Touring with HAWKWIND. Post 12. Bowie, Space Cadet Parties and the Return Home.

Looking towards the stage at Inglewood Forum.

Simon and I met up again at the immense Inglewood Forum in the seats as written on our tickets. At first I was disappointed we were not down at the front but, in fact, from where we were, back a few rows and slightly to the left of the stage, we had a really good and uninterrupted view of the show. I can't remember a support band, perhaps we had arrived too late for that, but David Bowie and his band were absolutely mind-blowing. Carlos Alomar, on rhythm guitar, alongside Dennis and George on drums and bass, were the backbone of the band, ensuring that whatever the groove was, it was there in your face. Simon, on violin and Adrian, on lead guitar, provided any embellishments, and the two keyboard players rounded out the sound perfectly. Bowie is a powerful performer and, in his smart modern outfit, he held the eye as he delivered the amazing songs from his latest album plus a few older favourites. His song, Heroes, has been a firm favourite of mine ever since.

Bowie on the neon light set.

And the set was totally novel: no colours, just black and the white of long neon lights placed side by side across the stage. Definitely one of the top three concerts I have seen live in my life.
Now my memories of the rest of our time in California are a bit vague: I can't remember how many more days we hung around in LA before heading for home. But there were several more clear memories which I can add.
Firstly, we were invited to a party, somewhere near Huntingdon Beach. It was in a big one-storey house in a big garden with a huge lounge into which we were invited then left to our own devices. Jill and a few of her space cadet friends were also there and we ensconced ourselves in some big sofas around a coffee table and near a big chimney with a smouldering log fire. It became clear that we were some sort of 'conversation piece' to be pointed out, chatted about and then ignored. We were 'English rock musicians' to be shown off, questioned, wowed about but then nothing. The girls went off to get tequila sunrises all round and we rolled a joint.
Now most of the people there looked pretty straight with fairly short hair and wearing polo shirts with expensive looking jeans and moccasins and Jill explained that they were all young professional people like lawyers, doctors and university professors. None of them seemed interested in smoking dope, that was made clear, but when I went to the large kitchen to get drinks refills, it became clear

Snorting in a big way.

why: people were snorting coke off the long granite work surface, lines of the white powder all along it. I grabbed a couple of lines myself and just got big smiles when I did so. And it was top stuff again. One of the reasons why I never bought coke back home in England and later in France is because it could not come anywhere near to this standard, having been cut to pieces. Obviously, these professional people could get hold of the real deal: they had the money to pay for it and were well-connected.
Later the same night, or probably early morning, we found ourselves in a small apartment also in Huntingdon Beach that belonged to one of the girls. Now I had also had some pills off one of the girls and was totally wired, but everyone of the party was slowly crashing out having swallowed some mandies which I had refused, not liking downers. Jill and I had the bed with another person sharing it too and there were three or four girls lying on cushions on the floor. Jill had stripped off completely and was cuddling me but also making it clear things could go no further. So, I went round the room and had a cuddle with all of them as they were half awake, but I was still buzzing.

Donkey pumps at the beach

Finally, I decided to go out for a walk and found the beach, a beach with donkey pumps pumping up oil dotted around. The sun was just below the horizon so daybreak was about to happen and somehow I finally fell asleep and woke up with the sun right overhead and burning. I jumped to my feet and headed back to the apartment, walking into loads of breakfast-making activity. But as everyone looked at me they burst into laughter which I could not understand. Jill walked me to the bathroom and got me to look in a mirror: I was really burnt on my face and arms but only on one side. I must have been lying on my side, so only half of me had got the sun. It looked really weird and hurt. Luckily there was some calamine in the bathroom cupboard which calmed the pain somewhat but I carried this two-tone face for quite a few weeks.
Then we were invited round to another of the space cadet's homes, very much low-level living, just big cushions to sit on, low coffee tables, tapestries on the walls and, of course, loud music. Jill asked me if I had ever tried a water bed and, of course, I had to say no, so, after a joint and some more little pills we had to get it on on this contraption and that was an experience to remember. Then Jill said that her friend, very pretty but very flat-chested, wanted to come and join me and she introduced me to some new sorts of bedroom behaviour which was in fact my last indulgence of that nature.
We went round to Jill's and she asked me what sort of things my family would like me to bring them back as presents. I suggested jeans and a couple of pretty tops for my wife, robots and StarWars figures for my sons and she went out to shop leaving me to have breakfast with her husband who was a really nice guy. But I couldn't get out of my head the question, "Does he know I've been sleeping with his wife?" Jill did a really good job and not only got the presents but got them wrapped too and bought me another bag to carry them all in!!

The now-defunct, Indian Airlines.

I'd been in touch with Simon by phone and we'd agreed it was time to get home and the nice girl in the office had got us booked on a flight home for the next day. All the space cadets were around to wave me goodbye when I set off back to Beverly Hills to pick up Simon. I drove us to LAX where we stopped right in front of the main entrance, got our stuff out of the car and left it there. Simon was pleased because he felt he was off smack (replaced by coke and mandrax). I had managed to phone my long-suffering wife to tell her what flight I was on and that I would be home tomorrow and needing to be picked up at Taunton Station, my first call for more than a week.
Now we were flying with Indian Airlines and there was a funny event just before take-off. Rather at the last minute, a large Indian family had boarded the plane and then, just as the steward was about to close the doors, the man of the group ran up the passageway and fled down the steps with his party wailing and screaming as he disappeared. Just afterwards the pilot came round to reassure all us other passengers that we would only be delayed a little while and that Mr Patel had suddenly decided he didn't care to return to India. Now this pilot was a tiny, rotund gentleman with a huge moustache and a turban and, quite frankly did not inspire confidence. And as we bumped and swerved up the runway to take off, I knew the landing could be rough. I wanted to sleep through it and I did. The next thing I knew was being shaken awake by Simon telling me we had landed at Heathrow.

Back to normality....Entering Taunton Station.

We hugged each other goodbye outside the terminal and I never saw him again. He had grabbed a cab but for me it was a coach into Victoria then the tube to Paddington where I bought my ticket and phoned my wife to say what time my train would get into Taunton. I was penniless and very hungry. I had bounced my last cheque to get my rail ticket. I was back to reality with a big bump and couldn't imagine what was going to happen next, where my life was going to go now. Would my wife see through my veneer of faithfulness? Would my two young boys recognise me....I'd been away for 7 weeks after all? Would I be satisfied back in sleepy North Devon? And would I ever want to go through all that again?

TO BE CONTINUED............POSTSCRIPT. Some aftershocks, explanations and decisions.