foundation for future tours. When the band tours the States again, St. John declares it’ll be “the second coming of Jesus Christ!” Of course, St. John is just being St. John, but anything is possible.
Rage is earning some nice reviews, and the Pretties recently completed a promising single, “All Light Up,” which Phil describes as “a cross between ‘Sgt. Pepper’s’ and ‘Another Brick in the Wall.’” “All Light Up” has no place in a dark dive bar. It belongs in packed stadiums. The plan is to release it under an alias—4:20 p.m.—and for the Pretties to perform it on television wearing masks, then reveal themselves after the last note.
What’s their rationale?
The Pretties don’t want “All Light Up” to be prejudged because of their, ah, messy history and relatively advanced ages. The music industry craves the next big thing, not… I’m sold on the song. I think it could be the Pretties’ ticket for worldwide appeal, but what do I know?
St. John is the only one mulling another tour. Everyone else is subdued—except Skip, who inexplicably goes into a garbled rage before disappearing to the rear of the bus, where he snuggles under a blanket with Wally and watches Adam Sandler movies.
The Pretty Things (photo courtesy Shindig! Magazine)
When we awake the next morning, there’s another disaster on the horizon: Hurricane Floyd. As we roll east into New Jersey, it’s pouring. Our driver is terrified of falling trees and crashing. Understandably, the band is very concerned. Back in the day, the Pretties were the hurricane—banned from New Zealand, as well as Australia. Now they’re older, wiser, and very aware of their mortality. St. John doesn’t fit into this category. He’s a lifer, and he demands that we roll onward.
“The English know rain!” St. John bellows. “This is nothing!” Of course, St. John is being foolish. Perhaps this entire tour was foolish. He’s trying to break a band in America thirty-six years after it formed. “It’s us against the world!” he tells me.
St. John’s sentiment is mutual.
Over these past few weeks, I’ve overheard St. John telling band members that I’m the son he never had. St. John mentions flying me in for a European tour. There’s no tour, but he’ll make it happen, somehow. There’s no position, but he’ll create one. From everything I’ve observed, St. John is wonderful parental material. When you fall—foul odor and all—he picks you up and champions you with every ounce of his being. Fewer than three weeks ago, I was a jet-lagged stranger. Now, St. John’s struggle is mine.
The Palace (it is, but it’s obviously not)
Fortunately, we make it to our safe haven, The Palace, a roadside motel just outside New York City, which is covered in scaffolding. We’re getting close to the finish line. For Skip, we can’t get there soon enough, and he opts to leave the tour after getting into an altercation with a security guard at The Bowery Ballroom.
This is Skip’s second incident with the authorities. In San Francisco, he was almost arrested at a restaurant—something about a crab. No, it’s not easy living in the shadow of legendary lunatic Vivian Prince, who was Keith Moon’s mentor. Back in the day, Prince was known for lighting a fire on stage and chopping up a venue’s chairs and tables with an axe. Post-Pretties, Prince was booted from the Hells Angels. For misconduct.
Of course, St. John desperately wanted Prince and all his insanity for this tour. He even journeyed with Phil to Prince’s home in Portugal to recruit him. Prince loved Rage, but sadly, he could no longer play. When he attempted to play on a toy drum kit, he fell out of his seat. Skip’s absence isn’t a problem. St. John, who has been joining the band on stage for encores, playing tambourine and maracas, sits in for him. If anyone deserves to take a bow, it’s St. John. He’s paid his dues—and then some.
With the tour winding down, we start to savor every waning moment. As we ride over the Delaware River, the band sings together. In Washington, DC, Phil dedicates a song to me. Affectionately, St. John mocks my plastic cowboy hat. At one point, we’re sitting face-to-face on the bus, and he surprises me, questioning me about my musical tastes. Until this moment, I’ve been the fly on the bus. No one has asked for my opinion—until now. I wind up stammering something, which I immediately forget. I do know that I didn’t mention Oasis, whom he doesn’t care for at all, to put it mildly.
Why does St. John hate Oasis? As best I can tell, he believes that they’re poseurs*.
Before the tour’s final show in Philadelphia, I deliver Phil honeyed tea for his throat. It’s fall now, and it feels like it. Following the show, St. John abruptly summons me out of the bus. He has gotten me a ride home with two of the band’s superfans. Once again, St. John is taking care of me.
But I don’t want to go. I’m not ready to leave the circus. I’d been hoping to celebrate with the guys on their final night.
Before I leave, each member embraces me. I’m numb, incredulous that it’s over. During this long-overdue American tour, the Pretties added a few lines to rock history, and I’ve witnessed and chronicled it all: the good, the bad, and the ugly. And just to be clear, even the bad was amazing, and the ugly was truly beautiful.
At home, I place my plastic cowboy hat on my closet shelf. Tex is retired.
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*FROM DICTIONARY.COM: “The word comes from French (derived from the verb poser, meaning to pose). It originally described someone who adopts a particular posture, but by the late 19th century, it had evolved to describe a person who strikes a “fake” attitude for effect.
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.
