It's Only Rock 'n' Roll: Thirty Years with a Rolling Stone. Jo Wood
something. The roar of the crowd grew in anticipation and then – POW! Literally a bigger bang, as fireworks showered sparks all over the stage and the screens showed the Stones’ tongue logo in the midst of a huge explosion. Then as the smell of smoke and hot lights filled the air, the lights came up and the opening guitar notes of ‘Start Me Up’ boomed out into the arena.
Wow. I never got tired of experiencing the first thrilling moments of a show.
I stayed by the amp for the first two songs and then, once I knew Ronnie was happy, it was back to the dressing room to lay out his robe and pack up the gig bag. I rarely watched a whole show, preferring to catch up with the rest of the crew, but I would always go back to my spot on the stage to watch Ronnie’s solos and for the final few songs when they played all the classics: ‘Paint It Black’, ‘Satisfaction’, ‘Brown Sugar’ … The boys swapped it around every night so they never played the same set two shows in a row.
I went back to the lounge and found the logistics manager and Mick’s PA, Alan Dunn, who was grabbing a bite to eat. I adored Alan; I’d known him for almost as long as I’d known Ronnie and we had a wonderful, flirty friendship. Years ago the Stones were working on an album in Montserrat and Alan – who didn’t really drink – got so drunk downing B52 shots that he stripped naked and started chasing me around the garden waving his willy at me. No one blinked an eyelid, and in the end I had to lock myself in the bathroom to escape. I had so many funny times with Alan.
I’d never usually drink at a show, but tonight we had the end-of-tour party to look forward to after the gig, so I poured Alan and myself a small glass of wine each. We’d been chatting for a few minutes when I glanced at the set list. In a few minutes’ time the boys would be playing ‘Can’t You Hear Me Knocking’, with my favourite of Ronnie’s solos. I said goodbye to Alan, promising to continue our chat at the party.
The song was just starting as I arrived back at my spot behind the amp on stage. It was a great show tonight – UK audiences were always loud and loyal, although they usually needed a bit of time to warm up. Typical British reserve, I guess. I could make out some of the fans’ faces at the front of the crowd, but after the first few rows it seemed to be just an expanse of darkness, lit only by the flashes of cameras and phones. Standing on that stage listening to music that was so familiar to me, surrounded by people I’d known for years (not just the musicians, but all the roadies, riggers and tech guys behind the scenes, too), I truly felt like I was home.
Just to the side of where I was standing I could see Charlie Watts drumming away with fantastically precise rhythm. He caught me looking at him and pulled a face. I love Charlie; I could never tire of watching him play the drums. Darryl Jones on bass was standing just past him and then, bounding across the stage, shaking maracas, there was Mick. The guy is such a fantastic showman. I’ve never seen anyone else take an audience like he can and hold them in his hand for the entire show. I popped my head up a bit higher so I could see Keith, who was across on the other side. I’ve been lucky enough to meet some legends in my time – Bob Marley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bill Clinton, Muhammad Ali, Madonna, Chuck Berry, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye and, yes, of course, Mick Jagger, but Keith is the most extraordinary person, and one of my dearest friends.
Right at the front, Ronnie was getting stuck into his solo. Oh, my honey! Seeing him on stage still gave me goose-bumps. Whenever there had been hard times, whether it was his alcoholism, drugs or other women, it was in moments like this that all the bad stuff was forgotten. I was married to a creative genius, there was no doubt about it.
But as the roar of the audience drowned the last notes of the song, I was suddenly struck by the intense conviction that this was the last time I would be standing there, watching the Stones. It was almost like a premonition. Make the most of this moment, Jo: you’re never going to experience it again. It hit me so unexpectedly, and with such force, that I was left quite emotional. Where the hell did that come from? It must have been because it’s the last show, I thought. But, no, it was definitely more than end-of-tour blues. It was a feeling – a certainty – that everything was about to change; that my life would never be the same again.
If you had said to me at that moment that actually my premonition had been spot on and that I would never experience the thrill of touring with the Stones again, I probably wouldn’t have been that surprised. I was in my early fifties; I was a granny. I had no regrets – after all, I’d been there, done that and got the T-shirt. Having clocked up 30 years on the road alongside the Rolling Stones, I’d designed the bloody T-shirt!
No, what would have shocked me – in fact, what would have absolutely devastated me – would have been to know that in less than a year’s time I would have lost Ronnie. My world, my love, my everything.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ cried the circus ringmaster, ‘the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Prepare to be amazed by the Fabulous Flying Josephine!’
I stood on my bed, waving at the crowd below, then took a deep breath and launched myself onto the trapeze. I flew through the air in a series of death-defying spins and landed gracefully on the ground as the audience went wild.
‘Thank you, thank you!’ I bowed, graciously acknowledging their cheers.
I picked up Bella, my favourite doll, who was that day playing the part of the ringmaster, and waved her arm at a couple of teddies.
‘And now, bring on the clowns!’
I’ve always been a daydreamer. As a little girl I spent most of my time living in a fantasy world. I’d see something on TV or read a story and my imagination would run riot. As well as the circus phase, there was the time I saw a film about a little girl who wanted to be an actress and dreamt of ‘seeing her name in lights’. From then on I was obsessed. One day, my name will be in lights, too! If Britain’s Got Talent had existed I’m sure I’d have been first in line for the auditions. Seeing as I can’t really sing and – as viewers of the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing will vouch – have two left feet, I’m not sure what my talent would have been, but I doubt that would have stopped me having a go.
My mum did everything she could to feed and encourage my overactive imagination. I’d find tiny letters hidden about the house from Tinker Bell, postage-stamp-sized envelopes containing a note written in tiny fairy writing: ‘Dearest Josephine, Mummy tells me you’ve been very helpful this week …’ One day I came home from school to discover all 20 of my dolls lined up on the bed dressed in identical knitted jumpers and stretchy ski-pants. Mum must have been buzzing away on her sewing-machine for months, but to me it was as if it had happened in the wave of a magic wand. She had a real fairytale touch when I was growing up – and still does to this day.
Mum – Rachel Ursula Lundell – was born in 1934 in the heat and dust of South Africa’s Eastern Cape, in a tiny village called Tsolo. My grandfather, George, was a Dutch builder, while his wife, Ellen, was the granddaughter of a woman of the Xhosa-speaking Pondo tribe. Ellen was the last of seven children and my mum, too, was the youngest of seven. According to folklore, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter is capable of great magic, and Mum has always been convinced by her ‘powers’. She will tell you about the time she cured the local butcher of his warts and healed her neighbour’s eczema with just a touch. But whether or not Mum really does have supernatural powers, I definitely think there’s something a little bit magical about the story of how this young African girl ended up travelling to the other side of the world and falling in love with my dad, who lived in leafy Surrey.
From a young age, Mum had a headstrong streak. She was sent to a convent boarding-school, where she got up to all sorts of naughtiness. She once broke into the convent pantry with her friend, Audrey, and the pair smuggled some sugar out in their bras. Weeks later, by the time the nuns broke up the racket, Mum and Audrey had turned professional, taking orders and selling the sugar to friends. Mum got 16 lashes with the sjambok,