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MaineMotels
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Lunch with the FT: Ronnie Wood
By Rob Blackhurst
Financial Times
Published: July 18 2008
Keith Richards once said, “If you are going to get wasted, then get wasted elegantly.” At 61, his fellow Stones guitarist, Ronnie Wood, embodies this louche creed. As he arrives in the reception of Dublin’s elegant Shelbourne Hotel for lunch, cutting a path through huddles of overly nourished politicians and businessmen, he’s dressed in the same size of super-skinny jeans, 28 waist, that he’s been wearing for the past 30 years, a pair of space boots that may once have belonged on an alligator’s back and a tight black shirt undone to the chest: the fruits of a trip to Prada before his daughter Leah’s wedding last month.
But, even from 50 paces, it’s the luxuriant crow-black head of hair, flecked with only the tiniest hint of grey, that really marks him out as a Rolling Stone. As he greets me with a warm handshake and naughty, liquorice eyes, he says: “I don’t dye it either.” Alluding to his equally thin bandmates, he adds: “We’re all the same build, as well. It’s a good thing I didn’t join Fleetwood Mac.”
We take our place in a booth in the newly refurbished Saddle Room, which is all mirrors and velvet and upholstered in a garish shade that might be described as boudoir gold. Wood squints uncomfortably. “Christ, it looks like Rod Stewart’s trousers,” he says.
The Shelbourne is Wood’s favourite Dublin haunt. “I’ve a good old affiliation with this hotel,” he says. “When we played the Point Depot five years ago we were based here. It was like the Stones coming home to my town.” Wood has lived in Dublin on and off since the early 1990s, when he bought a second home in the southern suburb of Sandymount, searching for a sanctuary for his art and music, and shelter from the British exchequer. He transformed the cow byre into recording studios and the stables into a personal pub called “Yer Father’s Yacht”. It seems a dangerous place for a fitfully recovering alcoholic like Wood; there are 20 more pubs within a square mile of his front door.
He looks at the menu reluctantly: “I’m not really hungry at all,” he says. Eventually we opt for 12 oysters from County Clare followed by the seafood platter to share. Nothing stronger than caffeine is ordered, though Wood is going through another well-publicised bout of heavy drinking. “A friend came over last night – I hadn’t seen him for years. We had a few drinks. It ended up being seven in the morning.”
Though he has been woken up for the interview only an hour earlier, Wood is lucid and charming, especially when an espresso arrives to kick-start the conversation. I mention his latest art exhibition, Ireland Studio, a six-week show at his Scream gallery in Mayfair. The exhibition features paintings and pen-and-inks produced – mostly through the night – at his Irish pile over the past 10 years. Free of tour commitments – this year the Stones are on sabbatical after two and a half years on the road – he has been able to spend more time in Ireland with his two Great Danes.
Wood’s interest in art dates back to the early 1960s, when he was a student at Ealing Art College, but he took it up commercially for “grocery money” in the mid-1980s when he had blown a considerable portion of his Stones money on a cocktail of drugs and comically disastrous managers. He flicks through a pile of prints of the front garden of the Priory Clinic, where he has been a regular in-patient; moonscapes from the west of Ireland at night; and horses racing on the Irish turf. Sir Peter Blake and Lucian Freud are among fans of his art: “He [Freud] told Mick [Jagger] that he loves my landscapes. That’s a compliment, from the greatest living artist.” Tracey Emin is a friend: “She’s like my aunt. She rings me up every day to ask how I’m doing. ” He pauses and confides mischievously: “Tracey thinks she can draw.”
Most of his collectors are Stones fans in the US: “The leading cancer-curing doctor in Florida – much to his wife’s chagrin – spends most of his money on my paintings. She says: ‘Oh, please don’t sell the house and buy another Ronnie painting!’ Though his portrait of the Stones in a Jacobean interior, “Beggars’ Banquet”, sold in 2005 to a private collector for $1m, he is pricing his Irish landscapes at between £10,000 and £50,000. Deals, he makes clear, can be struck.
Wood has become a kind of official portraitist to the court of celebrity over the past decade – ever since Andrew Lloyd Webber commissioned him to paint the famous patrons of the restaurant The Ivy in the early noughties. Now a Ronnie Wood sitting has become as much a signifier of the upper reaches of stardom as a Hello! wedding deal. His waiting list includes the Stones-mad French president, Nicolas Sarkozy: “I met him and Gordon Brown and he was desperately trying to put me on the phone with Carla Bruni. There are all these people like Scorsese, Clinton, Beckham...” but he trails off, as if bored of the fame whirligig: “I’m trying to get away from the commissions so that I can do what I want,” he says. “This new exhibition is more the stuff that I want to do – landscapes, dogs, horses.”
The plate of oysters arrives. Wood is a fan of their nutritional properties. “They’ve got everything you need – all the vitamins and minerals. They keep the zinc up,” he says with a mock leer. Discussion moves to his other day job. I ask whether age has calmed Richards who, Wood recalled in his autobiography, used to hold an arsenal of guns and knives that would be drawn during band frictions. “It’s still on the verge, you know,” he deadpans. “Murder is still quite an easy option. You have to be on your toes all the time.” Nevertheless, Wood is more appreciated now by his fellow Stones than he was when he left the Faces to join them in 1975. For years, as a latecomer who joined when the band had already made their fortune, he had to negotiate his fee on a rising scale for every tour and album. “There was a 17-year apprenticeship,” he says. “Charlie and Bill stood up for me. Nice of them to do that, because they could have carried on looking the other way. I’m part of the empire, finally.”
In spite of the Strolling Bones jibes, he thinks the Stones have never sounded better in their 45-year history than they did on the final dates of their tour at the O2 arena last August. He says there’s “talk in the air” of another tour next year.
It must feel odd, I say, to go from playing in front of a crowd of a million in Rio to sitting at home. He becomes melancholic. “I’m more lost when I’m not on tour. I’m in a bit of a muddle at nine o’clock – ‘Where’s the stage?’ On tour there are people directing and supervising you. And then when you finish it’s like, ‘Sit down and watch TV.’ Sometimes I get so bored I think I’ll have a drink. I don’t mean any harm but I just go off the rails.” He points out, however, that he did manage to catch himself last month when he checked in for treatment ahead of his daughter Leah’s wedding so that he didn’t miss the big day .
A torrent of alcohol runs through Wood’s life. His account of his upbringing in a council house in Middlesex, the third son of “water gypsies” who had left their barges for dry land, sounds like a preparatory school for a career in rock ‘n’ roll. His father, Archie, played in a 24-piece harmonica band that toured the racetracks of England. At home, there were weekend singalongs around the piano that got so boisterous that a crack appeared in the middle of the house. When the family lawn was dug up 1,700 Guinness bottles were discovered. This may sound impossibly romantic, but his relationship with drink turned darker when, while he was still a teenager, his girlfriend was killed travelling to one of his first gigs: “When Stephanie got killed I sort of drowned my sorrows,” he tells me, “and I suppose I’ve never looked back since.”
Does he worry about his own health? He’s dismissive: “Here I am at 61 and I’ve never felt better. I’ve never had a cleaner bill of health. I was just in the Mayr Clinic in Austria. They said, ‘We want to use you as an example of how we want people to end up.’ They said I had the body of a 40-year-old.”
As our seafood platter arrives, Wood dips straight into the crab claws. “These are really cool. I don’t know which sauce you put on them.” As he plumps for the shallots and vinegar, the conversation turns to Jimi Hendrix, with whom he shared a flat for six months in the late 1960s. “He didn’t think he was any good as a singer. I used to say, ‘Don’t worry about that voice.’ He used to obliterate real life by being stoned all the time – and he couldn’t handle it. He didn’t realise how good he was.” His last memory of seeing Hendrix alive, the night before he died in 1970, is haunting. “He was leaving Ronnie Scott’s [jazz club]. He had his arm around a girl and he looked really sad. I went out after him and said, ‘Jimi, you didn’t say goodnight.’”
I try to lighten the mood by asking about the Wood clan – who all seem to have found jobs in the family business. He married Jo, a former model, 23 years ago after splitting with his first wife Krissie, another model. Jo is on the Stones payroll as his dresser and assistant on tour, in between running her organic beauty products business. His stepson Jamie is his manager, and his youngest son Tyrone is curating Wood’s latest exhibition at Scream.
The “Little Red Rooster” ringtone on Wood’s phone sounds. He seems agitated. The call brings news, he says, of The Sun door-stepping his home in Kingston, south-west London. A few days after our lunch I realise that he had been given news that the paper was about to write a story about how during the week of our meeting, he was holed up with a young Russian waitress.
Whatever domestic earthquakes are going on in the background, he returns quickly to conviviality, suggesting we finish lunch with a drink elsewhere. Though he is great company, it’s something of a relief when his PR appears to steer him to his next engagement and saves me from making the decision. As we leave the hotel, the kitchen staff lift their ladles and knives in salute, out on the street car horns honk, and Wood poses for an endless round of photos with passers-by, loving every second of it. “That’s always been a big problem with me,” he says with a grin that fades to exasperation: “I find it hard to get old and hard to say no.”
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‘You’re in a proper rock ‘n’ roll band now’
The Stones were from a whole different planet, a planet of themes, dreams and schemes. Their shows and posters were raunchy and suggestive. When the Faces plugged albums we did it relatively gently. When the Stones plugged albums, they went to town. When Black and Blue came out they put up a huge billboard on Sunset Strip with the words “I’m Black and Blue from the Rolling Stones and I love it.” Parents loved it too.
The Stones had two of everything, including stages. When onstage was getting set up, the second stage was on the way to the next gig. It was all so much more professional and planned, and every Stones show was a major production. With the Faces, Rod and I and the rest of the guys would just walk up onstage and play. The only non-musical addition to the set was the onstage bar. Interviews with people like Dave Marsh from Creem magazine would be snatched moments, taking place backstage as we were getting changed (or drunk) surrounded by the obligatory mayhem. With the Stones everything was an extravaganza and over the years every extravaganza got bigger and better. Mick would be flying on a trapeze somewhere, fireworks would be going off somewhere else and the light show would just add to the spectacle. The main stage featured 3,000 lights and huge lotus petals that hydraulically unfolded as Keith walked on to open the show with “Honky Tonk Women”. At the end of that tour, Keith Moon bought the stage, all 25 tonnes of it, and put it in his garden.
Joining the Stones meant a certain level of luxury duly turned up. We had a private Boeing 720, dubbed “Starship”, that came complete with a bedroom, a lounge, a library, showers, a bar with an organ and, occasionally, naked girls running up and down the aisles. It was the first time I’d ever travelled in that kind of luxury. We’d get picked up on the tarmac and whizzed off to the hotel in a fleet of cars, police escort in attendance.
Unlike the homesickness that I had to live through with the Faces (I would ring Mum, Art and Ted on a regular basis) it didn’t happen with the Stones. I wondered why and Keith explained, “Because you’re in a proper rock ’n’ roll band now.”
I said, “Because no one gets homesick.”
He answered, “No, because we have a public fountain named after us in Nicaragua.”
An edited extract from ‘Ronnie’ by Ronnie Wood (Pan Macmillan, £8.99). To buy it for the special FT Bookshop price of £7.19, tel: 0870 429 5884.
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