- By David J Ham
Go There. Hear. Be.
Groupie. Official definition: A person who follows an artist or group in the hope of having sex with them.
Amplified music pounding through your bones. Sweat. Figurehead adoration. Aggressive bliss projected in all directions but mainly towards the stage/ DJ booth. The moment. The only moment. Messages echoing through the man made humidity right into your flat beer, down your throat and into your mind. You’re in their hands and to some extent they’re in yours. It’s reciprocal. A love of the music and the icon bestowing their soul and everything you want to be - upon you. Surrounded by good men and women who in their daily existence tow the line, say the right things, pretend that they give a fuck. All. Out. The. Window. For a slither in time. The stars align. Bring on the quirks, the crimes and the deviations. Nerve endings quiver in the nether regions. Let’s be honest; we’ve all at some point been that person. Eyes bright with wonder and FULLY receptive to the talent before you.
Been there. And long to again. The chosen Parish. Teenage kicks. The casualty list embraced and backed up, the voyeurs, predators and venn diagram OF souls.
As Captain Beefheart once said “God is a beautiful note”.
It’s safe to assume you’re a Loaded reader - obvs - so you therefore know your onions on the music front. You’ve idolised and you’ve travelled, travelled to quench the thirst of that desire. You are a person who explores and seeks new horizons. Travel, music, the alien sounds of a night that has been honed by other people, other insects. The scotch ‘n’ soda. The spiced rum ‘n’ coke. The Zig ‘n’ Zag. So you are a lover of music and an aficionado of all that it brings with it; the slightly frazzled memories of the past when you were your best self, and now, the strategically cherry picked gigs of the future.
Mentally oiled? Mosh pit bound? (but not before half an hour in). Good. We thought we’d bring all of those longings together for the seekers and serve you up some key moments in rock ‘n’ roll history along with the geographical info you need to live those moments again in your own way, your own filter.
Pikes - Camí de Sa Vorera, S/N, 07820 Sant Antoni de Portmany, Illes Balears, Spain.
= FUN.
Let’s get right into it. Pikes is beyond legendary in Ibiza. The George Best of hideaway venues. The Pamela Anderson of posters. The Terry Nutkins of nature based innuendos.
A hedonistic playground founded by Tony Pikes and a Thunderbirds hideout for the most devious minded pop stars that have been polished and served up to us in a more palatable way over the years. However; once upon a time on The White Isle, well fwoooooWEEE! They got down. Wham. Club. Tropicana. Video. Need I say more? Well yes actually. None got down, deep down, and inside, more so than Freddie Mercury. The man the flexible legend. So dope I named my son after him.
Freddie’s ‘Bathroom’ is now a micro-disco that recently had Kylie Minogue rolling around in there for a new video and any given week will witness for example/ as of lately… Rita Ora getting her groove on alongside Fatboy Slim, Lewis Capaldi filming an homage to Club Tropicana, and Robbie Williams in August munching on Tess’s ‘Love Balls’. Who’s Tess? And why does she have oh never mind.
Tess Prince is Head Consultant Chef at Pikes and pocket rocket behind Love Food Ibiza. Her menu concept is simple but right up Loaded’s dusty drive. Sometimes we all need a detox. But come on, sometimes we need a retox right?! Well her ‘Dirty/ Clean’ menu offers a solution to quieten the devil on the shoulder, or the whimpering angel. *Loaded furiously booking flights so more to come on this.
Book 4 nights in October 14th & 18th or 21st & 25th and get a night for free.
https://pikesibiza.pixieset.com/pikesibiza/ Download code 2581
Tess
Villa Nellcote - 10 Avenue Louise Bordes, 06230, Villefranche-sur-Mer, (that) France
A gaff that would intimidate Julius Caesar. A 16 room imposing chateau on the French riviera rented by the Rolling Stones’ legendary guitarist and unquestionably greatest living Englishman Keith Richards. Tax avoidance basically. The Stones recorded Exile on Main Street there - perhaps the greatest rock ‘n’ roll record ever, full of “drunks and junkies” in Jagger’s words - and the whole period was bedevilled with so much Stones-only filth and fury it’s a miracle the album was made at all. Such a litany of wrongness that it either makes you grimace with pleasure or pain, dependent upon your upbringing.
Misdemeanours include:
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A teenage employee encouraged to inject heroin for the first time
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Much, much, swinging
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Dealers from nearby Marseille walking out with nine of Richards's guitars, Bobby Keys's saxophone and Bill Wyman's bass in broad daylight while the band were watching television in the living room. You owe dealers. You pay it.
Nellcote is perhaps summed up perfectly by the then Stones saxophonist Bobby Keys:
"Hell, yeah, there was some pot around, there was some whiskey bottles around, there was scantily clad women. Hell, it was rock'n'roll!"
Fast track time travel please Elon.
Sorry about this, as in, you can’t stay here. We’ve dug and dove but it’s owned by a lovely Russian who perhaps couldn’t care less about the Stones or accruing more wealth via rental routes. However, there are some overly captivating places to stay in close vicinity, which will allow you to fully peer through the gates whilst you leave the car running and ‘Sweet Virginia’ seeps through the driver door window.
Chateau Marmont - 8221 Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90046, United States
You know the feeling.
You’ve arrived at your holiday destination. It took months of thought, debate, counter suggestions, arguments maybe? Nah fucking definitely... googlies thrown in, the weighing up of the financial implications and the post purchase dissonance. You roll in, exhale, and if you’re anything like me, you’re already planning mental damage limitation with regards to the other members of your family that unfortunately happened to be tethered to your every move. You glance East, and there she is. A bigger, grander abode. Teeming with bass lines, glasses clinking that thick glass clink (not the clink you’re used to) bikini clad regret parcels and buffed up blokes (where do they find the time ffs?). This is the metaphor that Chateau Marmont lives by. Owning the skyline of Sunset Boulevard. Screaming stardom and “don’t bother unless” vibes. The place where the infamous hang around, sometimes long after they’re dead. Built early last century and inspired by the gothic Chateau d’Amboise in the French Loire Valley that saw Leonardo Da Vinci clock out. The suites have their own kitchens…now that’s asking for trouble is it not?
Brief top of the pops for you:
John Belushi - death - bungalow 3. March 4th 1982. High on cocaine and heroin. He was visited by Robert De Niro and Robin Williams that evening, high but alive, and they were disgusted by the state of Bungalow 3. They returned at 3am, and were even more disgusted so off they went. The next morning…he was gone. No more. In his wake he left undoubtedly some half eaten room service and some rather macabre celebs and tourists who booked Bungalow 3 for themselves. Who’d do that?!.........
Jim Morrison - fell two stories trying to swing between balconies. He claimed that the hotel used up “8 of my 9 lives”.
Dennis Hopper - Portrayer of mostly mentally disturbed on screen characters. Allegedly hosted a 50 woman orgy there. Big manz. Big roomz.
Lindsay Lohan - ran up a bill of $500,000 in one year.
Scarlett Johansson / Benicio Del Toro - sex in an elevator? He’s looked slightly wonky eyed ever since. I harbour no hard feelings towards him.
Heath Ledger - caught on camera in the hotel snorting cocaine shouting something you’ve never uttered, "I'm going to get serious s*** from my girlfriend, we had a baby three months ago. I shouldn't be here at all”. Dude.
Led Zep’s John Bonham - riding his Harley Davidson through the halls as Robert Plant shouted “I am a golden GOD!” from his balcony. (A moment repeated in 2000’s satirical movie ‘Almost Famous’). But like all good men, Bonham has the Christmas dinner-cooking facet to his persona. Cooking Christmas dinner there for the whole band in 1968.
John Fruscianti - when the Red Hot Chilli Peppers guitarist quit the ‘Pepper’s, he moved into a Marmont bungalow and smashed ALLLLLL the heroin. Allegedly he liked the skeletor appearance that it gave him as it reflected Bowie’s appearance in ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth’. Can’t argue with that tbf.
Canyon Cowboy Gram Parsons lived in room 47 whilst recording 1973 album ‘GP’. The sessions apparently descended into drug binges whereby Gram was gorgeing on cocaine. Gram by name?...
Belushi - Daily Mail
No fibs here; the rooms aren’t cheap and Bungalow 3 is for the massive.
This article is dedicated to Pamela Des Barres, our and your hero, the ultimate groupie. Jagger, Moon, Page, Parsons. Before lunch! An alternate definition of ‘Groupie’ etched in the walls by needles by her:
“It means rock'n'roll in the sack. It means sex: the lyrics, the beat of it, the thunderous feeling through your body. Before the word groupie even existed I knew that I wanted to share myself with someone who created that music and turned me on in every kind of way”.
Be the groupie you are.
Be you. But be more Keef.
