Charlie’s Good Tonight: The Authorised Biography of Charlie Watts by Paul Sexton

Inspired to dig deeper into the world of Charlie Watts after learning about his fabulous book collection – see last post about Christie’s sale of Charlie’s library – I bought a book called Charlie’s Good Tonight: The Authorised Biography of Charlie Watts by Paul Sexton. It was a mistake. It is bland, riddled with repetition and insufferably dull, unlike its subject, and I strongly suspect that its subject would agree with me, not that Charlie Watts would have wanted an authorised biography to have been written about him in the first place. 

        No one in their right mind would deny that Charlie Watts was a fine fellow, a great drummer, a delightful companion and man of exceptionally modest virtue. Such qualities, however, do not make for a page-turner. Paul Sexton, I fear, was faced with an insoluble problem when he took on this commission, presumably at the behest of Charlie’s wife Shirley, who died in December, 2022, 16 months after her husband (the book was published in September 2022), insofar as Charlie didn’t say very much, at least to interviewers. When he did talk, he was vague, often evasive and occasionally taciturn. So, the most obvious research tool (and page filler), music press interviews, was scant to say the least. The next port of call would have been fellow Stones past and present, among the most useful archivist Bill Wyman, all of whom loved him dearly, as did his daughter Seraphina and granddaughter Charlotte. Old friends and fellow musicians too weigh in with their memories but all anyone can say is what a great, laid back, lovely bloke Charlie was, which is no doubt correct.

        Mick and Keith write forewords and it must have been something of a relief for them to read a book about a Rolling Stone that draws a polite veil over the stuff that makes most people buy them in the first place. It’s no secret that the Stones’ story is littered with decadence on an industrial scale, as detailed in countless other books, but apart from a brief lapse in the mid-1980s when he overindulged in drugs and booze Charlie seems to have been looking the other way when all that was going on. It comes as no surprise that the brief lapse is dealt with briefly.

        The distance that Charlie placed between himself and the rest of the group, certainly Mick, Keith and Brian, though perhaps not Bill, was established early on. “It’s just a job that pays well,” was his default position, and it remained that way until the end. It seems he threatened to leave a few times but was dragged back, perhaps because he enjoyed playing the drums, perhaps because Rolling Stones tours were so lucrative, most especially from the 1990s onwards. He was never happier than when the tour was over and he could return to his small family, whom he loved as deeply as they loved him. Charlotte thinks he was born a granddad, which is rather sweet, but doesn’t set the pulse racing. 

        There isn’t even much about the Stones’ music, which is discussed only in the most insipid of terms, and never with a critical eye. Nevertheless, if you want to know about Charlie’s love of jazz, the jazz albums he made and jazz bands he led, his drumming technique, what others felt about his drumming and lifestyle, the camaraderie within the Rolling Stones, the cool and often extremely expensive clothes he liked to wear, his love of cricket and antique firearms, and Shirley’s love of horses, this is the book for you. Considering it’s about a man who lived to the grand age of 80, it won’t take you long to read either. File under ‘Affectionate Memoir’. 

CHARLIE WATTS – Some Sort Of Epic Grandeur

The true character of a man is often revealed only after their passing, frequently to their detriment, but the opposite is the case with Charlie Watts. There were hints of his noble demeanour during his lifetime, of course; that quiet reserve, that well-groomed approach to everything he ever did, that refusal to bow to anyone, least of all his fellow Rolling Stones.  

Some Sort Of Epic Grandeur is the title of Matthew Bruccoli’s definitive biography of the American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, and I chose it for this post not just because Charlie’s first edition of The Great Gatsby, signed by Fitzgerald, has the highest guide price (£200,000-£300,000) of any of around 100 books in Christie’s forthcoming sale of almost 200 items from Charlie’s collection but because Epic Grandeur seems to me to be the perfect synonym for the life of Charles Robert Watts.

I was alerted to this sale by my former Melody Maker colleague Richard Williams whose post on his Blue Moment blog on the same subject he perceptively titled A Man Of Wealth And Taste. When we last met he and I agreed that Charlie’s episode of the 2002 My Life As A Rolling Stone TV series of profiles of individual members of the group was quite wonderful, leaving viewers in no doubt that Mr Watts was a Gentleman in the strict, old-fashioned sense of the word. His Savile Row tailor said precisely that, and he should know.

Now we have further enlightenment in the form of the catalogue for the Christie’s sale, a document of some grandeur in itself. Charlie Watts: Gentleman, Collector, Rolling Stone, it says on the cover, placing Charlie’s credentials in order of importance as they see it. Almost 200 pages of items on sale are prefaced by essays by Paul Sexton, author of Charlie’s Good Tonight, The Authorised Biography of Charlie Watts. “Once Charlie Watts had some funds at his disposal, he became almost obsessively acquisitive, but only about things that complemented his impeccable taste,” he writes. “Cars, first edition books, silverware, flatware [cutlery], records, photographs, memorabilia on the American Civil War and Horatio Nelson, and vintage drum kits.”

So, where we do we start on this superb collection of first editions? How about Agatha Christie? We have 25 hard backs, including the first appearance of Miss Marple in The Thirteen Problems, with ultra-rare dust jacket and wraparound band, price 7/6d when published in 1932, now estimated at £40,000-£60,000. “We have been unable to trace any first edition in a dust-jacket sold at auction,” Christie’s inform buyers. Or how about Parker Pyne Investigates “from the library of Agatha Christie’s sister, first edition in the extremely scarce dust-jacket, signed by the author and her sister Madge”, (£6,000-£10,000).

        Moving on, we have Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study In Scarlet, 1890, “the first Sherlock Holmes Story: presentation editions of the first American edition, inscribed by the author” (£25,000-£35,000), along with four other Holmes books, including The Hound Of The Baskervilles, first published in 1902, (£70,000-£100,000), “a remarkably fine presentation copy of the first edition in book form, inscribed by the author on the title page: ‘I perambulated Dartmoor before I wrote this book. A Conan Doyle.’”

The Great Gatsby is by no means the only Fitzgerald book in the sale. There are eight more, including a second (unsigned) first edition with the iconic blue cover depicting the eyes of optometrist T. J. Eckleburg over the lights of Manhattan (£100,000-£150,000). 

    Elsewhere we can find Graham Greene (13 books), Dashiell Hammett (five), James Joyce (two), George Orwell (five), P. G. Wodehouse (seven), Evelyn Waugh (11), Dylan Thomas, Ernest Hemingway, D. H. Lawrence, H. G. Wells, Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams, Virginia Woolf, Langston Hughes and others. In almost every case Charlie collected signed first editions, some accompanied by letters from the authors to friends. 

Then there’s music, mostly jazz (photographs, paintings, records and artefacts like Duke Ellington’s baton) but also Count Basie Orchestra manuscript arrangements for 31 compositions, 88 pages in total (£30,000-£50,000) and material that relates to the Great American Songbook: scores. for George Gershwin’s An American In Paris, Rhapsody In Blue and Porgy And Bess, all signed. Mostly, though, it seems Charlie liked his namesake, Charlie Parker, and collected 78rpm recordings, autographed photos, contracts and even reel-to-reel tapes from Parker’s recording sessions. It’s all in the catalogue, with precise descriptions, price a modest £40 to delve into Charlie’s obsessions. 

In the essay at the beginning of the catalogue Charlie’s daughter Seraphina tells Paul Sexton: “I opened this cupboard the other night, a piece of furniture with drawers, and I found all these things, Edwardian glasses and carved pipes. I was like, ‘He’s forgotten about this stuff, hasn’t he, totally forgotten about it! I really wanted to speak to him [and say] ‘What is this? This could be Roman and incredibly valuable, or it could be a piece of junk.’ He had phases where I can see he’s gone completely OCD-collecting mad, throughout his life.”

The Charlie Watts Collection can be viewed at Christie’s St James Street premises between 20 and 27 September, and the sale takes place there at the 28th.

PHIL OCHS IN CENTRAL PARK

Recently granted access to a cache of Melody Makers from the 1970s, I was pleased to find this in the issue dated May 24, 1975 – my review of an unusual concert in New York’s Central Park on May 11. Phil Ochs, of course, was my absentee landlord when I lived in his apartment in Los Angeles during the latter part of 1973, an arrangement enabled through his brother Michael, and for this reason I have always felt an affinity with this singer, songwriter and hero of the American protest movement. 

It was the croaky, off-tune voice of Phil Ochs singing ‘The War Is Over’ that brought a huge crowd of Sunday afternooners to their feet in Central Park at the weekend, reliving memories of an earlier occasion when this song was sung on the streets of New York. 

        Ochs was the central figure in a free concert planned to celebrate the end of the war in Vietnam and although he recruited a host of artists to appear on the bill alongside him (Paul Simon, Richie Havens, Joan Baez, Peter Yarrow, Pete Seeger, Tom Paxton and others), it was Phil’s rendering of three essential period pieces that set the mood for an afternoon graced not only by fine weather but with a sense of achievement for an event well organised.

        Phil, who admits his voice is shot and whose recent creativity has slumped to an all-time low, is something of a legendary figure in New York/Village/political/folkie circles. He put the bill together for this show, designed a poster (above) and duetted with Joan Baez on a moving rendition of ‘There But For Fortune’, perhaps his best-known song.

        Unrehearsed and off-key, Phil stood up to sing ‘I Ain’t Marching Any More’ with the determination of a political candidate. “My voice ain’t too good these days,” he admitted. “And I probably can’t hit the high notes any more. But we’ll try it anyway.”

        The crowd joined in on the choruses and the years fell away to the period when it was hip to protest against the hostilities in the Far East. With Baez, he was hesitant (it was the first time the two – songwriter and hitmaker – had ever duetted on ‘There But For Fortune’) but they traded lines across Phil’s Martin; it wasn’t the moment for musical subtlety anyway.

I found this picture of Phil & Joan at the event online. It is credited to Jean Pierre Laffont. 

        Ochs closed with ‘The War Is Over’, relating how the song was originally written during a demonstration in New York’s Washington Square some seven years ago. On that occasion Ochs and various colleagues decided to declare the Vietnam offensive over themselves. Slipping into a lower octave for the verses, Och’s strained at the throat to hit the higher notes without much success. Again, it didn’t matter. The feel was what counted.

        Paul Simon was the biggest star of the day, John Lennon having excused himself on the grounds of “not being in a singing condition at the present time”. Lennon probably declined to attend because of his decision to lie low while the courts decide his future in the US. Publicity surrounding his appearance at this kind of event would do more harm than good. There was a rumour that George Harrison would show, but he never did.

        Paul Simon, never the spontaneous artist, looked his usual nervous self. He opened with a flawless rendering of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ while photographers literally fought to snap his profile. He received a tremendous ovation but looked hesitantly around him for encouragement from the other artists waiting to appear.

        Attempting a tune-up, he slid into ‘American Tune’, a particularly appropriate song but it never got off the ground. While tuning his guitar and singing at the same time, he hastily decided to abandon the song – which was beginning to drag – and liven up the proceedings with the jerky intro to ‘Me And Julio Down By The Schoolyard’.

        He completed about half this song before giving up on the guitar, bowing and picking up his young son Harper, and encouraging him to say ‘peace’ into the microphone. He did just that and was rewarded with a cheer that rivalled his famous daddy.

        “I wasn’t quite prepared for that,” a flustered Simon told me backstage while being trodden underfoot by yet more cameramen. He made a hasty getaway.

        Joan Baez sang a version of ‘Joe Hill’ which reminded me of the live Woodstock album, and was joined by Peter Yarrow for a fine version of ‘Blown’ In The Wind’. The audience responded as if Dylan himself was up on stage, singing the choruses and even cheering the end of each stanza.

        Other artists had their chance to sing a couple of numbers. Richie Havens sang a lengthy ‘Freedom’, Sister Odetta, Pete Seeger and Tom Paxton all came up with a couple of songs and Patti Smith, folk poet and totally original rock performer, put over two pieces before her biggest-yet audience. She also brought greetings from Stevie Wonder in the form of a cassette recording which, unfortunately, couldn’t be played.

        Between acts there were political speakers who, for the most part, tended to drag proceedings to a deathly crawl. Every tub thumper with a cause was allowed to air their views and, consequently, topics that ranged from the American Indian Movement to the struggle within trade unions were all debated from the platform. The majority of speeches, however, dealt with the celebration to mark the liberation of Vietnam and all speakers showered plenty of praise on the Viet Cong.

        Advertisements for the event had promised a minimum of speeches but this was forgotten as a host of personalities, from deserters to mothers who had lost their sons in the conflict followed each other to the microphone. There was even a telephone conversation with some Vietnamese arrivals who didn’t speak English. Quite fatuous. 

        The speeches actually took up the bulk of the afternoon and it was a long afternoon, stretching from midday until sunset when Central Park is traditionally taken over by ne’er do wells and winos seeking a berth for the night.

        “It was a success, I think,” Phil Ochs told me a couple of days later. “We raised enough money to pay for the event with a little left over to send to Vietnam, and I was pleased everyone showed up. I called Paul Simon personally and knew he would show because he had to pass through the city that day on his way from Long Island to New Jersey.” 

JUKE BOX WEEKEND

From the age of ten I have loved juke boxes. Much of my earliest musical education – Elvis, Chuck, Buddy and the like – came from a red and yellow one in a coffee bar near Mill Bridge in Skipton where I was raised. Some years ago, whenever I was tasked with compiling a weekly shopping list that Mrs Charlesworth might need for a trip into town, I would slip ‘juke box’ somewhere in between the food and drink items, only stopping when the joke wore thin. 

Over and above the music, there was something tantalisingly attractive about gaudy American Rock-Ola juke boxes, the lights that twinkled, the plastic that shone, the chrome that glinted, the curves that somehow reminded me of American cars to be found in ads in National Geographic magazine, low and flat with sweeping tailfins and sleek, flowing bodywork. 

        Not often does your man from Just Backdated find himself spending a weekend in a private house equipped with a Rock-Ola juke box but that’s what happened last weekend when we stayed with our friends Adrian and Lynne at their home in a village a few minutes’ drive away from Bridport in Dorset.

        Adrian has owned the blue Rock-Ola 449 pictured above since the late seventies. Made in the US in 1972, it was shipped to Germany for use on an American army base before it found its way to the UK where Adrian paid about £250 for it from its previous owner. It’s set up to take 25 cent coins (American quarters) but like all juke boxes can be fixed to circumvent payment. 

        It contains 100 7-inch singles, two 12-inch speakers and is very loud. Indeed, the volume is difficult to control and even on the quietest setting booms out like sound systems at Notting Hill Carnival. Speaking of which, it comes as no surprise that almost all the singles on Adrian’s juke box are early reggae, not just Bob Marley, but less celebrated names too, as can be seen from the picture below.

        Perhaps more impressively, when it broke down about six months ago Adrian was told by the only juke-box repair man for miles around that it would be at least six months before a home visit to diagnose the problem could be arranged. So Adrian downloaded the manufacturer’s manual from the internet, took it apart and fixed it himself. Respect. Here are some pictures of the insides and scans of pages from the repair manual.

        While working on his machine, Adrian noted that missing from the manual was information about the device within that logs the number of plays for each record. This enabled its owner to report back to those who compiled record charts based on juke box popularity, which might be subject to fraud if tampered with. “They didn’t want anyone to know how it worked,” Adrian says. “You could fix the charts if you altered the readings.” 

The disc with the yellow ring records the number of plays. 

A bit of research on the internet tells me that the Rock-Ola Scale Company was founded in 1927 by David Cullen Rockola to manufacture all kinds of coin-operated entertainment machines. During the 1920s, Rockola was linked with Chicago organized crime – no doubt Mafia dudes offering ‘protection’ in return for the profits of coin-machines they supplied – but Mr Rockola escaped a jail sentence by turning State’s Evidence, which probably meant he watched his back for the rest of his life. 

           He added the hyphen because people often mispronounced his name – the long ‘o’ is important – and the name of his company was changed to Rock-Ola Manufacturing Corporation in 1932. From 1935, Rock-Ola sold more than 400,000 jukeboxes under the Rock-Ola brand name, some of which were shipped to the UK. One of them ended up at that coffee bar in Skipton, for which I gave thanks every day of my life. 

THE ENDLESS COLOURED WAYS: The Songs Of Nick Drake

Considering the esteem in which Nick Drake is now held, there is a paucity of albums by various artists covering his songs. Perhaps it’s because they are a bit tricky to play and sing, or maybe too personal. Some years ago, I bought one called Way To Blue which features recordings from concerts in Melbourne and London, assembled by Joe Boyd, Drake’s original producer, which is superb. Now, along comes another, The Endless Coloured Ways, which is equally lovely.

        Available in a variety of formats, which suggests Chrysalis is rather milking the concept, The Endless Coloured Ways is quite different from Way To Blue insofar as almost all these cover versions are designed to enhance, as opposed to replicate, the originals. It offers 25 Drake songs in total, across two CDs, in four ‘episodes’, A, B C and D, designed to create a seamless flow, all performed with instructions from producer and Drake estate manager Cally Callomon to the artists to ignore the original versions and perform them in their own styles. “We asked the contributors to adopt each song as if it were their own,” writes Calloman in the accompanying booklet. “Not only do the songs stand up as great songs in themselves, regardless of the original recordings by Nick, we believe the results are typical of each performer.” 

        Which is precisely what the artists do, in some cases turnings songs inside out, in others adding layers of inventive instrumentation, in others taking turns where Nick stayed straight. The most notable feature to these ears, though, is how the lyrics seem clearer in almost every song. While veneration of Nick Drake appears endless, if there was a flaw in the 60-odd recordings he made during his lifetime it was his uncertain enunciation. This tendency to mumble meant the words were lost amidst the maestro-like guitar picking and orchestration, so on many songs, oblique as they are, we can’t grasp what he’s singing about. Without exception on this tribute set, all the singers involved, many of them women, enunciate with far greater clarity. Most of them aren’t from the UK either which makes it all the more intriguing. 

        As a prelude, we hear an a cappella verse from ‘Voice From A Mountain’ before Fontaines DC rattle off ‘Cello Song’/’Strange Face’, drums establishing a brisk pace behind a distorted guitar, with Nick or Robert Kirby’s cello part now a choral backdrop as part of a 90-second prologue before the vocals enter. Accustomed over time to hearing Nick’s rather plummy accent, it comes as a bit of a surprise to hear Grian Chatten’s Irish brogue. An extended outro replicates the intro. French singer Camille follows with a delightfully fragile ‘Hazy Jane II, backed by guitar and what sounds like a plucked cello. 

        Elbow’s Guy Garvey interprets ‘Saturday Sun’ in the blunt drawl he applies to his day job, the tempo so slow it almost grinds to a halt with a minute to go, followed by a coda of Lennon-like dissonant noise. ‘Road’, by Bombay Bicycle Club & The Staves, is another brisk outing, enhanced by a lovely acoustic guitar figure, while ‘From The Morning’ by Let’s East Grandma is set to a drum machine and synths, Jenny Hollingworth’s vocal soaring over the top.

        David Gray sings ‘Place To Be’ over a stark accompaniment, as does Stick In The Wheel’s Nicola Kearey on a spooky stab at ‘Parasite’. Aside from when he sings in a higher register towards the end, Ben Harper’s turn on ‘Time Has Told Me’ is one of few tracks that differ only slightly from Nick’s recording, while Emile Sandé skates nicely through ‘One Of These Things First’, complete with metronomic programmed drums. This is followed by a truly lovely reading of ‘Northern Sky’ by Scotland’s Karine Polwart and Kris Drever, perfect harmonies enhanced by a melancholy trumpet. 

        Of all the songs that Nick Drake wrote and recorded, none are bleaker than ‘Black Eyed Dog’, a meditation on depression that dances around a simple guitar figure, at least by Drake’s standards, with spare lyrics and sparser instrumentation that foresee imminent mortality. Nick sang this song in a high, plaintive voice that left little doubt he was singing about his own isolation, the incessant harmonic of his ringing strings and occasional frayed note adding to the tension. Over now to Craig Armstrong featuring Self Esteem who add plenty of echo to the haunting guitar lines, taking the song from its skeletal blueprint into something altogether richer, with double-tracked, whispered vocals, a false ending to herald a slide back to the start, and that nagging guitar figure which on this reading somehow reminded me of U2’s ‘Bad’ from The Unforgettable Fire. 

        CD2 opens with another a cappella chant, this time ‘Road’, reprised by Bombay Bicycle Club & The Staves, followed by a gorgeous ‘Poor Boy’ by Nadia Reid and the ringing acoustic guitar of Christian Lee Hutson accompanying himself and Elanor Moss on a reverent ‘Which Will’. Skullcrusher & Gia Margaret offer up a delicate ‘Harvest Breed’, as does Katherine Priddy on ‘I Think They’re Leaving Me Behind’ and Norway’s Aurora (aka Njål Paulsberg) on a brief ‘Pink Moon’. 

        There is no better example of the clear enunciation I referred to earlier than Joe Henry and Meshell Ndegeocello’s lovely ‘Time Of No Reply’, enhanced by an alto saxophone. Famous Blue Cable, with Leslie Feist on vocals, tackle ‘River Man’ delicately, played largely on fretless baritone guitar with brushed drums. Liz Phair swings nicely through ‘Free Ride’, Radiohead drummer Philip Selway takes the vocals on ‘Fly’, fragile, almost spoken, and Icelandic John Grant takes us on a mysterious ride for ‘Day Is Done’ before the CD concludes with a reprise of ‘Voices’ from The Wandering Hearts.

        I’ve been playing this CD at home and in our car for the last two weeks, enjoying it more and more each time. If you like Drake you'll like this too. 

SINÉAD O’CONNOR

Enchanted by her first album, The Lion And The Cobra, on 6 November, 1990, I bought last minutes tickets to see Sinéad O’Connor at the Royal Albert Hall, standing up in the gods as all the seats had been sold. From up there she looked tiny, her shorn head making her seem almost childlike, very vulnerable and dwarfed by the big stage and vast spherical surroundings. I thought she was fantastic, a huge presence, especially when she switched on a boom box for accompaniment and danced an Irish jig to one of her songs. Boy, she has a lot of bottle, that girl, I thought as her set progressed. She’ll be a huge star one day.

In those days I was the managing editor at Omnibus Press, which specialised in books about rock and pop performers, and seeing Sinéad at the RAH prompted me to commission a book about her. I sought out a Dublin-based journalist called Dermott Hayes, who was keen to write it, and even commissioned my future wife, Lisa, who’d been at the RAH with me, to design the cover. Published in 1991, the book, entitled So Different, was very successful, our second best seller that year, and it attracted several foreign language editions. Sinéad, however, was displeased. Not long after it was published Dermott encountered her at some event in Dublin and was the target of her sharp tongue, so he relayed to me. 

        In common with other non-fiction publishers, Omnibus Press regularly revised and updated titles on our back catalogue, and whenever we suggested this to authors they were always delighted to do so. Not only would it improve their books but they’d benefit financially, from a top-up advance for producing any necessary editorial work and the probability that their royalties would increase too.

        There was only ever one exception to this: So Different by Dermott Hayes. When I contacted Dermott and proposed he revise and update his book, he declined, which surprised me. Evidently, he had come to a concord with Sinéad not to do so, in the hope that the book would go out of print (which it eventually did, though it’s available on kindle). I later learned, an even bigger surprise, that he and Sinéad were in a relationship. 

        “The irony of that achievement [the book’s success] can only be surpassed by myself and Sinéad having a very public love affair nine years later,” wrote Dermott on a website. “There’s a song on Sinead’s fifth studio album, Faith And Courage, released in 2000, called ‘Dancing Lessons’… She says it’s about our relationship.”

I thought at the time that if I’d never commissioned this book Sinéad and Dermott might never have met. Maybe that’s the case, or maybe they’d have met anyway, but I hope they were happy together, at least for a while. 

Happiness was a commodity that seemed forever to elude Sinéad O‘Connor. She was a warrior and warriors are rarely content. They thrive on confrontations, of which there were many in her troubled life. Like everyone else, I followed her travails by reading about this or that strange or sad set of circumstances in which she was involved. She wasn’t one to grow old gracefully. Grace wasn’t her style. I still play her records and always will. 

BOWIE ODYSSEY ’73 by Simon Goddard

It is unusual to begin a series at the fourth episode but that is what I’ve inadvertently done with Bowie Odyssey ’73, the fourth in Simon Goddard’s ambitious sequence of books that, year by year, will chart David Bowie’s progress throughout the decade he made his own, one book per year, hopefully, up to 1980. 

        The project’s ambition is matched only by the sumptuousness of Goddard’s writing. These are not biographies in the accepted sense, researched through interviews with those on the side-lines collated alongside details of events like record releases and concerts, all glossed up with the author’s own take or critique on things. No, they are attempts to get inside Bowie’s head and observe things from his and everyone else’s perspective, in this case a heap of folk with whom Bowie associated; wife Angie, Spiders and other musicians, maverick manager Tony Defries and his flamboyant Mainman assistants, clothes designers, hairdressers, friends old and new, fans, and, last but by no means least, lovers, of whom there are several: take a bow Amanda, Marianne and Lulu to name but three. 

        This kind of writing is not new but is nevertheless quite rare, and it takes a good deal of skill to pull it off. The late great Nick Tosches succeeded to a certain extent with his wonderful Jerry Lee Lewis biography Hellfire, and to an even greater degree in Dino: Living High In The Dirty Business of Dreams, his astonishing excavation into the life of Dean Martin. The master, of course, was Hunter S. Thompson, who placed himself at the centre of the stories he wrote in a style that became known as gonzo journalism.

        Simon Goddard does not place himself within Bowie’s orbit, which, because he wasn’t there, would be foolish, but instead walks a mile in the shoes of those who were. Eschewing any hint of musical criticism or analysis, Goddard has produced 150-odd pages of fly-on-the-wall reportage, scrupulously researched through interviews with the flies but in place of the usual quotes from interested observers we have the actual conversations, real or imagined, all combined with vivid descriptions of time and place. He can’t know for sure what Bowie was thinking, or feeling, or saying, but his assumptions ring true time and time again. At times as I read Bowie Odyssey ’73 I felt like his shadow.

        David Bowie’s life in 1973 was nothing less than hectic, chaotic even. Ziggy was on his final tour, in the US, Japan and UK; his Earls Court show was a humiliating disaster; he travelled everywhere by land, across the USSR by rail; Aladdin Sane and Pin-Ups were recorded and released, four singles appeared too, one of them, to his deep annoyance, ‘The Laughing Gnome’; the Bowies were itinerant, rarely home but moving house more than once; Angie was hankering after equal billing; money was recklessly squandered, not least by manager Defries; cocaine arrived; fans with thunderbolts across their faces were everywhere he went. Snapping at his heels were Roxy Music and Slade, with Marc fading and pretenders galore waiting in the wings to render glam rock artless. In the real world there were strikes, the Lambton sex scandal and the marriage of HRH Anne, among much more. It’s a rich stew and Simon Goddard does the ingredients justice, blending all into a genuine page-turner. 

        There are hints, too, of things to come: financial woes, the arrival in Bowie’s midst of a nondescript girl who will, in time, prove indispensable, and a bold idea involving a theatrical presentation based on Orwell’s 1984. 

        That’ll have to wait until Bowie Odyssey ’74. Bring it on, and in the meantime I’m turning back to ’70, ’71 and ’72. 

        (Bowie Odyssey ’74 is published by Omnibus Press, and has an eight-page photo section; RRP £16.99, £12.76 on Amazon)

YUSUF & ELTON AT GLASTONBURY

“Some things change, some stay the same,” sings Chrissie Hynde in ‘Hymn To Her’, a song on The Pretenders album Get Close that seems to me to be an invocation of women as supreme beings, the mothers of mankind, as they surely are. It certainly wasn’t meant to refer to ageing pop stars but it struck me as pretty apt on Sunday as I watched Yusuf/Cat Stevens and Elton John at Glastonbury from the comfort of our sofa. Yusuf had changed but Elton hadn’t, and it wasn’t just their choice of names.

        Sunday at Glastonbury was always likely to send me back to a time when reviewing shows by Elton, Cat Stevens and Blondie was what I did for a living. Indeed, I saw both Steve – as Cat Stevens, now Yusuf, was known to his associates – and Elton for the first time at outdoor festivals in 1970, the former at Plumpton on August 8, and the latter at Krumlin, near Halifax, two weeks later, on August 15, and 50-odd years ago now I interviewed and wrote about both extensively for Melody Maker. Blondie, of course, came later, at CBGBs in New York, and their Sunday set – midway between Yusuf and Elton – was pretty much the same as when I saw them last year in Brighton, very professional, up-to-date, slick, even if Debbie’s voice doesn’t quite pack the punch it once did. 

        But it’s Yusuf and Elton that concern me here. 

Yusuf looks much older, with thinning white hair, and he seemed slightly unsure of himself facing an audience that was surely far greater than he’d ever faced before in any of his multiple careers. He seemed genuinely surprised by the warmth with which he was received, and humble too, openly grateful that his songs still struck a chord with the crowd. Wisely, he ran through several of the earliest in a medley that included ‘First Cut Is The Deepest’ and he concluded his set an hour later with ‘Father And Son’, both songs that have been covered by many. Bravely, perhaps, he included a handful of more recent songs, but none slackened the momentum of his set, and I liked the animated, slightly quirky, understated graphics beamed behind him. His band, too, were low key.

        Back in the early seventies he usually sat on a tall stool to perform and bobbed around a lot as he played, and he was invariably accompanied by the guitarist Alun Davies, but to my disappointment there was no sign of Alun on Sunday. Steve, his long black hair framing olive Mediterranean features, was a heartthrob in those days. Girls adored him. Now he’s a kindly old man. I could imagine him surrounded by children, telling fairy stories at bedtime. 

In 1983 I wrote a book about Yusuf and met with him to discuss it. He was adamant that he’d put his guitar away for good, and would no longer perform or write songs, all which were proscribed by the Islamic faith he’d adopted in 1978 when he changed his name from Cat Stevens to Yusuf Islam. A change of heart occurred in 2006 when he released his first new album for 28 years and since then he’s performed intermittently around the world. 

“Don't you feel a change a coming,” he sang in ‘Changes IV’ from Teaser And The Firecat in 1971, the first of two albums (the other was Tea For The Tillerman released earlier the same year) that defined his career. Yes, you have changed a lot I thought as he exited the stage, waving shyly at a vast crowd on an afternoon he’ll surely remember for the rest of his days. 

An hour or three later, dinner with red wine consumed, I sat down to watch Elton. He hasn’t changed at all, I thought. The songs he sang were largely the same as those he sang when I saw him perform regularly, all bar five I specify below. He didn’t look that much different either, no less podgy but a tad stiff, ungainly in his movements, as if he’d risen from a long rest and needed to stretch, and he seemed to have considerably more hair than he did 50 years ago. His gold lamé suit, perhaps modelled on the one worn by Elvis, was a bit bulky and didn’t seem to fit him too well, but he was the same ebullient showman he always was, a curious mix of humility and effervescence, his sincerity and professionalism intact, just as they always have been. His voice was a bit deeper but, as ever, he played his grand piano superbly. 

  Elton delivered 21 songs, 16 of which were recorded during the first flourish of his career, up to 1976, a staggering proportion of old, safe and reliable material to my mind. (This was the year when he announced [to me] his impending retirement from live shows for the first time.) Of the rest, two were from 1983, one from 1984, one from 1991 and one, ‘Until I Found You’ by Stephen Sanchez, with whom he duetted, from 2021. 

His audience, however, looked to me to be considerably less than half his age, which is 76, the same as me, with many even younger. The 16 early songs were first released around 50 years ago, yet the huge crowd of boys and girls born long after they were recorded seemed to know them all, singing along lustily as festival audiences are inclined to do. The obvious conclusion is that Elton’s hits compilations sell far more than his albums of new material, but it must be galling for him to have to base his show on so many old evergreens.  Furthermore, his band included the same guitarist, Davey Johnstone, and drummer, Nigel Olsson, who’ve played with him for decades, as has percussionist Ray Cooper, which is not a criticism, just an observation. 

So it was that I couldn’t help but think that little of Elton has changed since I last saw him perform in person, in America in August 1976. It was on this trip, on his private plane mid-air between Chicago and Cincinnati, that he told me he, “felt like stopping for a time. I’ve done it for six years and I’m fed up with it. I could change my mind. I’m not retiring. I just want to lay off for a bit.” I thought back to that conversation as I watched him. 

        The 1970 Krumlin Festival where I first saw Elton was a disaster, though this energetic newcomer on piano did his utmost to raise the spirits of a cold, damp audience. I was unacquainted with his songs but thought he was terrific, a fabulous showman, and afterwards went to the caravan backstage that was his dressing room, knocked on the door and was admitted by Sandy Denny who was inside, sharing a bottle of cognac with him. Elton was delighted that someone from Melody Maker was showing an interest in his work and happily supplied the titles with which I was unfamiliar. I went back to the office and wrote up a rave review, said he was the highlight of the festival, a star in the making, and this cemented a genial yet professional relationship that lasted for as long as I was a working music writer. In that time, no matter how big he became, I was welcomed into Elton’s entourage, granted interviews and on first-name terms. 

       The relationship was unlikely to withstand my departure from MM but it didn’t matter. I watched his life progress, read about his troubles and triumphs, his tantrums and tiaras. Throughout it all he remained the same, as he still is, quite remarkably in fact; little difference between the eager 23-year-old I saw at Krumlin in 1970 and the wise old 76-year-old I watched on Sunday. If he does retire, which I somehow doubt, I wish him the best. 

(Pic of Yusuf: Guy Bell/REX/Shutterstock; Elton: Samir Hussein/Wire Image)

NICK DRAKE – THE LIFE by Richard Morton Jack

It is the summer of 1966 and Nick Drake is with friends in St Tropez, playing his guitar for passers-by late into the night. “He played beautifully and people would clap at the end of each song,” says one of the friends. “But he never looked up in any way to solicit their applause or adoration.”

        “It was as if he was playing for himself, and the appreciation of others was incidental,” adds Richard Morton Jack, establishing a theme that runs throughout his exhaustively detailed yet simultaneously gripping biography of the singer, songwriter and – most significantly – immensely gifted guitarist who died at the age of 26 after swallowing an overdose of tablets prescribed to combat depression.

In truth, Nick never did seek acclaim for his work, not in St Tropez nor anywhere else in the years that followed. It was his absurdly romantic notion that acclaim would come anyway, without his taking steps to achieve it, and while a lack of material success in his lifetime is mooted as the cause of his depression, fame is nevertheless unlikely to have sat easily on his fragile psyche. “Fame is but a fruit tree, so very unsound,” he sings in ‘Fruit Tree’, a chillingly prescient song from his debut LP Five Leaves Left. “It can never flourish, ’Til its stock is in the ground.”

        This is one of the many conundrums that Morton Jack wrestles with as he shadows Nick from his birth in 1948 in Rangoon, where his father worked as an engineer, to his death in 1974 in Tanworth-in-Arden in Warwickshire, to where the upwardly mobile family, dad Rodney, mother Molly, sister Gabrielle and infant son, relocated in 1952. 

This is a desperately sad book, all the more so because it opens with his passing, but the popular notion of Nick Drake as a friendless loner is put to the sword by Morton Jack’s scrupulous research. Although he tended to compartmentalise them, Nick had plenty of friends and admirers in both the music business and elsewhere, from his home in Tanworth, from school and college in Cambridge, and from the creative world in which he immersed himself in London. Morton Jack has tracked down dozens of them, and their testimony leaves no doubt Nick was loved and admired by many. Trouble was, hardly anyone bought his records, not until long after he lay in the ground. 

The book benefits from the co-operation of Gabrielle, an accomplished actor, now retired, and from Drake’s estate which has been astutely managed by Martin ‘Cally’ Callomon, whom I met many years ago as the designer of Pete Frame’s book Rockin’ Around Britain. In a heartfelt Foreword, Gabrielle points out that this is not an ‘Authorised Biography’ which to her mind translates as a ‘straightjacketed affair, tailored … to fit the desired image of the protagonist’. It’s certainly no whitewash, for Nick Drake is presented warts and all, with high praise for his music tempered by excruciating aspects of his otherworldliness as he passes through life utterly incapable of dealing with its practicalities. “Nick’s story has too often been overshadowed by the tragedy of his final illness,” writes Gabrielle. “There was nothing romantic about it: like most mental illnesses, it was grim, repetitive and relentless, and it cruelly robbed him of his creative muse.”  

This makes the last 100 pages of the book fairly harrowing reading, with details of Nick’s descent into a private netherworld that involved extreme examples of behaviour we can euphemistically describe as eccentric. Rodney Drake noted all of this in a diary, to which Morton Jack had access, and it is fortunate for him too that the Drakes were not only dedicated letter-writers but also hoarders. Gabrielle evidently handed over a treasure trove of personal correspondence that, among other things, leaves no doubt as to the closeness of a loving family that supported Nick in every way to the very end, even if they were as baffled as to how to deal with their strange son as everyone else. “We could never get through to him either,” one friend told Rodney after the funeral.

The bare bones of Nick Drake’s life, his comfortable childhood, public school education, somewhat fortunate ascent to Cambridge, from where he dropped out to make records with producer Joe Boyd that were released via Boyd’s Witchseason production company on Island Records, is well told but not new. Patrick Humphries’ 1997 biography and Trevor Dann’s Darker Than The Deepest Sea in 2006 told much the same story, but both lack the immense detail that Morton Jack brings to his book, not to mention the personal touch afforded by the family archive. At times I felt I was sitting on Nick’s shoulders. 

        Similarly, Morton Jack lists just about every gig Nick performed – “a few more than thirty” – and speaks to many who saw him on stage. The common belief that almost all were disasters due to his lack of presentation skills is also dismissed, though some were, and he concedes that Island were at a loss as to how to promote him beyond sampler albums and the usual ads in the music press. Furthermore, with help from Nick’s musical collaborators, Morton Jack delves assiduously into the construction of his songs, the guitars that Nick used and the literary roots of his lyrics, scrutinising them with the proviso that his analysis is simply his interpretation and that no one can know for sure what Nick was singing about. That, of course, was his special genius and the reason why, almost 50 years after his death, Nick Drake is as revered as he is. 

Joe Boyd agrees. “He was a better [guitar] player than Bert Jansch, John Renbourn, John Martyn and Robin Williamson,” he says, a statement that took me aback somewhat. “I thought Nick was obviously a genius,” adds the producer who even now feels a twinge of guilt that he was unable to somehow help his protégé during the mental illness that devoured him. In this he is far from alone. 

Tenderly perhaps, Morton Jack does not dwell overlong on the aftermath, the posthumous recognition that in many ways softened the grief for Nick’s family and others. It is, after all, The Life, and it is a given that those who read the book will already know how Nick’s music reached out to and became enjoyed by millions in the decades that followed. This reticence on Morton Jack’s part somehow echoes the reticence of Nick himself, the introverted artist who in his own mind knew his capability but was somehow unable to communicate it to others. 

        Nick Drake The Life is a wonderful book, the last word on an enigma that, in equal measure, never ceases to fascinate and inspire. 

DEEP PURPLE: THE VISUAL HISTORY

This month sees the publication of a new edition of my book Deep Purple: The Illustrated Biography, first published in 1983. It has a new title, Deep Purple 1968-1976: The Visual History, to indicate that it covers only the first eight years of a career that is ongoing. 

There are many changes and it’s taken a long time – since 2018 – to get to this point. Most importantly, the new edition has 486 pages, as opposed to the original 96, and has been completely redesigned with over 500 new pictures, many published for the first time, among them a series from the 1972 concerts in Tokyo and Osaka where their big-selling Live In Japan LP was recorded. Furthermore, the text had been re-edited by myself, with some additions, some subtle changes, and new Introduction and Aftermath chapters. 

There was an early discussion as to whether I could actually update my book to the present day but this was deemed unfeasible, not least because any update would need to cover over 40 years of additional Purple activity, and to do so in the same detail as the original book would be unrealistic. In the event, I limited myself to the new intro and 3,500-word postscript that briefly brings the DP story up to date. 

The book is available two cased formats, Standard and Deluxe, the latter (pictured above) limited to 500 copies with all sorts of goodies and signed by David Coverdale, Ian Gillan, Roger Glover, Glenn Hughes, Ian Paice and Nick Simper. A promotional video for the book can be accessed here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_SfFs6LmdI&t=2s

    Here’s my new introduction: 

Introduction to 2023 Edition

In 1982 I was commissioned by Omnibus Press to write a biography of Deep Purple, a group with whom I’d become familiar during the early seventies as a staff writer on Melody Maker. I had seen them perform several times, both in the UK and France, and on tour in the US, and interviewed all the members of the ‘classic’ line-up. As a result, I got to know them and their management quite well, so I approached them for assistance, which was largely forthcoming. At that stage in Deep Purple’s story the group was defunct and there were no plans to reform, so my book covered only the years 1968-1976, which in the event turned out to be the first phase of a career that endures to this day. 

        The first edition of the book was illustrated throughout with photographs of the group’s four line-ups and reproductions of documents pertaining to their career. It was published in 1983 with a Japanese edition following two years later and, though I say it myself, Deep Purple – The Illustrated Biography became the standard narrative on the band’s formative years and ascent to fame. Much to my surprise, a year after the book’s publication the ‘classic’ line-up of the group did reform. This was the line-up that I referred to in my book as Deep Purple Mark II, the one that enjoyed the greatest success, comprising guitarist Ritchie Blackmore, keyboard player Jon Lord, drummer Ian Paice, bassist Roger Glover and singer Ian Gillan, but as in times past personality clashes created an instability that led to personnel changes and in the decades that followed other musicians came and went. 

        The sad death of co-founder Jon Lord in 2012 might have been expected to extinguish the Deep Purple flame but at the time of writing the group is still operating, with Paice, Glover and Gillan performing and recording with Don Airey on keyboards and, on guitar, Simon McBride who took over after Steve Morse left for personal reasons in 2022. Since 1997 Ritchie Blackmore has led Blackmore’s Night, a folk-rock group specialising in folk and Renaissance music that features his wife Candice Night on vocals. They dress in period costume and often appear at venues where Medieval Fayres are held, sometimes at ancient castles and stately homes. 

        Back in 1982, charged with the task of researching the book, my first port of call was the offices of HEC Enterprises at 25 Newman Street in London’s West End where John Coletta, the group’s original co-manager, looked after the affairs of Whitesnake, one of the many spin-off groups that Deep Purple would hatch. He agreed to help me and I also approached their second co-manager, Tony Edwards, who then ran Safari Records, and he too agreed to help. The two managers both gave me enlightening interviews while a third, who was purely an investor, left the partnership early in the game and was deemed by them to be irrelevant to the group’s story. John Coletta passed away in 2006 and Tony Edwards in 2010.

        Coletta’s new partner was Rob Cooksey, who had been Deep Purple’s tour manager, and both helped me contact Jon Lord, Ian Paice, Ian Gillan, Roger Glover and his successor on bass Glenn Hughes, all of whom agreed to be interviewed, the latter two answering written questions into a tape recorder and mailing me recorded cassettes. For reasons known only to himself Ritchie Blackmore declined to cooperate which disappointed me because during the period when I followed the group avidly he and I always seemed to get along quite well. A planned interview with David Coverdale never happened because his disagreeable tour manager wanted to set conditions that I found unacceptable. As well as Coletta and Edwards, I spoke to DP record producers Derek Lawrence and Martin Birch, and three members of the group’s road crew, Cooksey, Ian Hansford and Mick Angus. David ‘Screaming Lord’ Sutch, who died in 1999, gave me the low down on Blackmore’s early career, and I spoke with a few others who’d observed them closely. Original singer Rod Evans proved untraceable, latter day guitarist Tommy Bolin had passed away, and I was indebted to Simon Robinson of the Deep Purple Appreciation Society for allowing me to quote at will from a long and wide-ranging interview with original bassist Nick Simper.

        No one vetted my final manuscript and, thanks largely to Jon Lord’s sincerity and willingness to tell it like it was, the book was and remains remarkably candid, far more so than most ‘authorised’ biographies of the era, perhaps because at the time no one thought Deep Purple had an afterlife beyond the split in 1976 and there was therefore nothing to lose by holding back information that at one time might have been deemed confidential. (Among the book’s more startling revelations was a complete gig list which, because it was supplied to me by the group’s meticulous accountant, also included the fees paid to the group for almost every show they performed.) As it happened there was an afterlife to Deep Purple that has lasted until the present day. Many fans of the group as they are configured today might be unfamiliar with their illustrious beginnings and I hope this new edition of my book will enlighten them.

        For the record, this edition has been re-edited by myself, reworked here and there and benefits from new information culled from documents pertaining to the business affairs of HEC Enterprises. Such documents confirm that just because a musician no longer records or performs with a group doesn’t mean they’ve left in the ‘legal’ sense, so the comings and goings within the ranks of Deep Purple in 1973 and 1975 caused endless behind the scenes business problems for the directors of HEC, and that as a result some members of the band benefitted from their success far more than others. 

        For their help with this edition, which includes an extensively re-written aftermath at the end, I would like to thank Roger Glover, Mark Smith, Drew Thompson, Simon Robinson and Joel McIver. 

        Deep Purple 1968-1976: The Visual History is dedicated to the memory of my late friend Jon Lord, a fine musician and true gentleman whose graciousness towards me during my research for this book made it what it was and, I hope, still is. 

Chris Charlesworth, October, 2022