The man David Bowie listed as God in his address book stuck two fingers up at rules about
music, sex and life itself – and made the most glorious noise doing itPhil May, frontman with the Pretty Things, dies aged 75Two years ago, I interviewed Phil May and Dick Taylor of the Pretty Things in the restaurant of a
London hotel. Before the pair arrived, I sat chatting with the band’s manager, Mark St John, a man who clearly adored his charges, but did little to underplay what hard work managing them could be. “They have a completely enveloping understanding of mayhem, with zero attention to detail, really undisciplined,” he said. “They really are the most unprofessional fucking band.”
It’s the kind of thing managers are wont to say to journalists, attempting to grub up some hype for a hot new band, to convince the writer he’s about to meet ungovernable young agents of insurrection and disorder. But the Pretty Things were not a hot new band: by the time I met them, they had been going for 55 years. May was 74, Taylor 75.