Mickeyboro

I wrote a book on Peel. Fortunately his manager, the recently deceased Clive Selwood, liked it, which cemented a nice friendship. Had to get help from specialist fellow writers to assess the different decades, as none of us had the expertise to cover everything. In my mind that says it all about Peel...he really was unique.

If your fingers knot up after trying this bass line, fear not - you could very well be entitled to compensation for personal Ian Dury!😁

Spoke with a friend today who owns the Thunderbird RG used with Rainbow. Anyone renember it? Extra pickup!

Then there’s Love And Affection. Joan Armatrading’s drummer has to double on Sax for just that one song!😁

I have a recently acquired a Sandberg Electra VM4. Astounding value and build quality... hard to know how they make a profit on it!

Did anyone mention Brexit?😈

You’re getting about a bit, old chap. Can I claim my fiver by identifying you as Dominic Cummings?😂😷

Man’s fated-from-the-start comeback in 1983 We played two sold-out nights at the Marquee on Friday 13th and Saturday 14th May 1983. Both nights were recorded but only the first was filmed. I have no idea who put this deal together but Robin Greatrex must have been involved because his label, Picasso Records, put out the live album. I’m sorry if I’m a little vague on such matters but I’m allergic to administration, which I – in pursuit of artistic purity unsullied by commercial considerations – find somewhat beneath me. Which is why, today, I’m a demi-semi-pauper. So, the best you can expect from me is generalisation, assumption and educated guesswork, recalled in marijuana-induced stupor. We decided to call the album ‘Friday 13th’, because that was the date of the recording. Friday 13th, if you believe in such things, is supposed to be an unlucky day, but we, as a band, were rational men, empiricist in method and sceptical in outlook, so, far from succumbing to superstition, we set out to challenge it. We decided to make this the unluckiest album ever released so that when it sold millions we could establish a bulwark of rationalism in an irrational world and laugh in the face of mumbo jumbo. The original idea for the album cover was an upside-down horseshoe, leaking bad luck all over a caricature of the band, standing below. But we faltered because we had to face a blatantly obvious fact – we needed all the luck we could get, so why risk it? But we kept the album title. The resulting video had several TV showings – don’t ask me to name the channels – and was eventually released, imaginatively entitled by an unseen hand, as Bananas. The video itself was flawed by circumstances beyond our control. The stage at the Marquee was about four-feet high, so the first row of the standing crowd, could comfortably lean on it. Among them, at centre-stage, was a young lad, stripped to the waist. He was obviously into bodybuilding because he had a well-defined, muscular torso and iron-pumped biceps. He was totally lost in the music and determined to dance, but, hemmed in by an elbow-to-elbow crowd, he, somewhat restricted, was forced to do it on the spot, exposing those in his immediate vicinity to the clear and present danger of suffering collateral damage. So far, so good. But about halfway through the show he climbed up on some poor bastard’s shoulders and continued his manic dance. Onstage, we couldn’t help but notice him but he was no trouble, just another fan going ape-stinky poo. Only when we saw the video did we realise he was directly in the line of the main camera, dominating any long shot of the whole stage. So, from head on, we looked as if we were providing musical backing for a male stripper. Still, all you could accuse him of was enthusiasm. Swept away by our music, he was in the zone, and, given that’s exactly where we wanted him and the rest of the audience to be, we could hardly complain, could we? It isn’t as if he set out to flip up the video, he was just an innocent gyrator who happened to stand in the wrong place. The bastard! The British tour that followed the Marquee gigs was a cracker. As in Germany, we sold-out substantial gigs. The ‘Friday 13th’ album was released but only the usual suspects – bless their little hearts – bought it. Still, on balance, the reformation was a success. There was still a demand which we were ready and able to supply and we were making a few bob. We decided to persevere. Well, you might as well as not.

The name just sounds like rhyming slang to me... For what I can't say. Bart? Richie? Blair?

I really enjoyed mine, but somehow under stage lights the fret markings did not stand out and I got lost! After it happened twice in succession I moved it on. Never realised how much I looked down...

A very good combination! Used LM800 and SC for many months.

Playing to a segregated audience of GIs at a US base in Europe with the Blackjacks, mid Sixties (from Maybe I Should’ve Stayed In Bed) ...THEN SCROLL DOWN FOR ANOTHER STORY The camp buzzed with excitement. Everybody was coming to the gig. Even the gate MPs had their duty-roster staggered so that they could catch at least one set. Our arrival onstage was greeted with sustained cheering. Each song was greeted with rapture. Black GIs cheered the white songs, white GIs cheered the black songs, and the master-sergeants danced around the foyer. The evening flew by, kept aloft by hot thermals of affection, and everything went well until five to twelve. The strict midnight curfew imposed by the High Command was inviolable – the word ‘approximately’ does not appear in US Army codes of conduct. Before we did the last number I thanked everybody for being a wonderful audience, praised them for being exemplary hosts, and expressed the hope that our paths would cross again in the near future. Then, overcome with genuine emotion, I made a ghastly mistake. ‘We’ve got one number left,’ I said. ‘Any requests?’ The white GIs leapt to their feet, shouting for ‘Wipe Out’, and the black GIs jumped up, shouting for ‘Can I Get A Witness?’ They started banging the tables and it quickly became a contest as they tried to out-shout each other. The master-sergeants suddenly appeared and began to patrol the central aisle, I had brought an evening of blissful catharsis to the brink of a race riot. I stood in the midst of the turmoil and stinky poo myself. A decision had to be made. I turned to the band. They all stared at me with baleful eyes and raised eyebrows, that said, ‘Don’t look at us, you prat. You flipped it up – you sort it out.’ ‘Can I Get A Witness?’ I shouted, for no other reason that I preferred it to ‘Wipe Out’, which is such a tedious song to play. We launched into ‘Can I Get A Witness’. The black GIs bellowed with delight, congratulating each other with soul handshakes. As one, the white GIs sat down and glowered. Half the place was dancing and the other half was thinking about burning crosses. The black GIs began to taunt the white GIs, who started flexing their shoulders. The master-sergeants faced the black GIs and drew their batons. I looked at the clock above the foyer door. It was two minutes to twelve. I turned to Pete and Don. ‘Wipe Out’, I yelled. ‘Change to “Wipe Out”.’ Pete started the galloping tom-tom beat and Don and I joined in on the riff. Suddenly all the white GIs jumped up and started dancing and, just as suddenly, all the black GIs sat down and glowered. The white GIs began to taunt the black GIs and the master-sergeants turned to face them, tapping their batons gently on the palms of their hands. I looked up at the clock. Thirty seconds to midnight. Close enough. I made a cut-throat sign to Pete and Don, and we finished with a relieved flourish. The end of the song seemed to catch everybody by surprise and although there was some sporadic clapping they were more interested in glaring at each other than applauding the band. There were a few minor scuffles but the master sergeants, with genial malevolence, nipped them in the bud. Order was restored and the audience began to leave. As we packed the gear, one of the master-sergeants walked past the stage. ‘That was close,’ I said. ‘Just another Saturday night,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Just another Saturday night in Bar-le-flipping-Duc.’

My favourite is Andrew Bodnar on the 1976 Graham Parker and the Rumour live bootleg.. I play it at least once a week!

A bit of Deke Leonard writing on John's audition for Man. He usurped their original choice, a Finn called Matti. The following day about lunchtime there was a knock on the door. I answered it. ‘Hi, I’m John McKenzie. I’ve come to audition for the band.’ The first thing I noticed about him was that he was black – I don’t miss much. I took him to the kitchen where Dominique made a fuss of him. He was well-spoken, well-mannered with an easy laugh. Another civilised man in the midst of barbarians. Over a cup of tea and a joint or two, he gave us a bit of biog. His last band had been the Global Village Trucking Company, his father was Mike McKenzie, a jazz pianist of some repute, and his auntie was Annie Ross. He was a thoroughbred and a real charmer. It was such a pity we had to string him along. ‘Now, why couldn’t he have been a shithead?’ I remember thinking. About two we adjourned to the lounge, making going-through-the-motions gestures to Matti who followed us in. We dispensed with the warm-up and went straight into ‘Born With A Future.’ I think we told him what key it was in. Jones kicked it in. McKenzie listened to a couple of bars then began to play. It was some of the most beautiful bass-playing I had ever heard. It rippled, it bounced, it soared. The ascending run he played over the bridge into the end solo was breathtaking and I found myself standing on tip-toe. When he hit an accent you could see the note travel up his arm, over his shoulder, down his spine and into his leg. Terry’s elbows went up and we were all grinning furiously. Terry always raises his elbows when he’s flying. We played for about an hour then we reluctantly stopped. ‘You’ve got the gig,’ we chorused. There was much welcome-to-the-fold back-slapping. Suddenly, we remembered Matti. We looked around for him but he’d gone. ‘Oh Gawd,’ I said, ‘I’d better go and tell him.’ He was sitting at the kitchen table, playing the guitar. Dominique stood quietly by the Aga, holding her breath. ‘Matti…’ I said. ‘I know. I know,’ he said, smiling, ‘He’s terrific. You must take him. It’s OK. I understand.’ I began to apologise but he waved it aside. We briefed McKenzie on our plans for the future and he was driven back to London to pack his bags and return forthwith.

Lovely fella and great musician - probably not the best fit for Man, but anyone who played with Dylan, Dexys and Lenny Henry is nothing if not versatile. Rest easy, John.

Studio fun with Tony Hatch and Sid James, 1969 We went back into the studio to start recording the new album; same set-up: John Schroeder, Alan Florence and Pye Studios. It was tentatively titled ‘2ozs Of Plastic (With A Hole In The Middle)’. I had, and still have, no idea whether a record weighs two ounces, but it seemed about right. With our first album under our belts we were more assured in the studio, wallowing in the recording process. There’s nothing quite like total musical freedom and a pocketful of extremely dangerous drugs. The stars of the Pye stable were Tony Hatch and Jackie Trent. They’d had a few hits but mostly they were famous for soap theme tunes. They had written the Crossroads signature-tune, and would later write the ghastly theme from Neighbours. A few years later, McCartney did a version of ‘Crossroads’ and the TV show delightedly used it from then on. I think that speaks volumes about young Paul. Quite often, we followed Tony Hatch into the studio. On one occasion we found a harpsichord still set up. I started picking out a tune on it, Raymond added a bass line, and Plug – Jeffrey was late – played the drums. Schroeder arrived, liked it, and suggested we put it down on tape, which we did. As we finished, Tony Hatch came back. When he saw what was going on, he erupted. His voice boomed over the Tannoy. ‘If you haven’t paid for the hire of an instrument, you should not use it. It’s rude. Get off it, now!’ Morally, he was correct, but, artistically, he was being a little petty-minded, I thought. After all, we’re all musicians here. Sort of. But, I had to concede, I was guilty as charged. An apology was in order. ‘How does “F@ck off” sound?’ I enquired. A bijou argumentette ensued. I got off the harpsichord – the song was in the can, anyway – and he left. The highlight of the album, for me, came during the mixing of ‘Spunk Rock’. We were listening to a playback. I had my head down on my forearms, leaning against the end of the console. A rustling noise made me look up and there, standing at the other end, was Sid James. My first thought was, ‘Wow, this is good acid’, but there was no denying it, it really was the great man. The playback finished, there was a moment of silence, then the great man spoke. ‘Well, that’s music to move your bowels to.’ He followed it with a cluster of gravelly laughs. He sounded exactly like Sid James. We pumped him, shamelessly, for Hancock stories and he graciously obliged. During the course of the conversation, the reason for his presence emerged. He was there to interview us. Sid James was going to interview me. Well, I didn’t see that one coming. He had a record show on South African radio. It was taped in Britain and sent to the evil republic for transmission. I was so starry-eyed, I ignored the implications of condoning the white boot of oppression that for centuries had been a cancer in the body politic of humanity. I ask not for forgiveness, for there is none. In mitigation, there were extraordinarily extenuating circumstances. We all sat around a microphone in the studio and he began the interview, introducing us in turn. After he introduced me, he stopped. ‘Deke,’ he said, ‘that’s a funny name, how did you get it?’ I had taken the name from the character Elvis played in Loving You. It sounded cool, and I thought I’d never get to be a rock’n’roll star with a name like Roger. It was hardly riveting radio. ‘It’s a very long and not very interesting story,’ I replied. ‘Oh,’ he said, flatly, looking daggers at me, ‘well, it’s a very long story for a very short name.’ He continued with the interview but it had gone. I had killed it. Suddenly, he clapped his hands. ‘Let’s start again,’ he said, looking pointedly at me, ‘I think we can do better than that.’ I was suitably chastened. He began the interview again. Once more he introduced us. After he introduced me, he stopped again. ‘Deke,’ he said, ‘that’s a funny name. How did you get it?’ I couldn’t believe it and neither could he. He gave a damn-and-blast-it grimace. ‘It’s short for Deacon,’ I said. ‘My mother wanted a preacher.’ It wasn’t quite the Joke Of The Year, but it made him laugh. I had made Sid James laugh. Further proof that I existed. I can’t remember the rest of the interview. As he left we all shook his hand. ‘Goodbye, Deacon,’ he said to me. ‘Goodbye, Mr James,’ I said. ‘Call me Sid, son,’ he said. It’s all been downhill since then.

There was a hell of a lot unsaid, but it was only an hour. Telling that Hank and the other two were never in the same country, let alone room. Mind you they were not in each other’s monitors either😂

The advantage of limited channels is the shared experience, eg Bowie and Ronson etc. Water cooler moments before water coolers were invented!

Heavy though!

Hank is v media savvy. Has had innumerable farewell tours etc documented by Eagle Rock for DVD.