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Ritchie Blackmore Close Encounters Bizarre Meetings with Bizarre Rock Stars Join us on two totally seperate, yet equally strange rock encounters with the mysterious Man in Black... IT'S THE SUMMER OF 1985 and I find myself in Germany on a mission to interview Mountain. They're in Germany supporting the recently reformed Deep Purple, who are playing huge sold out shows and enjoying a successful reformation. We reach Nuremberg to find that the gig is in a massive outdoor venue going under the impressive handle of Zeppelinfeld. The venue hosted Nazi Party rallies both before and during World War II and the podium where Adolf Hitler once preached hate to party members is still partially visible. It's a chilling place. 
In search of sustenance I'm strolling backstage amongst the trucks, trailers and flight cases, looking for the artist and crew catering tent. Inside, the temperature is considerably lower, the darkness is unnerving and the smell of food hangs heavy in the air. I think I fancy a fat bratwurst with all the accoutrements. Settling down alone on a communal bench I start to consume the nosebag. Suddenly a stranger appears at my right and asks if he can join me. "Sure," I say, then glance over my shoulder to find that it's the guitar superman himself, Ritchie Blackmore. He's about to tuck into what looks like a bowl of gruel. Ritchie has decided to sit with a total stranger - me - and ignore his road crew. I'M NOT exactly sure how to handle the situation, so it's something of a relief when he pipes up about his favourite topic - himself! Looking around the tent it's clear that all eyes are on us; roadies, techs, musicians and catering staff. Right out of the box Blackmore launches into a big, big subject. Leaning forward conspiratorially, he tells me he doesn't know why on earth people think he's some kind of Satanist. Low level chit chat this is not. To be fair, I'm really not prepared for deep philosophical debate, but that doesn't bother Blackmore. On he rolls, warming to his subject. I provide grunts of approval and support as and when required. ALL OF a sudden he pulls out a small booklet from his back pocket - a pamphlet to be more precise - and hands it to me. I take a close look. It's some sort of Christian manual. Weird. But weirder still is the fact that it features a drawing of Ritchie on its front cover, depicting the guitarist as The Prince of Darkness, a fully paid up agent of his satanic majesty. And I thought that was Ozzy's gig! Nicely printed and accurately illustrated, the message is clear. Ritchie and his band are evil, depraved minstrels, out to cast some sort of satanic spell on an audience of baying heathens. Ritchie is not happy about this. Not happy at all. He tells me this over and over. I'm flummoxed. This one-sided conversation is decidedly surreal. I understand Ritchie's righteous indignation about this negative portrayal. But let's be honest. It's hardly surprising, given his well-documented love for seances and that carefully cultivated 'man-in-black' image. Why wouldn't the Bible bashers hone in on Ritchie as the devil's hand servant? After what feels like a very long time of Blackmore engaging me in the act of feeling sorry for him, the conversation eventually peters out. As suddenly as he arrived, Blackmore is up and mooches back off into the gloom. I scratch my head. Did this really just happen? Or had I suddenly entered the Twilight Zone? Maybe one day I'll bump into Blackmore again and if I do, I promise. I'll ask him what he really meant by this truly bizarre close encounter! DEREK OLIVER  IN NOVEMBER OF 1993 I'm "enjoying" a short-lived interlude in my journalistic career as the world's worst press officer for RCA Records, where I will do my level best to inadvertently kill the careers of artists including Level 42, Crash Test Dummies and ZZ Top. I've been in Houston, Texas, accompanying Q magazine for a feature on ZZ Top, whose 'Antenna' album is due for release. But now I'm on the flight back to London, crossing my fingers that we land on time. Why? Because a couple of hours after touching down I'm due to play football with my old friends from Kerrang! magazine. We've had a team - The Almighty Inter Kerrang! - for a couple of years now. We play other media types - and occasionally bands. I particularly don't want to miss this game, because today we're taking on a Deep Purple XI. And this team, we're reliably informed, will include guitarist Ritchie Blackmore. This seems unlikely to me. Blackmore, notoriously mysterious and sulky, hardly seems the type to enjoy the sheer physicality of parks footy. After all, imagine if his weave came loose in a crunching tackle! But my mate Steve Harris of Iron Maiden reckons differently. "Blackmore's a bloody good player," he says. "When he gets the ball it's very difficult to get it off him. His work rate isn't what you'd call high, though..." rate isn't what you'd call high, though..." AFTER A mad dash from Heathrow to North London I just about make it in time for kick off. The teams are out on the pitch. But Blackmore's nowhere to be seen. Ah, but what's this? A limo with blacked-out windows suddenly arrives at the entrance to the park, then drives straight through the gates and right up to the side of the pitch. The door opens and out steps Blackmore - in full kit. He struts onto the field - and we're off. Now the rules of the game are normally there to be respected. Blackmore thinks differently, though. He's brought along someone who appears to be his roadie, also in full kit. When Ritchie feels like taking a break, which is often, he simply walks off the pitch and the roadie takes over until the Man in Black decides he wants to come back on again. Nobody dares argue. Blackmore isn't bad, to be fair. He doesn't say a word during the match, though, and his team are on the receiving end of a 5-2 drubbing. My central defensive partner, 'Big Bad' Billy Kulke, later to be the singer with hot tribute band Letz Zep, marks Blackmore out of the game. The guitarist is not pleased. WHEN THE final whistle blows Blackmore's straight back in the limo to be spirited off to that night's Deep Purple gig at the Brixton Academy. He's not interested in the traditional post-match beer. But he does pass on a message that we're all invited to the gig. At the end of the day a nice touch from this very mysterious man. HOWARD JOHNSON Rock Candy Magazine  |