Mickeyboro

Me too! We’d probably have been two seats apart...

Fascinating stuff ! I was convinced the guy at 2.45 was looking at a mobile phone...

They had a demon bass player I was in awe of. By the hit era he had been replaced by a girl who was, IMO, more in my class than his...

Scroll through for another 5-minute lockdown read... I was dripping with sweat, my throat was parched, my legs were trembling and I wanted to go to the toilet. I had hot and cold flushes, blurred vision, and pins and needles in my extremities, which I presumed were the initial symptoms of a heart attack. I was petrified and I wasn’t alone. Mike and Geoff were in the same state. We were ‘Lucifer and the Corncrackers’ and this was our first gig. We sat on a row of chairs at the side of the stage, eyes cast down, like condemned men waiting for the hangman to arrive. I racked my addled brain for an excuse to run. I prayed that somebody would rush in and inform me of a death in the family – unlikely, since I come from a line of long-livers; I longed for a power cut – next to impossible, I would have thought, given that we were playing in a power station; and I yearned for an earthquake – the thought of the earth opening up and swallowing me was curiously comforting but the San Dafydd Fault had been depressingly inert for some years. But nobody rushed in, the lights didn’t flicker, and bloody terra remained bloody firma. There was no escape. Suddenly I understood how Custer must have felt. It was Saturday, the 17th of March 1962, and we were at the Car Bay Club, the social club of the Carmarthen Bay Power Station in Burry Port, just down the coast from Llanelly. The place was packed and the average age of the audience was about sixty. In the run-up to the gig, ignorance about what was to come had made us somewhat cocky but that cockiness disappeared completely in the face of the public. We took one look at them and had a small, collective nervous breakdown. It was billed as a talent contest. There were six acts and we were the third on. We were told that there was a big agent in the audience. He was easy to spot. He sat at a table directly in front of the stage. He was a lumpy, balding man in a crumpled suit and he shared the table with his wife, who looked just as you’d expect an agent’s wife to look – like a down-market bookie’s wife. She sat in morose silence while he talked loudly to her about show business, name-dropping furiously. He mentioned Shirley Bassey at least four times. The first act was a Cliff Richard look-alike who sang ‘The Young Ones’ in a key far too high for him. ‘He’ll never make the middle-eight,’ I said to Mike. As expected, he broke down halfway through the song and, red-faced with embarrassment, returned to his seat on a wave of sympathy from his mates. We, who thought Cliff Richard was a disgrace to civilisation, were rather pleased. Much to our delight the agent ignored him and continued talking loudly to his wife, who’d obviously heard it all before. The second act was a genial, semi-famous, ex-rugby player who sang ‘Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling’ in a tremulous baritone voice. It was excruciating because he was a little sharp all the way through, but it was obvious that the audience had heard him sing it a million times before because he received warm, indulgent applause. He failed, however, to make any impression on the agent, although he clearly affected his wife, who was knocking back gin & tonics at an alarming rate. Then the compère, an elderly committee-man holding a sheet of paper, shuffled on to the stage. He stood in front of the microphone and blew into it. It whistled derisively. He cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it’s their first booking so give them a big hand…’ He rummaged around in his pockets until he found his glasses. Then, holding the sheet of paper at arm’s length, he began to read, ‘…Loose Ivor and the Prawn Crackers.’ My bowels went into spasm. There was no backing out now. We walked on to the stage like pall-bearers. We passed the committee-man coming off. ‘You got our name wrong,’ I hissed. ‘It’s not the Prawn Crackers. It’s the Corncrackers. We’re a group, not a Chinese aperitif. And who the flip is Loose Ivor?’ ‘There’s no need for that kind of language.’ he said, ‘and, anyway, I didn’t say that.’ ‘Yes, you did,’ I said. ‘No, I bloody didn’t,’ he said. ‘Yes, you bloody did,’ I insisted, with white-knuckled nonchalance. ‘Well, it’s a stupid name for a group, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You want to get yourself a proper name, boy.’ ‘It is a proper name,’ I said. ‘Just because…’ I was about to give him a lecture on the lack of imagination exhibited by the musical community in the choosing of band names, when I noticed the audience. Any applause we might have received had long-since died away and they were sitting in deathly silence, waiting for us to start. ‘Get on with it,’ shouted a voice from the back. So we got on with it. We’d had no rehearsals as such. We’d just played through a few songs in each others’ front rooms. There was no plugging in because we had acoustic guitars – our first mistake, because once we started all you could hear were Geoff’s drums. We opened up with Eddie Cochran’s ‘20 Flight Rock’, which Mike sang. I counted it in. I was rigid with fear. I dared not look at the audience so I looked at my feet and waited for the first bottle to be thrown. I abandoned all hope and gritted my teeth, swearing that I’d never put myself through this kind of ordeal again. I just wasn’t cut out to be a musician. I would have to resign myself to a tedious and unremarkable life in the building trade. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I risked a glance. It was Mike. He was leaping all over the stage. He’d put down his guitar, grabbed the microphone, and assumed the mantle of front-man. The audience were on their feet, laughing and clapping, and the agent had stopped talking to his wife, which was just as well because she was lying back in her chair, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open. We were going down a storm. Mike got more outrageous as the set progressed. Teetering on the edge of the stage, he swivelled his hips suggestively at a couple of matrons in the front row and they dissolved into giggles. He rubbed the microphone against his groin and the matrons covered their eyes with shame. He finished the set by taking his jacket off and waving it above his head, just like we’d seen Joey Dee and the Starliters do in a recent film. The agent stared at the stage, mesmerised. Everybody stared at the stage. Except, of course, the agent’s wife. It was then I learnt my first lesson in stagecraft. It didn’t matter if the drums were too loud. It didn’t matter if you couldn’t hear the guitar. It didn’t even matter if you couldn’t hear the vocals. As long as somebody was jumping up and down in the middle of the stage then all was well with the world. We left the stage with rapturous applause ringing in our ears. The agent pulled out a notebook and started scribbling. We assumed he was working out how much money he was going to offer us for the forthcoming world tour he was arranging on our behalf. We gathered at the side of the stage and congratulated each other. We were on our way. Success was a foregone conclusion. Fame and fortune were just around the corner. Then the next act came on. She was a portly woman about sixty years-old dressed in a floral pinafore and carpet-slippers. She was carrying a metal drinks tray. She shuffled to the centre of the stage, took out her false teeth with a flourish and sang ‘She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain When She Comes’, accenting the off-beat by hitting herself over the head with the tray. And, as a bonus, every time the tray hit her head she went squint; I have no way of knowing whether this was intentional or a bi-product of cerebral pummelling but, by God, it was effective. As the song drew to a close she gave up all pretence of timing and beat herself randomly about the head, ending with a savage skull-crushing staccato. The tray was mangled beyond recognition and she was suffering from severe concussion but she had the audience in the palm of her hand. The agent was on his knees in front of her, begging her to sign a lifetime contract for a million pounds. Even the agent’s wife had woken up, jarred back to consciousness, no doubt, by the sound of unforgiving metal on splintering bone. The agent ignored the last two acts and spent the rest of the evening deep in conversation with his new find. He appeared to have forgotten about us. At the end of the evening we were paid ten bob each. I remember thinking I could make a living at this. There was a complaint from the committee that some of Mike’s bumping and grinding had been a little on the lewd side, but we brushed it aside. We forgot about being upstaged by a geriatric sado-masochist and remembered the sweet sound of applause.

I have decided to learn the piano while we are waiting for life to recommence. I have got a three-month trial of Skoove, which teaches via the iPad, and within a week I have played a couple of things with two hands. Not well, but something I thought was beyond me. Anyone else tried this journey or has had dealings with Skoove?

NOW IN THE LATE 70s When Tina Turner came to town, my social life went into overdrive. She was such an incendiary performer that it was almost impossible to miss any opportunity to see her. Another thing that made her gigs unmissable was her superlative band, all seasoned American pros, who made the impossible seem effortless. I went to all her London gigs. She was a sweetheart, who wore her superstar status lightly. There were no fits of pique, no temper tantrums and no tearful demands at three o’clock in the morning, just down-to-earth, common sense, wrapped up in grace and humour. And I got to know the band, particularly Lenny Macaluso, the guitar player and musical director, Billy Haynes, the bass-player with a gorgeous basso profundo voice, and Kenny Moore, a keyboard wizard with a stunning tenor voice, who sung the opening song of the set before introducing the star of the show. They knew I was a musician and they knew that Barrie was my manager, so I was accepted as one of the team, inside the bubble that envelopes a touring band. After every show, all the principals went for a slap-up meal in a posh restaurant, and I was always invited. One night I found myself sitting next to Lenny Macaluso. I knew nothing about him, so I gently probed for information. He was an Italian-American from Philadelphia. He’d worked with some of the biggest names in the business – none of which I can now remember – in a variety of roles; sometimes as guitar-player, sometimes as MD, sometimes writing arrangements, sometimes producing the albums. He spent most of his time in the studio and he only went out on the road when he had an offer he couldn’t refuse. “How can you say no to Tina Turner?” he said. “Ever been in a regular band?” I asked. “Only twice,” he said. “Booker T & the MGs and Redbone.” I gulped. Booker T & the MGs, as I’m sure you know, were a seminal band from Memphis. You must have heard ‘Green Onions’, arguably the greatest instrumental of all time, and, if you’re a cricket aficionado, you will be aware that their ‘Soul Limbo’ is the signature tune for BBC Radio’s Test Match Special. And Redbone? I’d begun to think they were a figment of my imagination. They were a Native American band who fused dirty, swamp music with irresistible tribal rhythms, creating a highly-individualistic style that was instantly recognizable. Their big hit was ‘Crazy Cajun Cakewalk Man’, but every track was a corker. “Not a bad CV,” I said. But it was a two-way conversation. He seemed just as interested in my past as I had obviously been about his. Maybe he was just being polite? So I gave him a potted history of the Manband, mentioning a gig we’d played in his home town. What did I think of Philly, he asked? “I can only remember the gig and the hotel,” I said. “Where d’you play?” “I can’t remember the name of the gig.” “Philly made a big impression on you, then?” he said. “Unforgettable,” I said. During the rest of the evening we did some serious muso-bonding. At one point, I mentioned the recent demise of my beloved Manband. I told him that, after a long sabbatical, I intended to resume my solo career. Probably make an album, probably put together another Iceberg, and probably hit the road again. “Well,” he said, “if you need any brass arrangements for the new album just call me.” “Are you serious” I said? “Just call me,” he said. “Ooh, I will,” I said. One night after a London show, Tina felt the need to shake a tail feather so Barry made a few phonecalls, booking tables and stuff, and off we went. The assembled company comprised Tina, Barrie and Jenny, me, Eryl (my significant other at the time) and Martin Ace (who just happened to be in town). A photographer snapped us as we arrived at the first club. We were ushered to a suitable table and drinks were ordered. The club was dimly-lit and almost empty and the music wasn’t too loud to preclude civilised conversation, so we decided to have a drink or two before moving on. At one point, Eryl wandered off to find a toilet, but she didn’t come back. While she was away, Barrie suggested it was indeed time to move on, so I went to find her. She was sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a familiar face – Phil Lynott. He was leaning on the bar, with his face close to hers, talking conspiratorially. Eryl had never met him so I knew they weren’t talking about old times. Lynott was chatting up my bird, so I strolled over to them. “Hello, Phillip,” I said, “What’s shaking?” “Oh, hello, Deke,” he said, flashing me a look that said, “f@ck off, you silly billy, can’t you see I’m on the pull?” I ignored him, and started talking shop. I talked about the old days when Thin Lizzy and the Manband had shared many a stage. I told him I still had the Telecaster that he’d loved so much that he’d tried to buy it off me. I’d refused to sell it, but, to alleviate his disappointment, I allowed him to borrow it every night for ‘Whisky In The Jar’. But he wasn’t listening. He started to shift back and forth on his feet, firing filthy looks in my direction, while Eryl sat in inscrutable silence. I continued to talk shop while Lynott got more and more irritated. Surreptitiously, he started kicking my legs and jerking his head in the general direction of Mars, where, no doubt, he would like me to go. Suddenly, I broke off. “Oh, I’m sorry, Phillip,” I said, nodding in Eryl’s direction. “Are you trying to f@ck this bird?” Surprised by the directness of my question, he got flustered and started to splutter. This was brilliant. I’d never seen Lynott lost for words before. “You’re doing it wrong,” I said. “This is how you do it.” I looked directly at Eryl. “Fancy a f@ck, love?” I asked. She looked me up and down. “OK,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve got nothing better to do.” Lynott looked astounded. His mouth moved but no sound came out. I let him stew for a delicious moment or two, before plunging a metaphorical dagger into his promiscuous heart. “This is my bird,” said, pointing at Eryl. “You’re trying to f@ck my bird.” A look of horror flashed across his face, and he began apologising profusely. Suddenly, he stopped and burst out laughing. “You bastard, Leonard,” he said, and, shaking his head, stalked off looking for his next victim. When Eryl and I got back to our table, a move was in progress. Tina had pointed out that, much as she liked our present location, her tail feather remained unshaken. So we moved on. As we left the club I looked over at the bar, where Lynott was talking conspiratorially to a giggly blonde, obviously successfully negotiating an alternative exchange of bodily fluids. I waved but he ignored me. Phil Lynott died long before his time. Why do they always take the good ones? Why didn’t they take Chris de Burgh instead?. After another club, where nothing of note happened, we decided to call it a day. In due course, the Tina Turner band went back to America, and normal service was resumed. I may have given you the impression that my life was a an endless round of celebrity hobnobbing, but these superstar visits were occasional highlights, only lumped into a single chapter for editorial convenience, rather than consecutive events. Between these seismic events, my life reverted to its default position – doing f@ck all.

In his one-man show, Mike, he’d always bemoan the latest rock casualty and propose an alternative. In my mind’s eye, I can hear him saying: John Prine! Why do they always take the good ones? Why couldn’t they take Boris instead...?😈😱

SWASHBUCKLING (SCROLL TO BOTTOM FOR ANOTHER TALE...) A seminal moment in my life loomed. We were booked to play support for Johhny Kidd and the Pirates at the Ritz. Johhny Kidd was one of the brightest stars in the rock'n'roll firmament. He was the only British singer who was the equal of his American counterparts. He was right up there with Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Gene Vincent and Bo Diddley. More than that, he was a great songwriter. I'd have given my left bollock to have written 'Shakin' All Over'. His backing band, the Pirates, were quite simply the best band in the world. I'd seen them twice before; once at the Regal Cinema in Llanelly, supported by Vince Eager and Wee Willie Harris, and once again, about a year later, at the Ritz. But this was different. Until now I'd only been a member of the audience at a Pirates' gig, but this time I'd be sharing a stage with them. I'd get to meet them. I'd get to talk to them. I was ever-so-slightly straining at the leash. The big night rolled around, but we had to play the L-Club first. The moment the last chord died away we started packing the gear. We slung it in the van and raced over to the Ritz. The Pirates' gear was already set up. Like us, they were a three-piece. On a centre-stage rostrum was an industrial-size drum-kit and, on either side, matching cream Fender Showman Amps tipped back on their stands, aimed at the balcony. Just looking at the stage sent a shiver down my spine. I got the same feeling, years later, when I stood in front of the temple of Rameses II at Abu Simbal in Upper Egypt. We found them in the dressing room and, starry-eyed, shook hands with them. They were friendly but self-contained, keeping a humorous distance. Johnny wasn't wearing his eye-patch. The eye-patch was source of much controversy. The music press was agog with curiosity. Did he really have something wrong with his eye? Or was it just a sick gimmick? Johnny told reporters that he had been changing a string on his guitar just before going onstage and it had snapped and hit him in the eye. He'd borrowed an eye-patch - there's always someone around with a spare eye-patch, isn't there? - and because it went down well with the audience he'd continued to wear it. If it offended anybody, he said, he would stop wearing it, adding pricelessly that he'd probably have his leg off and wear a peg-leg instead. 'I only wear it when I want to be recognised.' he told me. 'When I take it off, nobody recognises me.' 'I would,' I said. We went on and played out of our skins. The highlight came when Johhny Kidd stood in the wings and watched us for a couple of numbers. Then it was their turn. As Micky Green, the Pirates' guitarist, walked past me on his way to the stage he held up his guitar for me to see. It was the most beautiful guitar I'd ever seen. It was beautiful, like a bulldog is beautiful. 'It's a Fender Telecaster,' he shouted over the back-stage noise. 'It's the same guitar that James Burton uses.' Earlier in the dressing room we had declared our mutual love of James Burton, Ricky Nelson's legendary guitar-player. It was no surprise to me that James Burton was one of his influences. You could hear it in his playing. Green was probably the most startlingly original guitar-player in the world, but in there somewhere you could hear James Burton. If you want to hear Green at his most sublime then listen to his solo, done in the style of Burton, on 'Ecstasy', itself a beautiful song. Burton must be turning in his grave. If he was dead. Which he isn't. I stood in the wings and listened to the best band in the world. The Telecaster was a revelation, sounding fat and percussive. Now, I'm quite prepared to admit that this may have had something to do with Green's monstrous talent, but even so there was no disguising the sound of the guitar. 'I'm gonna get one of those,' I said to him after the gig. The following day I dispatched Quasimodo to London to buy me one. I didn't know how much it would cost so I gave him £200. Three days later he came back with a Telecaster - £127, plus case. It was a sun-burst, Custom Telecaster. The only difference from a regular Telecaster was white piping around the bodywork which, to the uneducated eye, gave it the appearance of a semi-acoustic. I tried it out and it was magnificent. 'It was the only one in London,' said Quasimodo. 'I got it in Ivor Mairants' shop. They said they'd had it in the back of the shop for about two years and I was the first person to ever ask for one. At first they thought I was joking. They asked me what gear you used and I said an AC 30 amp. They asked me what echo-unit you used. I said you didn't use one. Just the AC 30. They didn't believe me. They said everybody uses an echo-chamber.' These were the days when ninety-nine per cent of guitarists were Hank B. Marvin clones. Marvin, the pedestrian lead-guitarist with Cliff Richard's backing band, the Shadows, played ghastly, wooden riffs, drenched in echo. It proved to be a seductive style because it required very little skill to execute, thereby putting it within the reach of the most average of guitar- players. Eventually it went the way of most fads, dying from lack of substance, and a thousand useless guitar-players hung up their guitars and became accountants - which is what they should have been in the first place. They were part of the past and I was part of the future. Who says London is ahead of the game? As chance would have it, we supported Johhny Kidd again at the Ritz a couple of months later. This time we booked another band in at the L-Club and got to the Ritz early. We set the gear up in the darkened hall and ran through a few numbers, among them 'My Babe', a Pirates tour-de-force. Halfway through the song the swing doors at the back of the hall burst open and a bass-drum case slid across the polished dance floor, followed by a guitar-case. Then Johnny Kidd and the Pirates walked in. They stood at the back of the hall and listened to us. At first we felt a bit sheepish but then we saw the smiles on their faces so we turned it on. Suddenly Johnny Kidd, dressed in a black, thigh-length, leather coat, ran towards us. He leapt onto the stage, grabbed the nearest microphone and began to sing. The beauty of rock'n'roll dreams is that, occasionally, they come true. We kept 'My Babe' going for far longer than necessary. When it was time for my solo Johhny Kidd pointed at my Telecaster and grinned. When we finally finished, the rest of the Pirates jumped up onto the stage and clustered around my Telecaster. I handed it to Micky Green. He looked it over, then played a few searing, chopping licks. 'It's great,' he said. 'It's a Custom. I've never seen one before.' Then Johhny Kidd had a go. He liked it too. Then Johhny Spencer, the bass-player, had a go. Even Frank Farley, the drummer, played a chord or two. We talked guitars for a while and then they began to wander off. As Johhny Kidd left, he took me by the arm. 'If you're ever looking for a singer,' he said, 'give me a call. Who knows? - the Pirates might sack me one day.' 'The job's yours,' I said. As if I wasn't happy enough Micky Green stood in the wings and watched our whole set. Occasionally we caught each others' eye and exchanged knowing smiles. My life has been downhill ever since. Of course he could have been bored; I know how tedious all that hanging about can be, killing time until the show starts. But he could have gone for a drink in the bar, couldn't he? And he didn't, did he? Then Johnny Kidd and the Pirates went on. I stood in the wings and for the last time watched the best band in the world. Occasionally I caught Micky Green's eye and we exchanged knowing smiles. At the end of the night we said goodbye, wished them luck, and waved them off. We never played together again because two years later, in October '66, Johhny Kidd was killed in a car crash. Why do they always take the good ones? Why didn't they take Hank B-bloody Marvin instead? The Telecaster, being such a rarity, proved to be a major fascination for visiting star bands. Whoever we supported at the Ritz would first enquire what it was, then ask if they could try it. The Hollies came to town and after the sound-check Allan Clarke, their singer, took one look at it and commandeered it. He sat on the drum rostrum and started to play. I waited politely, hoping he'd get fed up, but he didn't. 'Can I have my guitar back?' I said finally. 'I've got to shoot off,' 'Oh, hang on a minute,' he said, playing an A chord and letting it ring. 'This is great.' I couldn't get it off him. Just then Graham Nash wandered across the stage, obviously bored. 'It's an Esquire, isn't it?' he said, after a cursory glance at the guitar. 'They're a bit limited.' 'It's not an Esquire,' I said frostily, 'it's a Telecaster.'. 'It's great,' said Clarke. I had to go over to the L-Club so I told him to leave it in the dressing room when he was finished. And off I went. When I came back, about an hour later, he was still sitting on the drum rostrum playing the Tele. We had to go on so I wrenched it off him. 'I'm going to get one of those,' he said. I have to say that the Hollies were a bit sharp. They didn't seem to count numbers in. They just started together. I tried to spot somebody counting-in on the sly but I couldn't see anything. 'Just One Look' and they were off. But I did notice that Graham Nash, who played a black, acoustic guitar, was plugged in but not switched on. Now what do you make of that? One Saturday night after the gig in the L-Club we rushed across town to close the show at the Ritz. There was a band already playing when we arrived but we didn't pay much attention to them as we slung our gear into the backstage area. But then we stopped to listen. They were a bit good. They were a band from Merthyr called the Bystanders. They had quite a reputation and Dave Scott had been trying to book them for some time. They were playing the Shirelles' song, 'Baby, It's You'. From behind the curtain they appeared to have about twenty-five singers; four-part harmonies soared into the ether and someone out there had a majestic falsetto voice. We walked around to the wings to see what they looked like. There were five of them and, inexplicably, they were all wearing fancy dress. The falsetto voice came from the lead guitarist, a diminutive figure enveloped in a huge Bud Flanagan fur-coat. We met during the changeover. While he took his amp down I set mine up. 'How's it going, buttie?' he said, offering his hand. 'My name's Micky Jones.' I could have turned and walked away. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble. But I didn't. I took his hand and shook it. 'Deke Leonard,' I said, not realising that when the history of the world is finally written this meeting would take its place in the pantheon of memorable encounters alongside Livingstone and Stanley; or Doberman and Pinscher; or Robinson and Caruso. I later discovered that the Bystanders liked dressing up. I'd see them many times in the years to come and they'd usually wear snazzy, blue suits with collar and tie but, suddenly and for no apparent reason, they would adopt fancy dress. I assumed they were filling some gaping chasm in their collective psyches but I didn't dare delve too deeply. Some things are best left locked up...

A chance to drop in some interview material from a chat with Eric Bell in 2010 about Phil. Most not published...forgive the thread derailment! Philip said he wanted to start playing the bass, he said he was taking lessons, and secondly he wanted to do some of his original songs onstage. I said fair enough as long as I can hear you playing bass and hear some of your songs. He hadn’t much of a clue about the bass but he had a great feel and he was very unorthodox because he hadn’t played it. He came up with these lines which were pretty original. One of his bass heroes was Paul McCartney and heard McCartney sang his bass patterns a lot of the time and then learned them on the bass. So Philip started doing that and that’s how he came up with a lot of those lines. He used a Ricky? The thing was he was insecure because I’d been playing guitar for quite a while and Brian had been playing drums for quite a while, so when Phil picked up an instrument he felt intimidated. So he would be working at it day and night and in the dressing room before a gig, sitting there with his bass. The other thing was that any money he got, royalties or anything, he would… It was like every time I went to rehearsal he would have a different bass guitar or a different amp. He said he wasn’t the best bass player in the world but wanted to have to get the best sound. He had a Dan Armstrong see thru bass (Top Of The Pops) and a very old Fender Jazz that got stolen. Then he got a Rickenbacker and then a Fender Precision. He had different amps: he had a Marshall and when we did the Slade tour the tone that the Slade bass player Jim Lea got was excellent. He used Acoustic amps so a month later Philip got an Acoustic amp. He was always chopping and changing his equipment. In the studio – vocal after backing track? He’d put a guide vocal on as we did the songs, a rough vocal, and then he’d put the vocal on after. But sometimes the guide vocal came out with a better feel, more spontaneous, and they would clean up the track when Philip said No, man, I wanna keep that one. If it wasn’t too rough we would go with it. Bass became more prominent as albums passed – Vagabonds, Gonna Creep Up – helps define the song. It does. Like I said he as a bit insecure about his bass playing so he worked at it very hard. He knew Brian Downey for a long long time before I ever came on the scene and he understood his drumming and would fit in his bass playing with it. Some rehearsals when we’d be trying a new song for the first time I’d be sitting in the corner reading Melody Maker for 45 minutes, not having played one note. He’d be saying Hey Brian, what’s that break you play after this? Brian would play it and Phil would pattern his bass playing around the drum break. It took forever, but he got the results. Was that good to play over? Absolutely! I didn’t realise at the time but it was the best rhythm section I ever played with. Singing lead over bass. Not easy. You have to develop an independence of the vocal form the bass line. It seemed to come very natural to him. The thing was anyway that Phil would play guitar while he was writing songs, he would play a nylon-strung acoustic to work out the chord patterns, so he actually approached the bass as a rhythm guitar in a way, all down strokes with the plectrum. He would get the basic rhythm, dum dum dum, and then he would start flowering it up, adding different patterns and so on. I think it was his lack of knowledge on the bass that worked for him rather than against him.

The first owner of my 71 installed a DiMarzio. I got it in 81 and have never had reason to change it...

Peavey MiniMax and 2x Barefaced 10-inch cabs. The ultimate modular rig! PS My SuperCompact was never found wanting either...

Saw him many years ago supporting Fairport. Great player!

01 Ever played a gig sitting down? Yes, just once 02 Ever gigged on a different instrument? Guitar, before I knew better 03 Ever shared a stage with a musical hero of yours? Deke Leonard and Micky Jones, Man soundcheck 2002 at 100 Club. Martin Ace was shopping... 04 Any fan ever had a tatoo of your band's logo? No band I have been in has had a logo 05 Ever signed an autograph in a dressing room? No 06 Ever cried on stage? No 07 Ever worn a hat on stage? Yes, much to my shame 08 Ever gigged with a band you hadn't met before the gig? Yes, at the Lord Nelson in Poole. Never again...the audience was all related to the band 09 Ever been in a relationship with a fellow band member? No 10 Ever played in different bands on the same day? Yes, my very first gig! 11 Ever had anything thrown at you while playing? No 12 Ever crashed on the way to the gig? No, but been breathalyser returning from one. Negative, since you ask 13 Ever left a band over the choice of set list? Not yet 14 Ever slept in the venue despite it not being a hotel? No 15 Ever been supported by a band clearly better than you? No 16 Ever played a gig suffering from some debilitating medical condition? No 17 Ever been in a band where the guitarist was your favourite bandmate? No 18 Ever played in the grounds of a stately home? Yes, but it was converted to a nursing home. Curiously it was my ‘sit down’ gig 19 Ever injured yourself on stage? Slammed my finger in the car door after load in. Dipped it in ice between numbers, the feeling has never fully returned. 20 Ever been told that your bass isn't loud enough? By another bass player in the audience. Never a bandmate

From Maybe I Should've Stayed in Bed, his formative years in Sixties Wales CHAPTER TWELVE: MORE, ROGER, MORE! Then the Jets phoned up. 'What're you up to?' asked Plum. 'Nothing much,' I said. 'Do you want to join the Jets?' 'You've already got a guitar-player.' 'We want you to play piano. Wes says you're a good piano-player.' Wes, bless him, thinks I can play the piano. 'I haven't got a piano,' I said. 'Buy one,' said Plum. So I went down to Falcon Music and bought the only electric piano in the shop, a Hohner Pianet. It wasn't much to look at; it had screw-in legs and looked like a coffee table. That said, it wasn't a bad sound and, thus equipped, I faked my way through several rehearsals and did a few gigs. They were stormers. Plum suggested turning professional. 'I am professional,' I said. 'I know you are, Leonard,' said Plum, 'I'm talking about the rest of us.' Everybody was in favour except Wes, who said he couldn't leave the family business. The ensuing discussion was heated but in the end we reached an agreement of sorts. Wes was allowed to continue working on condition he would take time off for out-of-town gigs. 'If he wants to cut hair in his spare time instead of lying in bed all day, that's up to him,' said Plum. But way down deep it rankled. When a group of people decide to burn their respective boats and set out for uncharted seas, it is hardly surprising if l'esprit de corps suffers somewhat when a member of that company decides to keep one foot on the departing shore. Achilles isn't coming out to play today; he's staying in his tent (I know that burning your boats on the eve of a voyage into uncharted waters isn't the brightest course of action, but I am not famous for my common sense, although I am becoming increasingly well-known for my mangled metaphors). Once Martin heard that the Jets were turning professional he wanted to come back. He wasn't too happy with the Grimms, and the Grimms, it seemed, weren't too happy with him. He didn't like the music and relations with Mike Grimm, the singer, were becoming fractious. They suggested a straight swap - Ace for Wes. Wes agreed. He wasn't too happy with the Jets either. I think you could put it down to musical differences. The rot had begun to set in before I joined the group, during a Lionel Digby tour of the West Country. They got to one of the gigs early to learn a few new numbers. Wes, who has a penchant for big, romantic ballads, suggested doing 'The Wedding'. Billy Doc, the drummer, freaked. 'You must be flipping joking,' he said, throwing down his sticks and storming off to the dressing room. Plum followed him. Billy was outraged. 'I wouldn't be seen dead doing the flipping 'Wedding', he said, pacing up and down. 'There's something wrong with you boys.' 'Don't blame me,' said Plum. 'I didn't suggest doing the flipping song.' I'd like to be able to tell you that we exchanged bass-players at night on the Lougher Bridge, with the Jets' van parked on the Swansea side and the Grimms' van parked on the Llanelly side, and that the two bass-players - in a perfect world, wearing fur hats - walked across the bridge, passing each other silently in the middle, before reaching the other end, to cheers and celebrations. But, I regret to say, there was no formal ceremony. All it meant was that the Grimms didn't have to drive all the way to Swansea on gig nights to pick up and drop off Martin, and the Jets didn't have to drive all the way to Llanelly on gig nights to pick up and drop off Wes. Of course, they still had to drive all the way to Llanelly on gig nights to pick up and drop me off, but there seemed no way around that. Nevertheless, Plum assured me, he was working on it. Keith, meanwhile, had joined Brian Breeze's group, the Casanovas - surely an ironic name. The Jets were as busy as the Corncrackers had been, but the money wasn't as good. But it wasn't bad either. When I'd first met them, Plum and Martin both appeared to be forces of nature, although Plum had seemed the dominant, probably because he was the singer and therefore the front-man but, with the passage of time, it became apparent that Ace was the elemental force. Plum had his cut-off point but Ace didn't. There were occasions when Plum would say enough was enough, but Ace just kept on going. He was fearless. I was always delighted when Plum reached his cut-off point because it gave me an excuse for stopping too. Well, not stopping exactly, but the relief of not being the first to see sense was palpable. I felt, and still feel, duty-bound to follow Ace whenever he goes on one of his metaphysical jaunts. If you want an LBW decision, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are pretty adjacent. Ace can remember the exact moment he decided to become a musician. He was at a dance in the Pioneer Youth Club - 'a shed in Blackpill' - with his girlfriend, Jackie Williams. The band were terrible and Ace was slagging them off. 'Martin,' said Jackie, 'you're always moaning about the bands, If you think you can do better, buy a guitar.' 'OK,' said Martin, 'I will.' And he did. John P, the Jets' guitarist, was quiet and handsome. He had his own personal following, exclusively girls, who would melt to nothing in his presence. In unguarded moments they would talk in hushed whispers about his magnificent bottom, and when he bent down to change the settings on his amp an audible, female sigh rippled across the audience. Billy 'Doc' Evans, the band's drummer, was a rugged individualist amongst rugged individualists. He was called 'Doc' because he looked like an Oxford don - baleful eyes, looking out from behind owlish glasses, dominated a round face, framed in straggly hair. He had extremely strong views about the playing of rock'n'roll. These views were not subject to negotiation and most definitely did not include songs like 'The Wedding'. 'Billy didn't even want to do "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright",' recalls Martin. 'Anything with the slightest whiff of sentimentality was out the window.' Billy had a standard drum-kit-of-the-day with two tom-toms, one rack and one floor. But he never touched the tom-toms. After a month or two I asked him why, if he didn't use them, he bothered to set them up? 'They came with the kit, mush,' he said. Billy's audition with the band had been a public affair. The Jets were playing at the Pioneer Club and Tony Court, their drummer, was on the verge of leaving because his wife didn't like him playing every night. Billy was in the audience. He was one of the Mumbles Boys, the local biker gang. 'He was one of the leather jackets,' says Martin. 'When they came in it was "Look out, there's gonna be a scrap." I always had Billy down for being a really hard bastard. Little did I know.' During an inter-song chat with the audience, Plum happened to mention that the band were looking for a new drummer. 'Any drummers in the audience?' he asked, not expecting a response. 'Yeah,' shouted a voice. Cheered on by the Mumbles Boys, Billy climbed on to the stage, walked up to Tony Court and held out his hand. Meekly, Tony handed over his sticks. 'Billy got on the drums and nobody would tell him to get off because he was with all his mates,' says Martin. 'He went "Boom-bang-boom-bang-boom- bang" in Billy's style. And he didn't alter it at all. He was exactly the same when he joined the band as when he left it, and he's probably exactly the same now.' Martin's audition, at the Gwent Boxing Club, had been brief but effective. The Jets were looking for a bass-player but Martin was a guitarist. Plum wanted him in the band but John P wasn't too keen, on the reasonable grounds that Martin wasn't a bass-player and had no track record as such. Plum took Martin aside. 'Look,' he said, 'you learn "I'll Never Get Over You" on the bass and I'll suggest it at the audition.' Martin learnt it off pat. At the audition, Plum got the ball rolling. 'Let's do something,' he said. He turned to Martin. '"I'll Never Get Over You". Have you heard that?' 'Go on then,' said Martin, and played it perfectly. 'All right,' said John P, impressed. 'We'll have him.' 'I'm glad he didn't suggest playing anything else,' said Plum, 'or Martin would have been out the door.' The Jets gig circuit was quite small and concentrated around the Swansea area, with the occasional jaunt down west to the Black Lion in Cardigan - The Land That Time Forgot. We needed to widen our scope of operations. We decided to venture further-a-field. So we started to probe in the east, into the grimy, demonic hills and valleys of the Rhondda. Inevitably, this brought us into further contact with the Kings of Merthyr - the Bystanders. We found ourselves sharing a stage with them on a semi-regular basis. We got along like a venue on fire and took the fosters out of each other mercilessly. It was a good night out for the punters; the lush precision of the Bystanders contrasting nicely with the raucous, no-nonsense anarchy of the Jets. We decided to learn some of the Bystanders' big numbers, just to show them how it was done, We picked 'I Get Around' by the Beach Boys and 'Walk Like A Man' by the Four Seasons. We tried them out in rehearsal. It was a disaster. We were like boxers trying to be ballet dancers. But we persevered and licked them into some sort of shape. The next time we played with the them, we opened up with 'I Get Around'. It was still pretty ropy and some of the audience had to be sedated but what we lacked in vocal dexterity we made up for in panache. The Bystanders watched open-mouthed, stunned, whether by our capricious daring or our matchless stupidity, it was hard to tell. Then they went on and did our set, opening up with 'You Can't Judge A Book By Looking At The Cover.' This was a surprise. Freed from the strictures of classic American pop, they howled, and Micky Jones was particularly abstract on the guitar. They were, it seemed, ballet-dancers who packed a punch - a cross between Rudolf Nureyev and Roberto Duran; or, we preferred to think, Wayne Sleep and Joe Bugner. I lasted about six months with the Jets. Then shards of darkness began to stab into the sun-drenched uplands of my artistic soul. I was becoming increasingly unhappy. The company was excellent but I was getting fed up with the piano. I'm not a proper piano-player, I'm a heavy-handed vamper. I can manage a chord or two but I require at least two weeks notice to do a solo. Sometimes Plum - who, at the best of times, teetered on the brink of chaos - would turn to me, when least expected, and order me to play a solo. I'd be fine for about half the sequence, when I would be overtaken by my lack of talent. In the grip of panic I'd thrash away at the keys, making the most awful racket. I'd reach the end of the solo at roughly the same time I'd reach the outer limits of my ability and be overwhelmed by a sense of relief. This rarely lasted. Plum would suddenly appear in front of me, pointing maniacally at the piano and yelling: 'MORE, ROGER. MORE!' The next solo would be the same as the last one, only this time stripped of all coherence. Plum would sometimes demand a third solo. This wasn't even music. I developed a siege mentality and, under the guise of minimalism, played purposefully repetitive solos, sometimes spinning the same riff out from beginning to end. 'I hate those flowery keyboard players,' I'd say, if asked. 'They're so obvious.' But, inside, I felt like I was wearing someone else's shoes. I'm a guitar-player. I don't have to think when I'm playing guitar. I still saw Wes regularly. He wasn't happy with the Grimms either. They were, it seemed, on the brink of extinction. When the talk turned to money we discovered that we were earning about half of what used to make with the Corncrackers. Wes mentioned that he still had phonecalls, three or four a week, from promoters trying to book the band. We went to see Keith. He wasn't too happy with the Casanovas. I'm sure that there must have been some excellent reasons for us not to reform but we couldn't, off the top of our heads, think of any. So I handed my notice in to the Jets, Wes finished with the Grimms and Keith jacked in the Casanovas. The Corncrackers were back on the road.

Friday: scroll down for another! A glimpse of Utopia - from Rhinos Winos & Lunatics Poulseur – pronounced ‘pulls hair’ – is a little village in Belgium; 15 houses, a church, a bridge, a bar, and a large, civic building. Set picturesquely on the banks of a wide, slow-running river, I have yet to find it on a map. We arrived there on a blazing hot August day. It was in the middle of a two-week tour of the Low Countries we undertook straight after the Plymouth bust. It was late afternoon and the sun was having a final blast before knocking off for the day. Bits of white fluff – which I assumed to be some sort of plant-life – hung, motionless, in the still, heavy air. An occasional bee managed to summon up a perfunctory buzz. Of human life, there was no sign. We pulled up outside the large civic building, assuming it to be the gig. The doors were open. We looked inside. There was a stage and seating for about 400 people – wooden schoolchairs, joined together in groups of ten by a spar running along the backs. This must be the gig. We shouted hellos. Nothing. We set the gear up. As gig-time approached, we experienced a whiff of apprehension. Just as we were about to call it a day, a party of seven arrived; six teenagers and an adult. Introductions were effected and the kids ran off into the hall, while the adult started pottering around backstage, switching things on. Under questioning, he revealed that he was the promoter. He was also, he said, the Mayor, the Chief of Police, and the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce. ‘Where are the audience?’ we asked. ‘You have just met them,’ he replied. He explained the situation. The city fathers – probably the Mayor, the Chief of Police, and the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce – in their benign wisdom, worried that the isolated location of their village would mean that the village youth would be culturally deprived, had given them an entertainment budget, which they could spend any way they liked. In previous years they had hired local bands, once a month. This year was different. They had decided to spend the whole year’s budget on us. As we walked onstage, the six kids sat in a line, halfway up the hall. The first number was a half-hour ‘Spunk Rock’. At the end of it, the six kids went apeshit, leaping to their feet, yelling and stamping. The more we played, the madder they got. By the end of the gig, they were on the stage with us. We did three encores and they screamed themselves hoarse. After the gig we were taken to the bar. The whole village was there and we ate a riotous supper. We asked the promoter if we could roll a joint. He convened an ad hoc meeting with the Mayor, The Chief of Police and the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce and, after due deliberation and careful consideration of all the relevant facts, he came to the unanimous decision that, yes, we could. Some hours later, we inquired about the sleeping arrangements. Poulseur, he apologised, had no hotel but they had fixed up something for us in the attic of the gig. We followed him up stairs, ladders and gantries to the attic, which ran the whole length of the building. It was totally empty except for a large square gymnasium mat, laid out in the centre. This was, said the promoter, the best they could do. Would it be alright? Yes, it would. We bedded down for the night. I managed half a page of The Sirens Of Titan before I fell asleep. We surfaced about noon into another blazing hot day. Everybody in the street waved cheerily to us and pointed towards the bar. We obeyed. Inside, the tables were laid and the staff were straining at the leash. We were shown to a table and given copious amounts of alcohol. Gradually, the place filled up and it became obvious that the whole village had turned out. A sumptuous meal arrived. The Mayor rose, unsteadily, and proposed a toast to the guests of honour. Martin reciprocated with a touching speech about the incalculable value of transitory friendship. The party spilled out into the garden and then the river-bank. Martin, swimming-trunkless, decided to cut his jeans into shorts and called for scissors. A pair were produced and Martin set to work, to the delight of the Poulseurians. As the legs of the jeans became available, they were snatched away. Somebody put ‘Two Ounces Of Plastic’ on the record player in the bar and villagers danced around the garden, tossing the legs back and forth to each other. Then, with due ceremony, they carried them, on high, into the bar. Someone found a stepladder and the legs were pinned, in crossed position, above the middle of the bar. The revelry continued, breaking off occasionally to toast the legs. Then, we had to heed the unforgiving call of duty; it was time to leave. As we drove off the entire village waved us goodbye. The Mayor was there, the Chief of Police was there, in charge, no doubt, of crowd control, and I think I spotted the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce, but I can’t be sure. We like to think that, now and again, they still put ‘Two Ounces Of Plastic’ on the record player and toast the legs. As for me, I would like, one day, to return to Poulseur, there to die.

I’ll...er...keep em peeled Keith!😄

The wink obviously wasn't ironic enough... So here's a tale. I have just re-bought the first album Outlandos D'Amour as part of the latest Police box. My diary tells me I first bought it on (blue) vinyl in early 1979. I was a major fan at that point and had got Cant Stand Losing You on its first time round as a single (25p in Woolies bargain box). Persuaded my band to play it, and we played it well, but when it was a hit we dropped it like a stone. Come a gig at the Moonlight Club where we supported Furniture (remember them?), we were so whizzed off with their shoddy treatment of us - a mic went missing and we had hired the PA - we encored against their will with said song. It brought the house down! So gawd bless you Sting, for about a year you were my idol. PS A BBC camera crew filmed us. Wonder what happened to the footage...?

Ooh! The thumb rest's moved