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Suzi Quatro Unzipped

Suzi Quatro
  • Posted at 3:46pm
  • 16 January 2008
  • by SarahDempster-RT

The penultimate chapter of Suzi Quatro's bittersweet bedside memoirs (Suzi Quatro Unzipped, Fridays, 9:15pm, BBC Radio 2) saw the glam rock chronometer strike Disaster o'Clock. With 1975 pointing at its watch and making urgent "For God's sake, woman, wind it up!" gestures from the wings, the headlines invariably made for gloomy listening.

Bong! Quatro embarks on a knackering two-year world tour and returns to find glam rock dead in its platforms! Bong! Quatro's cold, disapproving mother all but writes her daughter out of the Quatro family album, but it doesn't matter, says brave/unnervingly positive/unfathomably ambitious Suzi, 'cos "it was a small price to pay for my success"! Bong! Elvis invites the minute foxtrel round to his place ("Would y'all like to come up to Graceland, uh-huh?") but she blows the King out because, to her eternal chagrin, she "didn't feel worthy"! Bong! Bong! BONNNNGG!

The "And finally…" bit of Quatro's story, the eternal punchline in this leather-waistcoated odyssey of hard-drinkin', mean-lovin' and, let's be honest, generally fairly crap rockin' eventfulness, was then-husband/rhythm guitarist, Len Tuckey. Poor Len Tuckey. Name like a misspelled American state, body like a disused agricultural outhouse.

One need only watch the broad-shouldered guitarist's behaviour during this performance of Quatro's not very good 1974 single Devil Gate Drive to realise that this was a man as suited to the androgynous rigours of the glam rock wardrobe as a long-distance lorry driver is to a tiny pink hat with a flower sticking out of it.

While the small, leatherbound Quatro struggled with her enormous bass like a sexy beetle with a Viking longship, Tuckey stomped, galumphed and pounded beside her like the Honey Monster re-enacting the Battle of Helm's Deep. In half-mast jogging pants. And plimsolls. And - the sinister cherry on this quivering blancmange of sartorial bafflingness - WHITE SPORTS SOCKS.

Who can say why Tuckey decided this would be a good look? Perhaps his pith helmet and novelty scooped-out giant pumpkin vest were at the dry cleaner's that day. It's a ludicrous sight, appalling even, and yet the performance perfectly encapsulates glam rock's delinquent, 'ave-a-go bovver-boy/girl attitude, its endearingly graceless modus operandi and the staggering physical inappropriateness of the majority of its purveyors (see also: G*ry G*itter, Les Gray from Mud and the one out of the Sweet with no neck).

Alas, it appears that Tuckey liked alcohol as much as he liked dressing as a buffoon. Quatro pulled no punches when it came to detailing the long, slow demise of their relationship. You could almost hear the bricks tumbling from their once sturdy love-fortress.

So, while Quatro's 1980s career resided in "TV game show land", we learned that her husband spent his days drinking heavily and shooting stuff in the grounds of their country home. Not that life was any better for his missus. Sans recording contract, and recovering from a miscarriage, the 30-something Quatro was reduced to appearances on The Krankies and "a programme with Jeremy Beadle".

What a fantastic series this has been: unwaveringly honest, sassily narrated, tautly edited and spattered with both unflinching anecdotes and just enough trumpet-blowing puffery to remind us that this is one ego that won't quit no matter how hard life stamps on it, baby. In this week's final instalment, we hear about the inevitable divorce and her triumphant reincarnation - courtesy of Radio 2's Rockin' with Suzi Q - as a perfectly excellent DJ. Bravo, that lady. Don't miss it.

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