Mott the Hoople's Ian Hunter, interview: 'We're in the Premiership, at last!' Although Hunter quickly established himself as a solo artist, and a revered songsmith responsible for such hits as Barry Manilow's Ships, the band eventually reunited in 2009, simply because, he says, they "wanted to feel it again." Given their blood-and-thunder history, Mott the Hoople initially came together in the unlikeliest manner: they were assembled, almost like a boy band, by the maverick producer Guy Stevens. Originally from Shrewsbury, Hunter had been knocking around on the London scene for a few years without really making his mark. By 1969, he was getting on a bit by pop standards - he was 29 - but Stevens instilled in him a belief that he could do it. "He wanted a cross between the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan," Hunter recalls, "and, in a way, that's what we were to begin with." Stevens's design wasn't tailored to the fashions of the era, though, and Mott's first four albums - all energetic and soulful - were popular only with other musicians. The recording of their biggest early song, Walkin" with a Mountain, was galvanised by a visit from Mick Jagger. "The Stones were in the studio next door," says Hunter, "but they weren't really doing anything. Keith [Richards] had just had his son, Marlon, so he was always going to feed his kid. Jagger was there, sitting around with nothing to do. He wandered in to see us, and started dancing, which is why we launched into Jumpin" Jack Flash at the end." By 1972, Mott were financially crippled and going nowhere. When they announced they were calling it a day, David Bowie, the world's biggest new rock star on the back of his Ziggy Stardust album, came to their rescue. We'd split up in Switzerland, after this terrible gig in a converted gas cylinder. It was a relief, frankly, but then David turned it all back for us, because he liked the band and he didn't want it to end. He sat on the floor at his publishing company's offices with an acoustic guitar and played us All the Young Dudes. Nobody in the world had heard this song but us. We knew it was a smash, and he was giving it to us. The song finally took Mott into the top five. Suitably emboldened, Hunter followed it up with a string of self-composed gems, including Roll Away the Stone, All the Way from Memphis, and The Golden Age of Rock "n" Roll. A regular presence in the charts, Mott the Hoople helped to define the glam-rock era. But, as the singer observes, "the glam thing really camouflaged what we were. It was a bit silly. Wearing platform boots and satin costumes didn't sit well with Hunter. "It was even worse when you came down off the platforms," he says. When you're up on them, you lean forwards, so your stomach looks small. When you come off them, you feel small and fat. Hunter's book, Diary of a Rock & Roll Star, which was published at the height of his band's popularity, was filled with acute observations on the emptiness of stardom. While Bowie's patronage had done so much to install Mott in that world, it was also his advice that led to their gradual demise. He said to me, 'With you lot, you're always arguing, and nobody's answering. One of you has got to be the leader. So I went back to the band and said, 'David wants me to be the leader. Mick Ralphs [their guitarist] says, 'Like f--- you are," and leaves." Mott soldiered on without him, and without oddball keyboard player Verden Allen, who simply fled for a rustic life in the Welsh borders. "I still don't really know why I left," Allen shrugs. It just wasn't right any more. On tour with rising stars Queen, Hunter recognised a crucial quality that his gang lacked. "They planned the whole time," he says. Like, if we haven't made it to such and such a level in two years, we're out of here, and they did exactly what they said they were going to do. We didn't have a plan. We were just like - thump! By 1974, Mott began to feel unsustainable, and when their dewy-eyed nugget, Saturday Gigs, failed to reach the Top 40, they reached crisis point. "It was like a divorce - it was just over," says Hunter. I had this convenient nervous breakdown. It was genuine, but it helped me to get out of a lot of obligations. We were due to do Madison Square Garden [New York City's huge venue] on my birthday, which I would dearly love to have done, but there was this whole tour as well. So I wound up in hospital, and the guys said, 'You don't want to do this? I said, 'No. They said, 'Well, you shouldn't do it," and that was it. Maybe the original band would have stood a chance, but once people started leaving, it was over. Freddie Mercury with Ian Hunter in 1982 With Mick Ralphs going on to further success in Bad Company, and Hunter also staying afloat as a solo artist, a Mott reunion was unlikely for a decade or two. Aside from the hatchet-burying that needed to be undertaken, the other challenge was to rediscover Mott's elusive rock "n" roll purpose. In Hunter's words: "It couldn't be one of those Butlins jobs." When the original line-up eventually reassembled for just five sold-out shows at London's Hammersmith Apollo in 2009, with even Alzheimer's-stricken drummer Dale Griffin making an appearance, they were ecstatically received both in person and in reviews. "It felt like we were back on the bike," says Hunter. Since then, they have carefully resisted the temptation to tour extensively. "It only happens when everybody wants to do it," shrugs Allen. So why on earth play the O2? "Well, that's what it's all about," grins Hunter. Maybe on that night, Mott the Hoople, Britain's great struggling rockers, will finally be as big as they deserve to be. Mott the Hoople's tour starts on November 11 in Birmingham. Details: mottthehoople.com