The ones that got away

What makes someone walk out on their bandmates at the very height of their success? Dave Simpson talks to four musicians who turned their backs on money and fame

From Reginald Perrin leaving his clothes on the beach to Ken Barlow's recent is-he-or-isn't-he-leaving cliffhanger in Coronation Street, the grand exit plays a large part in our culture. But in pop music, while people regularly leave bands, very few walk out on an extremely famous group at its peak. Why would you?

There are, of course, some honourable exceptions. Brian Eno quit Roxy Music in 1973 after catching himself thinking about his laundry on stage. Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor left the band in 1974 in a dispute over songwriting credits. And Robbie Williams quit Take That in 1995 after the band confronted him about his drug abuse and attitude - although he went on to a mega-successful solo career, as did Peter Gabriel when he left Genesis.

But what other pressures would lead a musician to jump ship from a supergroup? How do the rest of the band take the news? And the big question: once you've left, what do you do with the rest of your life? We talked to four artists who bailed out when the going was good.

'My daughter was two days old and I was jumping on a plane'
Paul Arthurs, aka 'Bonehead'
Guitarist, Oasis, 1991-1999

Arthurs is one of five people who know what it's like to perform on stage at the biggest concert in British history: 250,000 people over two nights at Knebworth in 1996 (there were a record 2.5m ticket applications). He walked away just three years later.

I formed Oasis [as Rain] with a couple of mates. Liam [Gallagher] came in, we changed the name, then Noel - and the rest is history. The first songs Noel played us were Live Forever and All Around the World. The first time he played Champagne Supernova on the tour bus, I cried.

Oasis was like a steam train. We went from playing the Duchess of York in Leeds, in front of two people who argued over a kebab and stormed out, to playing our first arenas. I remember Liam sat in the seats at the opposite end, shouting, "How are we going to fill this?"

It was the best job in the world, but by the time we recorded Standing on the Shoulder of Giants [in 1999], it wasn't enjoyable. My daughter was two days old and I was jumping on a flight. We'd made our money. We had big cars. We were renting out Christian Dior's mansion in the south of France. That should have been a fun time, but it wasn't. Liam was on a drinking ban and I wasn't helping by not sticking to it. Noel had his own problems, maybe.

I wasn't feeling it any more. I would have been lying to the band and the fans. There were a lot of frantic phone calls and visits, but I'd made my mind up. I always thought we should have bowed out after the second night at Knebworth. Walking out on that stage is a feeling I can't explain: a sea of people. Big!

Afterwards, there was a void. You don't jump off a ride like that and stay the same person. It took me two years to get back to who I was - where you don't think you need to ring up management to ask for a car to get somewhere.

I made a more-than-tidy pile, but recently I've started playing again in a band called the Vortex. I feel the way I did in 1992. When I was in Oasis, I used to wonder what it would be like to be in the crowd, watching. Last year, I got on the guest list for an Oasis gig in Birmingham. It was exciting, but strange. I'd never rejoin them - not that I'd be asked. But for one gig? Absolutely. I still know the chords to Rock'n'Roll Star.

'We became Jarvis's backing band'
Russell Senior
Guitarist-songwriter, Pulp, 1983-1997

After playing together for years, the Sheffield band were catapulted to success with 1995's No 2 hit Common People. The following year, singer Jarvis Cocker's personal fame hit supernova levels when he waggled his bottom in front of Michael Jackson at the Brits. Everyone around Pulp assumed the band would keep on getting bigger and bigger - but Senior decided to quit.

For years, we spent a lot of time in Transit vans. But suddenly it was all gold discs, condos, famous mates and people whose reality comes from cocaine, telling you you're great, night after night. I felt a revulsion for it. We were doing songs about Common People and it was, "Jarvis, Prada's on the phone, they've got your outfit."

The last concert I did with Pulp was a corporate gig for a lager company in Barcelona. We were put up in a fantastic hotel, there were supermodels hanging around, but we were playing for bored executives. I felt myself backing away.

There were other things, such as awards ceremonies where somebody's coke dealer has nicked your limo and you have to walk home because the record company are looking after Jarvis. We had become his backing band. Previously, the music always came collectively, from creative clashes, but I think Jarvis believed his own press and suddenly he was coming in with his own tunes. I didn't think Help the Aged was worthy of following Common People, so I sabotaged it by playing blues guitar in the studio.

Thereafter I thought, "All right, smartypants. Let's see how big a genius you are." I put myself up in a small hotel in London, asked Jarvis to meet me and told him I was leaving. I think the band were relieved, to be honest, because the atmosphere had become so poisonous - although treating my departure as if they had lost a plectrum was a bit hurtful. The day I left, I physically collapsed. I felt like one of those cartoon characters who have run off a cliff, and only start falling once they look down.

I've got a songwriting credit on Common People, but I'd be struggling if I didn't work at all now. I've produced bands, but nobody any good. I've sold antique glass and I am writing a novel. I've no regrets. It would have been harder if they had succeeded. [Pulp released just one more album, We Love Life, in 2001]. And I'd rather holiday in Scarborough than in Venezuela. I am proud of the records with my name on. But they say living well is the best revenge.

'Management were destroying Pete'
Gemma Clarke
Drummer, Babyshambles, 2004-2005

Pete Doherty formed Babyshambles after being dropped by his band the Libertines, going on to record two albums and two hit singles. Clarke quit after just a year, following a crisis of conscience.

I had loads of happy times in Babyshambles: the playback of the first single; doing Top of the Pops, which I'd always dreamed of; listening to the chart rundown when we got to the top 10 [with Killamangiro]. Once, on stage in Glasgow, Peter arranged for a birthday cake to be brought out and got the whole crowd to sing me Happy Birthday. People have this image of the Peter they think they know, that they read about - but the Peter I know is an absolute sweetheart.

I don't understand heroin addiction, but I understand that he has an illness. At the end I felt that the machinery around the band was milking him, destroying him. The management were thrashing him around the country, getting as much money out of him as possible, but he needed help. It just didn't feel right to me.

We had meetings, but nothing changed. The next time I saw the management, I took a security guard with me, but I didn't ponder quitting. It all happened one night, after a disgustingly violent mess broke out when we played the Astoria in London. By that point, Peter was going out with Kate Moss, the paparazzi were all over him and it was out of control. The band didn't want me to go - "Don't be stupid," they said - but I didn't want to be a part of it. Later that year I went to see them at Glastonbury and cried my eyes out.

I keep in touch through Peter's mum, and ask her how he is. I hope I'll run into him. I didn't make a lot of money from music. My parents have been very supportive and I help out in their music studios for pocket money. My girl band, the Suffrajets [which predated Babyshambles], ended a couple of years ago, and I'm back drumming with the Krak.

I've never done drugs, but I'm working on a book about growing up around music and drug abusers. I'm not milking Babyshambles - that would be hypocritical. I live in Essex, I ride horses, I've no regrets. Down here people know me as Gemma with the horses. I quite like that. They don't really know I've been in a band at all.

'I was toxic and depressed'
Cait O'Riordan
Bassist, the Pogues, 1982-1986

In the 1980s, the Pogues had it all: critical acclaim and commercial success. By walking out when she did, O'Riordan missed singing on their biggest hit - 1987's Christmas No 2, Fairytale of New York, sung instead by Kirsty MacColl.

I was a very angry, dysfunctional teenager from a dysfunctional family, who was living in hostels. Music was a classic gloomy teenager's outlet and after school I'd go to Camden in search of vinyl. Shane [MacGowan] was working in a record shop. We went for a drink and he said, "You can be the bass player." I had a bass but couldn't play it; the band took the time to say, "Put this finger there." I had no talent except for causing trouble, and I joined the coolest band in London.

The band were always having to get me out of scraps. I'd start fights I couldn't possibly finish. They tolerated me, because most of the people in the band were the same, and - this was soon after punk rock - an obnoxious teenager who liked to get drunk and fight probably looked like a cool character. I can remember fragments, like being on stage at Glasgow Barrowlands and feeling like it was the best thing in the world. But I never realised how lucky I was. [After beginning a relationship with Pogues producer Elvis Costello] I felt I'd outstayed my welcome. I didn't regret leaving: I was always absolutely certain I was right.

I was financially secure, which enabled me to get deeper into alcohol. I rejoined the Pogues in 2002 for a two-week tour, but they didn't ask me back and I don't blame them. They're older guys; most of them don't drink now. I was toxic and dysfunctional. I told a doctor that I was either developing schizophrenia or possessed. [In 2003] I had a breakdown, aged 38. The doctor put me in a psychiatric hospital and they diagnosed me as having depression; I had probably had it for a very long time. The psychiatrist said, "You've built a crust around you." It was revelatory.

I'm a completely different person now. I go to the gym. I'm studying to become a psychologist. Money and success just brought unhappiness, but I desperately miss playing. If anyone needs a bass player, call me. When I was doing my exams, there was a poster up for the Pogues, who were playing in the same building. I thought, "I wish there was someone I could talk to about how weird this feels".

I think being a rock star is, in general, a pretty miserable existence....

This guy came up to me from some band and he said that "Man, I'd hate to be you right now, no privacy at all" and I was thinking, "Sure thing man, I have a fucking Rolls Royce, a million dollars in the bank, a fucking mansion and my own jet and you think you'd feel sorry for me? What are you? I'd hate to be you, broke as hell living on the dole."

I am just saying that a. grass is always greener and
b. money isn't everything.

fame comes at a very high cost.

Horse shit.

Look, i'm not trying to be a complete dick, but we don't know what it's like.

What it IS about is affirmation. I don't know why other people write songs, join bands, play shows, and make albums, but at this point in my life, there's no illusion about doing it for any kind of money.

Hell, at this point, it's not even about doing it for any kind of affirmation.

I have some minor interaction with people who have "made it big" and have lived a small amount of that life. It's not fun. there is a lot of lonliness involved and it gets old fast.

Right. They'd much prefer poverty and anonymity.

Right. They'd much prefer poverty and anonymity.

If you're not the sort of person who can keep themselves relatively grounded and honest, and then one day someone gives you a dumptruck full of money and poontang, then you're probably going to find the whole thing a lonely destructive mess. The money and fame were the catalysts, but you had to be a weak person to begin with. There are plenty of people who've managed the whole thing pretty well for decades.

yeah but what do you know of people's private lives, you know?

divorces bc the person isn't available to be at home,
drugs because the drugs are there

if you imply that they are "weak" bc of this then that's ridiculous.
hate the game not the playah.