LAST NIGHT AT FILLMORE

When John Mitchinson edited Sour Mouth Sweet Bottom, he left this story out. I admit it’s a bit inconsequential but rather than losing it in a file I thought Substack might be a better place for it.

The sun shining through my bedroom window had woken me early and by seven I was eating my shredded wheat, looking out of the window at the clear blue sky - a perfect day for a lunch on the terrace at Mario's.  I was trying to decide who to have it with when the phone rang.

   It was Vicki in New York, where it was only 2am. "Tomorrow's the last night of Filmore East," she announced.  "There's going to be an amazing line-up and a party afterwards.  You ought to be there.  Why don't you come?"

   "I've got a big meeting on Tuesday.  I can't cancel it."

   "What day is it now?" she asked.

   "Sunday!"

   "That's when the concert is. Today. I was thinking it was still Saturday."

   "It's a bit of a rush," I grumbled.  But I knew at once I'd go.  It was easier than thinking about who to have lunch with at Mario's.  There was a British Airways flight at midday that would get me to New York by three in the afternoon.  I could party all night and get the British Airways flight back at nine tomorrow morning.  That way I'd be home in bed by midnight and fresh for my meeting on Tuesday. 

   At Kennedy, Nancy met me with a limo.

   "Vicki's on the boat with Jack.  We'll go and find her."

   "Who's Jack?"

   "Don’t you know? "

   "I’ve no idea.”

   "He lives on a houseboat on the Hudson. Nona’s there too. They’re all rather good friends.”

    I had no idea what any of that meant but it didn’t seem to matter much. Conversations with Nancy were often like that and if it was important I’d probably find out in due course.

 Nancy was a friend who stretched back to a drunken New Year’s Eve at the La Chasse club five years earlier.  On my side, that is, because Vicki had known her for years longer than that.  I don't remember what we did after La Chasse, but I know we had a good New Year’s Eve. Then Nancy moved back home to America and had been working as Monty Python's US manager.

   We got to the houseboat round five.  It was a sunny evening and everyone was having drinks on the deck.  They looked like they'd probably been having drinks on the deck since midday.

   I hugged Vicki and Nona and met Jack and a dozen other people and they were all going on about how good the Filmore concert was going to be. I felt like a shower rather than a drink so I persuaded Nancy to take me to the Algonquin where I could book a room and get washed.

Afterwards, with a change of clothes I felt great, so Nancy and I had a cocktail downstairs in the Blue bar then set off to find Kit.

   He was staying at the Navarro as he always did.  And as usual, not only was he staying in a two-bedroom suite, he was also paying for the one next door.

   Kit would arrive at the Navarro, book a suite and bring rent-boys and junkies back for two or three-day binges.  Then, unable to get rid of them and wanting some peace, he would simply phone down to reception and book another suite.  Sometimes he had as many as four on the go at one time.  But today he was living modestly - just two!

   He greeted us effusively and launched at once into one of his crazy monologues.  Hearing I'd just come back from Hong Kong, he told a complicated story about the difficulties of being gay during his National Service in the Far East.

   It was only after he'd finished his story that Kit realised he hadn't offered Nancy and I anything to drink.  He waved us to the bar and opened the door of the fridge.

   "What would you like?"

   Inside, the fridge looked like a mini-pharmacy.  Kit was obviously proud of it.

   "You see....   Anything you want.  Grass, hash, coke, heroin, morphine, barbiturates,

   "Don't you have anything to drink?" I asked.

   "Some wine?" Nancy asked hopefully.

  Kit look perturbed.  "I think I saw some tequila there last week."

   "Never mind,"  I told him.  "We're just about to go and eat anyway.  Are you going to the Filmore?"

   "Of course," Kit said.  But his attention was already somewhere else.  He'd taken a syringe from the fridge and was busy jabbing it into a small bottle, filling it with liquid.

   Nancy nudged me and we sneaked away.

   "He's going downhill fast," she told me in the lift.  "And you should see the way his money’s draining away.  It's phenomenal."

   Somehow, a lot of time seemed to have passed and it was now nine-thirty. And by the time we got to the Filmore it was ten.  We had VIP tickets and found our seats but after a few minutes of listening to Albert King I decided I was hungry. Nancy was too, so we left the show temporarily to eat some dinner.  It would only be fifteen minutes and the concert would be going on until at least 2am.

   But so did dinner.

   Nancy and I hadn't seen each other for ages.  We had wine and food and more wine and talked and talked, and when we got back to the Filmore it was all over and everyone was gone.

   So I went to the airport, had a few coffees and took the morning flight home.

   The meeting on Tuesday got cancelled.

(KIT IS KIT LAMBERT - VICKI IS VICKI WICKHAM - NANCY IS NANCY LEWIS - NONA IS NONA HENDRYX - JACK IS JACK - THE ALGONQUIN’S THE ALGONQUIN.)