Mickeyboro

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.

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...