Overlooked Albums #9: Mott The Hoople - Mott

By early 1973, it seemed the group had exchanged one Svengali for another. Mott The Hoople was the brainchild of producer Guy Stevens, who paired failed songwriter-factory worker Ian Hunter with Silence, a hard rock group from Herefordshire. The Dylan/Stones hybrid quickly grew a rabid cult following that didn’t translate into record sales. After a string of gigs in fourth-rate venues, the group announced their break-up. David Bowie, a big fan, came to the rescue and offered them All The Young Dudes. The song became a hit for Mott and an anthem for a young generation at odds with hippie values.

 

The band jumped on the glam bandwagon with unease. Unlike Bowie, Mott were regular blokes that never distanced themselves from the fans. Joining Mainman, Bowie’s management team led by Tony Defries, was starting to feel like indebted servitude. Moreover, star-spangled trousers felt tight around the waist.

 

The group’s main songwriters were Hunter and guitarist Mick Ralphs. All The Young Dudes had become an albatross around their necks, and they had to prove there was enough in-house talent to move out of Bowie’s shadow. Mott was self-produced, and this time the songs were all originals.

 

The album starts with a journey. All The Way From Memphis is about a musician searching for a lost guitar, a misfit who has joined the exhilarating and sometimes shameful rock n’ roll circus, given license to live in perpetual adolescence. It starts with a pounding Jerry Lee piano that builds tension until the rest of the band joins in, aided by Roxy Music’s Andy Mackay, whose lung-busting sax solo competes with Ralphs’ strangled guitar. As joyous as that song is, we find the reverse side in The Ballad of Mott The Hoople (26th March, 1972), which carries the specific place and time the group decided to quit, a reminder of the arbitrary ups and downs of the rock n’ roll lifestyle. It is a song about losing innocence and gaining insight. “Rock n’ roll’s a loser's game,” sings Hunter, yet he is drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

 

Whizz Kid opens with a chunky guitar riff and proceeds to out-glam David Bowie with a tale of a streetwise New York girl keeping the singer away from home. That feeling of nostalgia is perfected with mandolin strings in “I Wish I Was Your Mother”. This time the singer is the corrupting influence, whose girl is losing her warm glow and sparkle. He fears settling down, but still yearns for family and roots. “Is there’s a happy ending? I don’t think so.” Such is the price of freedom.

 

Freedom is found on the open road. Drivin’ Sister and I’m A Cadillac/El Camino Doloroso offer two views: Ralphs’ Cadillac provides a sensuous ride in plush comfort; Hunter’s beat-up Volks barely gets you there on the stench of a petrol tank.

 

Violence is a glimpse into the near future. Hunter had sensed disaffection around him. Young people were being pushed to the brink by uncaring institutions, and they would soon demand a future for themselves. Sawing cellos and an insane violin draw us to a bloody fracas at the end of the song.

 

Hymn For The Dudes reminds us that time marches on. Hunter was well into his thirties when he joined the group and had been in the business long enough to see his dreams crushed. He had learned to be wary of fame - a false and fleeting mistress. Only the music itself provides salve and purpose. A more positive spin on the subject is found in Honaloochie Boogie, a song about the life-changing power of rock n’ roll, strong enough to turn dweebs into hipsters. No matter what, the torch of boogie will be passed from one generation to the next.

 

Mott celebrates the music and deglamorizes stardom. Thematically, the album belongs to Hunter. It is not surprising that Ralphs quit soon after. His approach to songwriting was more simple, and he found an outlet and commercial success in Bad Company.

 

Hunter continued with the band for one more studio record and some singles, but the balance Ralphs provided was no longer there. The weight of leadership was too heavy to carry alone. After a nervous breakdown, Hunter quit the group.

 

The band recorded two more albums as Mott, then two more as British Lions, all with diminishing returns, before splitting up for good. Hunter experienced the ups and downs of a solo career, and songs like Ships, Cleveland Rocks, and Once Bitten, Twice Shy have become standards.

 

We flash-forward to October 2009, when all five original members of Mott reformed for concert dates at London’s Hammersmith Apollo. It was a resounding success. They weren’t there to promote a record, to bask in old glories, or to prove anything. They were there, said Hunter, “just to see what it’s like.” They were there, to put it simply, just for fun.