John Illsley - My Life in Dire Straits

Copyright 2021 by John Illsley

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Extract from February 5, 1981 edition of Rolling Stone reproduced by kind permission of David Fricke

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Diversion Books

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First Diversion Books edition, November 2021

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-63576-915-9

eBook ISNB: 978-1-63576-916-6

Printed in the United States of America

First published in the United Kingdom by Bantam Press, an imprint of The Random House Group Ltd

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication data is available on file

For Steph, James, Jess, Harry, and DeeDee, with love.

Contents

Foreword

We were lucky we werent teenagersthat would certainly have been fatal. Nearly everything we were to experience in the professional music game was for the first time, so we had to learn as we went, at ever-increasing speed through an ever-changing landscape.

John had wanted it all as badly as I did. He was a great companion for the trip the band took, and he continues to be a great friend today. John felt like an old friend from the beginning. Whenever we see one another now, which is often, it feels exactly as it did when we first met. He was a constant support, full of the positive energy and willpower required in a touring and recording outfit.

Although Dire Straits received a lot of international attention relatively early, Im not sure that could happen now. John and I both feel extremely fortunate and always have: it was the era before downloading and piracy, a time which could support careers in music. Nowadays, recording contracts often dont last for more than an album or two. The music business has become more impatient, less inclined to nurture talent and more likely to demand instant success.

So theres music, and theres the music business: two different things. But mainly, for us, it was a huge adventure and a hell of a ride, with all its comedy, absurdity, exhaustion, madness, and sadness. Like everyone, we had to learn to cope with some of the more negative aspects of the game, but John and I always valued and appreciated the success. Im writing this in my own recording studio, for example: all the hard work paid off. I know John feels the same.

The ride is not for everyone, not for those who cant take the pressures and the pace, for whatever reasons. It was a different world. And John has remembered a pretty big chunk of it.

Mark Knopfler
May 2021

Elbows on the balcony railing, Im looking down on the Sunset Marquis pool, watching a guy spinning in his inflatable, nursing his daiquiri, an uneasiness gnawing a little at my guts. My cocktail is different, a heady mix of nerves and exhilaration. I have been living off it for five weeks, night after night, coast to coast in the States. But tonight, the whirlwind tour almost done, there is a double shot of nerves in the shaker, two parts nerves to one part exhilaration, with a dash of fatigue and a twist of disbelief. Were playing the Roxy.

Neil Young, Frank Zappa, the Temptations, Bob Marley, Van Morrison, Bruce Springsteen, Chuck Berry, Lou Reed, Jimmy Cliff, the Ramones, Patti Smith, Etta James, Jerry Lee Lewis, B.B. King,... and Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, all the way from London, England, yes, please give it up for... Dire Straits!

Or, in my head at least, please give it up for four lads from the borough of Lewisham.

Thats how it feels anyhownot quite believing its realand I am trying to get my head around the absurdity of it, pretend its just another gig, like the ones we were doing a few months back. Its not a big gig, the Roxy, just a couple of hundred guests, but its the Roxy. The Roxy! Tiny, but in its way, in kudos terms, as big as Madison Square Garden, the Hollywood Bowl, Wembley...

Right below me, Southern rock band the Ozark Mountain Daredevils, all bushy beards and long hair, are poolside, slumped on loungers, swilling long-neck beers, bantering with the beautiful Californian babes milling around in their bikinis. A couple of cool-dude waiters are floating between the tables handing out cocktails and clearing the empties. The music is low but amplified in the intimacy of the pool area, a small courtyard overlooked by two stories of rooms on all sides. The sky over to the west is a deep burnt orange fading to gray and the outdoor lights come on, silhouetting the miniature palm trees.

Theres a hand on my shoulder. Its Mark.

You all right?

Yeah, great, its just, you know...

Weird.

Yeah, weird. A long way from Deptford, thats for sure.

Embrace it. We could be in the Dog and Duck begging for a midweek slot after the darts match.

I picture us around our little wooden table, four pints of brown ale, rolling our cigarettes, moaning about the band on the little stage in the corner laboring through their set of Beatles and Stones tracks, a few old guys on their barstools reading the Racing Post .

Below me, a guy with an afro is walking into the shallow end with a beer in one hand and a smoke in the other.

Mark says, Come on, weve got to go. Reception just calledthe limos here.

Limo! This time it felt right. We were in Hollywood, for Gods sake. You didnt take the bus.

We knock at Daves and Picks room and make our way down, past the pool, Pick playing the air with his imaginary drumsticks, the real ones sticking out of his back pocket. One of the reclining Ozarks, a hot beach-babe sitting on his lounger now caressing his chest hair, raises his beer bottle by the neck.

Way to go, guys! He smiles. The Roxyyou made it, man. Enjoy!

In the air-chilled lobby, the doorman nods and stands aside, pulling open the door to the street, and we are back out in the soft, dry heat, making our way down the carpet under the long golden awning. Spring, like autumn, barely exists in LA. The temperature hovers between 60 and 70 degrees and I am overdressed in my charity-shop DJ jacket and heavy Levis. A smiling chauffeur in his peaked cap has the rear door open for us and we disappear into the huge interior of the shiny black Lincoln, bigger than the kitchen back in Deptford.

We pull away, swing left into Sunset Boulevard, downtown Los Angeles behind us, Beverly Hills up ahead. We are all silent, staring out of the windows, taking in Hollywoods neon bar signs, the roller-bladers, and the lightly stirring palms. Our second time in a limo in as many weeks. (We find out back in London the record company has put them on our bill, like breakfast at the Portobello, and the sirloins and salt beef in Nassau.)

A small crowd of a few dozen is hanging outside as the chauffeur eases the limo to the curb. The Roxy looks like a detached family house, minus the stacked logs and plus double swing-doors. Right outside, there are two Hells Angels-style bouncers and a lamppost with a big orange neon R, like a giant lollipop, planted in the sidewalk between the towering palms. We climb out, a few heads turn our way, and a guy with a boom box on his shoulder shoots through us on his skateboard, trailing the smell of weed.

The owner, Lou Adler, record producer of the Mamas & the Papas and Sam Cooke, greets us in the lobbyPick playing air drums probably the giveaway that we must be the band hed booked. You cant mistake Lou, in his beret, beard, and shades. Hes very friendly, and none the worse, it seems, for his recent kidnapping and split from Britt Ekland. We shake hands, thank him for the honor of playing his venue, and, yes, we promise to come and find him in the bar after the show.