Next, Meehan Sr. and his son met with Sabbath. In no uncertain terms, he told them that if it wasn’t for WWA, Sabbath would never have made it out of Birmingham. He added that he and his peers were overseeing Black Sabbath’s career so that they could continue to enjoy a self-indulgent life free of paperwork or commitments. Then he explained the details of their management deal, point by ugly point. Each phrase and clause he read made it abundantly clear that Worldwide Artists had legal ownership of all things Black Sabbath. Tony and Ozzy grew pale, and it looked like their faces would slide off their skulls.
‘You mean, I don’t own anything?’ Iommi asked in disbelief. ‘I don’t own my house? I don’t own my cars?’
Ozzy, who had brought a bottle of whisky into the meeting and was self-medicating as he learned he was practically homeless, was furious. Suddenly, he gripped the neck of the bottle and drew back his arm like a football quarterback, spilling booze down his arm, shoulder, and onto the floor. He whipped the bottle at Meehan; it whirred past his head and shattered against the wall. Meehan’s face turned red. At that moment, we were all wishing Ozzy’s aim was slightly better, but had that been the case, he would likely have wound up far deeper in debt.
Our friends in The Groundhogs were even more fucked than Sabbath. They had signed an equally horrible contract, and they didn’t have the fame or resources to bounce back the way Ozzy and Sabbath did. Disillusioned and depressed, they broke up for a year before frontman Tony McPhee restarted the band with a completely new lineup (twice).
We were shaken but far from bankrupt. In the end, we paid £90,000 to buy out our contract, which wasn’t finalized until the end of 1974. Even so, we made enough from touring and selling merch to remain in the black. At the same time, we became more cynical. We lost trust in managers, labels, booking agents, and others who profited from the artists they signed, and we realized that if we were going to thrive as Gentle Giant, we had to take complete control of our business and our music.
I already had experience keeping the lights on for my family in Portsmouth, and I had been producing our music for a couple of years. Little did I know, the experience I gained when we severed ties with WWA and I became the manager of Gentle Giant would set me up a decade later for a career as a record label executive.
When we finished touring the US with Tull, we went right back on the road to make up the Italy dates we had postponed. It was certainly a tour to remember and a huge turning point in the band’s life. In addition to playing all the major cities, we played three concerts in Sicily, and, somewhat strangely, Patrick Meehan wanted to join us at the shows. We weren’t asked if it was okay with us. He just told us he was coming, so we quietly acquiesced and hoped for the best.
When our plane arrived from Rome, our Italian promoter greeted us at the gate. ‘Ciao, Paisan,’ he said to Patrick. The promoter told us we would be boarding a smaller plane that would take us to Catania, where a ‘Mr. Christaldi’ would meet us. We were specifically instructed to tell the man that it was a great honor to play in Palermo and Catania and to thank him for the opportunity.
When the plane landed in Catania, three black limousines were waiting for us on the tarmac. As we exited the plane with the other passengers, several men in designer black suits got out of their cars, greeted us, and took us back to their vehicles. One of the men opened the door of the middle car that we didn’t enter, and out stepped a short, bald older Italian gentleman who looked like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. We figured out right away that this was Mr. Christaldi. We already knew that Patrick had ties to organized crime in England, but when you saw the way Mr. Christaldi greeted Patrick in Sicily, it was clear that his mafia connections ran far deeper—all the way down to the Cosa Nostra.
We immediately thanked Mr. Christaldi for having us in his town and allowing us to play in Sicily. I think we were driven as much by fear as genuine gratitude, but our sincerity touched him, and he insisted we all have dinner with him and the promoters after the show. By the time we finished the concert, it was 1am, and we figured Mr. Christaldi had probably gone home. But when we got offstage, there he was. We joined him for a multi-course Italian dinner with all the trimmings and didn’t finish eating until 4am.
The next day we traveled to Palermo. We figured we had survived the trial by pasta and thought and that Mr. Christaldi had other ‘business’ to worry about. But when we finished our encore in Palermo, there was Mr. Christaldi and his entourage. Once again, it was dinner time, and we were showered with ebullient praise and fine cuisine. At least we had a day off for our nerves and stomachs to recover before we played Bari. When that show was over, nobody was waiting for us, which filled us with a strange combination of relief and disappointment.
While we were in Italy, we were supposed to play the PalaLido Arena in Milan. The morning of the show, we arrived from Treviso to discover that the municipality of Milan had canceled the gig and banned future rock concerts because of rioting hours before our show. We spent our day off in Milan visiting restaurants and enjoying the local food and wine.
Ray and I had a glass of wine each. Gary imbibed much more. When we got to the hotel and retired to our rooms, there was an enormous crash from next door where Gary was staying. It was so loud that everyone in the hotel must have heard it. The manager rushed to Gary’s room and opened the door. There was Gary in the bathtub. The sink was in pieces on the tile floor, with shards of broken glass surrounding it. Gary sat there uninjured with a sheepish grin on his face.
We couldn’t imagine what had happened. Then Gary told us he had slipped while getting into the bath. It was like a game of Mousetrap. As he tripped, his foot somehow smashed into the window, and the glass and wooden frame fell into the sink, which broke on the impact and shattered on the floor. It looked like The Who had rolled through town and taken revenge on the bathroom, which, aside from the tub, was destroyed. There went our gig money from the night before.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
AND THEN THERE
WERE FIVE
We had figured being back in Italy would be good for us—especially Phil, who had grown more distant and aloof. He’d be closer to his family and could talk to them more easily since they’d be in practically the same time zone (one hour difference). Looking back, I think it was obvious that Phil’s days with the band were numbered. There’s no question that he enjoyed the shows in Italy and the mafia-provided meals, but he was moodier than ever and clearly torn between staying in the band or leaving us and becoming a full-time family man. He wrestled with every possibility that would allow him to tend to both worlds, which must have been soul-ripping. And it drove the rest of us crazy. We weren’t about to kick him out, but if Phil wanted to leave, we couldn’t stop him.
Finally, Phil broke. His wife gave him an ultimatum: the family or the band. At the core, he was a family man more than a touring vagabond, so he left. In retrospect, I can confidently say that choosing family over the band was the right thing for Phil to do. At the time, though, I didn’t see it that way. I was still single, so I couldn’t understand how he could abandon his brothers (not just his blood brothers but all of us) and bail on us. He barely explained himself when he left because he didn’t know what to say. But that didn’t help mend burned bridges.
Phil was frustrated and confused. He was angry and we were pissed. Worse, we had been given little warning, no time to vent our anger or try to talk him out of leaving. He simply went to the airport and flew home after one of our shows in Italy, leaving us in a lurch. I understand now why he did it, but I’ll never figure out why he did it that way.