Ian dury sex and drugs live

All the Young Dudes’ brought Ian Hunter to the brink of 1970s superstardom – then he walked away from it all. Some years ago, a friend’s husband, aware that he was close to death, reached for his ian dury sex and drugs live Ian Hunter recording.

The voice of the Oswestry-born singer was the last sound he ever heard. When I mention this, Hunter inclines his head slightly, in sympathy: assuming, I imagine, that the deceased picked a soothing ballad to ease his passing. He sat at his desk, poured a drink, put on your live album Welcome to the Club, held a . 38 to his temple and pulled the trigger. That kind of thing has happened a few times,” says Hunter. Perhaps because I wrote this song called ‘Rest in Peace’.

I played London not so long ago. A guy came in before the show, holding photographs of a gravestone inscribed with my lyrics. I remember thinking: hang on a minute. I have to go on stage. Couldn’t you have given me these afterwards?

And then I have a page called The Horse’s Mouth on my website, where I answer questions personally. People are constantly writing about death, especially now I’m getting on a bit myself. In “Rest in Peace”, released in 1974, he wrote: “I ain’t gonna be here all that long. Ian Hunter was 72 on Friday. We sit at the table in the kitchen of his large but unostentatious property in a remote part of Connecticut, a couple of hours’ drive from New York. I can’t help remembering a line from his classic 1974 memoir, Diary of a Rock’n’Roll Star. The real problem,” he wrote, “is the press.

Those fuckers can ruin a beautiful day. Shrewsbury Town’s double-thrashing, last season, of poor, doomed Stockport County. As he appears to relax, the estuary accent familiar from his recordings gives way to his native Shropshire. I really wanted to be a footballer,” he says.

But I was crap at it. It’s become traditional to describe you as intimidating. Then again, I sometimes wonder how good an idea that is. I turn on the TV and see people like Bowie playing to 100,000 people and I think Maybe I’m doing it wrong. But you are who you are. I can’t be bothered with all that.

I imagine it must be quite hard work, posing away, 24 hours a day. Hunter stars in The Ballad of Mott the Hoople, an entertaining and wittily edited documentary history of the group, which had its premiere at the London Film Festival last October. The band, which broke up after just five years, in 1974, had huge success on both sides of the Atlantic with singles such as “All the Young Dudes”, a song donated by David Bowie, and Hunter’s own compositions, including “All the Way from Memphis”, “Roll Away the Stone” and “The Golden Age of Rock’n’Roll”. There’s one aspect of the tragic suicide we were discussing earlier that surprises me, I tell him. Bob Dylan’s “Mr Tambourine Man” or “Pure and Easy” by Pete Townshend, or even some tune by Mick Jagger, I find it harder to imagine Mott the Hoople being somebody’s absolute favourite group. Hunter’s albums have been just a little too uneven to retain a mass audience. Added to which, Mott the Hoople’s work was nothing if not defiantly eclectic.

Hunter, it was suspected, wore dark glasses because they shielded him from the sight of his puce velvet loon pants and five-inch Cuban heels. They looked,” says Hunter’s friend Roger Taylor of Queen, “like hod carriers in drag. I’m always intrigued,” I tell Hunter, “by the question of whether performers who permanently wear shades do so out of shyness, or a desire to be noticed. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, are they?

There’s a fine line between timidity and egotism. Well, there’s a lot of delusional people around,” he replies. That’s one thing I have learnt. I started wearing dark glasses because I have extremely weak eyes. I was on a tram in Blackpool, on the seafront, squinting away.

Because my eyes are weak and, as you can see, I am almost albino. The singer removes his glasses: the skin around his eyes is unusually pale and, it has to be said, he looks much better with his shades back on. The son of a policeman, he says he’d had 44 different jobs before he became a full-time musician. I was 29 when I joined Mott. I’d done so many jobs: apprentice engineer, local journalist.

I’d go out and play in Hamburg, come back to England, persuade some personnel officer that I wanted to work in his factory for life, and stay for three weeks. Colleagues say Hunter could be somewhat headstrong in his Hamburg days. It is not a reputation he wants to embellish. Suffice it to say that this is a man who, in the course of a disagreement with a German promoter, nailed a kitten to a door.