We didn’t base the characters on any particular people we knew, but we tried to draw a parallel between the three friends in the album lyrics and our experiences in the music business. There were bands we used to play with in Portsmouth that were still performing in clubs, while we were touring the world and making some money. Many people in their position tended to look at us not as hometown heroes but as ingrates. They used to hang out with us, but then, when we became successful and hardly even played our hometown anymore, they became bitter and tried to delegitimize us: ‘Oh, they only made it because they sold out,’ or ‘Yeah, I hear they’ve turned into total cunts, and they’re all hooked on drugs.’
We didn’t have time for that kind of negativity. We were following our dream—going, going, going, playing bigger and bigger venues, getting reviewed by more popular magazines and newspapers, being interviewed on television. While we weren’t driving Rolls-Royces or living in mansions with our own chefs and security guards, we were making some money and holding our own—and, in that sense, we were breaking out of our former class and into a different level of society.
We had the concept nailed down, and as 1972 dawned, we looked forward to returning to the studio to write an album that was just as good, musically, as Acquiring The Taste, but less polarizing. We wanted to keep our fans happy and reach a new audience that liked prog rock but didn’t want to listen to music that was too challenging to grasp on a first or second listen. Ray and Kerry were more prepared this time, having written new songs during their downtime on tour, and I was excited about recording my vocals. I was sure our fans would love the direction we were going in.
It was a typically dreary English winter’s day when we piled into our trusty old Zephyr Zodiac to head from Portsmouth to London to meet up with Malcolm and the engineers at Advision Studios to start recording the album. I never used to mind driving long distances. When we weren’t running behind on our way to a concert, a recording session, or a promotional gig, being behind the wheel or even in the backseat of a car driving down the motorway was generally relaxing. Then, everything changed forever.
Ray was driving and Phil was in front with him. Kerry and I were in the back. The Zephyr wasn’t a sleek sports car—thank God. It was a sturdy, metallic tank of a vehicle. That’s probably what saved our lives. We were in Guildford, halfway to London, when Ray lost control of the car. I was looking out of the windshield as the wheels lost traction and we started to slide sideways to the right. Ray tried to compensate by spinning the wheel, but instead of turning the wheel clockwise in the direction we were skidding, which is what the experts tell you to do, he spun it counterclockwise and lost control.
I hoped the Zephyr would make a terrifying spiral and stop, then we would continue on our way. Instead, the car flipped over and skidded toward the other side of the highway. The force exerted on my body made me feel like I was on a rollercoaster headed toward a steep drop. We burst through the guardrail, and the car righted itself as it began to plummet. As soon as the wheels left the pavement, I was sure this was the end. I knew that when we hit the ground, the exploding glass would slash us like flying knives, the impact would snap our necks and pulverize our spines. Our organs would be crushed. I wasn’t being hysterical. I was completely rational. It would be a horrid mess, but at least it would quickly be over.
I should have been horrified. Ever since my dad died, I had been haunted by my own mortality. But now, strangely, I was completely calm. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as serene as when I realized I was about to die. I simply registered what was happening and accepted the situation.
Okay, this is it, I thought. I didn’t have images from my life flashing before my eyes. There was total Zen …and then a huge bang. I was sure I was in the last moments of my life and the world would soon fade to black. Well, we’d had a great run. I had lived the dream. I was ready to go.
I closed my eyes and waited. And waited. When I opened them again, I could see everything around me, and I wasn’t in any pain. I wasn’t dead. Somehow, after the car toppled from the road, it had landed upright on a narrow pathway. The tires had burst and the wheels were jettisoned to the valley below. They were history, as was the car. But we were okay. The spot where we’d landed was almost exactly the width of the vehicle. If we hadn’t landed wheels down, or if we had slipped six inches one way or the other, we would have plunged a hundred feet onto the railway tracks below.
I had a small scratch on my head that wasn’t even bleeding. I brushed bits of broken glass from my lap and felt my arms, legs, and feet to make sure I wasn’t injured. Then I called out to everyone.
‘Are you guys okay?’ I asked, not knowing what to expect.
One by one, voices:
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ said Kerry.
‘I’m okay,’ Phil said.
Ray seemed stunned, but a few seconds later he confirmed that he, too, had emerged unscathed. We might have been in shock. We spoke conversationally, as if we had endured a flat tire, not a near-death experience.
‘Can everyone still play?’ I asked. ‘Are you okay enough to record?’
No pauses there. Everyone answered in the affirmative. We were all excited to get to the studio and make the record.
Then Phil raised a practical point: ‘Okay, we’re sitting on the edge of a cliff. How the hell are we going to get to London?’
I looked down at the railroad tracks. ‘Do you guys think we can make it to the train?’ The cliff we’d landed on was high but not terribly steep.
‘Let’s climb down,’ I said. ‘We can’t be too far from Guilford. And we can catch a train from there to London.’
The only problem was getting safely down the hill without twisting an ankle or falling and taking a tumble. There was no other option. We climbed out of the wrecked car and carefully zigzagged down the hill. There was a path at the bottom that led directly to the train to Guilford. We bought tickets and boarded the train none the worse for wear, and then we got off at Guilford and transferred to a train to London. From there, we got a taxi to Advision Studios and walked in right on time, ready to work with the engineer Martin Rushent on our first self-produced album.
Given what we had just experienced, we could have panicked or fallen apart, but we were so focused on making a great record that we didn’t even think about the accident, and we didn’t mention it to anyone. It was unique to the four of us, and therefore it didn’t need to be addressed. We had stared down death and walked away, so the horror and bad luck of having crashed was dwarfed by the good fortune of emerging unscathed. We were so determined not to fuck up and lose precious studio time that we were pragmatic to a fault. The Sturm Und Drang of post-crash trauma would have to wait until after the record. The worst was behind us. What could really go wrong now?
I don’t believe we had something or someone watching over us, and I’m not big on fate or destiny, but the chances of undergoing a drop from the motorway onto a tiny hilltop and emerging practically unscathed are infinitesimal. It was almost like we’d made some rock’n’roll deal with the devil. Gentle Giant would be allowed to continue its crusade in exchange for delayed but significant emotional trauma, interpersonal conflict, and intangible frustrations down the road.