UPDATED Deke Leonard meets Johnny Kidd - and Tina Turner and Phil Lynott

[Mickeyboro]

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...

Edited April 21, 2020 by Mickeyboro

[Steve Browning]

Great read.

[Mykesbass]

Not a fan of Hank then 😄

[Mickeyboro]

17 hours ago, Mykesbass said:

Not a fan of Hank then 😄

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...?😈😱

Edited April 18, 2020 by Mickeyboro

[musicbassman]

9 hours ago, Mickeyboro said:

In his one-man show, Mike, he’d always bemoan the latest rock casualty and propose an alternative.

Hi Mick - did you ever see his one-man show? Sounds like he was a fantastic raconteur and wit. How many of his books were published?  😉

[bassace]

Great read, thanks Michael. A bit hard on Hank but it’s true, echo units were more ubiquitous than ubiquitous in those days. The first time I heard the Beatles live on radio - and they were quite ubiquitous there in those days - I couldn’t believe it. They weren’t using echo!

[Mykesbass]

5 minutes ago, bassace said:

more ubiquitous than ubiquitous 

Is there an echo in here?

[Dankology]

I've really enjoyed reading these excerpts - which book are they from? Or if they're from several - where best to start?

This last chunk led me to read up on Johnny Kidd - I'd always read that he'd died in Radcliffe but I hadn't realized that his car crash was actually in Bolton, just moments from my childhood home and within sight of my aunty and uncle's house. 

[Len_derby]

16 minutes ago, Dankology said:

I've really enjoyed reading these excerpts - which book are they from? Or if they're from several - where best to start?

Left to right, I’d say.

The item above the books is to display my Basschat lockdown GAS credentials.

 

 

[Mickeyboro]

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.

Edited April 21, 2020 by Mickeyboro

[yorks5stringer]

Brilliant! Keep them coming please.