The Untouchable and Ultimate Mod, Steve Marriott, rough translation, part one.

(I know it's not perfect and I'd like to be a better and faster translator, Patrick Eudeline has his own style, a very nice style, so it's not very easy to read in French. So I sweat a lot to translate it! Some words are weird, as in the french version...)

He was the ultimate mod with the Small Faces, heavy rock eulogist with Humble Pie, Marriott is the epitome of the swinging London. Patrick Eudeline tells us the story of his unlucky and deceased role model... It probably happened in “The Bubble” or the “Malibu Club”. The nightclub was cool in the mid seventies, not so far from the Contrescarpe. Humble pie was there in the end, after His Olympia opening for Lynyrd Skynyrd. I hated those Yankees, perfect rednecks but I would have missed humble pie for nothing in the whole world. Even if, I didn’t like Humble Pie neither, well, not really, but “inside” there was Steve Marriott…

So the Bubble. I sat very near Steve Marriott, a few meters and of his roadies, perfect lads, dangerous et keen for a fight. He was there, with something in the eyes which has no name, something terrible which never went out. Actually, Marriott was becoming schizophrenic and no one knew it. More and more often, Melvin came to haunt him. Melvin the bald Wrestler. A Hate ball who only thought to destroy. Himself and the others. Doc’s, suedehead, braces, nothing left of the fantastic and numinous Small Faces cover boy. A hazy mod aura… Skinhead tour actually. The Melvin cockney vibe had won already. Even if it was, that night, his first appearance…

Everybody said at this time than Humble Pie couldn’t split up, then they were racketed by the Mafia, via Dee Anthony, their manager, than the band was completely exhausted by never ending tour, than they stood up still using huge quantity of cocaine and the amazing and supernatural energy of Steve Marriott. On his table, Marriott was drawing unbelievable coke lines he was sniffing frenetically between two Southern Comfort glassfull…He was ready to break everything in the night club. Battle with the Lynyrd Skynyrd roadies. Melvin Loved the taste of blood in the very early morning.

He looked like his band, what his band became. The Rhythm and Blues repertoire, which was his life, I don’t need no doctor, Walked on gilded splinters, The Pie was given from now on some amazing versions, inhuman, stiff, scummy, 20 minutes horse rides. On the fast Lane… It was hard rock epitome, Marriott, the best singer of his generation was only screaming. But with the Pie, like Grand Funk, they had a very big success. For the second time of his life, Marriott was reaching the top of the world’s roof…

But his band, his life, was a jail, was hell. Soon, he’ll break it, leave America and his managers like a thief. He will be back in London, penniless… To be continued…