I don’t even remember how long we were there in the twitching haze, willing girls and a samba mix of Rio Rocks. Were any of the records hits after we left? I have no idea. I don’t even remember what happened to the Rio Rocks single, buried somewhere. But it was sexy and dangerous and we felt great, playing a succession of sold-out gigs in massive arena’s. I think Neal and I stayed another two weeks when the others went home. It’s a little blurred.
It transpired that the “experienced” tour manager meanwhile had stolen all the money earned from the Brazilian tour to feed his own serious drug habit. I was never able to confront him because tragically he committed suicide soon after we got back to England.
Then, when I finally flew back to London and staggered into JSP’s house with my tattered luggage, looking like I’d been to hell and back and desperately needing sleep. Janet threw the immortal words at me that you should never ask a young musician returning from that kind of ordeal.
“Did you sleep with any one?”
“Of course I fucking slept with someone, three at a time sometimes, all the time. What the fuck do you think a coke-fueled rockstar does on tour in Brazil?” was the perhaps slightly over candid reply I gave her. Maybe just slightly.
JSP sent all my belongings and clothes back to the house in Chippenham Mews in black bin bags. I would have a lot of explaining to do at some point in the future but for now, I just needed to sleep.
