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It's Only Rock 'n' Roll: Thirty Years with a Rolling Stone
Jo Wood
Previously published in hardback as Hey Jo, this is a moving and candid memoir from the woman who married the most controversial member of the Rolling Stones, and had the strength and courage to bounce back from heartbreak.When young model and mother Jo met rock star Ronnie Wood, she had no idea what her brief flirtation with this brilliant, charismatic musician would become.A raw and rollicking narrative from the eye of the storm, Jo’s extraordinary story of life as a Rolling Stone girlfriend, then wife, mother and more, is a never-before-heard account of the heady hedonistic Ronnie Wood years – the drugs, the roadies, the tours, and the booze – and a celebration of her new-found happiness as an entrepreneur, fashion icon and beauty expert.Following the public breakdown of her marriage, Jo moved on with a dignity and lack of bitterness that won her fans across the country. Now a successful businesswoman, a passionate campaigner of pure, organic living, and a thriving name in fashion, Jo has learnt to embrace her new found vitality, and in doing so has become the heroine of everyone from 20-something fashionistas to Strictly Come Dancing devotees.This is Jo’s journey, from the breathtaking highs of her and Ronnie’s shared infatuation and love, to the devastating lows of his sudden disappearances, drug-induced mania and seizures, and how she learned to walk away without regret or bitterness, and forgive.
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For my children, Jamie, Leah, Ty and Jesse, because I love them.
Cover (#u227bd631-499b-5b83-ad8f-38c0a8af7e7f)
Title Page (#ub1a021fd-4766-5528-b626-15edcd33100f)
Dedication (#ulink_3cf3c0c4-87e9-5a5a-8c9a-550f883d86df)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_c25d15df-8753-5d2a-abf7-14b5784f14ae)
Prologue (#ulink_05f633b9-b43d-5442-aa16-83ba3c79605c)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_2e6d6560-c503-5564-83ad-0eba93e1013d)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_46c6849d-35db-5c8c-9528-a9e59ced1366)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_d9b39694-5f1e-5b44-b776-90e9d644ff23)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_ad1684c0-28a8-50bd-9b47-8e7fe3257e14)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_8c2e6e67-731c-5544-966f-5034f6d05f21)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_75df75cf-452a-5f38-909d-04ca1cc7257f)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_1cf3c952-14a6-5cb3-a5e7-dc64028323b3)
Chapter 8 (#ulink_b9e94678-364f-5f5a-b8f5-47309494cbf6)
Chapter 9 (#ulink_a4aed16f-d04e-5a9a-9882-bd42f258808a)
Chapter 10 (#ulink_05030ab3-1c72-51e6-bf85-89fcbe2aa3cf)
Chapter 11 (#ulink_00d4140c-dcdf-5356-acc2-d3793dfdba46)
Chapter 12 (#ulink_6862c33e-2ce0-53b5-bcd0-5e5ac3b26fe8)
Chapter 13 (#ulink_8d1f15fb-44ab-5a6e-b6df-83dce33c2f31)
Chapter 14 (#ulink_55a11552-4177-5104-aa29-277136f06257)
Chapter 15 (#ulink_bb882907-cbf9-578d-9001-ccb261c4e2ed)
Chapter 16 (#ulink_5a65536f-7a0e-5cdf-afea-27f13d439b4f)
Chapter 17 (#ulink_c12239cf-6b5e-5144-93d2-e053b1d3fcdd)
Chapter 18 (#ulink_1157acab-f4d2-5555-a15e-f9fe299542bf)
Chapter 19 (#ulink_743c613b-b740-5a4a-a7c4-d9ff1d802c52)
Chapter 20 (#ulink_757f1615-dbdc-577f-a0b3-291f3129f187)
Chapter 21 (#ulink_63a15788-b80a-57df-be00-ca6143af4e77)
Chapter 22 (#ulink_3154c900-c6ce-543c-84c5-8a4f77b6b216)
Chapter 23 (#ulink_2943f97b-1191-5bee-8a2f-41b1b50ae65f)
Chapter 24 (#ulink_7d6164d6-6766-57df-a079-b80c9d9a0709)
Chapter 25 (#ulink_160aea6c-fe7f-51d6-be92-10ea7fccd4cb)
Chapter 26 (#ulink_e97c6588-6a8b-5986-af92-b671530a6113)
Chapter 27 (#ulink_a3494a97-224e-5089-aa50-81129a755e5e)
Chapter 28 (#ulink_a5760849-f15e-57e9-a1a9-23e0fa59be99)
Chapter 29 (#ulink_fafa3701-d619-5f33-8237-ac6208bb088e)
Chapter 30 (#ulink_6b8d4975-bb69-50a6-810b-65565e96879b)
Chapter 31 (#ulink_7b88a804-c915-5599-9642-5f5af1202f5c)
Chapter 32 (#ulink_78efddfa-41db-5b6d-8da4-3bcfadffe7da)
Chapter 33 (#ulink_15c7be10-a34b-544d-978a-9954ba7ad348)
Picture Section (#ulink_b46d36f1-d6ab-5962-94a3-5f24850e2572)
Copyright (#ulink_1451ccd0-d6cd-5041-93b7-41e65ad23f60)
About the Publisher (#u27ea9786-b162-5e60-b1d5-9913832c06da)
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I have to thank Catherine Woods, who I thoroughly enjoyed writing this book with. To Carole Tonkinson, my editor, and all at HarperCollins for their hard work and patience. My agent, Eddie Bell, who got the ball rolling. Emily, for all her help and for being so wonderful. Amy, Trudi, Dolly and all in my office. Alan Dunn and my touring family. Lorraine, my long-time friend and her family, who I adore. My wonderful friends, Keith, Patti and the Richards gang, and Keith’s manager, Jane Rose, who is my great friend. Dympna my oldest school friend. My mum and dad for my life. My grandchildren, my nephews and niece, my brothers and my sister, I love you all so much. To Fran, Meg, Kate and Mairead. To all my new friends, there are too many names to mention, you know who you are. Katy England for styling and to all those I have loved and laughed with. And finally to Ronnie, who was a major part of my life; I thank him from the bottom of my heart for my rock and roll fairy tale.
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I was already awake, lying in bed, enjoying the last few moments of peace, when my alarm went off. I glanced over at Ronnie, but he didn’t stir. It was midday, and I could see from the light pouring between the curtains in our bedroom that it was another beautiful English summer day.
I grabbed my robe and tiptoed downstairs to make myself a coffee. It was Sunday, and the house was completely quiet. I guessed Leah and her boyfriend, Jack, must still be upstairs in bed – and, looking out of the window, there seemed to be no sign of life from the little cottage in the garden where Tyrone was living.
As I waited for the machine to brew an espresso, I felt a little leap of happiness at being able to reach for my cup from my kitchen cupboard. It was so wonderful to be back in our own home in London after nearly two years on the road.
A Bigger Bang had lived up to its name: it had been the Stones’ most epic tour yet. The boys had played China for the first time, and in Rio, an unbelievable one million people had come to watch their show on Copacabana beach. Keith had fallen out of a tree while we were on holiday in Fiji, scaring the hell out of us and leading to the cancellation of some dates while he recovered from brain surgery. But now here we were, back on home turf – and tonight was the very last show of the whole tour.
I had a quick shower and got dressed (black top, black miniskirt, black tights and black Dior biker boots – colour is banned when you’re working backstage) – then did my hair and put on loads of black kohl and mascara, the makeup essentials I’ve been wearing since my teens and could probably apply in my sleep. There was no time to make much of an effort with my appearance: I had to make sure everyone was ready to leave the house at 2 p.m. and get Ronnie to the venue in good time for the sound check two hours later.
By now the kids were stirring. Leah chatted to me in the kitchen while I made Ronnie’s breakfast – a cup of tea, poached eggs and toast – then took it upstairs to him on a tray. He liked simple food, but never ate much. It would drive me crazy when I’d spent hours making an amazing meal and he ended up pushing it round the plate. Recently, Kate Moss joked to me that he was anorexic …
‘Honey, time to wake up,’ I said gently. ‘I’ve brought up your breakfast.’
I got a sleepy grunt in return.
I heard the crunch of car wheels on gravel and looked out of the bedroom window to see a black Mercedes and a minivan pulling up outside the house. I waved to Gardie, Ronnie’s Australian security guy, as he got out of the Merc. Show days in London were always madness because everyone, including friends, family and acquaintances, wanted to come to the gig. Today there would be Leah and Jack, Ty, Jamie and Jody, Jesse and Tilly and all the grandkids – hence the need for the van.
As Ronnie showered and dressed, I packed his gig bag: a spare T-shirt for after the show, a towelling robe, extra backstage passes for any unexpected guests – all the essentials. For the past 20 years I’d worked as Ronnie’s PA on all the Stones tours, so the only thing he had to worry about was getting up on stage and playing the guitar. The tours had got so huge, so spectacular, that they had to be run with military discipline. It was a far cry from when I had first hit the road with the Stones in the late seventies. The 1981 Tattoo You tour of the States had been particularly insane. Fuelled by coke and a virtual pharmacy of pills, we’d stayed up for days at a time, drinking and joking and having such a laugh. My motto was: ‘If it isn’t fun, it isn’t worth doing.’ I don’t remember much of that tour, but we’d been so out of control that, when the time came for the boys to hit the road again (not until 1989: Mick and Keith fell out over Mick releasing his solo album), Mick had decided that we had to start being more professional.
‘Ronnie needs a PA,’ he’d said. ‘You’re with him on tour the whole time, Jo. You’ve got the job.’
‘You mean I get paid for going on tour? Oh, yeah!’
‘Yes, but you have to do your job properly,’ said Mick, pointedly. ‘No being late with the packing.’
I squirmed. During the Tattoo You tour we had fallen asleep following a three-day party. Security had burst into our hotel room just moments before we were due to leave for a gig to find the place trashed, with Ronnie and me passed out in the middle of it. That night the boys were three hours late and the audience were going wild by the time they finally made it on stage.
‘Don’t worry, Mick,’ I said. ‘You can trust me.’
From then on I was on the payroll – and was never late with the packing again.
I checked my watch: 1.55 p.m. Time to round up the troops. ‘Come on, everyone, let’s go – let’s go! Have you all got your backstage passes?’
The kids and grandkids piled into the van, Ronnie and I climbed into the Merc with Gardie – and we were off. From our house in Kingston to the O2 arena it was far quicker to go by water rather than by road, so the cars dropped us at the pier in Putney where a boat was waiting.
It was a beautiful ride along the Thames and Ronnie was in a great mood. We chatted about the guests who were coming that night and the plans for the end-of-show party. As Ronnie had been touring for 30 years this was just another normal day’s work for him, but he loved his job as much as ever. Getting up on that stage, doing what he did best, while night after night thousands of people screamed in adoration. Girls still threw themselves at him so blatantly that I sometimes felt I was in the way – especially now I was older. But in a few weeks’ time we would be celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our first date. We’d had our ups and downs, but we were still strong, and as we were coming to the end of a two-year slog we would finally have some time to ourselves to enjoy the rewards of all that hard work.
As we sped down the river, though, the sun sparkling on the water, I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of it all coming to an end. I loved being on tour and would miss everyone hugely: not just the boys in the band, their wives and kids, but the backing musicians, roadies, security guys, office and tour staff, too. We had worked together for so long, we were like one big, crazy family.
The boat docked right next to the O2, where we jumped into waiting cars for the two-second drive inside the stadium. Being part of the Rolling Stones family is to live in a magical kingdom, where everything is taken care of and nothing is too much trouble. You’re given the best tables in restaurants, you fly first class, you get the best limos to the best hotels – God forbid you should actually have to walk a few metres!
I went straight to Ronnie’s dressing room, known as ‘Recovery’ on this tour, to drop off the gig bag, organize myself for the evening, and check that everything on his tour rider (an artist’s list of backstage demands) was in the room. In the old days this would have meant loads of booze, but now that Ronnie tried to stay sober on tour it was bottles of Vitaminwater, a coffee machine and sometimes a plain chicken sandwich. I liked to make the room feel homely, so there would also be lilies, incense and scented candles.
While Ronnie hung out in Keith’s dressing room (known as ‘Camp X-ray’), I went off to talk to Isabol in Wardrobe and pick out Ronnie’s clothes for the show. First, though, I stopped off to see Lisa Portman, who looked after Mick, to find out what colour he’d be wearing that night. If he was wearing red or blue, the rest of the boys couldn’t wear red or blue. The only person who didn’t comply with this was Keith. He would just pull stuff out at random and wear whatever he pleased.
Ronnie always wore the same shoes and skinny black jeans for shows, but I selected a couple of jackets and three tops for him to pick from that night, so he’d feel like he’d chosen his outfit. On the way back to the dressing room Caroline, the makeup artist, stuck her head out of the door.
‘I need him at five fifteen today, Jo,’ she said. ‘Oh, and if you see Bobby Keys, will you send him over to me?’
‘No problem.’
This was always my favourite time of the day on tour, when the excitement and energy were growing in the build-up to that night’s show. I passed Mick in the corridor and said hi, then headed to the lounge. This was the hospitality room where all the guests and backing musicians would hang out in the run-up to the show. At the O2 the lounge took up a whole floor, as everyone had family and friends coming. Dinner was always set out during the sound check so it was ready to eat as soon as the doors opened at 6 p.m. Like a hotel buffet, there would always be loads of choice: salad, cheese, fish and chips, some sort of meat dish, a vegetarian option – and almost always an organic meal, too. I had first asked for this in the early nineties and the caterers had been brilliant at sourcing organic food wherever we had been in the world; in fact, there had been only a couple of places where they hadn’t managed it. Sometimes I brought along organic produce from my own vegetable patch, too: on one tour I smuggled a whole suitcase of new potatoes to Paris, and backstage there was a huge bowl of them, dripping in butter, labelled, ‘Jo’s Organic Potatoes’. Every single one was eaten.
It was after the potato-smuggling incident that Keith said to me, ‘The trouble with you, Josephine, is that you’re addicted to organic food.’
I had to laugh. ‘Addicted? That’s a bit rich coming from you, Keith!’
At eight thirty, with moments to go before show time, I headed down to the stage and positioned myself by the flight cases, the huge containers used to transport the band’s kit around the world, so I’d be right there when Ronnie came on, in case he needed 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.
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‘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, a heavy leather bullwhip. She’s still got the scars, but she reckons it cured her sweet tooth for good.
When she was 12, a witch-doctor read her fortune and told her she would travel overseas, but it wasn’t until she was 17 that something happened to seal the deal. By this time South Africa was in the grip of apartheid. The population was segregated by skin colour: black, white or – in Mum’s case, as she was mixed-race – coloured. Shortly after leaving school she applied for a typist’s job in a bakery where her brother, Desmond, was already working. The bakery woman couldn’t have been nicer to the pretty, golden-haired girl with the Dior-style lace dress and quickly offered her the position, but just as they were walking to the door, Mum spotted Desmond and waved to him.
‘Do you know that man?’ the woman asked her.
