ROCK STARS’ TELEPHONE NUMBERS

Being interviewed about my Just Backdated memoir by Simon Morrison at Louder Than Words in Manchester over the weekend brought back an odd memory of my early days on Melody Maker, one that I didn’t mention in the book but probably ought to have done. 

        When I attended a training course for journalists at Bradford Technical College in the mid-sixties I was taught that at the end of an interview a good reporter would ask for the phone number of the interviewee, be it a local councillor, a high ranking police officer or anyone else who’d come to the attention of the paper for which you worked. This was so you’d be able to call them if a follow-up question was necessary or if you needed clarification on some issue or even if you were unable to read back your shorthand notes properly – yes, I wrote shorthand in those days. This procedure became automatic for me when I worked on regular newspapers. 

        So it was that when I joined MM I did the same thing, at first anyway. The first interview I did for MM during the first week of my employment there in mid-June 1970 was with Paul Rodgers, the singer with Free, as I recall in the Just Backdated book. I went to his tiny flat in a redbrick building in Clerkenwell and we talked in a nearby greasy spoon café. As was my regular custom, at the end of the interview I asked Paul for his phone number and he gave it to me without thinking twice about it, though in hindsight he might have felt it was an odd request. That same week I also interviewed Don Everly of the Everly Brothers but that took place in the Inn On The Park hotel where he was staying and I figured that if I needed to ask a follow-up question I could always call the hotel and ask to be put through to his room, at least for the week when he was in London. I also interviewed Cliff Richard on the phone and made a note of where he was speaking from, his manager’s office as it turned out.

        I continued with this practice for about a month, finally realising that it was probably inappropriate to ask the musicians I interviewed for their phone numbers. Then, six weeks into my job on MM, I was appointed the paper’s News Editor, unexpectedly fast promotion, and because Free was the band of the moment, with ‘All Right Now’ topping the charts, over the next few weeks I called Paul Rodgers on a fairly regular basis to ask how the band was getting on and if there was any Free news worthy of inclusion in MM. He always seemed a bit surprised to hear from me and didn’t have much to say, and before long he moved from Clerkenwell and changed his phone number anyway. 

        The only rock star of note to give me his phone number from that point onwards was Keith Moon whom I got to know fairly well as I went to lots of Who shows and wrote extensively about the group. I suspect he gave out his number to all and sundry in those days, discretion being foreign his make-up. It was a Chertsey number and I called him a few times to ask about Who news and if he was up for a drink locally. In those days I had friends in nearby Englefield Green where I once lived, so if I was in the neighbourhood I’d call him and, being Keith, he was invariably up for a brandy or three. In April, 1972, I called him to arrange an interview at his Chertsey home there, one of the longest interviews he ever did, as detailed in the Just Backdated memoir. There was something strangely fulfilling about arranging interviews in this way, sidestepping the protocol of the music industry. 

        Finally, I should add that it was probably more out of hope than expectation that in New York I asked John Lennon for his phone number, my boldest ever inquiry along these lines. He didn’t know it, of course. “Yoko’s always changing it,” he told me. As I’ve written in Just Backdated and elsewhere, John nevertheless offered to call me if I sent him a telegram with an interview request and included my own phone number. He was as good as his word too. “Hello Chris, it’s Johnny Beatle,” he would say when he rang back. 

        The editor of Melody Maker, Ray Coleman, was a newspaper man at heart and I think he’d have approved of this way of doing our business. I guess it was simply a case of nothing ventured nothing gained. 

JUST BACKDATED AT LOUDER THAN WORDS

It was my misfortune that on Saturday night at the Louder Than Words celebration of music writing at the Innside Hotel in Manchester, my Q&A session with Dr Simon Morrison was timed to occur at precisely the same time as Stuart Maconie was speaking in an adjoining room. A BBC radio DJ, TV presenter and former assistant editor of NME, Stuart has written for several other magazines and newspapers and is far better known than I am. As a result, I attracted about 25 people and Stuart attracted maybe ten times that.

Stuart, whose session was with David Quantick, another NME alumnus who’s gone on to become a noted screenwriter, was plugging his book The Full English, a best-seller that, according to its jacket blurb, “explores our national identity and how it has evolved during the last century”, which suggests it is not a music book. I, of course, was plugging my Just Backdated memoir of the time I spent on Melody Maker during the early 1970s, which is definitely a music book even if I do stray into areas that involve sex and drugs alongside lots of rock and roll. 

Simon Morrison, whom I met for the first time just before our Q&A session, turned out to be a PhD who lectures in music journalism at the University of Chester. Of course, the concept of training to become a music writer on a university course is as foreign to me as the seven years I spent on Melody Maker would be to the students who attend his classes. There can be no doubt, however, that they’d be mighty jealous because what I did in those years in simply unattainable in today’s world of music journalism, which is one of the reasons why I wrote that book in the first place.  

Simon Morrison and myself on Saturday evening. 

        Simon had obviously read my book from cover to cover and we had an hour-long conversation that, I think, entertained the 25 folk who chose me over Stuart Maconie. He was interested in my newspaper background and in the circumstances that brought me to MM and when we moved on to my role as the paper’s US editor I could sense the envy of those in the room who could but dream of the lifestyle I led. I was asked about the rivalry between MM and NME and I pointed to the differences in the two publications; that MM was first published in 1926, NME in 1952; that MM was initially a trade paper for musicians while NME was always aimed at music fans; that MM covered all music of types of music – jazz, blues, folk, balladeers, rock and pop – while NME focused solely on pop, morphing into rock. Perhaps more importantly, MM treated the music and musicians more earnestly, which served us in good stead until NME was re-staffed with a crop of great writers from the underground press and covered punk rock with more enthusiasm than MM, at first anyway. 

        I namedropped shamelessly, Lennon, McCartney, Bowie, Bruce, Debbie and the rest, and told one or two tales that I didn’t include in the book. I contrasted  the media friendly attitude of The Who with the less than welcoming outlook I sensed from Led Zeppelin, and mentioned how Bowie – whom I described as “rock’s greatest magpie” – used an interview to gather intelligence from the interviewer by asking him or her whether they’d seen any good bands recently, heard good records, watched good movies or read good books, and stored away the information so he could use it himself at some time in the future. “He was also great at grabbing headlines,” I pointed out. “He might not have told the truth but he knew how to get on the front page.”

        After our chat the audience was invited to ask questions, one of which concerned the issue of copyright in the articles that appeared in MM. I tried to explain how the ownership of IPC – MM’s parent company – had changed hands several times over the years and that in my opinion the current owners, a company called Future PLC, don’t even seem know what they own anyway, and no one seems to police the use of material from MM’s pages. Furthermore, the situation is complicated by the fact that freelance music writers – as opposed to staff men like myself – retained copyright of their work anyway, and these days no one seems draw a distinction between the two. 

        At the end of my session I signed several books for those who’d brought them along or bought them at the stand in the hotel, including one for a lady named Stephanie, who turned out to be the daughter of Les Perrin, one time top music biz PR to the likes of John, George and Ringo, and the Rolling Stones. In my book there’s a tale of how he sleazy PR Max Clifford, who worked for Les at the time, enticed me to a Status Quo show by promising me a “bird” for the evening. “He always was a slimy piece of work,” said Stephanie, “My dad fired him when he heard that he was showing dirty movies to some of his clients.”

        All in all, a good day’s work and my thanks to Jill Adam and her Louder Than Words team for putting on another fine festival of fun. 

HOLLYWOOD DREAM PART 2

To Third Man Records on Marshall Street in Soho, to hear Pete Townshend talk about Thunderclap Newman alongside Mark Ian Wilkerson, author of Hollywood Dream, a biography of the band that I reviewed on Just Backdated in August.

It’s a fairly exclusive event, limited to 40, all of whom have some connection with the author or the trio that hit number one in June 1969 with that wonderful single ‘Something In The Air’, which Pete produced. We are gathered in a small basement, sat on ten rows of bench seats, four to a row, and at 7.30pm last night Mark and Pete took their places at the front of the room, sat down and spoke to us as we listened in hushed contemplation. 

Pete Townshend might look a bit older these days, with what remains of his hair now silver, but his eyes are as bright blue and piercing as ever and that mind of his shows no signs of stagnating. As was the case all those years ago when I interviewed him more than once for Melody Maker, ask him a question and he’s away, riffing on the answer, spreading out his thoughts, veering off into areas only tangentially connected with the issue and chucking in a tale of two, often amusing, sometimes harsh, occasionally giving the impression that he has a bone to pick and here’s an opportunity to gnaw it dry. 

        His memory is still top-top. He recalled how when Track Records was launched it was his role to find acts for the label, preferably oddities like Tiny Tim, whom he failed to sign, and Arthur Brown, whom he did. Pianist Andy Newman was certainly an oddity and he teamed him up with John ‘Speedy’ Keen, who’d been working as his driver and become, in his words, “his best friend” in those days, which was 1967, and Jimmy McCulloch, a pint-sized guitarist he’d encountered at a Who concert in Greenock in 1965. McCulloch was 12 at the time.

        A year passed before this unlikely trip assembled in London, specifically at Pete’s Thames-side house in Twickenham where they recorded the LP Hollywood Dream which included that hit single. Pete was voluminous in his praise for Keen whom he regarded as an excellent drummer, a bit like Charlie Watts in that he played a fraction of a second behind the beat, thus giving the group an edge that he found inspiring. Under the pseudonym Bijou Drains, he became Thunderclap Newman’s bass player, of course, but it was the camaraderie within the group that he enjoyed the most. 

        “I felt I was just part of a group,” he said, or words to that effect (I didn’t take notes). “Even more so than The Who which I was the leader of, in a way, because I wrote all the songs and made those demos that they copied. I didn’t write for Thunderclap Newman. I was just their bassist and producer. Speedy did and he was a great songwriter, though he was better at coming up with titles than actual songs.”

        Oddly, Pete spoke far more about Keen than he did about Newman and McCulloch, revealing that Keen played drums on some of his Who demos. Also, he seemed to have hardened his position with regard to the nefarious behaviour of Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp who, as well as managing The Who, were the businessmen behind Track Records. “I never saw a penny from ‘Something In The Air’,” he told everyone. “Neither did the band. The Who and Track were managed by crooks, and one of them bought a palace in Venice with the money they should have passed on to us. We – The Who – were supposed to have shares in Track but we didn’t see a penny.”

        Such sentiments were delivered with a degree of passion but, as ever, Pete was able to switch gears quickly and return to the subject in hand. He regretted the collapse of the Newman band, and felt that when Keen stopped playing drums and became their front man, singing and playing guitar, the unique characteristics of the group were lost and they became “just another band”. In any case, he had too many other things on his plate.

        Alongside Pete, Mark Wilkerson had the easiest job in the world as an interviewer. Still, he was fulsome in his praise for the time Pete gave him during his research on the book and Pete, in turn, was magnanimous about the book which, it has to be said, is extraordinary comprehensive, as I point out on my review. (https://justbackdated.blogspot.com/2024/08/hollywood-dream-thunderclap-newman.html)

        At the end of the evening Pete and Ian signed books and though I’d left mine at home I joined the queue – behind Pete’s Ealing Art College mate Richard Barnes as it happened – and when I reached the front I asked Pete about something that was on my mind regarding Speedy Keen. “Tell me Pete,” I asked. “That song Speedy wrote for Sell Out. Is it ‘Armenia City In The Sky’ or ‘I’m An Ear, Sitting In The Sky’?”

    “The second choice,” he replied. “I’m An Ear, Siting In The Sky’.”

    Not sure whether I believe him but it’s always nice to spend an hour in the company of Pete Townshend. 

(The picture at the top of this post, with CC between Mark and Pete, was taken by a friendly girl with my camera, the inferior one of Mark and Pete by me, from the second row.)

GIVING PEACE A CHANCE AT THE CONVIVIAL RABBIT

The Convivial Rabbit, a tiny, one-room pub tucked away down an alleyway off a back street in the ancient town of Dorchester, is unlikely to attract much passing trade. On its walls are photographs of comedians and a few faded music posters, and the furniture, the tables and chairs, look like they were picked up at clearance sales. An old upright piano, rarely played, could use a skilled tuner's TLC, and on its top is a notice that reads, ‘No drinks, drugs or firearms on the piano’. The beer, however, is excellent, served straight from the barrel and the gentleman behind the small bar was kind enough to charge me only half the price of a pint when he was unable to fill my second glass to the brim because the barrel had run dry. 

        This gesture warmed my heartstrings, as did the evening’s entertainment for on Sundays at the Rabbit there gathers a group of amateur musicians who play and sing for one another, simply for the joy of it, about 20 of them, young and old, and being as how Sunday was Remembrance Day the theme of the evening’s music was peace, a sort of antidote to those events where it seems to me that war is glorified while those whose lives have been sacrificed by it are simultaneously honoured. On Sunday night at the Convivial Rabbit war was blamed for causing the loss of far too many innocent lives. 

        I was in Dorchester overnight to stay with a musician friend whose apartment in a converted hospital resembles the cluttered stockroom behind a store that sells acoustic musical instruments. They’re on the walls, on stands and lined up in cases in his spare room, and come 7pm on Sunday night my pal Frank and his pal Phil packed up what they could, a guitar, mandolin, concertina, violin and a bodhran, the native drum of the ancient Celts that looks a bit like a huge tambourine and when played with a tipper, a short double-ended drumstick, sounds like a floor tom. Thus armed, off we went into the foggy night, two right turns and into the Convivial Rabbit where Melanie, Frank’s sister, acting as hostess for the evening, opened proceedings by sweetly singing ‘There But For Fortune’, a song by that arch American anti-war protester Phil Ochs, in whose apartment in Los Angeles I spent three enjoyable months in 1973. When Frank made this known to the assembled company my cover was blown, and I was obliged to explain myself, sort of. “Yes, I was once a music writer,” I confessed. “Still am, I suppose.”

        Bob Carter, a skilled finger style guitarist, was up next, picking away on an amplified classical guitar, John Williams style, and, as became evident as the evening drew on, he was the most skilled instrumentalist in the room, a pro in fact. Most weren’t but might have been had they been dealt the right cards, especially an oldish fellow who played excellent guitar and gave us an original song called ‘Convalescent Blues’, a tale of woe that laments soldiers lost in conflicts both old and recent. Frank on guitar and Phil on violin offered up ‘A Pair Of Brown Eyes, the Pogues song, and ‘Mary And The Soldier’, a traditional song that dates back to 18th Century Ireland, more recently popularised by Paul Brady. 

        And so the evening progressed, with just about everyone, regardless of their skill set, encouraged to serve up something or other, occasionally unaccompanied, acapella, though one or two instrumentalists quickly sussed the singer’s key and joined in with gentle fills or an appropriate chord. By the end of these songs as many as half a dozen might have joined in, often on a quickly absorbed chorus, and a white-haired, well-fed chap with a mandolin was particular inspired in this regard. A lady recited poetry and another lady, who wore a white poppy, sang ‘Army Dreamers’ by Kate Bush, accompanied, a bit haltingly, by Frank on guitar. Someone sang ‘The Grand Old Duke Of York’, prompting a few sly remarks about the current Duke of York and all and sundry to join in – they were neither up nor down – on its rousing chorus. A husband and wife team harmonised beautifully together on two melancholy songs in keeping with the theme of the night though, in contrast, there were a few jigs on accordions, one Scottish air and a Brazilian piece by Bob the maestro. A lady of mature years next to Melanie chimed in with ‘I Didn’t Raise My Son To Be A Soldier’, an American anti-war song. A young man with a crew cut played guitar on a song that sounded to me a bit like Nick Drake, and when Frank and Phil performed ‘Brothers In Arms’, the Dire Straits song, I decided I had to make some sort of contribution to the evening. It seemed churlish not to. Melanie conceded the floor to me. 

        “The greatest disappointment of life was the realisation at the age of 10 that I couldn’t song for toffee,” I told everyone. “In the covers band I played in as a teenager the others wouldn’t let me near a microphone, not even when we closed our shows with ‘Twist And Shout’.” This raised a few laughs. “So, instead of inflicting my singing voice on you all, I’ll recite the words to a song I love that I think also works as a poem. It’s called ‘Hello In There’ and it’s by John Prine.” A few heads nodded in recognition and off I went…. “We had an apartment in the city...”. When I reached those sad lines in the first verse that chimed with the theme of the night – “We lost Davey in the Korean War, still don’t know what for, doesn’t matter anymore” – I paused for effect, and when I’d finished – “Just say hello” – the room didn’t exactly erupt, but there was a grateful round of applause. I'd done my bit, and hadn’t embarrassed myself.

        It was a minor contribution, and many more substantial efforts followed, too many to list here. At the close Bob on his classical guitar sang a song called ‘Labrador’s Ears’, about losing your favourite pet, which had nothing to do with the alternative Remembrance Day theme but everything to do with sadness, and being as how we had lost our Labrador Shiloh not five years past (https://justbackdated.blogspot.com/2019/01/shiloh-2006-2019.html) I grew a bit misty eyed and ordered a glass of red wine to toast all my friends who’ve passed as a way to finish my evening at the Convivial Rabbit.

        Music, in all its variations, is a wonderful thing. 

(The picture at the top of this post was taken by Frank during a break in the music. 

Your man from Just backdated can be seen at the back.)