Thin Lizzy: Gangsters, Drugs, Punks and St. Patrick

the way they should have. A band named Thin Lizzie, A band that made great music, unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called roll me over and do what Now? MK two. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to December nineteen sixty three, Oh What a Night by the Four Seasons? And why would I play you that specific slice of Jersey Boys Cheese? Could I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America on March twenty sixth, nineteen seventy six, And that was the day that Thin Lizzie released their sixth studio album Jailbreak, featuring the hit single the Boys Are Back in Talent, a song that changed everything for them, for better and for worse. On this special Saint Patrick's Day episode a rock Stars, rock Star, Bad bad Man in the Pride of Ireland, Thin Lizzie, I'm Jake Brennan and this this

this great sign. You're Saint Patrick, the primary patron Saint of Ireland. You're the reason why barb An Accounting Where's Green to the office each year on March seventeenth. You're also the reason why on that same day, the lad's knock back pints of guinness down at the pub at an ungodly hour, typically frowned upon for drinking. But although people around the world drunkenly celebrate you once a year,

they don't really know you. They don't know that you're not even Irish, or that your name isn't actually Patrick, your real name is Mainwin or something. But it doesn't matter. The point here is that you, Saint Patrick, are not who everyone thinks you. They don't know that you were born in Britain, or that when you were a teenager around four hundred and eighty ars so you were kidnapped by pirates who took you to Ireland and made you

a slave. You toiled in the fields as a shepherd boy for six long years, and then the voices started, voices inside your head. They told you to leave this place, flee your captors, make a break for it, and go back to the motherland. And so you did. For two hundred miles straight. You ran. Your chest was pounding, your knees were weak. You made it to the Irish coast, where you convinced a group of sailors till you board their boat headed to Britain, but the seas were too rough.

The vessel shipwrecked near the coast of France. You were starving and the food was all gone, so the sailors began to pray. And this is when you found out that the sailors were Pagans, because they were praying to their pagan gods, which got you all buckus. They turned to you and they said, hey, why don't you try praying to your Christian God. So you did, and do

you know what happened? Suddenly a herd of pigs appeared out of nowhere, which you, for one, were thankful for because it meant you no longer had to worry about becoming a meal for a boat full of starving heathens. Hold up, did this really happen? Did Saint Patrick pray

pigs into existence? Probably not. But this is where the larger than the life myth of Saint Patrick begins, a myth which includes the story of how he later returned to Ireland, this time not as a slave, but as an apostle to preach the good word, fight for the end of human bondage, and drive all the snakes out of the country. And since it's likely that Ireland never actually had snakes in the first place, that part of the story, just like the pigs thing, it probably isn't

true either. But if Saint Patrick didn't drive out actual snakes, he did drive out demons from Ireland, real demons, namely through his work as an anti slavery activist. Thus, Saint Patrick's spirit and legend loom large, just like a forty seven foot statue of him now looms large on the

western coast of Ireland. These days, it takes about three and a half hours to drive from that huge statue of Saint Patrick all the way across to the opposite side of the island, specifically to Dublin, where a different statue celebrates a different patron. Saint of Ireland Philip Linett, lead singer, bassist in the primary songwriter for the band Thin Lizzie, which formed right there in Ireland's capital back

in nineteen sixty nine. Like Saint Patrick, Phil Leneck was born in Britain and later came to Ireland, in this case at seven years old. But unlike Saint Patrick, Phil was Irish on his mother's side. Phil's father, who left when Phil was born, was from British Guiana. So, as Phil said in his own words, he was Irish, and he was black, and he was a bastard, which meant from the jump growing up he had cultural, social, and

even psychological barriers that made his personal struggle unique. He once said that if he couldn't make it as a singer, as a rock star, well then he couldn't make it period. Phil was motivated by these insecurities, just as Saint Patrick

was motivated by those voices in his head. And I believe it's those insecurities that inform Phil's code as a professional musician, a code which insisted that one you always be professional, two you never lose your cool, and three you always remain in control, which is why in the early nineteen seventies, when Thin Lizzie was starting to make their mark, Phil Lynett kept his transgressions out of the public eye at a tucked away joint that only those

in the know knew about. Oppa set of backstairs, passed some tough geezers standing lookout, and finally passing through the door into a place called the show Biz. The show Biz or the Biz if you're into that whole brevity thing was an after hour his bar attached to a hotel in Manchester, owned and operated by Phil Linet's mother, Philhimina. Inside you get to rub elbows with the so called Quality Street Gang, a loose collection of scrappers and safecrackers,

used car salesmen and other con artists. Guys with pickled faces and long rap sheets, the kind who may or may not have a concealed weapons smuggled into their fancy tailored suit. On any given night at the Biz, you'd run into guys like Jimmy the Weed, named so because well, he grew on you. Jimmy the Weed was an underworld zelig, busted for fraud, for drugs, even for murder, but somehow

eluding conviction every time. And then there were the local heroes like George Best, a legendary Irish footballer a winger for Man United. It was this crowd of famous and infamous faces that Phil Line and his Thin Lizzie bandmates guitarist Eric Bell and drummer Brian Downey were hanging out with on one particular evening in nineteen seventy two. Just hours earlier, they'd performed as the opening act for the

popular glam rock band Slade. While Phil thought that then Lizzie's set had been pretty good, he was shocked when, just minutes after they finished, Slade's manager, Chaz Chandler, was all up in his face. Normally Phil would welcome such an interaction, seeing as Chazz had previously served as Jimmy Hendrix's manager, and to Phil, Jimmy was a god. But Chaz Chandler was not in a compliment giving mood. In fact,

Chaz was pissed the fuck was that. He asked Phil that, of course, referring to Thin Lizzie set, you're here to wake the crowd up, not put them asleep anymore. That ho hum bullshit on stage and you're off the tour.

Phil then carefully watched Slade's headlining set, focusing specifically on the group's front man, Naughty Holder, his flashy manner of dress, his wild charisma, every move calculated to put the audience in a fist pumping trance, and he understood exactly what Chaz was saying up there, and simply playing the songs

wasn't enough. Bowie knew this, Rod the Bod knew this, and now Phil Lyne did too, just like he knew that to truly succeed, he and Thin Lizzie would have to do better than Whiskey in the Jar, their version of an old folk song that was currently sitting at number one on the charts in Ireland. It was the band's first bona fide hit, but Phil thought it was a joke. It was kind of a novelty song. Wasn't

even his song. Phil's own songs reflected his life, and Whiskey in the Jar was not his life, not like his mother's Hush Hush Bar, the Biz and the men who haunted it, the quality street gang. Sitting there in Manchester's best kept secret, he looked around the room, this little speakeasy sorts overrun with footballers, gangsters, actors from hip British television soaps, Jimmy the Weed in the Corner making Man united to George Best nearly snort logger out of

his nose with a joke. And it was at this moment that the Thin Lizzy we know now truly began to take shame. Before I go any further, I need to clear something up. I have no idea how this rumor started online that I personally am not into Thin Lizzy, But nice work to all you guys, guys who have been keeping the joke alive. It is ludicrous. I love Thin Lizzy, and I pretty much have from the first moment I heard them. But don't take my word for it.

Everyone from Huey Lewis to Sid Vicious loved Thin Lizzy. Phil Lynett even called both of those dudes his friends. And to paraphrase Henry Rawlins, there's a Thin Lizzy song for everything, whether your head over heels in love or crushed halfway to death by breakup. Plus just look at them,

or actually just look at Phil. The platonic ideal of a rocker, high heeled boots, black leather pants, big hair, sharp mustache, mister Johnny Cool himself, those long legs spread in a power stance, his Fender pe bass shooting straight up in the air like a craw rocket. It's a move that says this bass is a giant weapon, and also this bass is a giant penis, which is about his rock and roll as it gets. But again, it

didn't begin that way. It began when Jimmy Hendrix's former manager Chas Chandler red Phil Line at the Riot Act. And then when Phil recognized that the true inspiration for his biggest hits and thus the image of Thin Lizzie, those below the table badasses at the heart of incredible songs like the Boys Are Back in Town and Jail Break, We're all sitting around him at his mother's tiny pup

in Manchester. And then when Thin Lizzie's original guitarist Eric Bell, exhausted from touring from the non stop partying the communal house where the band lived, from the hamster wheel of promotion to make the suits that Decca records happy, distraught over his girlfriend running off to Canada with their young son, taking one too many bad trips himself, by which I mean LSD getting paranoid, Eric finally melted down halfway through a show in nineteen seventy three, threw his guitar on

the stage and quit the band. Eric Bell clearly was unable to adhere to phill Line A's strict code. He was not in control, and he most definitely lost his court. Phil on the other hand, was very much in control, which meant that he was the one who was left to pick up the pieces, and he did because he was built for this. He was born against all odds, and he didn't ask for help to do it, just as he didn't ask for help back when he was

the only black kid in his school. This time he got not one but two guitarists, and not for artistic reasons, but for insurance. When asked why he hired Brian Robertson and Scott Gorm Scotsman in a Californian, respectively, to replace Eric Bell, Phil said, and I quote, the next time one of those cunts walks out, there'll be another one there. I'm not going to be caught out again. Failure for Phil Line was not an option. Remember, if he couldn't make it as a singer, as a rock star, then

he couldn't make it period. The thing is. Phil Linet had no idea that the choice he just made would lay the groundwork for Thin Lizzy's breakthrough innovation and push them higher than he ever could have imagined. If you know Thinn Lizzie, you know what I'm talking about. That harmonized twin guitar attack an integral part of Thin Lizzie's sound, which began on their fifth studio album, Fighting, released in nineteen seventy five. But the twin guitar thing wasn't planned.

In fact, it was a mistake. It happened like this. Brian robertson Robbo was laying down his guitar part in the studio, some nice melodic stuff, unaware that the engineer had absentmindedly left an echo or delay effect on what he was playing on guitar, so the guitar begins to feedback on itself and thus harmonizing with itself. Scott's guitar was harmonizing with Scott's guitar, and then when I start hearing it in the playback, they're all freaking out. The

engineers like fuck. He leaps from his seat to fix the issue, worried that he's gonna get his ass fired. But He's shocked when he hears the guys in the band say no, man, don't touch anything that's awesome. This is great, and thus was born in the process by which Robbo and Scott wrote out harmonized lead guitar parts,

which yeah, I know, weren't new at the time. The Allman Brothers for Want had been doing it for a minute, but the way Thin Lizzie did it was fresh because it truly was an attack, written and performed like duel of switchblades. It snapped open in the middle of the song.

This sound perfectly complimented Phil's songs about tough guys, about cowboys and escaped inmates, powering the big hits on their beloved nineteen seventy six album Jailbrey, both the aforementioned title track and the Boys Are Back in Town, the band's biggest hit in America, and Man, oh Man, what a song When that song was climbing the charts in the

summer of seventy six. Then Lizzie were forced to cancel the second half of their American tour, which was supposed to finally break them in the States after seven long years of making music. Instead, Phil Lynett, who had quickly fallen under the spell of a sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle, looked in the mirror and saw that

his eyes had turned orange hepatitis. He told a friend he probably got her from shooting up with a dirty needle, and though it should be noted, at this point, Phil was merely dabbling in heroin, with cocaine, marijuana and alcohol being more central to his drug diet regardless. Instead of conquering America, Phil watched from a hospital bed in Manchester as a pre taped performance of The Boys Are Back in Town played on top of the Pops from a

tiny television set on the wall. While back in the US the singles slow only slipped back down the charts after peaking at number twelve. Just months later, it happened again. Thin Lizzy were set to conquer America a second time, only to once again be forced to cancel when Robo got in a fight at a London nightclub, severing tendons and an artery in his hand when he tried to deflect a broken bottle. It seemed that Americans were destined

to never truly know Thin Lizzy. Breaking America, of course, was the dream of any band from across the pond, and for Thin Lizzy and Phil Line, it wrong plays, wrong time quickly became an unfortunate reality. Dublin, August twentieth, nineteen seventy seven, hometown heroes Phil Line and Thin Lizzy were back to headline the Capital of Ireland's first open

air rock festival. But that was tomorrow. Today or tonight was Phil's twenty eighth birthday, and he was celebrating in style at Castletownhouse, a lavish mansion owned by the Guinness family, specifically Esmond Guinness, second son of Brian, the famous brewer and heir to the Guinness beer empire. But I digress.

The doctors had told Phil to avoid these sorts of environments where the booze and the coke floated like well, you can imagine the deluge of booze and coke and a party happening at a Guinness mansion in nineteen seventy seven. It was simply too dangerous given the complications from his hepatitis. Phil however, didn't look to doctors as role models these days. He looked up to the great Freddie Mercury, whom Phil had witnessed during a recent tour when thin Lizzy opened

for Freddy's band Queen Freddy was decadence in Carnie. The hotel suites, the entourages, the willing enabled groupies, the piles of illicit substances served on silver platters. Everything was bigger for Freddie Mercury and Phil Lynett wanted to reach that hallowed ground where Freddy and Queen now found themselves. Followed suit. In Freddy, Phil even saw a reflection of himself, someone who had his own set of insecurities to overcome simply

based on who he was. Freddy's gave Phil confidence and hope, But any feelings of hope or of birthday joy were suddenly dashed when the front door of the Castletown mansion flew open into the party, barged the gardener at the State Police Force of the Republic of Ireland. They were here on a tip that they'd find musicians and thus drugs, and they did. A ton of blow and weed was seized.

But one of the many things Phil Line had had learned from a guy like Freddie Mercury was how to keep your vice as a secret, which is how Phil had managed to get someone else to hold onto his stash. The party when he was stopped and searched by the Garda. He was clean. Two days later, however, the headline on the front of the Irish Independent newspaper read six held in drugs raid on pop party, and none other than Phil Lenett's name was right there in the mix. Phil

was furious. Was he using that night? Sure? But was he holding? He wasn't that stupid, at least not on that particular night. The police hadn't found anything, and now here he was being branded public offender number one by the press. He walked over to the paper's office and paid a personal visit to the editor, whom he berated in front of the entire staff. My grandmother saw that. He shouted, it's not fucking true what you printed. I

didn't have any fucking drugs. It was just as Freddy said, It was all about what you showed them, what they saw the controlled narrative. Phil Lineing for one, locked down his private life even as it began to spin out of control. Behind locked doors, We'll be right back after this word word word. Sid Vicious, bass player for the Sex Pistols, stumbled out of Phill Linett's bathroom with his girlfriend Nancy sponge and hanging off his track mark Daram

behind them. They left their own blood splattered on the bathroom wall. The junk was coursing through their veins, now slowly animating them like stop motion skeletons. Down the hall to the living room, where they collapsed on a couch next to Phil, who was watching an old Elvis Presley movie on a giant TV. Hey, Sid, Phil said himself high on one substance or another at the moment, when are you gonna let me show you a few things on the base? Mate? Sid scrunched his face in disgust.

I'm not interested in that crap. I'm in the fucking Sex Pistols. It was the summer of nineteen seventy eight, so actually Sid's math, or more likely, his mind, was off. The Pistols had broken up earlier that year after releasing one studio record which sent shockwaves through the rock and roll world. Things were changing, and changing fast, all because of bands like the Sex Pistols taking the piss out

of the status quo. Phil Linett and Den Lizzie were not exactly status quo when it came to rock and roll, but they were close enough. Phil knew that adaptation was essential for survival. If you can't beat him, join them in all that, which is how Phil found himself moonlighting in the Greedy Bastards, a supergroup of sorts that featured Sid Vicious, Steve Jones and Paul Cook from the Sex Pistols, plus Brian and Scott from Thin Lizzie, Bob Geldoff from

Dublin's own Boomtown Rats, and more. They played sets at places like the Electric Ballroom in Camden, and a version of the group even appeared as the Greedies on Top of the Pops. And it wasn't just the punks in England who are taking a film over in America. In New York City, Johnny Thunders was sitting in his room at the Chelsea balancing some Heroin on his guitar pick to kill time, waiting for his fix, and waiting on

a friend. That friend being Phil Lightning, who wound up playing bass on a bunch of the tracks on Johnny's classic nineteen seventy eight solo record So Alone The Thing Is. Nineteen seventy eight was supposed to be huge for Thin Lizzy Punks or No Punks. This is the year that they released their double live album Live and Dangerous, a record which not only featured Phil's very unpunked buddy Huey Lewis on harmonica, but is widely considered one of the

greatest live albums of all time. It was a huge hit for the band, also number two on the UK chart. This is the kind of record you pull out when the aliens land and they want to know what a killer rock show sounded like in the nineteen seventies. Fuck Brampton Comes Alive. Live and Dangerous has got the goods

as amazing as it is. However, Live and Dangerous by Thin Lizzie has a dirty little secret, and I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but your favorite live album probably shares the same secret, and it's this Live and Dangerous is not live, at least not entirely. Here's what I mean. Thin Lizzie's producer, Tony Visconti, was tasked with assembling a cohesive listening experience from a ton of concert tapes taken from shows the band played throughout

Europe and North America. A lot of live albums are made this way. You cherry picked the best versions of the songs you want to win from an entire tour, but Tony Visconti had a problem. The tapes were all different speeds, different formats, and in various shades of quality. He couldn't edit together a consistent balance sound based solely on what he had in his hands. So the solution was to have Thin Lizzy come into the studio and

re record some of their parts. But once they started the overdubbing process, they thought, well, instead of just re recording the bass part or that vocal part, why not re record the whole thing. By producer Tony Visconti's estimation, about fifty percent of Live and Dangerous is not live and is therefore not dangerous, but instead it's a studio recreation.

Some of the audience noise isn't even from Thin Lizzy shows, but instead from the tapes for David Bowie's so called live album Stage, which Tony Visconti was also working on at the time. The true backstory of Live and Dangerous was just as much of a secret as was Phil lein It's life. These days, no one on the outside knew it, and many on the inside didn't either. But in addition to cocaine to marijuana, Phil was continuing to do more heroin or whatever he could get on tour.

In New York, he checked in on Sid and Nancy at the Chelsea Hotel while his limo driver drove up to Harlem to score some dal hit, which he melted down and shot up. Two weeks later, Nancy bled out from a stab wound to her abdomen and the cops fingered Sid for the job, but just a few months

later he was dead too. And the reason Phil's own transgressions were never salacious front page news like his friends, and when they were like the bust at the Guinness Mansion, the reason he was so adamant to shut them down was because of the strict code he lived by. He was always professional, he never lost his cool, and he was always in control. And now he was a family man with a wife and two daughters. If someone wanted to get at the real truth, the whole truth, that

had to come and get him. November nineteen eighty the doorbell rang at one of Phil lene It's houses, not the one in his beloved Ireland, but the one at one eighty four Q Road, and took it to England, where he lived with his young family. He answered it and was greeted by employees from the gas company, there to carry out a routine inspection. Phil was confused. No one had told him anything about an inspection, but it

was possible he'd missed the letter in the mail. These days, Phil had a lot more than usual on his mind, two small girls and a wife to provide for his band than Lizzie constantly touring all over Europe, Australia and Japan, despite their latest album, Chinatown, getting some of the most lackluster reviews of their career. And last, but not least, was the constant turnover in the band, with Gary Moore replacing Scott Robertson on guitar and then Gary replaced in

short order by Snowy White. Phil struggled to keep it all together. He chalked up this gast thing as something he'd overlooked and welcomed the men inside his home. They began to look around, but not where the furnace or the piping was. Phil watt as one of the men walked into the master bedroom, which was odd. Suddenly, Phil began to panic. Paranoia set in the kind of paranoia that his old friend Eric Bell thin Lizzie's original guitarist once experienced just before he threw his guitar to the

stage and walked away for good. But there was no walking away from this for Phil. He was surrounded, and not by gas men, but by Philip Line. Phili spun around to see the so called gas man who'd entered the master bedroom standing there. He was holding two wrap packages of cocaine in one hand. In the other he was holding a badge, not a gas man badge. These guys were the drug squad. Philip linon the phony gas

man said again, you're under arrest. In addition to the coke which had been stuffed into one of Phil's jackets, the narks found grass and Phil's Mercedes and a cannabis plant growing inside his house, And that next summer, on his thirty second birthday, August twentieth, nineteen eighty one, Phil Linett stood before the judge who sentenced into a two hundred pounds five It was a lenient penalty, but only because Philip convinced one of his rodies, a guy they

called Big Charlie, to take the fall for the drugs and swear under oath that the jacket belonged to him and not to Phil. It was a page taken right out of Freddie Mercury's book Keep your Secrets, Control your narrative, or, as Phil Linett's own code instructed, always be professional, always

be in control. Sean O'Connor couldn't believe his luck. His Dublin based band The Lookalikes had managed to score an opening slot on Thin Lizzie's tour, and though you didn't have to look into a crystal ball to know that their best days were now behind them. For any Dublin or dub as the local parliaance goes, Thin Lizzie were it. The rest of the world can have Saint Patrick give us Saint Phil. Lizzie were a source of tremendous national pride.

Sean O'Connor in particular was stoked to be able to support such legends night after night, and he knew what came with the territory. The parties, the women, the revolving door that was Phil line It's private room, so many women coming and going that, despite Phil's relationship status at the time, earned him the nickname Phil Line him up. And then there were the drugs. They were everywhere, dealers, hangers on, guys looking for a one way ticket to

the big show with a little bagging. One night backstage, one of these dudes approached Sean, flashing his ready supply of cocaine. Well, Sean thought went in Rome, but before he could indulge, out of the shadows, wrong Phil Line. He put his hands on the dealer's arms, pushing him away from Sean and violently slamming him up against a wall. Head first. The dealer felt like his brain was oozing from his ears. With one hand, Phil held him in place, and with the other he stuck on his finger and

pressed it against the dealer's chest. If you ever offer Sean Cooke again, I'll fuck it. Have you killed? This was just one side of Phil Lint, the side that fancied himself a character down at the pub with the Quality Street gang, a badass, a jail breaker, a no shit taker, one of the boys who is back in town and who's going to fuck you up for turning

this young grasshopper here on the dope. And then there was the other side, the gentler side, the more vulnerable Phil Line, the self described black Irish bastard from Dublin who successfully drove out his own insecurities in order to realize his dream of rock stardom, just as his fellow Sat Saint Patrick once drove the Snakes out of Ireland allegedly. But there was no one protecting Phil Lionett the way

Phil Line was now protecting Sean O'Connor. No one to step in when he showed up again at Johnny Thunders's room at the Chelsea, this time with a bag of heroin in his hand, or when he was stopped at the Doublin Airport with more junk grass and methadone in his possession. Not just because he ignored his own advice and the advice of doctors, but because he did so

while delving further into his addictions in secret. Phil's longtime bandmate, guitarist Scott Gorm, also struggling with a heroin addiction, got himself under control, using neuroelectric therapy to kick his habit. Unlike Scott, however, Phil wasn't so lucky. On January fourth, nineteen eighty six, at just thirty six years old, his heart, liver,

and kidneys gave out. It was just about seven years since Phil's old friend Said Vicious died from a hot shot, and roughly five years After Phil's death, another one of his friends, Johnny Thunders, would also die from an overdose. Phil's buddy from the other side of the musical tracks, Huey Lewis looked around at all the carnage, all this talent and promise wasted, a handful of his friends gone

or on their way out. Huey, for one, wanted a new drug, one that wouldn't make him sick, one that made him feel the way he felt when he listened to the rich musical legacy of Thin Lizzy, which is to say something like Grace, I'm Jake Brennan and this this Disgrace man, all right, happy Saint Patrick's day, everybody. This week's question of the week is which Irish artist or band is your favorite? And why is it? In Lizzie You two the Undertones Cranberry's who is it? Which artists?

And why? Let me know? Six one seven nine oh six six six three eight, Leave me a voicemail, send me a text. We'll get into it in the after party this week. You can also reach me at Disgrace lampod as well on Instagram, X and Facebook, and do me a favor if you're an Apple podcast listener. Make sure you're following Disgraceland and have automatic downloads turned on so that you are guaranteed not to miss one of our episodes. It really helps the show, you know the drill.

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