As happy as Larry
Labelled a degenerate by the prime minister, Larry Morris’ story involves drug busts, prison time, and a decade in hiding. But he was also a Kiwi rock pioneer – and at almost 70, he’s back for more, writes Mike Alexander.
Larry Morris is a survivor. Relaxed and surprisingly healthy looking for someone approaching his 70th birthday, the Kiwi music icon seems simply grateful to be alive.
Nothing like the troubled young man who decades ago sang We Gotta Get Outta This Place.
‘‘I am in the happiest space I have been in in my life,’’ Morris says.
‘‘I have a wonderful wife, Gloria, I’m looking after my parents with her help. I have just released two records. Life couldn’t be better.’’
Morris smiles cheekily as he relives his remarkable career; in itself that’s ironic, given one of his hits, 1972 chart-topper Smile was recorded after his management told him to look less surly. Smile is one of 23 songs on the recently released Larry Morris Anthology, which covers the period from his last hit with Larry’s Rebels, through his solo years, and including the short-lived band Shotgun and his re-invention as a slick rocker with the The Larry Morris Band.
It also coincides with the release of another solo album, the aptly titled 13 – 12 songs including a reprise of Whiskey In The Jar.
In his heyday, Morris was black and white – a rebel, sometimes without a cause – who has left a musical footprint few other Kiwi artists will ever achieve.
As a 17-year-old, he auditioned for the biggest musical agency in the country, Benny Levin Promotions. Morris’ mother and father ran a Ponsonby dairy, and among their regular customers were entertainers Ray Columbus, Tommy Adderley, Ray Woolf, and music compere Johnny Watson.
‘‘Johnny was a lovely guy,’’ says Morris. ‘‘He was a cigarette smoker and always had the biggest bill. Dad would keep a little black book and he would let all the entertainers run up credit. Johnny would get out of credit on the Monday and be back in the red by Tuesday.
‘‘My mother knew about this, so she took Johnny aside one day and said, ‘Johnny can you do me a favour. I see in the paper that Benny Levin Promotions is auditioning singers and bands for their agency. Do you think you could get Larry an audition?’ ’’
Watson got young Morris a spot, and drove him to the auditions where a backing band – the Rebels – played while Morris sang a cover of Cliff Richard’s Living Doll.
‘‘I did what I thought was a good job of it, but it wasn’t up Benny’s alley. He had the Howard Morrison Quartet on his books and told me I wasn’t what he was looking for.’’
But heading for the bus home, the Rebels’ drummer offered him a ride. The band had been impressed by Morris’ voice and stage presence, and offered him the chance to sing at their next gig.
‘‘I sang half a dozen songs,’’ Morris says. ‘‘Girls were screaming and I was beside myself. I had never had that much fun or girls take that much interest in me.’’
Three months later, the Rebels – John Williams, Terry Rouse, Viv McCarthy and Dennis ‘Nooky’ Stott – plus their new singer – were signed to Benny Levin Promotions.
‘‘When it came time to sort out a name for the band, the other members said, ‘Well, Larry is the frontman, let’s call it Larry’s Rebels.’ I was very anti the idea, because it wasn’t my band but Nooky, Terry and John were emphatic it was the way to go. I would have preferred it had just stayed as The Rebels but that’s not how it turned out and the rest, as they say, is history.’’
Larry’s Rebels became part of New Zealand pop history with five consecutive top-10 hits and a style and swagger about them that led their management company to use the phrase ‘‘lock up your daughters: Larry’s Rebels are coming to town’’. They were wild and carefree times. Sex and rock’n’roll without the drugs – they would come later.
‘‘One day we finished a gig in Christchurch and ended up in a mansion, which overlooked the city,’’ says Morris. ‘‘John Williams and I were in a huge bath with four girls. We were all naked and drinking champagne. It was very hedonistic and I would be lying if I said it wasn’t. I was a single man and they were throwing themselves at me. Not that I had any complaints about that.’’
On what ended up being their last tour, in 1969, Larry’s Rebels rocked up to Whitianga for another show. There was no hot water back stage for the band to get ready for the concert, so Morris went looking for Levin and his personal manager Russell Clarke.
The management were staying in a hotel, and Morris demanded the band get a room there too or he would quit. Larry’s Rebels didn’t get their hotel room and, true to his word, Morris left.
‘‘It was a huge error on my part to leave the band but that’s my Leo personality,’’ Morris says.
‘‘When I make up my mind I don’t change it, sometimes to my chagrin. I believe in my heart and head that my life would have taken a totally different course had I not left Larry’s Rebels. One makes mistakes and that was my biggest ever mistake.’’
In those days it was common for Kiwi artists to record a version of a hit overseas song before the original was released in New Zealand. Singles were king as evidenced by the fact Morris’ solo debut – a cover of Creedence Clearwater Revivals’s Bad Moon Rising – sold 6000 copies before the original was released.
‘‘I wasn’t happy at all,’’ Morris says about the choice of song. ‘‘I never would have recorded Bad Moon Rising. It launched my solo career, there’s no doubt about that. That was where Russell was a very together guy as a manager. He knew what he was doing. I can’t complain because I had success with the first three singles LAWRENCE SMITH I released – Bad Moon Rising, The Hunt and The Game – but I had no say in the selection of those songs.’’
When Morris did finally get to have a say in what he recorded, it was 1971. He recorded 5.55am with Bruce Lynch at Mascot Studios in Auckland. At the time though, and before it was released, Morris was regularly gigging and had been booked for several weeks at the Poro Plage resort in Tahiti.
‘‘It was a lonely time,’’ Morris says. ‘‘Everyone spoke French, and the only time I felt happy was when I was on stage. Thank God, I had two shows a night. I met these two young American guys on the beach – one was from Newport and the other Los Angeles. They offered me a joint and that was the beginning of what became a drug habit. It was a no-no in Larry’s Rebels and I was the enforcer of that. That’s why I know if I had stayed with the band, we would still be together.’’
On his return home, Morris was fined $30 for possession of marijuana; the police were going to bust his old friend Adderley, because the pair were stopped in his car, but Morris took it on the chin because it was his joint. That developed into an addiction to harder drugs: in 1972, he met up with the two young Americans who had turned him on to dope, but this time it was LSD. Morris was caught in possession and charged with LSD supply. He was given seven years in prison.
‘‘I was terrified initially,’’ Morris says. ‘‘Not being egotistical, but to come from the top of one’s career with hit records to Mt Eden Prison and a year in there waiting to go on trial was terrifying. But you adapt to everything. My dad always said if you go through a dreadfully hard experience and come out the other side intact, you’ll be stronger for it.’’