DEEP PURPLE RECORD COLLECTOR SPECIAL

In his infinite wisdom, Joel McIver saw fit to interview me about my book on the band for Record Collector’s Deep Purple Special that he edited and which is on sale this week. 

        Joel and I go back to 2000 when he persuaded me that Omnibus ought to publish a book on Extreme Metal, written by him. Not being a particular fan of this genre, I was skeptical at first but decided to give it a shot, and I’m glad I did. Joel went on to become my go-to author for books on the noisier, more confrontational, end of rock, 36 at the last count, and he now contributes obituaries to the Guardian whenever a metal musician bites the dust. 

        Joel’s best-known book is Justice For All: The Truth About Metallica, first published in 2004, which has been translated into nine languages. “Very professional,” said drummer Lars Ulrich. “I get asked to sign copies of this book all over the world.” What’s more, Joel has it on good authority that Lou Reed bought a copy of the book to read before embarking on his collaboration with Metallica that resulted in the 2011 album Lulu.  

        This is a transcript of my interview with Joel for the DP special, which can be bought at:  https://recordcollectormag.com/rc-specials/record-collector-presents-deep-purple. 

How did you first encounter the members of Deep Purple, Chris? 

The first time I saw Deep Purple was at Bedford City’s football ground in the summer of 1970. Until that point, I was unfamiliar from them, apart from the song ‘Hush’, which I’d heard just like everybody had. I met them backstage, and I saw the show, and I thought they were really good. 

Which of them impressed you most? 

Ritchie Blackmore was particularly impressive. I played a bit of guitar myself so I could recognise a good player. It was obvious to me, watching him, that he’d had some formal training. I thought ‘God, what a terrific guitarist – he ought to be in the same league as Clapton, Beck and Page’. Every note he played was perfect. Not long after that I did an interview with Ritchie, and he told me that he’d had lessons from Big Jim Sullivan, the famous 60s session guy who played on everybody’s hit records. It was obvious that Jon Lord had been classically trained as well. 

What happened next? 

I got to know them after that, and I saw them seven or eight times over the next two or three years. I went to Paris with them and on a tour in America, where I learned that Ritchie was a bit of a mischievous character. He played tricks and liked to spook people out with horror stories. I thought he was a really interesting fellow, but he had a chip on his shoulder because he wasn’t regarded in the same league as the Claptons and Becks and Pages. Somehow, he wasn’t quite up there, but he deserved to be. We had dinner one night – him and a girlfriend, and me and my girlfriend – and he told me that the only two guitarists he thought were better than him were Jimi Hendrix and Albert Lee. He knew he was as good as Page and the others, and much better than Pete Townshend, although he didn’t have the rhythmic flair that Townshend had.

Why wasn’t he regarded as up there with the greats? 

It may have had something to do with tastes and fashions. For all their skills, Deep Purple were never particularly fashionable. I recently discussed this aspect of them with Roger Glover, and he said, ‘I know we weren’t fashionable – that’s why we’re still going. If you’re fashionable, you’re in fashion, and then you’re out of fashion’. 

Did you know Purple’s managers? 

I got to know John Coletta quite well. Tony Edwards was the money man, and a stay-at-home guy who did the admin, whereas John went on the road. He was a friendly enough guy, but I always felt he was a bit out of his depth, especially dealing with Blackmore. 

Was Purple basically an investment project by Edwards and Coletta? 

To a certain extent, but it wasn’t until I wrote my book about them that I discovered the truth about how they were financed in the beginning. They needed £15,000 to get off the ground [the equivalent of around £270k today], and Tony Edwards had £5,000 to put in because he had a family clothing business. Coletta didn’t have £5,000, but he had a friend who lived near him in Brighton who was an antique dealer, and he had £10,000 to put in. Unfortunately, it turned out that this antique dealer had a lock-up full of stolen goods, and he was eventually arrested and went to prison. Fortunately, Deep Purple had made some money thanks to ‘Hush’ being a hit in America. They kept this story quiet, as you would imagine, and I didn’t find out about it until I did my book in the 80s. 

How did the first edition of your book come about? 

I got in touch with Coletta, who managed Whitesnake at that time, and I said to him, ‘Would you co-operate with me on a book on Deep Purple?’ We agreed that Purple would receive a royalty on its sales and through Coletta, I managed to interview most of the members of the previous line-ups. The exceptions were Tommy Bolin, who had died; Rod Evans, because no-one knew where he was; and Blackmore, who completely blanked me, which surprised me. Coverdale said he’d do the interview, but then I got a phone call from some very unpleasant tour manager or PA, demanding conditions that I refused to accept. 

Were the others happy to be involved? 

They were. I interviewed Ian Paice at his home, and Gillan in a hotel in London, and Roger Glover and Glenn Hughes – both of whom lived in America at the time – kindly answered my questions into a tape recorder. I couldn’t find Nick Simper, but Simon Robinson at the Deep Purple Appreciation Society had done a long interview with Nick that he let me use in the book. 

And Jon Lord? 

Jon was an unbelievably nice guy – very accommodating, friendly and affable. I spent a night at his house near Henley, and we went out for dinner with his wife Vickie and Ian Paice and his wife Jacky who was the identical twin of Jon’s wife. After that, I did the interview, way into the night: we stayed up until two or three in the morning, drinking whiskey and talking. I really got him to open up about everything, and it was just great, because he didn’t hold back at all. 

That must have been refreshing. 

Well, at that point, no-one knew that there would be a future for the Purps, so there was nothing to lose by telling it like it was. He told me what he liked and what he didn’t like about the band – everything he could remember. It was Jon who told me the story about the investor who went to jail: afterwards I checked the local newspaper in Brighton, where it had happened, and found the guy’s name. 

Lord was a fascinating man, wasn’t he? 

He was. Did you know that after he retired, he used to go on the road with John Mortimer, who was a neighbour of his? Mortimer was the writer of Rumpole Of The Bailey, and he would go on book tours and talk about Rumpole for the audiences. Jon would go with him and tinkle away on the piano while Mortimer was telling a story. I didn’t discover this until after he died. 

Did the band like your book? 

Everybody loved it, I think, apart from Ritchie, because I told a few stories about him in it. There’s a Japanese edition which is very rare, because there was a fire at the printers in Japan and all the plates were destroyed, this being many years before digital publishing. As I say, I did the book on the assumption that Deep Purple would never reform. I had no idea that they would get back together a year after the book came out. That surprised me, but it didn’t make any difference to the book.

Rufus Stone have recently published an updated edition of Deep Purple: The Visual History, available in several luxury versions.

They’ve done a beautiful job of it, with a Standard Edition and a Deluxe Collector’s edition. Both of them are great – I’m really pleased with them. There’s loads more pictures, a completely new design. 

You’re now working with Roger Glover on his autobiography. How’s it going?

I’ve been working with him on it for three years now. We’re up to the reunion in 1984. I’ve learned a hell of a lot of interesting stuff. For example, when he was ousted from the band in 1973, it was devastating, because he’d finally found a great band and he was making good money and really enjoying himself. It came out of the blue, because there’d been no animosity, whereas there had been some animosity with Gillan, so in his case they knew it was coming. Roger told me that, after the last gig he did with Purple, Ritchie came up to him and said, ‘Look, no hard feelings, mate. It’s nothing personal: I did it for the band’. Roger said he accepted that, and he didn’t blame Ritchie, but he did blame Paice and Lord, because they didn’t say anything like that – which is why he went off to work with Rainbow. He still had a great deal of admiration for Ritchie, and he still does.

What are your thoughts on Purple’s current Mark IX line-up?

Simon McBride is really good. I went to see them play at the O2 Arena in London just after he’d taken over from Steve Morse. Ian Gillan charted a boat to take all the wives and families and friends to the O2: we all sailed down the Thames, drinking from an open bar, and when we arrived at the back of the arena they ferried us inside in coaches. We hung out backstage and watched the gig, and then went back on the boat. That’s the kind of band that Purple are.

The interview is followed by an extract from my book about the group’s ill-fated visit to Indonesia in early 1976. 

LEONARD COHEN: The Man Who Saw Angels Fall by Christophe Lebold

If you like your Leonard lyrical, this is the book for you. Christophe Lebold, an associate professor at the University of Strasbourg, teaches literature, performance studies and rock culture, and he’s devoted much of his life to studying the work of Leonard Cohen and also Bob Dylan. It will come as no surprise, therefore, that his book takes the diagnostic approach, digging deep into Cohen’s soul to reveal what he believes to be the inspiration for his work, be it manuscript, music, mystique or merely his multi-faceted imagination. 

Lest this implies Lebold’s book is dryly academic, have no fear. Cohen’s text, poetry and songs are analysed deeply but warmly and, as befitting a literary scholar, his prose is at times poetic. In truth, the book is more of a tribute than a biography, and though the author’s palpable admiration for Cohen rings out from every page it never sinks to hagiography. Were this the case, it’s doubtful that Cohen himself would have given it his tacit approval. “I am deeply respectful of the mind that has produced this book,” he is quoted on its back cover, above a photograph of himself, looking elderly, with the author, both of them languidly smoking cigarettes in an outdoor setting. We can assume, therefore, that Lebold’s interpretations are as accurate as they are penetrating. 

First published in French in 2013, with a revised edition following in 2018, we can also assume that Leonard read it – in French – not long before he passed. I’m pretty sure he’d have been impressed with this latest edition too, translated into English by the author, published last year as a 440-page hardback (with an extra 100 or so of end matter), excluding the 32-page picture section, with more photos scattered throughout, beautifully designed and printed to the highest production standards; a book to savour, to dip into as you listen to any of those 15 studio albums, or contemplate Cohen’s fiction and poetry. Musically speaking, of late my preference is Live In London, a 2-CD set recorded at the Royal Albert Hall in 2009, to which I was alerted by Sylvie Simmons, reviewing Leonard’s catalogue in Mojo, whose own acclaimed book on Cohen, I’m Your Man, I reviewed here in 2017*. 

        The two books complement one another well. While Simmons takes the direct route, skilfully tracking Leonard’s life in linear fashion, creating a bit of a page-turner in the process, Lebold takes the more scenic route, stopping off at places of interest to linger over the view, over arcane details in a manner that makes his book a more leisurely, and marginally more literate, read. 

        Both books are heartfelt and neither miss much but I was surprised that, unlike Simmons, Lebold fails to acknowledge the interview that Cohen gave to my Melody Maker colleague Roy Hollingworth in February 1973, during which, after a discussion on the impiety rife in the music industry, he announced he was quitting. “Make this your last interview,” Cohen told Roy. “And let’s both quit together.” At the time this appeared sensational and, if my memory serves me correctly, caused some consternation in the boardroom at Columbia Records. It’s not even mentioned in Lebold’s extraordinarily extensive (18-page, nine-part) bibliography. 

        Then again, I was startled by a passage, exclusive to Lebold’s book, that concerns singer and songwriter Phil Ochs, once my landlord, whom Leonard had befriended during the period when he lived in New York’s Chelsea Hotel, circa 1966. Ten years later they met again, again in New York. “After several years of decline, the man who had once been Dylan’s rival was now sleeping on the subway and fighting in bars,” writes Lebold. “That evening, over a bowl of soup, he explained to Leonard that he had been murdered the year before at the Chelsea Hotel. Also, that he was a secret FBI leader and, basically, that he was no longer Phil Ochs. On April 9, he hung himself.” 

        Where the two authors harmonise is on those aspects of Cohen’s character that might to some appear less than saintly. He was a ladies’ man who loved, and was loved by, many striking women. He fortified himself with strong drink, hard drugs and good food, and veered from an almost reckless disregard for his well-being to the caution he displayed by spending the six years between 1993 and 1999 in relative seclusion at a monastery in Los Angeles where he was ordained as a Buddhist monk. Lebold is particularly good on this interlude in Cohen’s life, displaying as keen a knowledge of Zen as on the earthier tendencies of his teacher, Kyozan Joshu Sasaki, who became known as Roshi and was linked with sexual misconduct.

All of which adds a touch of spice to Lebold’s book, as does the financial malpractice of his manager Kelley Lynch, whose behaviour he puts down, somewhat subtly, to the “wounded heart of a desperate woman.” He’s quite hard on Lynch, quite rightly so, but, as we all know, this episode led to Leonard being obliged for financial reasons to resume his touring career to wild acclaim in the new millennium. “The very light that Lynch had sought to extinguish would be sent out into the world again and Leonard’s comeback would indeed be an act of light,” Lebold writes eloquently of the silver lining beneath Lynch’s cloud. 

Lebold closes his book with a deeply personal account of his encounters with Leonard, the first of which occurred out of the blue, on a Liverpool Street, the second, pre-arranged, in Los Angeles, and the third – and last – also planned and in LA. He learned a great deal from Cohen’s philosophy, he writes, and the most important he sums up simply as “we should just shine our shoes.” 

        Leonard Cohen: The Man Who Saw Angels Fall is published by Luath Press, an Edinburgh-based independent book publisher, and costs £35 (£26.16 on Amazon). 

_____

*https://justbackdated.blogspot.com/2017/02/im-your-man-life-of-leonard-cohen-by.html

THEIR GENERATION: THE WHO IN AMERICA 1967-69

Because they looked so good on stage, there is no shortage of Who picture books and this latest one – with photographs by Tom Wright and accompanying text by Andy Neill – is a welcome addition to my creaking bookshelf. The first one I bought, in 1973, simply called The Who, with pictures by Jeff Stein & Chris Johnston, has been joined over the years by about a dozen more, and many of them have met with the group’s approval to the extent that they have contributed in some way, as is the case here. “Tom was a chronicler, with an eye for the passing moment,” writes Pete Townshend in his introduction, “and it’s a joy to be able to share all these passing moments with you all today.”

Andy Neill spent an afternoon with Pete last year sifting through Tom’s pictures, and his running commentary, alongside Andy’s typically accurate and info-packed captions, makes for not only a visual feast but also an entertaining read. 

The Who have many reasons to be grateful to Tom Wright. A contemporary of Townshend at Ealing Art College in 1962, Tom introduced him to marijuana and a host of great American R&B and blues artists. Equally importantly, he would go on to become the group’s American tour manager and unofficial photographer, and many of his photographs from The Who’s earliest US tours are seen for the first time in this book. 

It was Tom’s sister Antoinette who put her brother in touch with The Who again. She’d heard on the radio that the group was supporting Herman’s Hermits on a show in Florida and she urged him to call Townshend. “Tom was reluctant to bother Pete, so my best friend and I started calling every hotel in the area until we found one where The Who were staying and left a message for Pete: ‘Call Tom Wright at this number. I’m here in Tampa.’ Pete called back quickly. He told Tom he’d been searching everywhere for him.” 

In 2025, with The Who esteemed as mighty legends of rock, pioneers in the art of performance and superstars both alive and dead, it seems absurd to recall that in the summer of 1967, on their first American tour, they were the support act for the far more popular Herman’s Hermits. With 11 top ten hits behind them when the tour started – The Who had one – Herman and his boys were riding the crest of wave, drawing predominantly female teenagers for whom The Who were distinctly odd, especially when they closed their brief sets by inflicting damage to their guitars, drums and amplifiers. 

         That first tour began on July 13 in Calgary, Canada, and closed on September 9 in Honolulu, Hawaii, a ten-week coast-to-coast jaunt on which they often played two - sometimes three - shows in one day. It was a gruelling experience and probably not worth the effort. “It got us around America,” said Roger Daltrey, “but it did us no good at all.”      

Some shows were in large arenas of major cities while others were booked into theatre-size auditoriums with the occasional outdoor state fair thrown in. The Who played for about 30 to 40 minutes on most dates, concluding their set with smashed guitars and smoke bombs that left audiences either stunned or ecstatic. 

Tom Wright was working as an underwater photographer when he joined The Who at St Petersburg in Florida. “The Who came to Florida and that was the end of my underwater photography career,” he says. “These young kids would be yelling, ‘Where’s Herman, we want Herman’ and then The Who would start playing before the curtain came up,” he told Who biographer Richard Barnes. “When the curtain came up they would be really rocking and everybody was just moving about, like Roger would be running around and Pete would be swinging his arm and hammering the guitar and Moonie would be kicking ass. And people were in shock. The band didn’t stop between numbers or they’d quit playing for just a couple a couple of seconds, but it would be just long enough and BOOM into the next number.”

This was the period in The Who’s career when wrecking their equipment at the end of a set was a regular occurrence. “It was spellbinding,” adds Tom.  “A lot of times there was no clapping whatsoever, just dead silence. People in the front row were just sitting there with their mouths open, stunned.” 

Tom would go on to tour manage The Who in America for the band’s spring 1968 tour – their first as headliners, photographing them along the way, on stage, in recording studios, in their coach and in their hotels. They opened the tour on February 21 in San Jose, California, and while in the Golden State made a madcap, stop-start promotional film for ‘Call Me Lightning’. Tom was on hand to photograph the group in tin helmets and fooling around with an explosive detonator. The tour was extended into the first week of April and visited the new psychedelic ballrooms which were ideal for The Who to present themselves as leaders of the new rock movement.

A second US tour began on June 28, again on the West Coast, before heading east and back again, closing on August 30 after visiting over 30 US cities. Tom was no longer working on the road with The Who, but he did photograph them at a memorable show at the Singer Bowl, where they were co-billed with The Doors. After relocating from Florida to New York, in late 1968 Wright accepted a position as manager of the Grande Ballroom in Detroit, one of the era’s most important rock venues. 

The tours that Tom photographed laid the foundation for The Who’s eventual capture of an American tour circuit they helped create. This didn’t exist during the first British Invasion of America, the one led by The Beatles and Rolling Stones, and it came about as pop became rock, with audiences beginning to listen to groups whose music was no longer aimed at teenage girls who screamed like banshees. During Tom’s tenure as The Who’s tour manager and in-house photographer the group pioneered a new concept of rock performance, ushering in an era that continues to this day. As the music they played became more and more sophisticated their shows became longer and more expressive.

Just as they had done in the UK, The Who blazed a trail in America through the potency of their live shows. There was no run of chart-topping US singles or historic appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show. They didn’t so much crash down Uncle Sam’s doors as slide in through a gap after the doors had been left ajar by those that preceded them, but the hard work they put in meant that in the fullness of time they would become the stadium filling juggernaut whose career continues to this day. 

Wright’s pictures of The Who on stage, in studios where they stopped off to record, in hotel and dressing rooms and in the coach that acted as a home on wheels, capture a fascinating but often forgotten period in the journey of one of the UK’s greatest ever rock bands.  

Published by Omnibus Press, Their Generation has 176 pages, more great Who photographs than you can shake a stick at and costs £30 (£23.55 on Amazon).

CLEM BURKE (1955– 2025)

Clem dressed to impress; Elvis Ramone backstage at the Apollo in Glasgow, Scotland, 

December 31, 1979. 

(Photo by Bob Gruen.)

A PhD is generally awarded to those who have attained the highest academic achievement in a given discipline, be it scholastic or physical. I long ago realised that Clem Burke, whose death from cancer at the age of 70 was announced today, merited one in both. He was Blondie’s powerhouse, a tireless, rock-solid drummer whose energy never flagged – just listen to ‘Dreaming’ – but he was also a friend to anyone and everyone, from the big stars to the up-and-coming hopefuls and all the fans too, a bit of an Anglophile ever eager to share his knowledge or learn from others. In this way he amassed an encyclopaedic wisdom about every record of merit ever released, and every decent rock and roll band too, US and UK and everywhere else, from the fifties right up into the new millennium. What’s more, he did it for the sheer love of it. 

He was also a friend of mine. We first met way back in the 1970s, in New York, when Blondie were learning their trade at CBGBs and I wrote about them for Melody Maker. We bumped into one another again and again over the years, most recently at Blondie shows in London during the 2010s. He always put me on the guest list. It would have been about 15 years ago when he approached me to help him write a book about his life and we went out to lunch at an Italian restaurant on Berners Street. I encouraged him all I could but it never happened, though he did send me some sample text which I edited for him and returned. He requested that I keep it confidential and I complied, and, unfortunately, no longer have any of his text on my computer. 

        The passage I remember most was about his wide-eyed wonder at finding himself in some backstage dressing room somewhere with most of the Travelling Wilburys, Bob Dylan and George Harrison amongst them. He recalled the dialogue which was as droll as Michael Palin’s sleeve notes on the first Wilbury album. Whenever I saw him after that I got on his back about his book, but it never happened and now it never will. 

        But what a book it would have been for aside from playing at every Blondie gig ever, Burke played his drums for, amongst many others, Pete Townshend, Bob Dylan, Eurythmics, Iggy, and once or twice for a sort of Ramones tribute band, calling himself Elvis Ramone. He was also a member of a group called The Empty Hearts that featured others from name bands, and he loved it so much he even played in a Blondie tribute band when the real thing was between tours. 

        Clem sent me a copy of the first Empty Hearts album that I reviewed here on Just Backdated. “The obvious influence is the tougher end of sixties power pop,” I wrote, “those wonderful mid-decade singles by the Stones, Who and Kinks, but I think the Hearts have dug a bit deeper into their record collections and listened again to Beck/Page era Yardbirds and Roy Wood’s Move, and they also tip their hat to Cheap Trick and the garage rock that Lenny Kaye unearthed in 1972 for the first Nuggets compilation. Either way, all four of these grade-A students of rock history must have had a whale of a time writing and playing songs that pay tribute to their formative Brit influences yet at the same bring them into the modern era with crisp production, faultless playing and a rippling feel for the music, passion really, that rocks hard from beginning to end.” 

The Empty Hearts CD, its design a pastiche of The Who's debut LP, with Clem in Op-Art top.

        And in 2017, reviewing a Blondie show at London’s Roundhouse, I wrote. “Burke is still the band’s engine room, unrelenting, staunch and sturdy. I probably wasn’t alone in noticing that Clem wore – no doubt deliberately – a New York City t-shirt in the design favoured by John Lennon that for the encore he had changed to one emblazoned with the logo of CBGBs. Always the Blondie man most respectful of rock’s past, he is a showman drummer in the tradition of Keith Moon, chucking his sticks into the air, tumbling around the kit and at one point adopting one of those Moon poses with one arm high in the air and the other at right angles. He is largely responsible for bringing many of Blondie’s songs to a thumping close, soloing briefly before the final crashing chord, and tireless throughout.”

        Clem looked like a rock star. He wore his hair in a style that recalled The Beatles in their Revolver period, and he always dressed to impress, often like a Mod. Also, finally, he idolised Keith Moon. Blondie were in the midst of a European tour on September 7, 1978, the day Keith died, and two days later, played at the Hammersmith Odeon. “I went downstairs in the hotel and all the British tabloids had the headline ‘Keith Moon Is Dead’, so that day became kind of a dream sequence for me,” he told Blondie biographer Kris Needs later. “We played the Hammersmith Odeon and I wanted to get some gasoline and an axe to use on the drums and no one would give them to me. So I threw my whole drum kit in the audience, not wanting them back, because I wanted to sacrifice them for Keith. And the roadies went and got them back, which I was upset about. It was a real emotional time for me because he had meant so much to me.”

        RIP Clem. 

MELODY MAKER TO BE RELAUNCHED – Iconic Music Paper to Hit the Streets Again!

Rock fans of a certain age are jubilant today following the announcement that Melody Maker, the weekly music paper regarded as the ‘Bible’ during the 1970s, will begin a new life as a monthly music magazine this summer. It will be staffed by some of the writers from the decade that began with Paul McCartney telling the other Beatles he didn’t need any help from his friends any more and ended with a Who tribute band topping the MM singles charts with a song about firearms at the UK’s poshest public school. 

Financing for the relaunched paper is believed to have come from a consortium of anonymous wealthy rock stars whose careers gained momentum by support from Melody Maker between 1970 and 1975. “I’m hoping to get on the front page again,” said one from his moated mansion in Surrey. “When our drummer is released from prison the band might even reform to play the Marquee, which we’ll reopen for the occasion.”

Another was hoping that his investment will result in more favourable LP reviews than was the case in his heyday. “I don’t want MM giving me another slagging,” he said. “If they do there’ll be more unpleasant surprises in the mail like the putrefying offal we sent them in 1971.” 

Chris Welch, who spent a decade and half toiling for MM, will resume his role as Features Editor and contribute his weekly gossip column under his pseudonym ‘The Raver’. “I’ve stayed in touch with Jiving K. Boots and he’s agreed to do an interview with me,” says Chris. “He’s been very busy tending his allotment but many of his fans are hoping the Boots band will record again and maybe even make a live appearance at a pub in Catford, supported by Yes.”

Mrs Welch, the former Marilyne Rangecroft who for many years was secretary to late MM editor Ray Coleman, is unwilling to join the team. “This is an opportunity for me to finally clean my husband’s study as he’ll be out of the house for once,” she says. “There’s 10,000 prog rock LPs on shelves in there that haven’t been dusted for years.” 

Chris Charlesworth, MM’s News Editor from 1970-73, will resume that role early in May when the new look MM will hit the streets. “Unfortunately, the funding isn’t there for me to become the paper’s US correspondent again which is very disappointing,” he says. “But as News Editor I’ll redouble my efforts to reform The Beatles by writing speculative stories that suggest they might, and I’ll call Harvey Goldsmith again so he can tell me he’s offered Colonel Tom Parker half a million quid for Elvis to finally perform concerts in Britain.” 

        Former Assistant Editor Michael Watts, customarily tight-lipped about his activities, has declined to comment but a close friend believes he’s still displeased that David Bowie wasn’t entirely truthful to him during their 1972 interview when Bowie came out as gay. “Michael is weighing up his options,” says a close friend. “He’s hoping a séance can be arranged to finally nail David on that issue.”

Favourite for the position of MM’s Editor is acclaimed music journalist Richard Williams who edited the paper at the close of the decade but, like Watts, he is reticent about his plans. “He might take on the role if he can write a column on motor sport,” says a former colleague. “Fast cars, fast jazz and fast women are still his forte.”

It is believed that Geoff Brown will become Melody Maker’s new Production Editor, a role he served on Mojo magazine for many years until his recent retirement. “I like producing,” says Geoff, father of 11. 

        Melody Maker’s top photographer Barrie Wentzell, now living in Toronto, is unlikely to become involved but says he will make his photo archive available to the new look MM, “at a very competitive rate”. 

ENTWISTLE’S OX – Academy of Music, New York, March 8, 1975

John Entwistle became the first member of The Who to tour outside of the band when he took his own group, Ox, on the road in the UK towards the end of 1974 and in the US the following March. I saw shows on both tours, in Newcastle in the UK, and at the Academy of Music in New York, which was fifty years ago this month. After the Ox show in New York there was a reception where among the guests was Mick Jagger, so I sidled up to him to inquire who might be replacing Mick Taylor in the Stones but he told me to bugger off. I think he was drunk. 

Here’s my review of John’s band from Melody Maker dated March 22, 1975. I found the poster above on the internet.

It must have been galling for John Entwistle to look out and see the empty seats at the Academy of Music on Saturday evening and think back to just less than a year ago when The Who sold out the 20,000 seater Madison Square Garden for four nights in five days. 

        The audience gave him a hero’s welcome but reserved their biggest cheers for the songs he’s contributed to The Who’s catalogue over the years. Opening up with ‘My Wife’ and closing the show with ‘Heaven And Hell’ as an encore was a shrewd move. 

        The Ox have improved immeasurably since their first live gig in Newcastle last December. The band is tighter and better rehearsed, and mercifully the volume level has been drastically reduced though it’s still pretty loud. 

        Still, John remains the star. His unique bass playing stands head and shoulders above the musicianship of the other members of the band and the fast, rippling bass lines are the only feature that prevents The Ox from being just another competent group. Unfortunately, a bass player can’t carry a band, and no matter how stunning the bass lines become, the overall effect is disappointing. 

    Robert Johnson, on guitar, can’t match John; he often resorts to crashing chords during his solos in a vaguely Townshend fashion, which only reveals his apparent inability to match lick for lick with Entwistle. It also encourages unfair comparisons with The Who which I won’t go into.

        John, of course, is an old greaser at heart, and on the simple 12-bar based numbers The Ox are a fine rock’n’roll band, without frills but with plenty of sledgehammer drive. The drummer managed to hold his own against Entwistle’s bass but towards the end the horn player appeared to give up the ghost and use his instrument to demolish part of the drum kit, an odd but peculiarly Who-like ending. 

MAKING IT UP AS YOU GO ALONG: NOTES FROM A BASS IMPOSTER by Bill MacCormick

The Dulwich College Colts Rugby XV of 1967 included half of Quiet Sun, one member each of Roxy Music and Matching Mole, 40% of the group 801 and the older brother of Random Hold and Peter Gabriel guitarist Dave Rhodes. “I played centre, wing or fullback,” writes Bill MacCormick. “I got as far away from those nasty forward as possible.”

        Dulwich College is a public school, of which MacCormick disapproves strongly, but he can be seen in the back row of this musical XV in a photograph reproduced early on in Making It Up As You Go Along: Notes From A Bass Imposter. Through contacts made at the school, he became a contemporary and close friend of Soft Machine and others from what became known as the Canterbury scene, finding himself among a host of musicians whose work was unlikely to find commercial success; who preferred instead to perform experimental music loosely labelled as jazz rock, almost always improvisational with uncommon time-signatures, a bit cosmic and slightly weird, to my ears anyway. 

        MacCormick has written a chirpy, self-deprecating and remarkably candid memoir of his time as a musician in this strain of Britain’s underground, its close attention to dates, places and haphazard events, many of them trivial, suggesting he dutifully kept diaries retained for decades and/or has a remarkable memory. Stints in the avant-garde groups Quiet Sun and Matching Mole are followed by 801, alongside Roxy Music’s Phil Manzanera and Brian Eno, and Random Hold who recorded for Polydor and were managed by Gail Colson, Peter Gabriel’s manager, which catapulted them briefly into the big time. When RH fired him he applied to Gail for moneys owed to him which emptied their bank account and effectively put an end to the group, and although this episode closes the book it contains references to the future throughout. 

        Interspersed among highly detailed accounts of the recording and stage careers of these bands are interesting diversions, the most unexpected MacCormick’s brief acquaintance with the actress Julie Christie, with whom he is besotted – naturally – the connection being the close friendship between her and Robert Wyatt’s girlfriend and subsequent wife Alfreda ‘Alfie’ Benge, and interviews he undertakes for Street Life, the alternative paper published between 1975-6, with Warren Beatty and US senator George McGovern among others. Furthermore, in between stints as a musician, MacCormick became a politician, campaigning on behalf of the Liberal Party and, later in life, becoming a councillor, all of which adds plenty of spice to this lively memoir. His indignation at the behaviour of the ruling classes is expressed most eloquently in the chapter that focuses on the lyrics to songs on Listen Now, 801’s only studio album.

        Throughout his musical career, MacCormick seems to have drifted through life with plenty of luck on his side, his boundless modesty conveying the idea that he wasn’t much of a musician – as indicated by the title – but was a good mixer, amiable, willing and not one to complain. Such diffidence is endearing and led him to decline an invitation to record with Richard Thompson. “Though flattered I politely declined,” he writes. “Thomson was Premier League. I was at best Conference League South. I knew my limitations.”

        MacCormick’s book is full of carefree banter like this, some of it rather over-egged, the literary equivalent of theatre’s fourth wall insofar as he takes the reader into his confidence in light-hearted asides, frequently veering off into arbitrary side-issues, many of them politically left of centre, and arcane observations about times and places, some of them no doubt gleaned from Wikipedia. There are frequent references to his older brother Ian who, as Ian MacDonald, was assistant editor at NME in the early 1970s and among the most eloquent and perceptive music writers of his generation. 

        Occupying over 100 pages at the end are 18 appendices, all of them press packs or features and reviews from the music press reproduced verbatim, many written by my old MM colleague Richard Williams, while the preceding two chapters are obituaries of musician friends (and Ian), and a “Where Are They Now” section of those still walking. With footnotes and endnotes galore, loads of black and white pictures throughout and an unreliable index, this makes for a long read, 470 pages in all, but if a fly-on-the-wall account of life as an avant-garde musician is your cup of tea it’s worth the effort. Unforgivably, however, MacCormick spells Townshend without the H. 

        Finally, a confession. It was June 1970, my first week as a staff writer on Melody Maker. Too embarrassed to admit that I was wholly unfamiliar with their music, I accepted assistant editor Williams’ summons to review Soft Machine’s Third LP, took it home and listened carefully to music which, having been raised on no-nonsense Elvis and The Beatles, was pretty much foreign to me.  

        Still, I did my best: “As the title suggests, this is Soft Machine’s third album,” I began, stating the obvious, “and their most ambitious yet” – an educated guess. “It is a double venture and features just four tracks – one per side.” So far so good but something more profound was clearly called for. “The first side, ‘Facelift’, was recorded live at the Fairfields Hall, Croydon, and starts with what could be mistaken for Mike Ratledge slowly pulling his organ to pieces key by key but soon the whole scene changes and becomes more interesting with solos from each of the group.” I went on to state that Robert Wyatt’s was “not the best voice on the British scene”, that side four was the best of the four with an “eerie space sounding organ reminiscent of 2001 Space Odyssey”, and that the whole band “blend individually as one machine. A good set for the Soft’s fans and jazz enthusiasts too,” I concluded, blandly. Richard Williams never again gave me a Soft Machine LP to review.

        This shameful episode came back to haunt me as I read MacCormick’s fascinating book, and reviewing it here offers me an opportunity to apologise deeply to Robert Wyatt, the only surviving member of the Soft Machine line-up that recorded Third. Sorry Robert. ‘Shipbuilding’ was great, by the way. 

DAVID JOHANSEN - The Last Doll To Fall Over

The New York Dolls in 1973, picture by Bob Gruen. David Jo is on the right.

The legend of The New York Dolls, erstwhile nominees for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame yet shamefully never inducted, reached its finale last week with the announcement that David Johansen, their singer, had died aged 75, so it’s a pound to a penny it’ll never happen now. Or maybe it will. A dead Doll can’t disrupt proceedings after all. 

        The Dolls were the trashiest of the trash and for a year or two in the 1970s I was on first-name terms with David Jo, the last Doll standing. They were a band that never fitted in but never wanted to either. The field they ploughed alongside very few others, Iggy perhaps, maybe Lou at times, was at the extreme end of decadence, which was where they believed rock should squat. With the possible exception of Keith Moon, I cannot think of anyone who revelled in licentiousness as much as the five Dolls, David, Johnny Thunders, Arthur Kane, Sylvain Sylvain and Jerry Nolan (who replaced original drummer Billy Murcia who died in London in 1972). They made the Pistols look like choirboys. It made them enemies as well as friends, and I liked to think I was their friend, well for some of the time. 

        For a couple of years in New York, from 1974-76, when I was Melody Maker’s man in America, I saw David and his band regularly but they presented me with a dilemma. My predecessor in that role, Roy Hollingworth, adored them, declaring them the future of rock’n’roll, writing, somewhat loquaciously, in MM: “Here on this stage battles a baggage of balls and trousers and high-heeled shoes; and drunkenness and unwashed hair; and untuned guitars and songs that musicians would call a mess but a rock and roll child would say ‘God Bless You – You are so necessary!’ Rock and roll is sex. And the Dolls played on. And they played sex. Non-stop.”

        Such was Roy’s enthusiasm for the Dolls that it seemed churlish for those MM writers that followed him not to share it, to some extent anyway. There was much to admire about them, not least their enthusiastic embrace of an “us against the world” attitude, a stance much respected by those music writers who harboured a militant streak, but at the same time, as Roy noted, they could be very loose on stage, almost to the point of incompetence. Some of their songs, though, were absolute killers, especially ‘Personality Crisis’ and ‘Looking For A Kiss’, both of which were played endlessly on the juke box in Max’s Kansas City and, later, at Ashley’s Bar. 

        The first time I saw them, at the Whiskey in Los Angeles in 1973, I thought they were a hoot, and the second time, at the Academy of Music in New York a year later, I wrote about how much they’d improved but how they seemed intent on imitating the Stones. I would see them perhaps half a dozen more times over the next couple of years, a period that saw their fortunes slipping and sliding alas. At the Academy, however, they were still on a pedestal, their set preceded by a short film that had been made by their biggest fan, Bob Gruen, New York’s hippest rock photographer, then and now a good friend.

The Dolls were social animals, hanging out in New York bars like Max’s and Ashley’s where musicians gathered late into the night, and I got to know singer David Jo well, along with his girlfriend Cyrinda Foxe, a beautiful blonde who left him for Steve Tyler, the singer with Aerosmith. We also bumped into one another at parties and yesterday the US writer Jon Tiven posted this picture of me at the same table as David on my FB page. I think – but I’m not 100% sure – that the girl I’m with at the back is the model Lisa Stolley. 

        Later that same year I saw the Dolls at Club 82, the joint where I first encountered Debbie Harry with The Stilettos. “For the past two Mondays, the Dolls have appeared at the Club 82 in New York, an ideal place for premiering new ‘glittery’ talent in New York, but hardly the kind of venue for a band with two British tours and two albums under their belt,” I wrote in MM. “An obvious step down, in fact, and a sure pointer that all is not well in the Dolls’ camp. Some observers are going as far as saying the Dolls’ demise is a carbon copy of the Velvet Underground’s story in New York. Perhaps in five years’ time, their albums will be hailed as works of art and David Johansen, Johnny Thunders and Co will be resurrected in much the same way as Lou Reed has made his recent comeback.”

It wasn’t to be though Malcolm McLaren, a Dolls groupie, tried his best to resurrect their career by dressing them up in red uniforms and declaring them communists. “The Dolls had only just survived being labelled gay transvestites and had the bruises to prove it. If they were going to pursue the Communist trip under Malcolm's regime, Vivienne [Westwood] was going to have to run up matching bullet proof vests,” wrote Nina Antonia in Too Much Too Soon, her biography of the band, published by Omnibus in 1997 and eagerly commissioned by me. 

Nina's book - highly recommended. 

         When I left New York I thought I’d never see the Dolls again but I was wrong. On the evening of March 10, 2006, I watched what remained of the group – just David and Syl – at Selfridges on Oxford Street where they played in the basement, the Ultra Lounge as it was called in those days, and it was very dark and noisy and smoky, and throughout the evening beautiful models in off-the-shoulder short black dresses with long legs and six-inch heels plied me with champagne. Decadence still followed the Dolls everywhere, it seemed. The event was to mark the opening of a punk fashion week, though quite why the Dolls had been flown over at huge expense from New York for one free gig escaped me completely. For starters they weren’t really punks, more 60% glam, 35% Rolling Stones clones with the remaining 5% punk – but only in attitude, not musically.

         It would have been around midnight when the Dolls finally tottered on to the small stage in their high heels and finery but they played so excruciatingly loud that I was hard pressed to identify anything other than the opening number, ‘Personality Crisis’. Thereafter the Dolls turned up and up and, in a room with a relatively low ceiling that was never intended for live music anyway, the sound degenerated into a great wash of noise. I don’t think my ears have been assaulted in such a way since I stood on John’s side of the stage for Who shows back in the Seventies. As ever, David Jo pranced around like Mick Jagger, colliding into Syl and sharing his mike. Still, despite the volume the Dolls didn’t disappoint.

         My final Dolls show was on June 18, 2004, when the two Dolls who were at Selfridges, David and Syl, appeared with their original bassist Arthur Kane at the Royal Festival Hall as part of that year’s Meltdown Festival, curated by Morrissey, one of their biggest fans who once published a Dolls fanzine. At one point in the show, between numbers, David approached the microphone and thanked their English fans for their support. “And we got a lot of support from a writer on Melody Maker,” he said. “I can’t remember his name.” 

“It was Roy Hollingworth,” I yelled at the top of my voice from where I was sat, in a box at the side. 

David glanced up at the box but I doubt he recognised me from those days back in New York. “That’s right, Roy Hollingworth,” he mumbled into the mike. 

RIP David. 

JOHN LENNON V THE US GOVERNMENT

It was 50 years this week that I wrote my first big story for Melody Maker about John Lennon’s fight to remain the US. It was an ongoing story that I covered a lot when I lived in New York and as a result I made the acquaintance of John’s lawyer, Leon Wildes, seen above with John at one of the many hearings devoted to the case. Leon was a seeker of the truth, and in John’s case the truth of the matter – the real reason why the US Government wanted to expel him – was crucial in the successful outcome from Leon and John’s point of view.

It wasn’t often that my stories for Melody Maker read like formal law reports but this one does, a bit anyway. Here it is, as published in MM dated March 1, 1975. 

John Lennon’s protracted negotiations to stay in the United States will reach a climax within the next three months, according to his attorney, Leon Wildes, who this week explained to the Melody Maker exactly how John stood in relation to the Immigration Authorities.

        John entered the US on August 31, 1971, at St Thomas in the Virgin Islands, originally intending to stay for “about two months” and specifically to attend a court hearing concerning the custody of Kyoko, Yoko Ono’s daughter by her first marriage to film director Tony Cox.

        Leon Wildes was retained as Lennon’s attorney at the beginning of 1972 when it became necessary for him to apply for an extension to his visa to stay in the States.

        Since then there have been numerous attempts by the US government to have John deported, but constant appeals against Government action have enabled him to remain, if a little precariously, in the US. The situation, however, has meant that John is unable to leave the country for any reason. If he did, the chances are that he wouldn’t be able to get back in again, and this is a situation he dare not risk.*

        Lennon has travelled extensively within the US during his sojourn here. He has spent periods in Los Angeles, staying at a house belonging to record producer Lou Adler, whose name, incidentally, is currently coupled with actress Brit Ekland. He has also spent time in Florida with his son Julian**, but for the most part has lived in New York, mostly at an apartment in the Dakota building on New York’s West Side with Yoko. Recently they have separated and John is living with Yoko’s former assistant May Pang in a small apartment on the East Side.

        The Government case against Lennon is now before the US Second Court of Appeal in the Second (New York) Circuit. Lennon’s case has to be presented before the end of next week, and the Government’s likewise. The law will be argued in court and reaching the decision that follows will take between one and three months. 

        This need not necessarily be a final decision. Either party in the suit can make a further appeal to the Supreme Court which first of all decides whether or not to try the case or stand by the decision of the Appeal Court. If this court decides to hear a further appeal, then further delays will ensue.

        At the same time, Lennon’s attorney has filed two actions against the Government, which complicates matters further. The first and most important claims that the Immigration Department prejudged John’s case in the first place without giving him a fair opportunity to state his reasons for wishing to remain the US.

        This case was first brought in October, 1973, and the judge in question sustained Lennon’s claim. As a result John was given leave to examine the Government witnesses involved and already proceedings are in motion to question the man who was the District Director of the Immigration Office at the time of John’s original deportation order. This man, Sol Marks, who has since retired to Florida, held this position that charged him by law to decide whether proceedings should be taken against an illegal alien. Lennon, of course, is claiming that Marks should not have started these proceedings, that he prejudged the case. 

        Lennon’s second action is his “non priority” case which, like his first action, is being heard in the New York Federal District Court. This “non priority” list is a list of aliens within the US who are allowed to remain in the country for humanitarian reasons despite having convictions that would otherwise render them liable for expulsion. 

        Leon Wildes has secured copies of the “non priority” regulations, and a copy of other approved cases on the list. There are, he says, other persons on that list who have convictions for trafficking in drugs and he contends that Lennon ought to be on that list. Lennon, of course, has only one conviction for possession of marijuana, a considerably lesser offence than trafficking in illegal narcotics.

        Still another application was filed in 1972 contending that John and Yoko were outstanding artists and, as such, ought to be allowed to remain in the US because of their contribution towards the culture of the country.

Wildes claims he has information that shows that the Government deliberately hid this application, actually locking the relevant documents away in a safe, thus holding up or attempting to ignore the application. This, says, Wildes, was because of a memorandum which was circulated by an unknown Government agency to other Government agencies which stated that John and Yoko were to be kept under physical observance at all times because of possible political activities.

Wildes is currently attempting to find the source of this document. If he does, he says, it will break the case wide open and prove there has been a miscarriage of justice. “We have never deliberately asked for support from any important people or politicians, but several have come forward and indicated that they want to help,” Wildes told me. 

        “At this point I think we have got more law on our side than ever before. I think we have a better chance in view of the present political climate because attitudes towards John are changing all the time. Ultimately, of course, we hope that the law of drug convictions and entry into the US will be changed.”

        Finally, one other factor has arisen in John’s favour. England has just passed a law called the Uniform Rehabilitation Act which wipes out certain convictions from a person’s record after a certain number of years. This comes into effect on July 1 this year and will wipe out the original drug conviction against John’s name which was, of course, the US Government’s only concrete excuse for starting the proceedings against him on the first place.

        Meanwhile Lennon rocks on. This week sees the release of another solo album, a collection of oldies entitled Rock’n’Roll, the result of tapes made with Phil Spector in Loa Angeles last October.

        Yet another controversy surrounds the release of this set which was originally scheduled for April. An unauthorised bootleg album, titled Roots, and emanating from the same sessions has been advertised on TV as available by mail order only in the US. It contains much of the same material but in an uncompleted state. How these copies of the tapes disappeared from the studio and came into the hands of the “Adam VIII” label (the label mentioned in the TV ads) is a mystery but the situation resulted in Capitol’s decision to rush-release Lennon’s official album ahead of schedule.

____

* In a private conversation, John told me that every time he flew anywhere in the States he was terrified that for some reason, perhaps bad weather, the plane might be diverted out of the US and, on its return, he’d be barred from entering the US again.

** John also told me that it was when he was in Florida, staying with Julian at the Disney World resort near Orlando, that he signed the papers that finally dissolved the Beatles’ business partnership, the last Beatle to do so. 

THE YARDBIRDS: THE MOST BLUESWAILING FUTURISTIC WAY-OUT HEAVY BEAT SOUND by Peter Stanfield

Peter Stanfield wrote an unusual, rather scholarly, book about The Who that I reviewed on Just Backdated in 2021. Entitled A Band With Built-In Hate, it referenced the writings of critic Nik Cohn to position The Who as a Pete Townshend/Kit Lambert art project as much as a career rock band, a perception I found fascinating if a tad implausible in light of their longevity. No such slightly left-field insights find their way into Stanfield’s book on The Yardbirds, but it’s just as scholarly in a pointed, research-driven fashion. 

        Stanfield appreciated my review of his Who book and about 15 months ago the publishers of this book sent me an early draft with a request that I write an endorsement for its back cover. “Not so much a biography of The Yardbirds as an earnest plea for their importance in the story of UK rock to be fully recognised,” I wrote after reading it, “and a righteous endorsement of their significance, alongside a comprehensive history of the development of R&B in the UK during the early 1960s. The definitive Yardbirds book.”   

That quote appears on the cover but as it happens I wrote a bit more than that, adding: “As author Peter Stanfield points out, The Yardbirds went from R&B to psychedelia and acid rock and wound up as precursors to heavy metal via Led Zeppelin; and, in the course of this bumpy journey, became the training ground for Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page, not a bad legacy by any means. Stanfield’s research has involved a comprehensive trawl through the cuttings files of every UK music magazine and elsewhere not only for mentions of The Yardbirds but of the growth of UK R&B in general.” 

        Clearly that was too much for a short paragraph on the back cover, but having now received a hard copy of the book, my reward for the endorsement, I stick by what I said, adding only that after about the first third of the book the story of UK R&B gives way to the somewhat chequered history of The Yardbirds themselves and how, with Beck on guitar, they expanded their repertoire into hi-tech music that was sonically way ahead of its time.  

        I never saw The Yardbirds on stage and by the time I reached Melody Maker in 1970 they’d sort of morphed into Led Zeppelin and/or Renaissance, two groups I wrote about, the former far more than the latter of course. But even up in North Yorkshire, where groups like The Yardbirds seldom visited, I was well aware of them, albeit not in their original incarnation as R&B raver-uppers but as a band that seemed to have taken their cue from chanting monks. The slightly haunting sound of their 1965 singles ‘For Your Love’ and, more especially, ‘Still I’m Sad’ reminded me of Joe Meek’s production of ‘Johnny Remember Me’ by John Leyton, a record I love, but the former prompted Clapton to quit the band on account of it being insufficiently purist for his tender blues sensibilities, or so we were told at the time. 

        Stanfield is having none of it. “Clapton’s departure from The Yardbirds was expertly stage-managed,” he writes, “an object lesson in how to deflect attention away from the real cause of his leaving – his personal behaviour and a falling out with management – and onto a story that lasted down the years.” We’re left to ponder on the specifics of Clapton’s “personal behaviour” but his leave-taking did The Yardbirds a favour in the long term as his replacement, the mercurial Beck, dragged them into the modern world where for two years they, alongside The Who, became innovative pioneers as pop morphed into rock. So fond was Beck of the song that opened the door to The Yardbirds for him that he gleefully played ‘For Your Love’ during his 50-year career celebration concert at the Hollywood Bowl in 2016, the film of which I can recommend for anyone seeking confirmation of Beck’s outstanding talent. 

        But I digress. The Yardbirds had “a sound unequalled by any other group”, wrote Richard Spaete in American Hit Parader magazine in 1966. Stanfield agrees. “The sonic adventurism of The Yardbirds (and The Who) kept them ahead of the pack of R&B-scene graduates,” he writes, noting also that The Small Faces and a few lesser known acts were in their slipstream too. No lesser critic than Lester Bangs also agreed: ”They came stampeding in and just blew everybody clean off the tracks,” Bangs is quoted in Stanfield’s introduction. “They were so fucking good, in fact, that people were imitating ’em as much as a decade later, and getting rich doing it.” No prizes for guessing who he’s referring to there. 

        This book about what Stanfield calls the “most blueswailing futuristic way-out heavy beat sound” is an ambitious as The Yardbirds were under Beck and his successor, Jimmy Page. Stanfield has trawled through the UK music press, mostly notably Melody Maker I’m pleased to note, for every mention of the group as it moved through its various incarnations, and he’s righteously distressed that for all their hard work and inventiveness they never quite made it in the manner he believes they deserved. It was a mixture of bad luck, faltering management and recurrent instability, with singer Keith Relf’s health a seemingly perpetual issue, while bassist/second guitarist Chris Dreja’s real ambition – in which he succeeded – was to become a professional photographer. Original bass player Paul Samwell-Smith became a successful record producer, drummer Jim McCarty kept the flag flying and we all know how the careers of Clapton, Beck and Page panned out. 

        Written sympathetically with an obvious enthusiasm for The Yardbirds and the music they created, Stanfield’s book has 428 pages, 40 of which are reference notes, as befitting an academic, an index and, throughout, a selection of black and white illustrations from the author’s own collection.