Once.
The big-name band was Jethro Tull. I can’t remember where they were supposed to be playing—it might have been in Birmingham, or somewhere like Stafford—but they didn’t show up. And there we were, outside in the blue Commer van, ready to spring into action.
Tony went in to see the venue manager.
‘Has the band not showed up yet?’ he asked, ten minutes after they were supposed to go on.
‘Don’t fucking start, sunshine,’ came the pissed-off reply. Obviously the manager was having a bad night. ‘They’re not here, I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but they’re not here, and, yes, we’ve called their hotel. Five times. Come back tomorrow and we’ll give you a refund.’
‘I’m not looking for a refund,’ said Tony. ‘I just wanted to let you know that me and my band were driving by the venue—by chance, y’know?—and, well, if your main act hasn’t shown up, we can fill in.’
‘Fill in?’
‘Yeah.’
‘For Jethro Tull?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s the name of your band, son?’
‘Earth.’
‘Urf?’
‘Earth.’
‘Urph?’
‘As in the planet.’
‘Oh, right. Hmm. I think I might have actually heard of you lot. Crazy singer. Blues covers.
Right?’
‘Yeah. And a few originals.’
‘Where’s your equipment?’
‘In the van. Outside.’
‘Are you a Boy Scout or something?’
‘Eh?’
‘You seem very well prepared.’
‘Oh, er… yeah.’
‘Well, you’re on in fifteen minutes. I’ll pay you ten quid. And watch out for those bottles, the mob’s upset.’
Once the deal was done, Tony ran out of the venue with this huge grin on his face, giving us the double thumbs up. ‘We’re on in fifteen minutes!’ he shouted. ‘Fifteen minutes!’
The jolt of adrenaline was indescribable. It was so intense, I almost forgot about my stage fright. And the gig was a fucking triumph. The crowd grumbled for the first few minutes, and I had to dodge a couple of lobbed missiles, but we ended up blowing them away.
One of the best things about it was that Ian Anderson—Tull’s lead singer, who was famous for playing the flute with this bug-eyed look on his face while standing on one leg, like a court jester—finally turned up when we were halfway through the set. The band’s bus had broken down on the M6, or something like that, and they’d had no way to contact the venue to warn them. I think Anderson had hitch-hiked there by himself to apologise. So there I was, screaming into the mic, and when I looked up I saw Anderson standing at the back of the hall, nodding his head, looking like he was really into the music. It was fucking fabulous.
We came off stage buzzing. The venue manager couldn’t have been happier. Even Anderson seemed grateful. And after that, all the bookers knew our name—even if they couldn’t say it.
Over the next few weeks everything started to take off for us. The gigs got bigger, our playing got tighter, and some local managers began sniffing around. One guy in particular took an interest in us: his name was Jim Simpson and he’d been the trumpet player in a fairly well-known Birmingham band called Locomotive. Jim had given up being a musician to set up a management company called Big Bear, which was John Peel’s nickname for him, ’cos he was this stocky, hairy, red-faced bloke, who ambled around Birmingham like a big, tame grizzly. He’d also opened a club on the floor above the Crown pub on Station Street, calling it Henry’s Blues House. It was one of our favourite hang-outs. One of the earliest shows I remember seeing there was a jam with Robert Plant and John Bonham, probably just before they went off to Scandinavia. It gave me fucking goosebumps, man.
Then, near the end of 1968, Jim invited us to play at the club with Ten Years After, who were a huge blues act at the time. Alvin Lee, the band’s guitarist and singer, would later became a good friend of ours. It was a great night—as much of a turning point for Earth as the Jethro Tull gig had been. A few days later, after a few beers, Jim told me and Bill that he was thinking about managing us. Big Bear was already looking after Locomotive and two other local bands, Bakerloo Blues Line, and Tea and Symphony. It was a huge moment. Having Jim on our side would mean a lot more work and a much more realistic chance of making a living out of music without having to rely on handouts from Tony’s parents. We could go to London and play the Marquee Club. We could tour Europe.
The sky was the fucking limit.
The next day, me and Bill couldn’t wait to tell Tony. We’d booked the rehearsal room at Six Ways, and the second Tony walked in I said, ‘You’ll never fucking guess what…’
But when I told him about the possible deal, he just said, ‘Oh’, then looked at the floor. He seemed upset and distracted.
‘Are you all right, Tony?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got some news,’ he said quietly.
My heart just about stopped beating. I turned white. I thought his mum or dad must have died. Something terrible, anyway, for him not to be excited about us getting a manager.
‘What is it?’
‘Ian Anderson got in touch with me,’ he said, still looking at the floor. ‘Tull’s guitarist just quit. He asked me to replace him—and I said yes. I’m sorry, lads. I can’t turn it down. We’re going to be playing with the Rolling Stones in Wembley on the tenth of December.’
Stunned silence.
It was all over. We’d been so close, and now we were a million light years away.
‘Tony,’ I said eventually, swallowing hard. ‘That’s fucking great, man. It’s what you’ve always wanted.’
‘Congratulations, Tony,’ said Geezer, putting down his guitar and walking over to slap him on the back.
‘Yeah,’ said Bill. ‘If anyone deserves it, you do. I hope they know how lucky they are.’
‘Thanks, lads,’ said Tony, sounding like he was trying not to choke up. ‘You’re going to do great, with or without me. You’ll see.’
I can say with my hand on my heart that we weren’t bull-shitting Tony when we said all that stuff. We’d been through a lot together over the last few months, and all three of us were genuinely pleased for him.
Even though it was the worst fucking news we’d ever heard in our lives.
3. The Witch and the Nazi
We were all devastated.
There was only one Tony Iommi, and we knew it.
It had just worked with Tony. Maybe it was because all four of us had grown up within a few streets of each other. Or maybe it was because we were all broke and desperate and knew exactly what our lives would be like without rock ’n’ roll. Either way, we understood each other. It was obvious to anyone who saw us play.
After getting home from the rehearsal where Tony broke the news, I remember lying on the bed at 14 Lodge Road with my head in my hands. My dad came into the room and sat down next to me. ‘Go and have a drink with your pals, son,’ he said, pressing a ten-bob note into my hand. I must have looked pretty fucking upset for him to do that, given all the unpaid bills on the kitchen table that my mum was crying over. ‘The world doesn’t revolve around Tony,’ he said. ‘There’ll be other guitarists.’
He was a good guy, my old man. But this time he was wrong. There were no other guitarists.
