ALL REVVED UP AND READY TO GO!by The Bastards leader Sandro Sursock
At first, the rock ‘n’ roll life seemed an unlikely one for me. I was born in Alexandria, Egypt, at the end of 1948 into a very wealthy aristocratic family of Lebanese, Greek and Italian origin. As a baby, I was almost killed by an insane nanny who hung me by the feet to make me puke up my mother’s milk. That woman’s torture of me lasted one month. I must have hated the world as I felt the fear and the terror she instilled in me. But it was that bitch who turned me into a rebel. I owe her!
As the socialist revolution shook Egypt, so our schoolyard became a battleground where European teenagers confronted their Arabic counterparts. This violence frightened me, but I got involved, somehow fascinated despite my fear. I was but eight years old.
The revolution and its violence obliterated my sedate family environment. I bought my first knife. Fear, excitement, and gang leaders occupied my mind, but the soundtrack was missing. My family was exiled to Switzerland. Here, suddenly, I was exposed to Gene Vincent, Elvis and Johnny Hallyday, all courtesy of a friend who had been expelled from school.
After a knife fight in the woods one night, I joined “La Klique,” a gang of teenage playboys. Each night, we drank a small glass of Dubonnet, the spark that fuelled my eventual descent into alcoholism and drug addiction. But at the time, I had found my Higher Power. Cool was the rule, and it was 1964 -- OK!
An arrogant good-looking Brazilian cat, Miguel Correa, formed the first school band and gave it the arrogant name "So Much Us". How the Swedish babes fell for that guy, and how badly he treated them! Miguel, a self-taught and dazzling player, was a Hank Marvin (of the Shadows) fanatic. He remiked his Burns guitar, and fireworks flew out. So Much Us would play high school dances and balls; its original lineup featured Flavian “Kasa” Kasavubu (son of the then Congolese president) as lead singer. Crooning like his idol, the fat French pop star Richard Anthony, Kasa covered “J'irai Twister Le Blues” (“I’m Gonna Twist the Blues”) and “J'entends Siffler Le Train” (“I Hear The Whistle Of The Train”). Miguel would swing into guitar instrumentals by the Shadows. Drummers were a rare lot back then, so Miguel imported a Swiss friend from another school, the awesome André Tièche. André’s drumming skills would later evoke those of Charlie Watts and, like Watts, André became everybody's darling, as well as my best friend. Sweet tempered, he carried knives and guns, and he was fascinated by magic and westerns.
Later in the seventies, André played an essential role in my own bands, first Locomotive and then The Thunderbirds. In 1977, he formed Jack & The Rippers with Jean-Marie “Babine” Greiner and the Seilern brothers. And about that same time, we were shocked to read that he had been murdered while working for the Red Cross in Rhodesia by drug-war gangs. His last picture was featured on the front page of the Herald Tribune. I had introduced him to Keith Richards who still remembers him fondly.
Meanwhile, back to So Much Us. Their glory culminated when Miguel and Kasavubu were photographed by Life magazine for an article on our “school of the rich and famous.” But French-singing Kasa soon exasperated Miguel who, like all of us, had moved on and got into The Pretty Things, The Who, The Byrds, The Yardbirds, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Count Five, and The Shadows Of Knight. I had a crush on The Boots, a long haired German mod band.
My roommate at that time was a tough American bad boy with a lady-killer smile called Jim Houghton. He became Miguel's rhythm guitar player, and he quickly picked up those bar chords on The Kinks’ “All Day And All Of The Night.” As for myself, I was happy just to play “air guitar” along with the portable record player, dreaming that I would become Brian Jones. I even dated a girl who not only wore a Brian Jones haircut but also sported a pair of lips like Mick's!
After dinner, the ever-despotic Miguel would herd band members and aficionados into the study hall. “La Klique” members would crowd into the first row. On stage, we had only three small amps to power both guitars, the bass and the vocals, two microphones and a drum kit. Our enthusiasm did the rest!
During 1965 and 1966, revolution was in the air, a glorious, joyful sense of freedom for our generation. At this time, So Much Us became an all-American garage style band: besides Miguel, who played lead guitar and sang backing vocals, we had Jim Houghton on rhythm guitar, Tyni Vandersteel on bass, Kelvin Vanderlip on drums, and sexy Henri Hay took the lead vocals. We covered “Daddy Rolling Stone,” “I Can't Explain,” “I Feel a Whole Lot Better,” “I'm a Man,” “Suzie Q,” and so many other sixties’ youth anthems. Henri Hay also played tambourine, an essential attribute to the sixties sound. He wore striped Lovin’ Spoonful t-shirts, and he traveled through life like a beatnik. His best friend Tyni Vandersteel was tall and lanky, and Miguel had entrusted him with his Hofner “violin” bass à la Paul McCartney. Kelvin “Lips” Vanderlip, besides playing decent drums, happened to be a genius with electronics. With Tyni’s help, he built a radio transmitter with a one kilometer range. “Radio Rosey” would blast “Have You Seen Your Mother Baby Standing in the Shadow” while Henri Hay, D.J. Supremo, stood by to comment on the latest school gossip.
Meanwhile, I created a huge stir in Don Rosey, the school magazine, by writing “Réveillez-vous, les temps changent,” (“Wake up, the times they are a-changin’”) an article that mocked the square adult mentality and introduced the young readers to the mind-blowing properties of L.S.D. The headmaster was not amused. The teachers hated my guts, and I ended up leaving in 1967 before they could expel me: I wanted to grow my hair long and wear red old English army jackets!
During wintertime, Radio Le Rosey moved its headquarters to Gstaad – it was like living in a postcard, a fairyland dominated by a building reminiscent of Cinderella’s castle in Disneyland, the Palace Hotel. So Much Us would play the Montesano dance in the hotel’s glitzy Maxim's ballroom. The Montesano Girls’ School would offer us a fantastic hunting ground – the girls would scream in hysteria while So Much Us played “Set Me Free” by the Kinks at the “Hi-Fi Club,” another function room also situated in the Palace. It became our rock ‘n’ roll mecca since The Roadrunners, a sensational Liverpool band, played there on a regular basis. There were a lot of fights, drinking Dubonnet, flirting and smoking fags in the woods – it was paradise!
I once danced with my dream girl, rebel actress Natalie Wood who had married a local jetsetter. I stepped on her lovely toes! She laughed and tried hard to make me feel comfortable.
In the springtime, the whole school would move back to Rolle, a town between Lausanne and Geneva. Miguel, ever so hip, had met the coolest Swiss cat, Michel Rochaz, an authentic scene maker who had opened a club in the basement of the Chateau De Rolle – speaking of rock ‘n’ roll castles! My life as the rock ‘n’ roll aristocrat had found its foundation! Michel Rochaz would later shake Geneva, a city ever buried in its provincial Calvinism. He opened the psychedelic Gold Bug club in 1967 and the Bug café in 1969. Right after a girls’ school ball, the band packed a truck driven by the older André Tièche and headed for the club in Rolle. They set it on fire.
I was excited at the idea of replacing my roommate as rhythm guitarist, but I soon realized that becoming Brian Jones meant that I had to practice. The next evening I could only mumble to Miguel that my fingers were hurting. Half a second later, he had slammed me against the wall with his left arm while he pounded my face and stomach with his right fist. There was blood everywhere! “I'll give you until tomorrow,” he warned before he left, slamming the door shut.
Amazingly enough, the next evening I played those chords decently! He then proceeded to show me the minor chords, then barring chords, and at the end of two weeks I was rehearsing with So Much Us. I felt such a rush seeing my school friends watching me up there on that stage. With intense concentration, I played a white plastic body Eko, because I knew Miguel was watching me out of the corner of his eyes. But I could rock! I've never played a solo, but I own a swinging right hand, and that's all you need to play rhythm.
A month later, we got to play a wild house party, my first gig! The International School of Geneva opened for us, but they were outdated with their Shadows/Ventures repertoire. We proceeded to wipe them out: “You Really Got Me” – that was our opening number! I watched the girls' reaction -- they drooled, and they screamed with wild despair. Such a sexual high; we were a mod band, and we played fast and loud. Exhausted after the one hour set I crashed on a sofa.
A very proper girl wearing a long dress sat down next to me. We talked, we kissed, and after our second set, we made love. I lost my virginity in somebody else's living room. That's what I was promised if I hung out with Miguel. And it was a promise kept - cool is the rule!
Not that I played really hot. In those blessed times you just had to carry an electric guitar to get laid. But I was now part of a band and nothing could top that! Or could it? So I thought until I witnessed The Yardbirds at Club 58 in Geneva. Psychedelia was starting to rear its head, and Jeff Beck epitomized the change. What these guys called a “rave up,” were just three blues chords worked out in a manic frenzy with distortion, a fuzz box and deafening feedback. “I'm A Man,” “I'm Not Talking,” “The Train Kept A Rollin:” The Yardbirds were mean, and they took no prisoners. Miguel stood one meter away from Jeff Beck throughout the show, mouth hanging agape. We snuck backstage, but at the sight of Beck eating, with his long greasy hair hanging in the spaghetti sauce, we froze. He just lifted his eyes from his supper and stared at us so ferociously we gave the chit chat a miss!
And things kept getting wilder. Miguel got So Much Us a gig at the Club 58! Jim, my roommate, had fully recovered from his fall and took back his position as rhythm guitarist. But to show his gratitude, Miguel, now a full fledged pal of mine, had a special plan for me. Something crazy, something unusual: that is, a guest appearance on stage. It was agreed that I'd be sitting somewhere at a table far away from the stage, drinking with six girls. Towards the end of a successful show, band members started shouting: “Hey Sandro, we want you to sing ‘I'm A Man’!” Going along with the ruse, I was to decline the offer and pretend to hide, so Miguel would order the girls: “Get him back here, girls!” So the chicks would grab me, ignoring my protests, carry me, and literally throw me on stage. Meanwhile, the band had started blasting the Muddy Waters’ riff. I just had to come on: “All you pretty women - standing in line - I can make love to you women- in a hour's time!” The girls screamed while I proceeded to take
off my shirt and throw it to them, and they would rip it to shreds. Then I unzipped my pants -- but that's as far as it went. Phew!
I seized this life with a vengeance from then on and never regretted it. Tyni left us early to attend college in the U.S, so Miguel taught me a few bass lines and So Much Us played one last party at the home of Junior Alvarez, the son of the chief of police under Trujillo, the Santo Domingo dictator! He had also invited along a beatnik folk singer who introduced us to smoking hashish.
I was so proud playing the Hofner violin bass. “Suzie Q” by Dale Hawkins has such a sexy bass line!
In 1967, I left Le Rosey and moved to Cannes where some of my friends had enrolled at the Institut Chateaubriand, a school directed by a renegade Rosey teacher for renegade students. We could grow our hair long, wear English red military jackets, Jim (Roger) McGuinn granny glasses, and read Boris Vian and Jack Kerouac. Miguel remained my friend when I visited Switzerland, but my U.S. mates would soon disappear in Vietnam service, or succumbed to drug addiction. The rest joined the “squares,” and communications were cut. To them, I was an eccentric (to put it politely) who refused to grow up. Oh well. “Rock 'n' roll, deliver me from the days of old,” sang Chuck Berry; “Hope I die before get old,” sang The Who.
Well, I smoked pot and drifted through the swingin’ sixties. In 1967, I became a disc jockey for two weeks in Gstaad. I would mix psychedelic tracks by The Seeds or Creem with rhythm ‘n’ blues hits such as “Hush” by Billy Joe Royal or “Sunny” by Bobby Hebb. The girls would dance The Jerk. I wore make-up and velvet ruffle shirts.
Miguel would play the same nightclub and aped Jimi Hendrix. He played fabulous guitar, playing numbers letter perfect with his teeth and behind his back, sporting his mother's Garbo hats and feather boas. He would get down on his knees while a terrifying feedback would electrify the audience. Soon we all became the hottest craze.
In the early seventies, I met this tough Yugoslavian speedball named Tibor. He was a dope dealer who enjoyed getting high on his own supply! We became inseparable. I also connected with Babine, a fine bass player who dealt drugs too. They became my best friends, and so did L.S.D and cocaine. Both guys were in sharp contrast with the dull hippie type. They enjoyed life and a good laugh. They got me back on the acoustic guitar, and the three of us would jam all night, playing instrumental versions of speeded up Rolling Stones material.
One night, Stanislas “Stash” Klossowski, son of Balthus, the great painter, and the percussionist with Vince Taylor, woke me up at five in the morning. He had just met a girlfriend of mine in a club, and she had told him about me and my friends. We were the hip thing in Geneva: We had all the drugs! A week later, Stash invited me to his mother's house by Lake Leman, and around midnight, a dark blue Bentley pulled up beneath the trees. Keith and Anita Pallenberg crawled out, The Chiffons blaring through the speakers. They both looked hungry and dangerous. I later introduced them to Tibor and Babine so they could provide them with heroin to which they had been addicted for years. I also introduced André for logistics, since he appeared to be a well organized character. Their children, Marlon and Angie, followed and soon, my future wife, Charuvan, and the mini entourage around Keith and Anita were in place to provide drugs and comfort in innocent Switzerland.
Babine seemed more together, and so we started hanging out at the Midnight Rambler club, looking for musicians who would agree to play raw rock ‘n’ roll in these rotten ‘70s where jazz rock fusion was invading the hippy scene.
We stood, gloomy, in dark corners of the club, waiting for a miracle to happen. One night these two guys talked to us. One looked like a blonde Viking, and I liked him. He was Pascal Gravante, a reformed junkie and a fabulous guitarist. He introduced his mate, a pale young freak who looked like Bill Wyman. He could hardly walk or talk, he was so strung out on pills and smack, but Pascal wanted to rescue him. He assured us that this guy, Didier Bonzon, was a great drummer, and that soon he would kick his drug habit! We pretended we believed him.
Pierre Blattner, owner of the Midnight Rambler had named the club after my suggestion. He always wanted me to be part of it, sensing that my friendship with the Stones would shake things up. And it did! I asked him if I could use the small stage as a rehearsal spot, and he wisely agreed. Flashy groupie-type chicks started hanging out, and we paraded there, sometimes with Keith, Anita and Mick Jagger, sporting snakeskin boots, leopard skin pants, make up, lipstick, glitter, platform shoes, and satin jackets. Oh yeah, and dark large, oval shape shades à la Jumpin' Jack Flash, and rings, turquoise bracelets, fake jewelry by Ken Lane and a lot of silver. We were loud, flashy, and arrogant.
We never spared the hippies, sending them vibrations of contempt. This was all in 1972.
I lived in the old town, not far from the Midnight Rambler. Once my flat got raided by the cops, but I hid my hash and cocaine in the cellar. From the ground floor, I heard angelic voices singing harmonies with a guitar and a piano. I suspected it was two gays living under my window. One day, I noticed one of them reading a Melody Maker piece on Keith Richards, who was then in Jamaica. While sipping coffee, I asked to borrow the paper, and that's how I met John Seilern. His boyfriend turned out to be Franz Tassilo, his brother! He told me how excited he was when he peeped through the keyhole to watch Keith climbing up the stairs to my flat. I told him I enjoyed his daily harmonies and that we should form a band based on three voices. He shook hands on that one, and in early 1974, and The Thunderbirds, named after my car, were born. I was happy to put André Tièche back on drums. We hired his brother Yves who played magnificent rock ‘n’ roll rhythm guitar. John Seilern sang backing vocals and played a
minimalist Farfisa organ. Franz Tassilo, alias Francis, was the best musician altogether. He played fabulous Chuck Berry- style lead, and harmonized vocals with John. Babine stuck to his Danelectro bass, and I sang lead vocals and strummed an acoustic guitar. We still rehearsed at the Midnight Rambler, and once again, we became the house band. People were exposed to us because there was nowhere else hip to go around Geneva.
The Thunderbirds’ great asset was its naïve sense of friendship built around rock ‘n’ roll as a culture. We believed in the reality of it all, and we lived it and loved it. So why did it end? I started using heroin. And Keith said once that we didn't starve enough to want to make it. He was right. I got fed up having to shoulder responsibilities and most of the finances.
Rock: strength, guts, rebellion. Roll: change, playing cool, letting go. Take a stand -- face the crowd – unleash a roar! Then melt into the groove and feel the crowd’s response.
Institut Le Rosey, a prestigious boarding school in Rolle (summer) and Gstaad (winter), Switzerland, was an international playground for rich kids where American cool cats ruled. They blasted the latest hit records on 45s and prowled in gangs humming “Louie Louie.” Some of them owned shiny yellow Telecasters or bright red Eko electric guitars. They bullied us kids until we fought back in desperation, and became one of them. Forget studies. Forget school. We wanted only to belong. We wanted to be cool as ice. 
Clothes were of paramount importance. Finding a pair of tight blue jeans was like looking for the Holy Grail in Switzerland. And the hiding place of the Grail looked remarkably like “Petit Jakob’s”, a cramped import shop. We’d walk in to be greeted by the owner of the shop, who sat with his deformed wife on a pile of clothes. Weird! White jeans, smart gilets, madras jackets, Beatle boots, Ray Ban sunglasses, marine caps, and dangling silver bracelets were hip.
It’s also when, in the spring, 1966, my career as an air guitarist ended. Jim Houghton, my roommate and rhythm guitarist for So Much Us, had wagered he could walk on top of the school's roof. Alas, rain had made the tiles slippery, and he fell twenty meters. He was a lucky boy, though; he ended up in the hospital with only a broken arm and a few bruises. Such is the tough life, emulating James Dean!
After Jim’s accident, Miguel flew into my room with nary a warning, scratched the Yardbirds E.P. into silence, and stood there with a daring look in his eyes. He said: “Listen up, Sandro! I’m lending you my guitar, I'm going to show you the three basic chords of the blues, and you’re going to have to learn how to play them fair enough by tomorrow. I'll come and check your progress by tomorrow evening. And if you don't fucking get going, I'll bust your face.” He grinned and added: “This is your big chance. Don't blow it!”
I hadn’t improved much from Miguel’s instruction, so I concentrated on rhythm while the other two blazed their solos. Tibor had this mandolin gypsy-style technique that sometimes produced wonders. For all our stoned clumsiness, great moments would happen. We missed Brian Jones, and Keith Richards was our idol. We dressed like him, and the identification became so intense that the miraculous occurred: Keith materialized in our life! After Exile on Main Street was completed in Keith’s villa on the Côte d'Azur, The Stones had to move on. Once again, the narcotics police was after them. So Claude Nobs, creator of the Montreux Jazz Festival and Atlantic Records executive, offered them both a studio and a shelter in Switzerland.
I myself wanted to get back into creating a new band. Heroin way not my bag back then, and I soon witnessed my friend Tibor's disintegration. He lived in Keith's basement room with a girlfriend and shooting smack killed his love of life.
We called the new band Locomotive. I was driven: I was the lead singer, Pascal Gravante and Christian Roy played guitar, Didier Bonzon the drums, Babine on bass, and André Tièche, the voodoo man, knocked the congas and shook the tambourine and maracas. Locomotive did not perform much, but we made both a rock ‘n’ roll and a fashion statement. After a few concerts at the Midnight Rambler and an appearance at some art happening, we quit. I enjoyed our power version of “The Train Kept A Rollin’” and early clumsy compositions, but Pascal's sound was too hard rock for me, and Didier never kept his promise to quit heroin. In fact, he once fell asleep on a cymbal during a memorable performance!
At this time, Keith lived in Villars where he rented a small chalet up in the mountains. He often came down to Geneva to shop with Anita and their son Marlon. He drove a 1954 yellow Dodge that André Tièche had advised him to buy. It went back up snowy roads on the mountain, packed with toys for the kids and drugs for the adults. The Thunderbirds rehearsed in the afternoon, so he'd come and hang out. I had a few spare guitars casually waiting. At some point, he would jump on one; plug it on and blitzkrieg on “Sweet Little Rock ‘n’ Roller” or “Honky Tonk Woman.” He was amused that we attempted to play reggae, calypso, Gram Parsons country stuff, you name it. I wrote a song about him: “Lookout Gipsy.” Sometimes he would show up late, and we'd be on stage. He'd grab that Fender and join us, never louder than the rest, but tough looking, riffing with such ease and authority that band and audience would hit the roof. Seventh heaven!
Above: Inside "Super Pas Cool," Sandro was mentioning the early influence of The New York Dolls, and The Flamin' Groovies in his bands Locomotive, and The Thunderbirds.
Copyright for all contents: Feathered Apple Records, 2006