Henry Padovani

Secret Police Man

PREVIEW

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en Press

Secret Police Man

Contents

1. When you believed it was forever 5 2. Pete’s Death 6 3. A Golden Childhood 9 4. Lapsus, the first band 13 5. Le Club 22 6. Rock’n’Roll 30 7. Arriving in London 33 8. Meeting Stewart 37 9. The Roxy club 41 10. Doctor Mulligan 45 11. The early days of the Police 47 12. The Police are ready 55 13. London 1977 59 14. Europe 63 15. Mont de Marsan 71 16. The band splits up 75 17. London Clubs 82 18. Roxanne 87 19. Wayne County : Play Misty for Me ! 90 20. Aciiiiid !!!! 98 21. An Electric chair 106 22. The Flying Padovanis in the studio 114 23. The Flying Padovanis and the Pretenders 126 24. The Blue Note collection 137 25. Stolen guitar 150 26. Topper’s downfall 158 27. After Pete 171 28. Rock’n’Roll, part 2 178 29. IRS Records 185 30. Just what the doctor ordered! 196 31. Marc Zermati 201 32. Everything has a start 205 33. … and everything has an end 210 34. Amsterdam 213 35. Paris again 218 36. Il Volo 226 37. Ladies and gentlemen, il Maestro: Luciano Pavarotti! 232 38. The first time 248 39. Zucchero, Bono and Net Aid 253 40. Coming full circle 268 41. Families and Rock and Roll 278 42. Le Stade de France 284 43. And now… 297 44. Photographs 299 45. Acknowledgements 303 46. Index 304

Secret Police Man

1. When you believed it was forever

love telling stories. I think I just simply like talking, so it’s I always a pleasure for me to answer my friends’ endless questions: How did I start to play the guitar? Why did I decide to take off for London? How did Sting, Stewart and I meet? Why did we split up? What was London really like in 1977? Was Wayne County a man or a woman? Who was in the gang? How did the Flying Padovanis get together? Did we play many gigs? Where did we hang out at night? How did Pete Farndon die? Why did it all end? Why this, Why that….

Yes, it’s true; I’ve got lots of stories to tell about those days, especially since most of the books that I’ve read about bands and London during those ‘new wave’ days haven’t always been accurate. Not surprising really, since most of the people who wrote them weren’t there! And then, they wrote them from an external point of view, and well after the fact when they already knew the end of the story. It’s just not the same…

So I started to jot down and retell some of the memories that shaped my life. I wrote them just from my viewpoint and they only engage myself. And if their endings aren’t always bright, that’s how I lived them.

All that I can say is that at the time, we didn’t yet know the end of the stories. We were struggling, and we just wanted to get through. And every time, and in every situation, we were simply doing our best.

And, every time, we believed it was forever…

2. Pete’s Death

pril 14th, 1983. It was raining in London. Nothing new there A then. I was with my wife Kristina, a Swedish journalist, at our place in Camberwell New Road, and while she was working on an article in the kitchen, I was upstairs working on a snippet of slide guitar that I wanted to add to a number that I’d just written. We’d been living for the past two years in a council house that cost us £19 per week. It wasn’t a lot but we still had to fork it out every week. Between what Kristina earned with her writing and the £100 that Wayne Chappell advanced me each week, we managed to pull through. At the end of the day, like always, I was happy with my lot. England had been good to me. I had lived there for six years. Kristina entered the room where I had set up all my gear: ‘Henry, there’s someone on the phone for you’. I went downstairs. Marvin Gaye’s What’s going On? was playing on the turntable in the living room. I lowered the sound and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ ‘Henry Padovani?’ ‘Yeah. It’s me...’ ‘This is Ladbroke Grove police station. Do you know a Peter Farndon?’

What a question! Pete was the bassist of Samurai, the new group that Topper, Steve Allen and I had put together the previous year. That particular day, Pete hadn’t turned up for rehearsals and we were mad as hell. We’d waited for over two hours while running through a handful of numbers with Steve, the singer, and then Topper and I had gone to look for him at his flat in Basset Road. His motorbike was there, in front of the porch, and I remember that we cursed him when we saw it, something along the lines of ‘that bastard! He’s there… He doesn’t give a shit… He could have phoned us... He could have let us know...’ I stopped in front of the house and Topper got out of my Morris Traveler 71 to ring the bell. No answer. ‘I bet he’s asleep’ said Topper. We drove off, disgusted.

Secret Police Man

8. Meeting Stewart

reen Street. To get there, you go through Marble Arch. G Sunday afternoon, traffic is good. There were a lot of people crowded around a guy standing on a soap box. ‘That’s Speakers Corner’, says Paul. ‘People come and talk to the crowd about whatever they want, about anything and everything.’ We turn left going down Park Lane. ‘This area is called Mayfair. The poshest area in London’, continues Paul. ‘Jimi Hendrix lived in this street … and he died in this street.’ I never verified this information. Anyway, all I wanted was to believe him. And he was looking at me very proudly, sure of the effect this anecdote would have on me. The street is a succession of Georgian terraced houses, with imposing porches, probably to shelter the visitor from the rain, which has been falling non stop since I have arrived in London. Paul rings the bell of number 26, somebody answers and the door opens. Voilà!

Secret Police Man

11. The early days of the Police

fter Christmas I decided to go for an audition. Just like that. I A wasn’t even sure whether or not I was going to stay in London. I was just rolling along, going with the flow. I often played with Stewart and Ian, and we got on well. We’d go out together to see bands. Stewart often talked about the band that he wanted to start. We’d see Miles organizing gigs – I remember watching Squeeze, his latest signing, supporting Generation X at some college gig, the audience seated behind the lecterns. And then, maybe just to prove something to myself, I decided to reply to a small ad. I was flicking through Melody Maker and I noticed a classified: London, punk group is looking for a guitarist. Why not? I gave them a call, and they asked me to come and see them in North London. Paul dropped me off. I met two guys: a singer, Riff Regan, and a drummer, John Moss, who later formed Culture Club with Boy George. Very cool. They handed me a guitar and I played some rock, a ‘twelve bars’ whilst Riff sang. ‘Do you want to join our band?’ Straight to the point. I said I’d think about it and call them, and I left, over the moon. It was my first audition and they’d accepted me. I had been a bit stressed. It’s not easy to sell yourself so quickly. I went back to Paul’s, and that evening I called Stewart. I told him all about the audition. He seemed a bit surprised that I had done it. He asked me: ‘But, are you planning to stay in London then?’ ‘Maybe… Anyway, I said I’d think about it’ ‘So you’re ready to stay?’ ‘Yeah…’ I replied, a bit lost. ‘I don’t know… I don’t really feel like going back just yet. Why?’ ‘Look, if you’re going to stay in London, why don’t you join my band?’ ‘You never asked me.’

Secret Police Man

12. The Police are ready

e were ready. Every day we’d meet at Stewart’s, with or W without Sting’s son. Whatever may happen, we were impatient for our first gig.

It was Miles, Stewart’s brother, who gave us our first break. Miles had offices at Dryden Chambers, near Oxford Street. I remember Miles wearing mittens in the office because it was so cold. He had already taken a few groups under his wing: The Cortinas, Chelsea, and he had just signed up Squeeze. In the same building were the offices of Sniffing Glue, the punk fanzine run by Mark P (P for Perry) and Danny Baker, which reported on all our favourite bands. Mark was also setting up his own group, Alternative TV. He wanted nothing to do with us. Miles was the same. He was already doing business with real punks and he regarded us as imposters. Well, he certainly thought that about Stewart and Sting. But he had been pleased with the fact that we had managed, on our own, to record our first single. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that he had been impressed, but I think he appreciated the effort and determination. With Miles, and I know him well, determination and the lowest cost have always been important factors in the success of a band. I believe him to be right, and he

Secret Police Man

13. London 1977

was going out everywhere on I my own, like a big boy. I would get in everywhere and would hardly stay on my own or go home alone. That year, the listings magazine City Limits had voted for the ‘Ligger of the Year’. The ligger is the one that knows all the good gigs, especially the free ones, and who never pays to get in or to drink. I was in first place, tied with Phil Lynott, the bass player and singer of Thin Lizzy and the two of us came just in front of Steve Jones, the Sex pistols guitar player, who came third. Not something to be particularly proud of, but it gives a pretty good idea of how I was living my London life. Never a problem with me, only fun. I could drink my share but would take very few drugs. I knew loads of girls who used to love my French accent and my deep voice and very often, they would come back and see where I was living. I never had problems in getting my name on a guest list. Very often I would turn up at gigs without previously having asked or on a last minute impulse, I would give my name and they would let me in. Was the name on it anyway or did the bouncer already accept that its omission must have been a typing mistake? I would get in the same!

I must have seen two or three bands a night during all my stay in London. Frankly, that’s the only way to progress and to love that Rock and Roll. Such creativity and original efforts. The usual set would last roughly 45 minutes. That’s the set length I prefer. Not too short, not too long. Perfect. Just the time to get into the atmosphere, you like it, you dig it and if you can’t go on without it, you call for an encore. Otherwise, next band! A half hour break to change the equipment on stage, time to go chat and drink another beer, and it would start again. The main band would play last. That’s the one that gets paid, of course. The support act don’t

Secret Police Man

16. The band splits up

o be honest, it’s not easy’ said Sting gently. ‘T We were at Paul’s, sitting in the living room where the heat was overwhelming. Sting was bare-chested under his same old dungarees, as if he had nothing else to wear. He’d just driven me home from Bazza’s studio in his 2CV, where we’d just recorded the new Police single, Visions of the Night, with John Cale. It was the first Sting composition that Stewart had accepted.

‘I swear, I can’t cope. We can’t cope…’ he continued. ‘Yes, I know’. ‘No, I don’t think that you, you really do know’. I don’t like confrontations. Well, not those imposed on me - it puts my back up. I’ve always reacted in this way; I suppose it’s wrong of me. I know I shouldn’t react on heat, but there you go. ‘Come on, spit it out! What’s the problem?’

Secret Police Man

18. Roxanne

uch has been written about the Police, and in most of the M articles and books that I’ve read, the writers have written any old thing. They’ve invented stories; they’re trying to sell paper to the fans, who are ready to buy anything… But they know nothing, or very little. Anyway, few people understand how close the members of a band become, how they met, how they parted, how and why they wrote, how their songs were born… ‘Groups are like marriages without sex’ – I think it was Sting who said that. Even though the Police’s destiny was unique and even though their music touched the entire world, at the end of the day their story is just one like any other band. No more, no less. In particular, their story is intimately linked to that of their manager, Miles Copeland, Stewart’s brother. Without him, the band would have died before it even got off the ground. After I’d left and the band consisted just of Stewart, Sting and Andy, their lives did not immediately change for the better. Sometimes I used to go and see them, when I had time off from the work I was doing with Wayne County and The Electric Chairs. Frankly, times were hard for them. Usually, they didn’t have much of an audience apart from a few regulars: Sonja, Carol, Frances, my mate Paul Mulligan, Ian sometimes, Miles rarely. I remember one of their concerts, at the Hope and Anchor in Islington, where there were only six of us in the audience. Very hard! That evening, during Fall Out, Sting called out ‘Henry!’ before the guitar solo. In fact, they were still playing the same set, the same songs, and if their playing style had changed – Andy had brought a lot of professionalism – it was all a bit dispirited, as if the fire had gone out. After the gig, I went backstage for a chat. At the time, I was the one who was doing well. With Wayne, we had just sold out the Roundhouse. I was earning good money, whereas that evening they were actually out of pocket. I felt that Sting really was on the edge of the abyss. Of course, I tried to get their spirits up, but everything was going downhill. They were desperately looking for a manager, but all the people that Stewart had contacted had turned them down one by one, and they hadn’t even been able to record their first album.

Secret Police Man

20. Aciiiiid !!!!

ayne County and the Electric Chairs at the Electric Ballroom. W That’s class. We were beginning to get a wild reputation in London and throughout the UK. Journalists weren’t always kind to Wayne, usually with regard to his singing abilities, but the group played well, so it was OK. And going to an Electric Chairs gig was a guaranteed good night out, and certainly a hefty dose of rock and roll. The public liked it and we certainly delivered. We started selling out all our shows wherever we played.

The idea, as always, was to make sure that the progression of the group was well managed throughout, so that the public and the fans, those who had been there from the start, should lose nothing with the change. It wasn’t always easy. I think we had played everywhere in London and we had to move onto an upper level.

Secret Police Man

23. The Flying Padovanis and the Pretenders

ne day, Clive Banks, our publisher, called us into his office O and announced that he had spoken to the Pretenders and that they’d agreed to take us as the support act on their English tour. That was fantastic news.

Like a lot of people, I used to love the Pretenders. Clive was their publisher too. I had already met Chrissie several times and she was cool with me. But I can’t say that at that time, I knew her well. The Flying Padovanis were an instrumental band, on a ‘surf - Link Wray – psychedelic’ kind of trip and I think that this, this speaks to all rockers. As English people say, a tough job, but someone has to do it and we, the Flying Padovanis, we were carrying the flag. On the other hand, I knew that Pete Farndon, the Pretenders’ bass player, used to come and see us from time to time and liked us. I had met Pete (Farndon) with the Stray Cats. A long story. My best friend, Pete MacCarthy, the Irish guy, had decided to

Secret Police Man

24. The Blue Note collection

ucking hell, I don’t believe it! Another bill!’ ‘F All alone, in my Camberwell home, I stare at the telephone bill. £243. How am I going to pay it? If that was the only thing! But on top of that, I have to pay the rent, the rehearsals, the electricity, food, cigarettes…. I’ll never make it. Right now, there’s no income. Kristina had gone to Sweden to work and she’s making some money. Me, I remained in England and I have no steady income apart from the £50 that Clive Banks, our publisher, is giving me every week. Clive, it must be God who had let me meet him. Right now, if I calculate all I have on me, I can probably just manage to scrape together £20. That’s if I go throughout the whole house to count up all the coins. OK, I have the car. The Morris Traveller, maybe I could sell it. I could get something for it, possibly even make up to £1000. Yes, but afterwards, what will I do? The bus, the underground… London is not Paris. Public transport is a drag. Sometimes you find yourself with 1 kilometer in between tube stations. And at night, no way to go out, that’s for sure! OK, have another coffee, smoke another fag and forget. Put your head in the sand, like an ostrich, and pray. Or even better, do nothing and it will…might… go away or something will happen. I live in Camberwell New Road - number 164. There’s a bus stop right in front of the house. As soon as I open the big curtains in the sitting room, the people in the queue have a peep inside my place. So I’ve put up net curtains under the thick ones, just to prevent people being able to see in yet still letting the light in. But the people, they deliberately stick their head right up against the window pane. I can quickly see what the weather’s like. You check what they’re wearing and you know immediately. Today, it’s good weather. It’s like having a live weather report. I’ll go out to buy the newspaper, or rather the two should I say. The Sun and the Daily Mirror. You have to do it. I’ll then go to the junk shop that has opened next to it, on the corner of the road that takes you nowhere, in any case, towards an area where you don’t want to go. Camberwell is an area that can only go up, that’s for sure.

Secret Police Man

25. Stolen guitar

oday, with my mate Pete MacCarthy, I decide to go see T Topper. He’s just moved into a furnished flat just round the corner from Shepherds Bush roundabout, across from the Hilton hotel. The reason for my visit is very simple. He had called me around 2pm. Pete was at my house. ‘Hi Henry, it’s Topper...’ ‘Hey, doing good?’ ‘No!’ ‘What’s up?’ ‘I’ve been burgled and they’ve taken your guitar!’ ‘Cut the bullshit, Topper! What do you want?’ ‘No, seriously…’ ‘Oh come on Topper. It’s OK… what’s happening?’ ‘Henry, seriously. I’ve been burgled and they’ve taken your guitar!’ Topper’s problem is that, right from the start, I just don’t believe him. I love him and he knows that. But OK, I’m not stupid. Right now, I can tell his voice is fading… he’s drugged up to the eyeballs… I can tell. Today is a day off and he does what he wants. He must be with Donna. They must have done heroin together and he’s trying to be funny. All that dope really gets to be a real drag. I know it’s hard for him and Donna. I don’t know what to do anymore. Get him to reason? He doesn’t even listen anymore. I should tie him up and leave him in a corner for a week or so. He wouldn’t die. Sure, he would be hurting everywhere, be cold, hot, he would piss on himself, shit on himself, he would cry out his cold turkey… but who knows, maybe he would be saved. But, OK, I can’t see myself doing that now. Maybe I should have. Today, after all this time, I’m thinking that I should have done just that. Topper does a lot of heroin and he wants you to believe that he doesn’t do very much at all. ‘Only now and then, with Donna.’ he says. So, in order to hide his ghostly face, bleak skin colour and empty cheeks, he does sun lamp sessions. To look ‘healthy.’ He is so fucked up and since he must fall asleep in front of the lamp, he burns his face. And yes, for someone trying to look ‘healthy’, he definitely looks ‘healthy’: he looks like he has third degree burns!

Secret Police Man

26. Topper’s downfall

am at Heathrow airport. I am waiting for a British Airways I flight arriving from Los Angeles. Topper should be on it. He’s coming back from the detoxification cure. I hope that it did something for him. It was not possible to go on any more. I can see him coming out… ‘Yo, Topper’. ‘Henry, my man’. He’s looking good. ‘Look! It’s all over! I’m cured!’ he says. Frankly, I want to believe it. ‘On your own?’ he asks. ‘Yeah…’ ‘What are we doing?’ ‘We’re going to Terminal 4.’ ‘What are we going to do there?’ ‘We’re leaving for Corsica!’ ‘What??? Hey, wait, first we need to go to London…’ ‘No, no, no, no no! Topper, we have a plan. We have to catch a plane in two hours… direct to Nice and then we have one that leaves for Bastia!’ ‘But, what’s this all about…?’ ‘It’s our plan! Everybody knows! Right now, you’re fine but I don’t want you to go back to London straightaway, you, alone with your friends…’ ‘But… I’ll be fine, Henry, and also, Donna’s waiting for me…’ ‘Topper… She knows… it’s going to be fine…’ ‘Henry…’ ‘Topper, we’re going to spend three weeks at my parents’ place… in the sun… they’re waiting for you… you’ll see… it’s going to be just great… everybody knows about this…’ I don’t even try to discuss it. Anyway, everything’s organised. My parents are waiting for us. We’re going to spend three weeks looking after him, after us, and then we’ll go back to London to record with Pete Townsend. We’ll take James Eller on bass… no problems. While he was at Meg Patterson’s, Clive Banks, Pete Townsend and I have worked on it. London is far too dangerous. Especially for a guy like Topper.

Secret Police Man

27. After Pete

fter Pete, it wasn’t simple, in fact it was impossible. Of course, A we called James Eller again. The idea was to go into the studio and record some numbers. The best ones. James had already come to help before when he’d played bass on the first Flying Padovanis single and, again, he agreed straight away. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t know what to do with Topper. After Pete’s death, we all went together to his funeral in Hereford. The place he was from. Neither Chrissie, nor Martin Chambers, the only two members left from the original Pretenders, had been welcome at the ceremony that Pete’s mother, Grace Farndon, had organised. Pete Townsend had come to the religious ceremony and had left straight after. We had all followed Pete’s family back to Grace’s. Hard, hard, hard! That day, as we were going back to London after the funeral, with Kristina, Topper and Pete MacCarthy in my Morris Traveller, we had stopped on the motorway at a service station. I saw an Asteroids game and I went over to it. Asteroids, we knew only that. There was one in the rehearsal studio’s reception and Pete and I would play all the time. We would compete but my scores never got anywhere near Pete who was an absolute master at that game. And his name, in the game, was Knoby. In that kind of video game, just like Space Invaders, at the end of the game, if your score is good, the machine puts you up in amongst the best ones. In general, I would never get a chance to write my name in, unless the machine had just been set up. The name that Pete had chosen for himself with Knoby was a play on words with the word ‘knob’, meaning cock. It may seem inopportune to go and have fun on a video game at such a moment, but for me, it probably was a way to think about Pete or render him a sort of homage. And in fact, every time I have since seen a machine, I have thought about him. That day I had a good game but it wasn’t enough. At the end of the game, the machine splashed up the list of the highest scores ever recorded on it. The best one had been had by: Knoby. Knoby? Knoby! That ridiculous word filled me up with joy and I called the others to come and see it, witness that! I was sure Pete was here, with us. I felt his presence. I could see him with his great smile and his quiff, hair quiff, having a fight with the machine. Mind blowing! Secret Police Man

29. IRS Records

remember heading towards CBS records (that was their name I before they became Sony) in Paris wearing a fringed leather jacket with leopard skin epaulettes that I'd bought at Johnson & Johnson in London's Kings Road. I'd just arrived from London and I hadn't changed my wardrobe. I was greeted by the head of international marketing, Dennis Killeen. I'm sure he must have realised that I didn't have a clue about the sort of tasks that were going to be assigned to me but the good tolerant person that he was must have told himself that there was no reason why I shouldn't succeed. I met my future colleagues who were working on the CBS repertoire (Columbia, A&M etc), and I was introduced to my secretary Huguette, a charming Jamaican woman, and shown to my office. Huguette brought me a coffee and I started to call up the whole world. It was April 1984. I was lodging with Zermati, rue des Petites- Ecuries. I'd gone to CBS on my own. Not one member of IRS accompanied me. Not Miles, not Steve. Nobody. I knew that Jay Boberg, the president of the company, would come to see me sooner or later. That's how I entered into this new stage of my life. I had money, my Morris Traveller with its English number plates, and a travel and expenses budget for going out. Everything was looking good.

My first assignment was to travel around Europe to meet those who were working on the IRS products at CBS. I met nothing but great people who all loved the label. They were all young and they all really liked the music that the label was staking its future on. The first album we were going to promote together was actually Murmur by REM. An American product. Not an easy job, but because we weren't expecting to overtake Michael Jackson, it was totally achievable. Millions of sales, that would be for later. And with such a dedicated team, we would try our hardest not to lose a single sale. That was the spirit of IRS.

Secret Police Man

30. Just what the doctor ordered!

ith the Fleshtones move, we demonstrated that we could W succeed with bits and bobs and moreover that we had ideas. We were signing bands all the time, but being careful not to back just anybody. In general the bands that joined us were signing their first contract. We had a niche in the market that nobody could or wanted to control. Our bands were ‘risky’ for other record companies. They would make them nervous. On the other hand, we knew how to keep the costs down and live according to our means, not above them. We had bands like The Cramps or Wall of Voodoo. They could earn a living without having to cater for the mass public. First, they could tour and make a profit while they were ensuring their own promotion, and vice versa. The system would also work this way. We could allow ourselves to work with bands that we loved, that we felt were important, even if they never became commercial monsters. Real luxury. REM was looking for a label that was big enough to reach a maximum of people but small enough to be near them, a label that would understand where they were coming from, what they were looking for and that could accept their behavior. Now, to be honest, one has to know that they had, with the help of Ian Copeland, Miles’ brother, who ran a tour agency in America, sent a cassette to all the record companies. They had been searching before they came to see us. I also think they'd sent it to Miles, but he hadn’t even listened to it… As usual, we were not at the top of their list. They had started in 1981 and, already at the time, Ian wasn’t just anybody. He was The Police's agent. So, all the record companies respected him and listened to him. Yet, what is really shameful of them, is that no one ever called him back. You have to realise that REM had toured the USA in 1981 and 1982, and no one, I repeat no one, not one record company had spotted them! Well, when Ian mentioned them to Jay, when Jay finally saw them on stage, in New Orleans, after having missed them several

Secret Police Man

37. Ladies and gentlemen, Il Maestro: Luciano Pavarotti!

adovani, qui si beve cosi! Here, we drink it this way! ‘P Luciano Pavarotti is showing me how he drinks wine. He is mixing red and white. The white is sparkling and this makes a nice drink. The weather is gorgeous for December. And it feels like I am on holiday. His servant has set up a table in the garden of his house that dominates the little Pesaro harbour, on the Adriatic coast. Me, I call him ‘Maestro’. That is the way I hear most people address him. Zucchero, on the other hand, calls him directly ‘Luciano’ and they are on familiar terms. We are five for lunch: the maestro, Zucchero, Terri Robson, who works for Decca records and who is always with the maestro, a friend of the maestro and me. ‘Grazzie, maestro. She is right… it is very good that way.’ Of course I talk to him in the third person out of courtesy, a way of speaking that I now master totally thanks to my father who taught it to me a long time ago. He likes me addressing him like that. He recognizes the respect I hold for him, in any case, my politeness. On top, my father got me to like opera. I am therefore totally at ease at that lunch. I recite him verses from La Bohème that he sings immediately, in French. ‘How cold is your little hand, let me warm it up for you…’ He continues, looking at me: ‘It is so dark, why stay in the shadow…’ I know that music by heart and I sing along the melody with him. I feel as though we can be heard at the other end of town. Everybody claps and Zucchero shouts: ‘Bravo ! Bravo ! Luciano, sei troppo forte!’ (Luciano, you are the best!) Of course, for me, it is an absolute kick. I immediately think of my father, and of his reaction when I tell him that I had lunch with Luciano Pavarotti. I also think about Charlotte who is waiting for some news in the Pesaro hotel and who has a television team on the warpath since the early hours of this morning...

Secret Police Man

38. The First Time

re you going to make it ? ‘A ‘Yes… Two seconds… Hang on… ‘ She was a brunette, with a matt skin. She had short hair and I was lying on her. I could hear footsteps going down the stairs. The walls were very thin and I recognized my friend’s voice, Piche, asking somebody for a light. She was guiding the come and go of my hips, and was making sure that I would not go in too deep. ‘Get on with it… We haven’t got all night…’ ‘I can’t make it…‘ Rising on my elbows, I looked at her face. My eyes went down on her breasts and then I could distinguish her navel and the hair in between her legs. I was naked, as she was, and I was embedded in between her legs. ‘Come on, it’s OK.’ Her tone indicated that I had overrun my time, and that it was over. I disengaged myself and sat on the bedside. She caressed my hair and told me again: ‘It’s not a big deal… You know, these things happen!’ She rolled onto her side and stood up in a flash. She went to the bidet and ran some water. ‘Hey, it’s nothing! Come and wash yourself.’ I stood up and stark naked, I went to the small basin in the corner of the small bedroom, next to her, as she was sitting down, her two legs wide open around the bidet. She was passing a soapy hand over her sex and told me: ‘You know that you have a big one… You do know that, don’t you?’ I was not saying anything. I muttered a ‘yes’ and as she was doing, I was washing my willy that was starting to grow soft. ‘Boy, did that hurt…’ she was saying this nicely, like a compliment.

It was 3 a.m. and I was in Lyon, near the train station. I was 15 and my first sexual experience had just been a failure. I could not understand. I had often fantasised about that precise moment and I had rehearsed in my head the action that was to unfold. A few

Secret Police Man

39. Zucchero, Bono and Net Aid

ou know, Henry, why I reckon Bono asked me to come on ‘Y stage and play guitar with him…’ I cut him short. ‘No, Zucchero! He asked me to play with him. He didn’t ask anything from you. It was me that he asked for. And me, because I am a nice guy, I gave you the job.’ Zucchero was looking at me, in shock. There was nothing to answer. This was the truth and he knew it. With that, I left his dressing room. Exasperated…

His dressing room was a mobile home, on the Giants Stadium parking lot in New Jersey, where in a few hours the Net Aid concert that Bono was organising would take place. Outside, a lot of mobile homes and a lot of people. Lots of movement, people coming and going, turning, talking, people recognising and kissing, laughing… I just sat on a beach chair next to the very pretty young woman that served as attendant to us. A real American girl with a muscular jaw, probably built up on chewing gum, and a perfect accent, just like in the movies. She was going to university, never been to Europe and would love to visit Paris … just the perfect discussion that wears your stress off… In the crowd, I recognised Miles Copeland who was coming up the mobile homes alley. He stopped on my level: ‘How is it going? What’s Zucchero doing?’ ‘Nothing. You know what he just said to me?’ And I told him the story.

Secret Police Man

40. Coming full circle

he person you need is Stewart Copeland!’ ‘T We were in the studio that my friend Momo and I had opened, in Rue Victor-Masse in Paris. It was Serge Veneruso, the sound engineer who said that. ‘Yes. That would be perfect’, said Yves Aouizerate, the producer.

December 2003. Since I had written the song for La Vie Comme Elle Va, the film by Jean-Henri Meunier (who I had originally met in 1977 when he wanted to shoot a film about the Police), and produced by Jacques Perrin, I had written and demoed thirty or so songs, at my house in the country. I’d had a great time and I had actually sung a lot. I had never dared to do this before. But now, encouraged by Jean-Henri and inspired by his superb poems, I was singing like a preacher, possessed and carrier of the good words, able to concentrate on the music, and the quality of my message. In one year, as I was writing and recording the songs, I was getting more confident and I was starting to really enjoy all this. With Jean-Henri, we had picked a dozen songs which went well together. This would be my universe and my album. ‘Yeah, right, Stewart Copeland…’ said Serge, meaning that we could always dream on. We were working on a new song that I’d written, called Welcome Home. I’d played all the instruments, and after recording the vocals and guitars at Victor-Masse, we were programming the rhythm section. It was bit reggae but sounded also rock. We were very excited. We made a good team and we worked well together. Serge was right – Stewart Copeland would be perfect. ‘Great idea. I’m going to call him.’ They both looked at me in astonishment. ‘You’re actually going to call him?’ asked Yves. ‘Of course! I’ve got his number in my address book. Let me check…’ They looked at me again, incredulous. I understand that for the two of them, it sounded incredible. I played it a bit because I knew that I could call him. Hadn’t Stewart and I been friends since we had been playing together, all those years ago? And anyway, Secret Police Man

42. Le Stade de France

t was a Wednesday. September the 5th, 2007. I was driving I towards Paris. I had an appointment with Yann Plougastel, a French journalist, who had asked me for an interview for 'Le Monde 2', the magazine that goes with the Sunday edition. Le Monde is like The Times, and it is cool to be featured in it. I have a telephone that picks up emails in real time and gives out a sort of radar noise when one arrives. I get to the toll and, since there is a queue to pay, I have some time to check what has arrived… A few things… spams… and an email from Sting. He and I do converse a lot through emails. Him, generally early morning. Early morning for him, wherever he is and obviously it depends. The guy could be anywhere. Right now he is on tour with the Police and they are somewhere in Europe, in Germany, I think. We normally exchange simple messages, words that warm your heart. We chat about friendship or family or health or about emotions. He tells me what he working on or doing. This time however, it is afternoon and the mail goes ‘Mon ami (in French), how would you feel about playing a song with us at the Stade de France, maybe the last of the evening, Next to You etc etc.’ and at the end ‘So, whadya think?’.

That sort of mail, you read it several times, quickly but several times, because it is from Sting and because you just want to make sure you understand it properly. And you read again ‘So, whadya think?’. When someone asks you at the end, ‘So, whadya think? ‘, it is that he wants you to answer ‘Yes’. What else? When a friend asks you that, it’s the kind of question where the only answer is ‘YES!’. And it also said: ‘Stewart and Andy thought it was a great idea.’ So, he is asking you if you feel like playing at the Stade de France, and what’s more with the Police and overall with friends, not just any friends, but, more than anything, friends! I thought: ‘Yes! Yes!’ I made the most of that moment. I drove to Paris thinking about that friendship, about the joy that I felt and about the happiness Sting must have felt writing that present to me. And I was thinking about the song that Next to you is, the speedy intro… Secret Police Man

43. And now…

t maintenant… E How about me, in all this?

I’m sure that a lot of people must be thinking, ‘What a bastard, that Padovani, and why didn’t he mention me in his book?’ Yeah, that’s true, why didn’t I speak of you? Don’t hold anything against me if I forgot you… This book is only a collection of some of the stories that I remember and that I was a part of. I can’t remember everything - a lot of neurones must have been blown in this crazy circus. And, surely, some will come back to my mind later, another time. The ones I tell here, I lived them from the inside, and I relate what I saw and felt during those years of a blessed era of total innocence. When I was a child, there was a time when I would wonder whether life kept going on around me: if when I looked to my right, life would rest or even stop on my left, and if when I closed my eyes, it didn’t need to keep going on. Only the light gives shape, colour and depth to the things we see. If light didn’t exist, we wouldn’t see anything! Secret Police Man

Thousands of people work and act in the shade and we know nothing of what they do. They, probably, don’t care and must even be used to it. Others thrust themselves into the light at every opportunity they have and, if they also work in the same direction, most of the time they take advantage and gather all the stardust that was not destined for them. And they shamelessly rewrite the story of Rock and Roll to their liking! Today more than ever… So, don’t freak out! And sorry if I have forgotten you! Don’t freak out if my account corrected yours! And don’t freak out if I talk about some more than others - it’s only my story! Maybe you weren’t in my light just then; maybe yours wasn’t in fact shining as brightly as it is today; maybe it wasn’t shining at all; or, too busy polishing yours, maybe you left me too long in my own tunnel and I totally forgot about you. It’s only my story! Like you, I lived it egotistically. I lived it with the people that always stayed close to me, in the good times, in the light, as in the bad ones, in my darkness. My friends do not need to be mentioned to be sure of my friendship. When it comes to some others, maybe it’s better that I can’t remember our common stories. The Godfather of Rock and Roll, he who sees everything and who is watching over us, knows perfectly well who did what and how.

So, where’s the problem?

Secret Police Man

46. Index

Adam and the Ants, 85 Copeland, Ian, 37–40, 47 Adams, Brian, 218 Copeland, Miles, 36, 47, 55, 87– Adolfsson, Kristina, 6, 111, 114, 89, 121, 176, 211, 218–25, 253 137, 151, 152, 171, 207, 209 Copeland, Stewart, 36, 37–40, 43, Allen, Steve, 6, 171, 172 45, 47–58, 63, 71–74, 75–81, Alternative TV, 55 87–89, 121, 201, 218, 268–77, Aouizerate, Yves, 268 291–95 County, Wayne, 56, 65–70, 83, 85, Baker, Danny, 55 90–97, 98–105, 106–13, 116, Bananarama, 160 181, 182 Bangles, The, 179 Coxhill, Lol, 120, 128 Banks, Clive, 137, 158, 160, 172 Cramps, The, 179, 196 Baylis, Peter, 101 Crowley, Gary, 160 Beck, Jeff, 218 Crowley, Peter, 65, 67, 97, 98– Berlin, 68–70 105 Black, Bob, 107 Culture Club, 47 Bleeker, Bob, 141–44 Cunningham, David, 106 Blur, 288 Currie, Billy, 83 Boberg, Jay, 179, 185 Curved Air, 36 Bolan, Marc, 123 Bono, 253–67, 276, 286–89 Damned, The, 43, 72 Boomtown Rats, The, 161 Davies, Ray, 133 Boy George, 85 De Caunes, Antoine, 211 Burger, Paul, 205 Defranoux, Hervé, 188 Burnel, Jean‐Jacques, 116, 182 Denmark Street Studios, 118 Deptford, Chris, 218 Cale, John, 74, 75 DeVivo, Mary, 281 Carlisle, Belinda, 210 Dibango, Manu, 191 Caunes, Antoine de, 29 Dickins, Rob, 165, 172 Chelsea, 16 Dingwalls, 82 Cher, 218–25, 251–52 Doctor and the Medics, 179 Childers, Leee, 100, 182, 201 Doctor Feelgood, 42 City Limits, 59 Doyuran, Aylin, 293 Clapton, Eric, 157 Dust, Chris, 91 Clarck, Stanley, 218 Clash, The, 7, 38, 72 Eddie and the Hot Rods, 72 Clerc, Serge, 189 Edmundo, 288 Concrete Blonde, 179, 206 Electric Ballroom, 98 Secret Police Man

Electric Chairs, 65–70, 90–97, 98–105, 106–13, 138, 180 Katché, Manu, 271–73 Eller, James, 120, 158, 171 Kennard, Conover, 7, 165–70 England, Richard, 282 Kent, Nick, 173 Killeen, Dennis, 185 Fall out, 40, 52, 74 King’s Road, 43 Farndon, Pete, 6–8, 126, 127, 128, Kristina, Sonja, 36, 37–40 151, 163, 165, 171 Fine Young Cannibals, 179, 210 Lahana, Alain, 71, 179, 188, 190 Flamin’ Groovies, 30, 34–36 Larsen, Jorgen, 205 Fleshtones, 179, 187–95 Lennon, Julian, 142 Flying Lizards, 106 Little Bob Story, 72 Flying Padovanis, 85, 114–25, Lords of the New Church, 179, 126–36, 152, 278–83 206 Lynott, Phil, 59, 85 Gallagher, Mickey, 7, 128, 172 Gang of Four, 100 MacCarthy, Pete, 126, 150–57, Generation X, 47, 51 171, 209 Gibus, Le, 63, 190, 201 MacColl, Kirsty, 83 Gibus, The, 191 Marquee, The, 83 Glitter, Gary, 178 Matlock, Glen, 173, 279 Gogos, The, 179 McGuinness, Paul, 263–67 Gotterher, Richard, 190 Melody Maker, 42 Grasso, Carl, 179, 187, 192, 211 Meunier, Jean‐Henri, 268, 279 Green, Peter, 123 Michaels, Elliot, 97, 98–105, 106– Guedj, Lionel, 278, 290 13 Mont de Marsan, 38, 63, 71–74, Haller, Val, 90–97, 98–105, 106– 80 13, 116 Moonlight Club, The, 120 Hamburg, 66–67 Moss, John, 47 Harry, Debbie, 182, 201 Most , Mickie, 172 Headon, Topper, 6–8, 16, 61, 127, MTV, 211 150–57, 158, 171, 172 Mulligan, Paul, 21, 31–36, 45, 82, Holland, Jools, 218 87, 100 Howlett, Mike, 79 Music Machine, The, 60, 83 Hunter, Steve, 269–71 Musto, Chris, 114–25, 126–36, Hynde, Chrissie, 7, 126–36 160, 172, 278–83 Mystery Vs, The, 117 Impey, Lawrence, 38, 52 IRS Records, 185–200, 205–12 Naive, Steve, 176 New Musical Express, 42 Jam, The, 72 Nico, 175 James, Brian, 43 Nothing Achieving, 52, 74 Johnson, John, 91, 98–105, 106– 13, 116 October, Gene, 16 Jones, Mick, 72 Only Ones, The, 182 Jones, Quincy, 259, 264–67 Orbit, William, 179, 206 Jones, Steve, 59, 85 Secret Police Man

Padovani, Aliosha, 211, 283 Slack, Paul, 114–25, 126–36, 160, Padovani, Fanny, 209, 211, 216, 172, 278–83 285 Slim Jim, 127 Padovani, Fedora, 216, 280, 283, Smith, Steve, 118 293–96 Smythe, Patti, 218, 220 Paganelli, Linda, 128 Sniffing Glue, 55 Page, Jimmy, 142 Spanner, 160 Patterson, Meg, 157, 158 Speakeasy, 85 Paul, 41–43 Springsteen, Bruce, 32, 85 Pavarotti, Luciano, 232–47, 258 Squeeze, 47, 55, 85 Peel, John, 184 Sting, 47–58, 63–66, 71–74, 75– Perret, Pete, 182 81, 87–89, 258, 274–77, 282, Perry, John, 182 284–96 Perry, Mark, 55 Stipe, Michael, 197, 209 Philonenko, Anne, 188 Stock, Jon, 279 Plant, Robert, 142 Stray Cats, The, 126 Police, The, 71–74, 75–81, 87–89, Strontium 90, 79 284–96 Strummer, Joe, 38, 73 Pretenders, The, 7, 126–36 Styrene, Poly, 44 Subterraneans, The, 173 Quatrocchi, Danny, 291 Summers, Andy, 71–74, 75–81, 87–89, 285–96 Rak Records, 172 Ramones, The, 182 Taieb, Gerard, 190 Record Mirror, 42 Tannett, Steve, 16, 179 Regan, Riff, 47 Temir, Jean, 21, 39 REM, 179, 196–98, 209, 210 The Roxy, 41–43 Reservoir, Le, 281 Thunders, Johnny, 85, 176, 182, Ridge Farm, 107 201 Rock Garden, The, 121 Time Out, 42 Romario, 288 Tiny, 180 Roxanne, 87–89 Top Of The Pops, 42 Roxy, The, 51 Townsend, Pete, 158, 161, 171, 172 Samurai, 6, 161, 172 Townsend. Pete, 157 Santana, 31 Turbessi, Jean‐Pierre (Piche), 18– Sauvan, 248–52 21, 248–52 Scabies, Rat, 43 Schenker, Kathie, 290 UK Subs, 119 Sensible, Captain, 43, 72 Ultravox, 83 Setzer, Brian, 127, 143 Sigworth, Sig, 213–17 Van Cook, Greg, 90–97 Simenon, Paul, 73 Vanian, Dave, 43 Singerman, Bob, 189 Vanilla, Cherry, 56, 63, 90 Siouxsie and the Banshees, 85, Veneruso, Serge, 268 181 Venue, The, 121 Sissman, Pierre, 186, 190 Vergnaghi, Mino, 256 Vinx, 218 Secret Police Man

Visions of the Night, 73 Young, Paul, 161, 221

Wall of Voodoo, 179, 196 Zappa, Frank, 83 Waters, John, 176 Zermati, Marc, 34, 63, 71, 118, Wilde, Kim, 172 201–4, 278, 282–83 Wilkins, Ivor, 278 Zico, 288 Zucchero, 221–25, 226–31, 232– X Ray Spex, 44 47, 253–67, 286–89

Photo Credits I would like to thank the following sources for their kind permission to reproduce the photographs and illustrations which appear in the book “Secret Police Man”, which contains over 100 photographs. A small selection is reproduced within this book preview. p37 Stewart Copeland / Peter Baylis, © Rex Features p55 Sting, me, Stewart / Peter Baylis, © Rex Features p59 Backstage at the Marquee club / Peter Baylis, © Rex Features p75 Backstage at the Marquee / Peter Baylis, © Rex Features p98 Wayne County & The Electric Chairs live at the electric ballroom, London / unknown p126 The Flying Padovanis live/private collection p253 Net Aid backstage pass / private collection p297 Portrait, Montmartre, Paris / tshi, @www.tshizerbia.com