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than twenty-five minutes before slouching off, leaving the crowd seriously unhappy. They wanted at least another hour.
Sly wasn’t even the headliner. That was Rod Stewart, who at the time was enjoying worldwide hits with ‘Maggie May’ and ‘Your Wear It Well’ from the Every Picture Tells a Story album. This failed to win over the disgruntled GI’s and I heard one of them grumble to his mate: ‘We want funk rock, not faggot rock.’ Rod and Sly share a surname and a chant soon started up: ‘We want Sly Stewart, not Rod Stewart.’ Rod seemed pretty oblivious to it all and the protest petered out after about twenty minutes.
A week later we were back in Frankfurt to see Frank Zappa, once again entertaining mainly American soldiers. The GIs seemed a pretty demanding bunch and Zappa wasn’t exactly a ‘play the hits’, crowd-pleasing kind of performer, but he had enough authority and charisma to see off any audience revolt and lead them by the hand into fairly experimental areas.
The big-deal show of that summer, though, was the Rolling Stones playing an indoor gig at an ice-hockey arena. They were touring Exile on Main Street and Mick Taylor, Brian Jones’s replacement, was in the band. You could see there was friction going on: at one point Mick Jagger went over to Taylor and ruffled his hair. Taylor looked at him like he wanted to kill him. After the gig we missed the bus, walked the ten miles home, got in at five in the morning and were back in the Fabrik on the Förderband by six.
My merry band lasted six weeks in Gross-Gerau and we couldn’t wait to get back to Dublin and the pampered student life. We got the trains and boats back to UCD saying ‘Never again!’ so of course it goes without saying that I was back in the exact same factory the following year. This time I lasted more than three months – the others all quit and left before then, but things are never so bad second time around, and I wanted to earn as much money as possible. After all, those albums didn’t buy themselves.
I was so fixated on saving money that I would sometimes hitchhike home across Germany and France to save the train fare. US GI’s eager for company would often pick me up. On one journey, a young soldier asked where I was from. When I replied ‘Ireland’, he said: ‘Wow! So have you seen the monster, huh?’ It took me a few seconds to work out he meant the Loch Ness Monster. We then discussed this mythical beast for the next half-an-hour, during which I never had the heart to tell him it actually lived in Scotland.
Far more often, when I told people I was from Ireland, they asked about the unrest in Northern Ireland, or the Troubles, as they were called. I never knew what to say. It wasn’t that I didn’t care – I just felt so helpless and unable to do anything about a situation that looked insoluble. Whenever the latest bad news came on the television, I’d often just turn it off. It was a head-in the-sand attitude, but I wasn’t alone in adopting it.
In fact, I was much more interested in American politics. In my teenage years I had pored over Rolling Stone as much as I had the NME. They had a lot of political and social-issue coverage and American public figures just seemed so much more larger than life, vital and – let’s face it – glamorous than the grey men of Dublin and Belfast. The assassination of JFK had been an incredible drama and I had been equally fascinated by Edward Kennedy’s Chappaquiddick scandal, which began the day before the moon landing.
Many UCD students were consumed with anger after Bloody Sunday in 1972 and I remember an air of numbness around the campus that week. We had hated the mad tit-for-tat paramilitary response to everything and their intransigence in the face of just about any offer put to them. But this outrage was something else entirely. It took almost forty years, until the summer of 2010, for the British Government, in the person of Prime Minister David Cameron, to issue an admission of guilt and an apology.
If there was complacency of any sort, it was shaken in May 1974 when three car bombs went off in Dublin during the early evening rush hour. Nobody I knew was hurt (although within days we all felt we knew the victims) but there were tales of near misses and I guess for the first time it made us realise the huge shadow of fear that people in Belfast, just a hundred miles north of us, were living under.
As the summer of 1974 dawned my thoughts were very much over the Atlantic. I got to use my J1 visa again but this time I was giving Deutschland a miss – it was time for my first visit to America, with Mel as my equally pumped-up and excited travelling companion.
We flew into JFK but almost immediately our plans began to come apart at the seams. Mel and I had no fewer than three jobs, or potential jobs, lined up in or around the airport, but they all fell through when we arrived. So we bunkered down in Lefferts Boulevard, near the airport and right at the end of one of the subway lines, while we worked out what to do.
New York was amazing. I guess I always knew it would be, but the place was wonderful. It was almost too much to take in, and at first I was totally green and naive as I wandered around in the stifling summer heatwave. I strolled into a deli and asked for a ‘baggle’ rather than a bagel, which caused much hilarity at my expense.
In another café I ordered a Coke and asked the guy behind the counter, ‘Can you put some ice in it?’ He looked at me as if I had two heads, clearly thinking, ‘Of course I’m going to!’ But he didn’t know that I was only too used to buying warm cans of Coke in places like the west of Ireland, where the can could have been in the window in sunshine for six weeks, with a few wasps buzzing around it.
I loved walking around the streets in New York. The sights are so familiar to us through years of watching TV – the yellow taxis, the hydrants, the steam coming up through the grates on the street corners – that it just felt like being in a movie. I loved even more the fact that all the clichés were true: on the rare occasion you clambered into a cab, for example, you really did have to shout your destination to a surly and uninterested driver with a very precarious grasp of English.
So New York was great but we were still stuck in that dodgy place at the end of the subway line with no income, and we were beginning to seriously stress out about our situation. It was time for Plan B. Two years earlier, my brother Gerard had come out to the East Coast and worked at a fairground, Shaheen’s Fun-O-Rama Park, at Salisbury Beach near Boston. I had brought a brochure from home with the fairground’s number on the slim chance that we needed to fall back on the place.
I phoned up the amusement park and because I was ‘Gerry Fanning’s brother’ we were promised jobs on the spot. Our luck was turning. Mel and I went to Grand Central Station to buy tickets and an American guy called Bill Luce introduced himself by the ticket office and offered us a lift, saying he could use some company. He was a great guy and so we drove down in his big car, picking up a female hitchhiker on the way. It was grand: it all felt so cool, so American, so right. He even gave us his place to stay in overnight.
Salisbury Beach was in a place called Newburyport, seventy miles from Boston, and Shaheen’s Fun-O-Rama was a typical old-fashioned amusement park such as you might find in Black-pool. We got our uniforms, which had red-and-white stripes like a Sunderland FC football kit, and we also got some important news: we would have to get haircuts.
This was the last straw for Mel. I couldn’t have cared less, because my hair looked shite anyway, but Mel’s hair was like Dave Gilmour’s from Pink Floyd and was a statement of cool. He refused to cut it, worked one day at Shaheen’s, told me, ‘Fuck this place, I’m not doing this one day more!’ and flew back to Dublin, where he worked all summer in Captain America’s burger joint to claw back the money he’d spent.
So I was on my own in Salisbury Beach – but not for long. The park bosses billeted me in a house on the beach with five good-time, fun-loving party animals from Northern Ireland, including one called John Coll, whose cousin I knew in Dublin. All five of them were fiery, mostly redheaded heavy drinkers; I remember one of them lay on the beach for a whole day and got so sunburnt he had to go to hospital. I lived with this crew of likeable rogues for three memorable months.
The fairground work was no more intellectually demanding than had been the steel-processing plant in Gross-Gerau but it was a lot more fun. I would be working one of the rides, which involved taking the tickets off the customers as they walked up the steps, making sure they were safely strapped