‘You look at guys like Pat Pickett, who worked for AC/DC. He was one of the prime sources of humanity in this business, and then he dies in a pub, in a room above the hotel where he lived and wired up the PA there twice a week to pay his fucking rent. All he had was some jeans and a book of poetry. No one embraced him and said, “How you doing?” That’s the disappointing thing … people who worked on the road not having enough money to live on or survive.’
