Nick Kent’s fabled 1974 NME piece about New York Dolls, Dead End Kids on the Champs-Élysées, is packed with characters and incident. The band have arrived in France after a showcase gig at London boutique Biba, marred by various members getting caught while attempting to shoplift from the store. Their famously dissolute guitarist Johnny Thunders vomits copiously in front of the assembled press at a record company reception to welcome the band to France, then pukes again midway through a “horrendous, tuneless” Dolls gig at Paris’s prestigious Olympia theatre. Bassist Arthur Kane, a large man clad in a ballerina’s tutu who apparently looks “like he’d just been run over by a truck load of Valium” confides that he’s in fear of his life: the last groupie he slept with tied him up in his sleep and attempted to cut off his thumb with a knife.
And yet, even in such exalted company, there’s no doubt who the star of the show is. Frontman David Johansen never appears to stop talking throughout, an endless, wildly entertaining source of tall tales – at one juncture, he claims to have been an underage star of gay porn films – hysterical bitching about other artists (John Lennon is an “asshole hypocrite”, Keith Richards is “past it”, Mott the Hoople’s Ian Hunter has “terrible piggy eyes”) and eminently quotable statements: “We attract only degenerates to our concerts”; “We want to be known as the tackiest boys in New York.” Whatever you made of New York Dolls’ music – and, as the evident distaste with which host Bob Harris greeted their appearance on The Old Grey Whistle Test proved, it was nothing if not divisive – you would have a hard time arguing that Johansen wasn’t fantastically good at the business of being a rock star.
