Nick's Story of a Rock n' Roller - in his own words

The death of Johnny Kidd seemed like the end of the world! The following days were spent in a kind of twilight, punctuated by visits from various friends and well-wishers, including a couple of office girls from Rymans, my previous employer. I couldn’t do a lot at the time, my left arm being damaged, my nose broken, amongst various injuries to my head, back and neck. The other pirates had been commandeered by Kidd’s old bassist, Johnny Spence, for a tour backing Jerry Lee Lewis, where only Mick Stewart got to perform. Jerry Lee had his U.S. bassist and drummer, but the others had to be there to uphold one of the many daft rules that the Musician’s Union had laid down. Poor Johnny Irving was devastated, blaming himself for not being there to drive Kidd as he had always done, and he immediately renounced all connections with the music business that had been his livelihood for so many years, turning down jobs offered by such giant acts as The Shadows and The Who!

Still in a state of shock, I agreed to join Mick and Solly in carrying on the Pirates, which we unanimously decided was what Johnny would have wanted. As soon as I was well enough we began to plan our future, which was given a boost with the offer of a month-long tour backing a visiting U.S. star. Bobby Hebb had enjoyed success in his own country before breaking through in Britain with his self-penned song “Sunny”. Also covered by own Georgie Fame, Sunny was a hit on both sides of the Atlantic, and Bobby was riding high! Shortly before rehearsals were due to start, drummer Roger Truth decide to join a touring soul extravaganza called “The Mack Sound”, a fourteen-strong band led by the former U.S. light-heavyweight boxing championship contender, Freddy Mack. A replacement was quickly recruited in the form of Kenny Slade, a terrific drummer from Sheffield who had previously played in Joe Cocker’s band.

On the day appointed to meet Bobby Hebb, the three of us assembled in a dingy basement rehearsal room in Denmark Street, London’s Tin Pan Alley. A small charismatic looking black man suddenly descended the stairs, carrying a huge wad of sheet music under his arm. After swift introductions, Bobby then enquired as to when the brass section would arrive. His face was a study when we informed him that we were the band, in total! Angry exchanges then followed on the telephone to the promoter’s office, from whence a keyboard player was quickly dispatched to augment the Prates trio. By the time Johnny Goodison arrived, complete with Vox Continental organ, it was too late to rehearse, so Bobby gave us all a list of songs, together with sheet music to be studied in preparation for the next day’s rehearsal. Panic rapidly set in, as none of us were very adept at sight-reading, and I swiftly set off for Jim Marshall’s guitar shop, where his son Terry helped me to decipher the bass lines.

Following a sleepless night, I met the others once more in Denmark Street where Bobby Hebb introduced us to his act. He seemed to have got over his disappointment at the lack of brass players and made a great effort to put us at ease. Most of his set was not too demanding, although I struggled at first with “Sunny”, which was built on an all-important bass line. Patiently, Bobby taught me the song note for note, pointing out the mistake that the studio bassist had made on the record. John Goodison proved to be a solid, reliable musician. He was a veteran player, leading his own outfit called Johnny B. Great and the Quotations, backing the Walker Brothers, probably the biggest act in the business at that time.

On the following Thursday, December 1st 1966, the tour opened to a capacity crowd at the Streatham Locarno Ballroom in South London, where we nervously wobbled through the show to Bobby’s satisfaction. By 11:30 p.m. we had moved on to Blaize's nightspot in London’s West End, where it seemed that the whole music business had turned out to see this new American star. Bobby rose to the occasion, as did the Pirates, and we delivered a pretty good show. Solly was in the audience with his new boss, Freddy Mack, who proved to be a likeable giant of a man, and we immediately struck up a rapport.

From then on it was hard graft all the way as the tour zigzagged across England and Wales, and poor Bobby Hebb realized just what he had signed up for! In time-honoured fashion, the Prates-Hebb showcase followed that bizarre route so beloved by British tour promoters, with no thought given to distances covered or almost impossible schedules which were the artists’ responsibility to keep up with! The offer of good regular wages seemed fine in theory, but the reality was a hard slog of constant driving (with no motorways in those days), eating in foul greasy spoon cafés and sleeping in lousy run-down guest houses which would never get a licence to operate today! This was a dreadful culture shock to poor Bobby, a fact which was made more apparent to me when I first visited the U.S. in 1968. Even the cheapest American motels were luxurious by comparison, and the abundance of good quality 24 hour road-side diners were a positive joy to eat in! No, Bobby was not a happy man, obviously very homesick and missing his fiancée. Although used to the extreme temperatures of America’s East Coast, he seemed troubled by the dampness of a typical English winter. In spite of these problems, though, he kept cheerful and proved to be good company on the road.

The tour was exceptionally tough for me too, being the only driver in the band. Our tight-fisted promoter provided no road crew or assistance whatsoever, so not only did I have to drive the van, usually with the others fast asleep in the back, but also set up my own equipment. The worst night was when we appeared at the Pavilion Ballroom in Bath, Somerset on December 5th. The journey up from London was hampered by stormy weather, and thirty miles before our destination the windscreen wipers failed! By leaning forward with my right arm out of the window, I had to operate the wipers manually. Of course, by the time we arrived my whole arm was numb and turning blue! After the gig I drove the band out of Bath as fast as possible, having been summoned to appear at Manchester Crown Court the next day, where Johnny Kidd’s friend Wilf was due to face a charge of causing death by dangerous driving. Unaware that I could have altered the court date, I had worked out that by driving non-stop back to London, then non-stop to Manchester, I could just make it in time! I had telephoned my girlfriend Janet from Bath to ask her to accompany me on the journey (to keep me awake), but, wisely, her parents had forbidden it, and so after dropping off the others as dawn broke, I departed Hayes alone for the North in my trusty Austin mini-van. The court experience was rather intimidating, the first time I had been in a court presided over by a bewigged judge and barristers. Although summoned by the police as a prosecution witness, I was of little use to them. I gave my evidence as I had seen it, telling how Wilf’s driving had been faultless, and adding that in my opinion the same thing could have happened if Stirling Moss had been at the wheel! The police were determined however that someone had to be blamed, and sadly Wilf was found guilty, although the judge appeared to agree with me and was thankfully extremely lenient. Immediately afterwards I headed back to London, crawling the last seventy miles in thick fog down the M1, Britain’s only section of motorway, before arriving home after 36 hours without sleep. The mini only just made it, and on inspection was found to have a blown head-gasket!

One week later, Saturday December 10th, I experienced another bad day when the tour arrived at the Imperial Ballroom, Nelson, Lancashire. It was barely a month since I had arrived in the company of Johnny Kidd, and it felt strangely surreal to be back so soon. I had little time to dwell on that dreadful event in October however, as we had to leave swiftly to perform at Nottingham on the same night. Originally we were scheduled to play at Widnes in between Nelson and Nottingham, but the gig was cancelled when our hard-driving promoter realized the impossibility of three shows in one night!

The Nelson gig had gone well, apart from an unsavoury incident when a local hooligan took exception to Bobby’s colour and began hurling abuse from the font of the stage. Slowly, the huge bear-like figure of Johnny Goodison removed his microphone from its stand, and grasping it like a spear, strode to the front and informed the heckler of what would happen if he continued. The punter wisely got the message and rapidly disappeared, but it was a disappointing moment for all of us, although thankfully the only bad incident of the whole tour.

As we left Nelson, my sombre mood evaporated and by the time we reached Nottingham, although tired, we were fired up for the next show. The audience at the Dungeon Club all-nighter was mainly composed of West Indians, and they gave Bobby Hebb a rapturous welcome. He pulled out all the stops, demonstrating his skills on guitar, bass, drums and spoons, and they loved him! A truly great all-rounder, he thoroughly deserved the standing ovation that he received at the end of the show. As Bobby sped back to London, being driven in the ageing Ford Cortina generously supplied by the promoter, I followed behind with only the pinches and punches of Mick Stewart keeping me awake. After 4 hours sleep we were off again for a lunch-time show at Brixton’s Ram Jam Club. By no stretch of the imagination could this rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle be termed glamorous! An assault course was nearer the mark!

And so the tour ploughed on, some of the gigs being at seaside ballrooms on the end of the piers, those odd, quintessentially British establishments, which sadly are fast disappearing. Sometimes I wondered, as I gingerly nursed the van across rotting planks which made up the pier walkways, whether we would get to the end without plunging through into the sea below! If you made it safely to the ballroom, there were often hazardous electric circuits to contend with in these ancient establishments. Experienced musicians always took care never to touch guitar strings and microphones at the same time, as this could often result in a sever shock, and fatalities were not unknown!

In Rhyl, Wales, we shared the bill with Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, a huge name at the time, being handled by Beatles manager Brian Epstein. In spite of all his hits, Billy seemed plagued by insecurity and self-doubt, but came across as a really nice man. Backstage, I renewed my acquaintance with Mick Green, the Dakotas’ ace guitarist who had made his reputation during the short time he worked with Johnny Kidd. He said that he could not think of Johnny as being gone – just gigging somewhere up the road! A nice sentiment I thought.

In London, we played a recently opened venue called Tiles. Underneath Oxford Street, it was comprised of a subterranean collection of shops, a disco and ballroom. A great idea which, sadly, did not last for long. Another memorable London gig was at Samantha’s Disco, which epitomized the whole swinging London scene, where the records were played on a deck fitted inside the cockpit of an E-type Jaguar sports car by a selection of mini-skirted teenage girls. One of these lovely ladies, named Francesca, had a brother-in-law named Anthony Edwards, who at that time could have had no idea that he would soon be managing a new band called Deep Purple! Johnny B. Great was on particularly fine form at Samantha’s, knocking ‘em dead, as the saying goes, with Phil Upchurch’s “You Can’t Sit Down”, and the other monster instrumental hit of the day, Booker T’s “Green Onions”, prior to Bobby Hebb taking the stage.

Back up north, Bobby was excited to be playing at the world-famous Cavern Club in Liverpool, where the Beatles had begun their rise to fame. Sadly though, there was little glamour to be found at the Cavern, a dingy depressing cellar with abysmal acoustics!

As the tour drew to a close, just before Christmas 1966, Bobby’s spirits began to lift as he knew that he would soon be going home. I felt that he had not really enjoyed his first taste of Britain. Back in the U.S.A. he was a star, and deservedly treated like one, but in England he was just another commodity to be sold on for maximum profit. Socially, however, it had been a successful experience, with the new Pirates line-up and Bobby Hebb having enjoyed one another’s company and music immensely. Mick Stewart and I both agreed that we had learned a lot by sharing the stage with Johnny B. Great and ace drummer Kenny Slade, and we put it to them that this line-up had an excellent future together. Naturally we were very pleased when they both expressed similar sentiments, and so we agreed to meet up after the Christmas break and formulate a plan for the coming year.

I said a sad goodbye to Bobby at Heathrow Airport. A month is not very long, but during the intensity of a hectic tour, with people living and working in close proximity, it’s almost impossible not to forge some sort of bond. I never saw Bobby again, although we corresponded by letter several times. He never repeated his success, but “Sunny” went on to become one of the most covered tunes in the history of popular music – a well deserved success for one of the nicest people that I had the pleasure of working with.

 

 

Chapter 12 : Pirates without Kidd

Immediately after the Christmas break was over, I telephoned Kenny Slade and John Goodison to arrange rehearsals. The news wasn’t good! In two short weeks they had both moved on to other gigs and were no longer interested in the Pirates. I picked up a couple of gigs with an accordion-led trio which, whilst paying well, were definitely not rock ‘n’ roll, so it was a relief when I received a call from Solly offering me a job with the ‘Mack Sound’.

Freddie Mack had invited me on stage a couple of times when I had gone to watch the band, and I was impressed with the solid wall of sound that they produced. Freddy had obviously been influenced by the soul reviews of Ike & Tina Turner and James Brown, with ten musicians, a dancer, four vocalists and Freddy himself at the front as M.C. It was a mighty sound and a very exciting spectacle! Freddy had secured a residency through his boxing connections at the Uppercut Club, a large venue in East London, fronted by ex-champion Billy Walker. Here we were summoned to rehearse most days, which meant a long slow road trip from Hayes and back again. I took great pride in arriving dead on time for the proposed rehearsal hour of 12 midday. Unfortunately the majority of the band never assembled much before 4 or 5 o’clock, by which time I was ready to depart. The other band members who lived nearer and were happy to hang around in limbo, took exception to my regular departure time of 6 p.m., and so after a week and a half I found myself fired! I wasn’t sorry though, because it wasn’t really my type of music.

Freddy and I stayed good friends, and I had enjoyed my short stint with some excellent musicians, including a stunning lead guitarist named Ged Peck. I visited the Uppercut several times socially, and made a special trip to see the Mindbenders who, having split with singer Wayne Fontana, had a number one hit of their own called “Groovy Kind Of Love”. Sadly the Mindbenders had to cancel, and their place was taken by a new highly touted outfit named Pink Floyd. This was probably the first time that the Uppercut audience had witnessed psychedelia, and it only took about 20 minutes before the hall was completely empty! I don’t think anyone present that night would bet on Pink Floyd surviving for long, let alone rising to the dizzy heights that they did!

By now the first month of 1967 had passed by and there was not much work on the horizon. To make a few bob I went to help my uncle Henry who ran a small building and decorating business. A large house in Chiswick needed painting, and so I found myself climbing a ladder from 9 ‘til 5, which paid reasonably well, and was definitely preferable to doing nothing. Following my spell as a decorator, I did a spot of night work for my old Delta 5 chum Rick Eagles, who had invested in a small factory producing lagging for central heating pipes. Rick’s career as a professional bass player had recently come to an end when his band had folded. Called 'Tony Knight’s Chessmen', they were a competent jazz-flavoured R & B group, who really should have made it!

I was whilst working for Rick that I received a phone call from Solly. It appeared that he was no longer enjoying playing soul music and suggested that the Pirates should reform. This, of course, was music to my ears and a meeting was arranged with Mick Stewart, where Solly put forward his idea for a manager.

In those far-off days there was a thriving music shop in Ealing’s Bond Street which catered primarily for keyboard players. Run by a lovely middle-ages lady called Joan Watson, the Organ Centre was another musicians’ hang-out where you could just drop by with no obligation to buy anything. She had also invested money in the Mack Sound and knew Solly well. On hearing of his plan to rejoin the Pirates, Joan had immediately offered her services as manager, using the office at the rear of the shop as the centre of operations.

This office also doubled as an employment agency, run by Joan, whilst the front of the shop was usually manned by a ginger-haired young man named Billy Davidson. Bill was one of the most gifted organists around, who played with real panache, the speed of his hands being amazing to witness. He also played great bass pedals on the Hammond organ, which could seriously demoralize the average bass guitarist! The shop was regular hang-out for promising local groups, such as the Foundations, and the Crazy World of Arthur Brown, both on the verge of huge success. Kind hearted Joan would help up and coming musicians as much as possible, giving them credit if they were broke, lending them instruments, and even lending her car, if necessary!

It was unanimously agreed that we could trust Joan and so she would be our manager. We also all had misgivings about whether we could carry a show without Johnny Kidd in front. We could all sing okay, but none of us had the kind of voice needed to carry Johnny’s songs. The obvious answer was to get a new front man, and I suggested ex-Searcher Tony Jackson, as his new band the Vibrations were not having much success. The others thought that this was an idea of which Kidd would approve. We had already dismissed an offer to work with a French rock singer, but Tony was different. We had all got on well with him, he had a distinctive voice featured on most of the Searchers’ hits, and he had a great image! I telephoned Tony the next day, suggesting that collaboration could lift both his profile and ours. He agreed at once and we promised to meet as soon as possible. The reality, however, was that it proved so difficult to get Liverpool-based Tony to travel to London for rehearsals that, sadly, we had to abandon the idea. Personally, I think that the prospect of taking over from Johnny Kidd may have proved too daunting for him, and of course the practice of well-known outfits interchanging lead singers was still many years away in the future!

It was Rick Eagles who provided the answer to our dilemma, by suggesting his erstwhile colleague in the Chessmen, John Carroll on Hammond organ. He pointed out that John also had a reasonable voice. I telephoned Johnny Carroll with the proposition, and he immediately agreed. The next day saw myself, Mick and Solly joining Johnny at his parents’ West Ealing home, where they allowed us to rehearse in the garage. Johnny proved to be an excellent musician who fitted in perfectly. The new Pirates were now complete and, after a few rehearsals, were ready for the road. Joan, working on our behalf on just a handshake, soon secured us a short tour of the West Country.

Before departing for Cornwall we paid a visit to the Cutty Sark, that famous sailing ship moored in the Thames where, dressed in all our finery we posed for photographs. The ship had been one of Johnny Kidd’s favourite locations, so I felt that this was a good omen for us. It only remained for us to replace Johnny’s ultra-violet light. A trip to a London stage lighting company called Strand Electrics secured a lamp on hire, which would provide the eerie glow that gave the Pirates show such atmosphere. Luckily UV was still little used and therefore unknown and unseen by the general public, so we had an edge on other acts. Finally my mum was good enough to get her sewing machine out and run us up a huge Jolly Roger flag, to be hung behind us on stage.

As the start date of our trip drew near, our thoughts turned to transport, so we paid a visit to Johnny Irving’s home in Willesden, hoping that he would offer to be our road manager, but Irvo was adamant that he was finished with the music business, and whilst wishing us well, declined our offer. With time running out it was decided that our only option was to hire a van and drive ourselves!

With only three or four days to go before our first gig, we were hit with a sudden bombshell! Solly had decided to stay with Freddy Mack, lured by the promise of more money and regular employment, and informed us by telephone that he would not be with us after all! At this news, panic set in and a feverish hunt for a replacement began. With no time to advertise, we began to telephone around in a desperate search. Mick Stewart found a likely candidate living in his street, and we wasted several hours rehearsing the set before it became obvious that the chemistry just wasn’t there! Finally, just as it looked as if we were sunk, Mick had a brainwave – what about Frankie Reid’s old drummer, John Kerrison?

Well, as luck would have it, John was looking for a gig, and as soon as he joined us in rehearsal at Southall Community Centre it became clear that he was perfect for the job. He was also a fast learner, and after a couple of intense rehearsals we were ready to hit the road.

On February 23rd 1967, in a hired van, groaning under the weight of our gear, now trebled by the addition of the mighty Hammond organ plus Leslie speaker cabinet, the new four man Pirates set sail and headed west.

After a day-long drive we arrived at Helston, on the southernmost point of England, where we set up at the local naval base, a fitting place for the first Pirates gig without Johnny Kidd. Finally the moment came! The curtains opened to reveal the four of us bathed in the eerie purple glow. A cheer came form the crowd which appeared to be composed of mainly females, and we proceeded to stagger through the show, based mainly on Kidd’s best songs, interspersed with one or two instrumentals plus a couple of songs from John Carroll. We went down well enough, and Mick and I were pretty pleased with the two new members who performed extremely well.

The 24th saw us arrive in Penzance. It wasn't long before we spied digs bearing the sign 'The Pirates Hotel', which if course we just had to stay at! As we entered with our suitcases we were welcomed by the owner's dog, a small but loud poodle-type who yapped incessantly at us. Unfortunately the excitement caused the animal to defecate in the lobby, and Johnny Kerrison was none too pleased on discovering that he had trod in the result, making a hell of a mess on his shoes! Once we had signed in (as The Pirates, of course) and explained who we were, the landlady, apologising profusely, took Johnny's shoes away, returning ten minutes later with the shoes in pristine condition.

After a clean-up and a meal, we arrived at the local dance-hall and performed a rousing set to a capacity crowd. Flushed with success, we made our way back to the hotel, only to find that our friendly poodle had evacuated his bowels once more, but this time on Johnny Kerrison's bed! As the rest of us collapsed laughing, Johnny tore off in a rage, in search of the landlady who, between more apologies, re-made his bed with fresh blankets. To this day Johnny insists that the poodle singled him out for attention!!

The following night saw us perform at the Plaza Ballroom in Newquay, after which we decided to drive straight back to London. We soon discovered the lack of petrol stations between Cornwall and London. Even with a full tank  we couldn't make it, and so it was that we found ourselves at Andover, siphoning petrol from the squad car of an obliging policeman!

After a short rest, and a gig on March 3rd at Welwyn Garden City, our thoughts turned to recording. We recognised that the business was changing, and it was no longer enough to rely on a good stage act. What was needed was a good record to boost our image! Our one and only recording with Johnny Kidd, "Send For That Girl", had been released in November to great reviews, but sadly his record company had done little to promote it. Neither had they expressed any interest in the Pirates, which amazed me, considering the past history. Arguably Britain's best rock singer, hugely successful for ten years, Johnny Kidd had sold enormous amounts of singles and E.P.'s, yet he had never had an album release during his lifetime! In today's profit-driven record business, where the death of an artist is considered a 'good career move', an artist of Johnny's talent and stature would still be a household name, with back catalogues exploited to overkill, and his image adorning merchandising everywhere!

Sadly, although revered by many people he inspired, such as Van Morrison, Johnny has been allowed to quietly disappear. Back in March 1967 we realised that our association with Kidd would not help us much, but luckily Joan had a contact who expressed interest in a Pirates record. Armed with two songs, one a commercial ditty penned by John Carroll, and another by Kinks front man Ray Davies, we headed for the recording studio....

 

Chapter 13 : Pirates in Scotland

Joan Watson had managed to negotiate some studio time through a contact that she had in a large recording and song publishing concern. Armed with John Carroll’s song, and a little known Ray Davies number, we assembled in a Central London recording studio to do our stuff. Unfortunately, our efforts did little to ignite the spark needed to create a hit record. Several backing tracks were attempted over three or four hours, the best being overdubbed with some shaky vocals. Joan’s contact was not too impressed, and there was a general feeling that we had blown our chance! We cheered up, however, when it was suggested that we returned in a week or two’s time, when we would all be more inspired. Putting the recording on the back burner, we spent a couple more days rehearsing our act in readiness for our next gigs. We didn’t have long to wait; Joan had secured us three days in Glasgow as part of a huge music extravaganza. The Kelvin Hall was one of Scotland’s landmark concert halls, also famous for staging high profile boxing matches. On the 24th, 25th and 27th of march we were to share the bill with several big acts, including Unit 4+2, Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Titch, Screaming Lord Sutch, and, surprise, surprise, The Mack Sound. Face to face with Solly, of course, the insults flew, but Dave Sutch intervened as peace-maker, and we soon ended up as pals once more.

The Pirates’ spot came before Screaming Lord Sutch, and as we nervously tuned up behind the curtains, Mick and I were extremely aware that this was our first big show without Johnny Kidd. I can honestly say that never before or since have I felt such stage fright! Suddenly, the curtains opened and we were facing a huge audience. The first song passed by, just a blur, but by the second number I began to realise what a powerful sound we were producing, and my confidence rose. By the third song I became aware of girls screaming, and I knew that we had cracked it! At the end of our set, which included a rousing drum solo from John Kerrison, the crowd were shouting for more, and it was a pretty satisfied crew of Pirates who made their way back to the dressing room, with a queue of female autograph hunters providing the icing on the cake!

Screaming Lord Sutch was about to go on stage with his new outfit, no longer called the Savages, but renamed The Holy Roman Empire, with Dave dubbing himself Screaming Lord Caesar Sutch! I had recently witnessed this new act at Johnny Kidd’s tribute night, held shortly after his death. The players were a couple of veteran Savages in the form of drummer Carlo Little and guitarist Ritchie Blackmore, together with a U.S. saxophone player called Joel, and two other new boys, Tony Dangerfield on bass and Matthew Fisher on piano. The trademark leopard skin loin cloths usually worn by the band were now replaced by Roman soldier’s garb, with Sutch himself resplendent in a Centurion’s outfit, complete with breastplate! As the Pirates relaxed in our dressing room, Dave Sutch came in to ask a favour. He thought it would be a splendid spectacle for the audience to witness a sword fight between him and myself, in Pirate dress. I swiftly pointed out that it made little sense historically to have a Roman Centurion fighting an 18th century pirate, but Dave was so enthusiastic about the idea that I soon found myself agreeing to do it. My cue was to enter stage left, and attack ‘Caesar’ just as he ignited the tin of petrol-soaked newspaper which was the highlight of his version of the Jerry Lee Lewis classic, ‘Great Balls of Fire’. Sutch had provided me with a very piratical sabre which I brandished with gusto, right on cue. Of course, I was not quite prepared for what followed, when Sutch came close to decapitating me with the largest two –handed sword I had ever seen! The audience roared their approval as the fire blazed, whilst Sutch chased me around the stage, accompanied by a blistering Ritchie Blackmore solo. Finally I was forced to leg it for the safety of the dressing room before a demented Sutch could accidentally cause me serious harm!

At the end of a great evening, we all had a few drinks with Solly, plus a couple of other members of Freddy Mack’s band including Ged Peck, who had continued to impress me with his amazing speed and precise technique. As we said our farewells and made for the exit, Solly and I bumped into a couple of familiar figures in he form of two Glasgow lads who had also been working in Jersey in 1965. They had come to the show and were surprised to see us, and we reminisced for 15 minutes before leaving.

Tired but happy, I piloted the creaky old Austin van away from the Kelvin Hall. Mick and I were also rather hungry, so we asked the first pedestrian we saw, where we could eat. The man directed us to the clock tower in Sauchiehall Street, where we would find a pie stall. As we pulled up, it was obvious that John Kerrison and John Carroll were fast asleep, so Mick Stewart and I made our way through the crowd of rather dubious looking characters until we reached the stall. “Give us two pies with chips please guvnor” said Mick in his best West London accent. At that, the crowd fell silent in a manner reminiscent of the scene in a dozen cowboy movies where the bad guy enters the saloon. Suddenly a huge bearded man resplendent in a kilt, lurched forward, uttering the memorable phrase, “Yer f…ing English bastards!”. Sensing the ugly atmosphere I whispered in Mick’s ear, as loudly as I dared, “Run like hell!”. As we reached the van, which unhappily bore the legend Matador Car Hire, Hanwell, London, England, the two Johns awoke from their slumber to the sound of the rear windows shattering under a bombardment of various missiles! Somehow my shaking hand managed to get they key into the ignition, and we roared off at high speed, thankful that only the van was damaged.

On reaching our hotel, we discovered that it was next door to a hospital. A quick word with sympathetic night staff found us a parking space near the ambulances, safely out of sight of any marauding vandals who might take exception to the writing on the side. The following two shows at the Kelvin Hall passed successfully without incident. The pie stall attack had taken us completely by surprise. For years there had been rumours of Scotland being a no-go area for English bands, with several reports of experiences such as ours. I had always felt immune from that sort of thing, owing to the fact that Johnny Kidd and the Pirates had always been welcomed and respected everywhere, due in no small measure to their tough image, but, of course, the drunks at the pie stall had no idea of our identity. However, they were only a tiny minority, and we generally found the Scots to be warm and friendly folk. Our three shows had been well received, and we were pretty pleased with ourselves as we headed south for home.

Back in Hanwell, Matador Car Hire were not very happy at the loss of several windows, and we had to part with a few pounds to make good the damage. Following our return from Glasgow we were given the news that our services as recording artists were no longer required! Our one and only attempt had been a dismal failure and we didn’t even bother to request a copy tape! Joan’s contact did offer a publishing contract to John Carroll in recognition of the commercial prospects for his song, but this did not include the Pirates as an act, and we realised that we had blown our chance! The euphoria following the gigs in Cornwall and Glasgow soon evaporated when we discovered that Joan had been unable to secure any work for the near future apart from one gig in London at the Uppercut Club, and very quickly the Pirates began to disintegrate.

On Monday May 1st 1967, the four of us met to discuss any possible future we might have together. It was generally agreed that the group had limited appeal without Johnny Kidd, and our lack of a record deal also led to agreement that we had little option but to call it a day. Sadly, we all shook hands and said our goodbyes. The name Pirates had been at the top for almost a decade in one form or another, but now it was consigned to history! Without a doubt it was the end of an era, but a new one was about to begin…

Chapter 14 : Billie Davis & the Quality

Before a week had gone by I had received an offer of a new gig. West London group The Birds had decided to call it a day, despite being on the edge of success for several years. Rhythm guitarist Tony Munroe had decided to re-invent himself as lead singer with a new band. This band, he explained, were going to take the business by storm, and he wanted me to be in it! He also had the support of a management team who ran several local venues, including one of my favourites, the Starlight Ballroom at Sudbury, near Wembley. The group were to be called, he told me solemnly, pausing for effect... The Gods!! What a great name, I said, whilst thinking that this outfit would have to be a bit special to operate with that title!

The very next day found me setting up my gear at the Starlight and being introduced to the other band members. On guitar was a quiet young guy from Hatfield named Mick Taylor, on keyboards was a very amiable bloke called Ken Hensley, and a drummer whose name has vanished into the mists of time. After the usual preamble we attempted to run through a few standard tunes but, in spite of the obvious enthusiasm, nothing seemed to come together. Tony blamed the drummer for our failure to gel, and so, later in the week, Roger Truth was summoned to the Starlight to add a bit of magic . However, even his considerable talent didn't make things improve. After a try with another drummer, I felt that we were flogging a dead horse and so I told Tony that this wasn't for me. We parted as friends, and he soon drafted in another bassist named Greg Lake. Apparently the Gods did eventually get it together, and worked with various personnel for several years. Occasionally I bumped into Ken Hensley, who soon formed a new outfit with Cliff Bennett, but it was a couple of years before I saw Mick Taylor again.

Following this debacle, I began to lose interest in the music business again. I had pinned all my hopes on the Pirates and now felt without a direction to follow. The business was rapidly changing, not for the better I thought, with pop acts like the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Monkees dominating, although several of my old acquaintances from Jim Marshall's shop were doing well, such as the Who, and Johnny Mitchell, who had left Georgie Fame to work with an interesting new trio called the Jimi Hendrix Experience. My old pal Rod Freeman had re-named his group the Freemen, and was still resident at the Tottenham Royal Ballroom. He had relocated to Tottenham, and so we no longer saw much of each other.

While I languished at home, pondering the future, I received a phone call from out of the blue. "Nick?", enquired the voice on the phone, "Carlo Little here!". Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Here was one of my all time musical heroes calling me! Carlo explained that he needed a bassist for a trio that he was assembling to back singer Billie Davis, who'd had a top ten chart hit two years before. Now, normally I would have run barefoot over broken glass to work with Carlo, but his call had come at the wrong time for me, and I declined his offer. I was now really feeling the impact of the loss of Johnny Kidd and the demise of the Pirates, and there didn't seem much point in taking any job unless I felt enthusiasm for it. Several days later Carlo telephoned again, hoping that I had changed my mind. Once again, I turned him down. Finally I received a third, rather desperate sounding call, informing me that Billie and her group were due to open in cabaret the very next week, followed by a pleading request to "just help out" until a permanent member could be found. Carlo was putting me on the spot, and he knew it. Grudgingly I agreed to help out on a temporary basis, arranging to meet at his Wembley home the following day. Arriving at Carlo's, I set up my bass amp next to his drum kit in the front room where, together with a South African pianist named Neville, Billie Davis and her wonderfully named manager, Johnny Toogood, we proceeded to get to grips with the forthcoming act.

The morning of Sunday, 28th May 1967 saw Carlo, myself, Billie and Neville heading north for Bradford, where we were to appear for a week, first playing the tiny Paradise Club, followed by a later show at the larger Lyceum Club. Travelling with our equipment in Carlo's Ford Thames van, we chatted and got to know one another during the trip. Carlo Little did most of the talking, keeping us entertained with stories of life on the road with acts such as Neil Christian's Crusaders, the Cyril Davies All Stars and Screaming Lord Sutch & The Savages. Billie proved to be a good raconteur too, so Neville and I sat back enjoying all the great stories!

On our arrival at Bradford we checked into our rather grisly digs, had a quick wash and a hurried meal of fish and chips before departing for our debut gig at the Paradise Club. We kicked off the show with a shaky rendition of a jazz instrumental standard, followed by Billie, who performed a varied collection of songs, including her monster hit "Tell Him", originally a hit in the USA for the Exciters. She proved to be a capable performer, her good looks being complemented by a tight fitting cat-suit and a pleasing voice. Billie's career had been in the doldrums lately, and she was keen to show the audience how good she was. At the height of her success she had enjoyed a romance with ex-Shadows bassist Jet Harris, and they had been relentlessly hounded by the press. As Jet himself put it recently, "we were the Posh and Becks of the day!". Following a serious car crash that badly injured them both, Jet received some press stories which were damaging to his career, which nosedived spectacularly. Today such coverage would probably enhance a career in rock, but at that time it was the kiss of death! Billie, however, cam through unscathed, and the Bradford audience showed their appreciation. Almost before the last notes died away, Carlo was shepherding us into the van, almost flinging the gear in the back before driving at break-neck speed to the Lyceum, about 20 minutes away.

I was to learn very swiftly that Carlo had a fear of being late for a show, probably because he never wanted to give managers or promoters the slightest excuse to knock the money! We skidded to a halt outside the Lyceum, a much larger night spot and with Carlo cracking the whip we set up our gear in double quick time. Performing the same show to a capacity crowd, Billie went down a storm, and so our debut was considered a great success. There wasn't too much to do in Bradford, apart from the occasional visit to the ice-rink where I picked up plenty of bruises, so a lot of the time was spent in the digs being musically educated by Carlo, who had brought along his reel-to-reel tape recorder with endless tapes of some of the greatest music I had ever heard. Stuff by everyone from Leadbelly to Link Wray, from Bobby Bland to Marvin Gaye. These were the sort of songs that you never heard on the radio, and Carlo would point out every nuance that made the tracks great, analysing each and every instrument in his enthusiasm.

Following our week in Bradford, we moved to Swansea's Townsman Club. Our opening night had to be cancelled owing to Billie missing her flight from London following a TV appearance. The manager took this extremely hard, almost blaming the band personally for her non-appearance. His attitude was so obnoxious that I almost came to blows with him before being restrained by the Carlo. Luckily, as we were about to depart, giving the time-honoured two finger salute, the manager's brother, who was much more reasonable, instructed us to ignore the row and turn up for tomorrow's show, with his personal guarantee that all would be OK. As promised, the rest of the week went like clockwork, and we were paid in full, with no stoppages for the missing show.

On June 11th we opened for another week at the Club Royale in Preston. By now I was beginning to enjoy the work, with a different town every week, good company and generous wages. Carlo and I were beginning to work together well and also to forge a genuine friendship. He presented a stern, rather forbidding exterior which often gave people the wrong impression, but the person underneath proved to be a warm and friendly character with a great sense of humour!

After the first few weeks I began to appreciate my luck in providing a rhythm section with the man dubbed by Keith Richards "the greatest rock drummer in the world!". Halfway through the week we spent a day in nearby Blackpool, happily trawling the sideshows and taking a trip up the famous tower. I felt a moment of sadness as we passed the now closed down nightclub, once famous as Johnny Kidd's Club. Above the fading facade, a life size painted likeness of my old boss in pirate costume looked jauntily down, just as I remembered him, a stark reminder of recent events!

By this stage, as Carlo and I developed our partnership, it became painfully obvious that Neville wasn't fitting in. He was a lovely bloke and he played very well, but was obviously more suited to playing lounge music. Whilst Carlo and I wore the standard dress of sixties rock musicians, Neville was more comfortable in a tuxedo. We wanted Jerry Lee Lewis, but got Liberace instead! A council of war with Billie led to the decision to replace Neville with a guitarist, and so it was left to Carlo and myself to find the right person.

Billie hired a room above a North London pub during a break between gigs, but didn't appear herself, whilst Carlo and I auditioned several hopeful guitarists, lured by a hastily placed advertisement in the Melody Maker, promising regular work with a 'name singer'. Remembering how impressed I was with Freddy Mack's guitarist, Ged Peck, I had invited him up for a blow, where he proceeded to annihilate the opposition with his tremendous turn of speed. Carlo was not too impressed, he had seen it all before with Ritchie Blackmore, and he valued notes before speed, quite rightly, but at the end of the evening he grudgingly agreed, with the words "I suppose it'll be your mate!".

Now things were looking up; With Ged on board we could rock a bit more, Carlo never mentioned my 'temporary' status again, and all negative thoughts disappeared. Billie was signed to a new management and agency which had recently been set up by Spencer Davis following the split of his original chart topping group, and the work was rolling in!

Ged fitted in well and enabled us to beef up the act a bit! June 23rd saw us driving north to a one-off show at the Town Hall, Hawick, on the Scottish border. On arrival we were informed by the promoter that the support band had failed to show, so we were expected to play all night. Billie quickly told him that we were only contracted for 75 minutes. The promoter had no other support apart from a tiny Dansette record player on the stage, with only the Shadows' first album being played repeatedly. Without our co-operation he would have to cancel the show. In retrospect of course, we should have carried the whole evening, but it was decided to cancel the show, for which he would pay us regardless. Before paying Billie in full, the promoter made a cancellation announcement to the early arrivals, who quickly dispersed, whilst Billie, Carlo, Ged and I prepared to remove our belongings from the dressing room. "It's a shame", said Carlo, as we opened the back door, "to come all this way and not get to play!". "There they are!", came a shout as we prepared to step outside, followed by a hail of missile, including stones, bottles and assorted garbage. Carlo swiftly slammed the door shut. "Get the police!", he hollered, white with fear. After about ten minutes, which seemed like hours, a trembling band made their way through a booing crowd, held back by a cordon of local police. Quickly climbing into the van, echoes of Glasgow with the Pirates crossed my mind as we drove the short distance to our hotel. Still shaking with fright we looked for the bar, where we could steady our nerves, only to discover that we were booked into a temperance hotel. No drinks!!

It was decided that someone had to venture out to a liquor store for a bottle of whisky, so I suggested drawing straws. Carlo swiftly fashioned 'straws' from bits of paper, and of course I managed to draw the short one! Turning up my collar and praying that no-one would recognise me, I gingerly sauntered along Hawick High Street, soon finding a drinks store where, using my best Scottish accent, I managed to purchase a bottle of Johnny Walker and leg it back to the hotel unscathed. Our sense of terror soon abated after a large Scotch or two, and we went to bed happy!

The next night saw us play Falkirk without incident, before moving on for a week in Birmingham where we played the Monte Carlo Club. Now we were joined by a keyboard player, a friend of Carlo's called P. J. Kelly. PJ proved to be a real hoot, always up for a laugh, and a nice player too! Billie began introducing new songs to here act, a favourite being 'Bang, Bang' by Cher. A distinctive guitar lick between verses often caused Ged a mental block, with quite hilarious results. Another was 'It Takes Two', the Gaye hit, where Billie required me to duet with her. I never felt comfortable with this, even more so after witnessing Billie sing it on TV with Steve Marriot, who showed how it should be done!

On July 8th, I stood in for one night with the Simon Raven trio (still Buddy Britten to me), with Roger 'Solly' Truth back on the drums. It was just like old times, and still a buzz to play with those guys!

A few days later Billie Davis and the Quality (as we were known) crammed into Carlo's Ford van, caught the ferry to Belgium and travelled across to Germany, where we were to play for five days at Frankfurt's K.52 Club. The sun beat down relentlessly, with temperatures inside the van almost unbearable, so wow were pretty drained on our arrival. We certainly weren't thrilled to discover that we had to play six shows a night between the hours of 7 p.m. and 1 a.m.. This was the famous treadmill system employed in Germany which, of course, had been the making of many British groups. As the audience changed almost every hour, on-one minded that we just repeated the same set. There was just time in between shows to grab a beer and dry the sweat from our shirts with a hair dryer!

Halfway through our stint at the K.52 we travelled to a one-off show at Hamburg. Before we left, Carlo took me to one side and told me of his ambition to re-unite with guitarist Ritchie Blackmore. the two had worked together with Screaming Lord Sutch and The Savages, and Neil Christian's Crusaders, remaining friends and keeping in touch. Blackmore now lived in Hamburg, and Carlo had arranged to meet him, to present an idea for a new band based on myself, Carlo and Ritchie. After the gig we met Blackmore at his flat, from where we proceeded to the famous Star Club for a beer and a chat. Carlo swiftly outlined a plan where the two of us would give Billie reasonable notice to quit, and then return to Hamburg, where we would base ourselves, and rehearse an act. Carlo pointed out that all three of us had excellent pedigrees, and felt confident that we could attract plenty of well-=paid work in Germany, just as other British bands were doing. He suggested that I handle vocals until a proper singer could be found, to which I agreed, although with more confidence than I felt!

Blackmore seemed keen on the plan. After all, he had languished in Hamburg for some time without regular employment, so this could only be a positive move. He suggested a keyboard player who was also resident in Hamburg, another ex-Savage who Carlo knew well. As the time swiftly approached for us to depart for Frankfurt, we all shook hands in agreement, Carlo promising to let Ritchie know as soon as we were able to return. Leaving the Star Club, full of optimism for a successful future, we headed onto the Autobahn....

 

Chapter 15 : Savages & Flowerpot Men

On our return from Germany, Carlo and I continued to make vague plans for the new project, but a recurrence of an old problem - namely severe tonsillitis – was making it almost impossible for me to sing harmony for Billie, let alone tackle complete songs, as I had done with the Pirates. A visit to hospital confirmed that I needed an operation. “How long?” I enquired. “Between one and two years” came the reply, so my name was added to the list.

The shows with Billie continued. P. J. Kelly left, for reasons long forgotten, and was replaced by a terrific organ player called Arthur Regis, a friendly well-spoken bloke, who fitted in perfectly. No sooner had Arthur joined when I received a mysterious phone call from Roger Truth, asking me to meet him in Soho to discuss a business proposition. Intrigued, I headed for the Van Gogh bar in Rupert Street where Roger had once more taken the gig with Buddy Britten, who had now permanently become Simon Raven. Roger explained that he had found a benefactor who was interested in financing a new group, and introduced me to a young lady he called “’Enry”. ‘Enry, it appeared, had spotted Roger’s talent on her frequent visits to the Van Gogh, and of course he had recommended me to her. I explained that it would be no problem to find the other musicians needed.

‘Enry had exquisite manners and poise, with the air of self-assurance that often surrounds people of wealth. I soon found out that she was, in fact, Lady Henrietta Guinness, of the famous brewing family! A date was arranged for me to come to the Van Gogh bar where I could perform a couple of tunes with Roger, apparently to satisfy her trustees that we were a viable proposition. Once this task was performed, we provisionally brought Arthur Regis and Ged Peck on board, before beginning the search for a vocalist. Henrietta was arranging the purchase of a Tudor manor, where, she explained, we all would live. I lost no time in calling up Terry Marshall at the new amplifier factory in Bletchley, swiftly placing an order for several new Marshall stacks to amplify the new outfit. Meetings now took place at Henrietta’s headquarters, a fabulous King’s Road Italian restaurant called Alvaro’s, where Roger and I were wined and dined in style. Henrietta celebrated her birthday with a huge party at Sybilla’s nightclub near Piccadilly, where we rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous. At the time I was taking snuff to try and wean myself off cigarettes. One of the guests invited me to try some of theirs, which I did, only to discover that it definitely wasn’t snuff! On waking up in Roger’s flat I found my memory of the previous night’s activities extremely hazy!

Whilst all these new plans were being laid, Billie Davis’ situation took a turn for the worse, with the cancellation of several months’ work. The reasons are now lost in the lists of time, but panic gripped Carlo, Ged, Arthur and myself, as we realised that our regular earnings had come to a halt! Carlo immediately rushed out to find his old boss David Sutch, who promptly engaged three of us to work as his group, the Savages. Arthur, however, was not included, as Sutch was using his famous one-eyed pianist, Freddy Fingers Lee.

All of a sudden, amongst this whirlwind of activities, proposals and counter-proposals, I found myself working with yet another of my rock n’ roll heroes. Today he is often dismissed as an eccentric oddball, but no-one should underestimate the importance of Screaming Lord Sutch and The Savages in the history of British Rock. Their act was an absolutely awe-inspiring sound and spectacle, a totally amazing antidote to the majority of pop and rock during the 60’s, which definitely provided the impetus that drove many budding musicians to strive for success. Although others were on the fringe, the best line-up of Savages was undoubtedly Bernie Watson (guitar), Carlo Little (drums), Nicky Hopkins (piano) and Rick Brown (bass). Together they created an amazing wall of sound which was uniquely British, yet more powerful than most U.S. bands. As well as Sutch, this line-up had also worked with British Blues legend Cyril Davies, as the All-Stars, performing on the great recording of Country line Special. The early Rolling Stones used to support them at London gigs such as the Marquee Club, According to Sutch, Mick Jagger and Brian Jones begged Carlo Little to join them, but Carlo was in a different league and so, naturally, turned them down. Keith Richards is often quoted as dubbing Carlo “the world’s greatest rock n’ roll drummer”, a sentiment I agree with entirely. There was little doubt that Sutch’s act had suffered recently, mainly due to the fact that he was unwilling to pay for good musicians, often recruiting the cheapest available, but he always relished the chance to use Carlo Little, knowing that he added class to the show. And so I found myself a “Savage”, working alongside Carlo as he played in that heavy style which always made him stand out. Freddy ‘Fingers’ Lee was also of legendary status, and with Ged Peck’s virtuosity we really could not fail!

Meanwhile negotiations continued with Henrietta Guinness, although at a somewhat slower pace, owing to the fact that I was now relishing the experience of being a ‘Savage’! How lucky can one get, I thought, having played with two of England’s best outfits, here I was with another – Screaming Lord Sutch and the Savages. David Sutch’s act had not changed in the eight years that he had been a top attraction, and I knew the collection of Fifties and Sixties rock n’ roll songs inside out. The difference with Dave, though, was that you had to brave fire, water and assorted weaponry whilst playing with the panache demanded by Carlo, who was also band leader and choreographer! The highlight for me though was seeing Freddy Fingers Lee cartwheel across the stage, landing with his head on a cushion strategically place on the keyboard of the piano, whilst Sutch, standing on top of the piano would grab Fred’s ankles, holding him in hand-stand position. Fred would then play an amazing solo, Arguably playing better upside down than most pianists could achieve the right way up! Usually he would screw a car wing mirror onto the piano, thus allowing him to see the rest of the band with his one good eye. He also had a disconcerting habit of removing his glass eye band resting it on your shoulder, usually accompanied by the phrase “I’ve got my eye on you!”

For Ged and me, this period was an important part of our rock n’ roll education, an experience we would not have missed for anything!

The rides to fame of Screaming Lord Sutch was initially due to his appearance. In 1959, waist-length hair had never been seen in England and so, until long hair became more commonplace, Sutch caused amazement and outrage wherever he appeared! Gigs with Sutch were never dull affairs. Girls would invariably scream with fear at his antics, often leading to their boyfriends becoming hostile and determined to show that Sutch was no-one to be afraid of! Several years before, I had taken three girls, including my future wife Janet, to see Sutch’s act at Northolt, where they were all so overcome with fright that we had to leave after several songs. Now, as a Savage, I was witnessing this effect from the stage.

One memorable night, August 5th 1967, saw us playing in Narberth, Wales. The ball room was packed to capacity with a lively crowd, and as usual most of the girls were frightened to death by the spectacle of Dave Sutch doing his stuff. A handful of toughs stood at the front, led by a large bloke wearing a light blue suit, who seemed intent on causing trouble. He attempted to hold on to Dave’s microphone cable whenever possible, which limited Sutch’s stage movements. I could sense Dave getting annoyed. The moment arrived during our version of Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Great Balls Of Fire” when Sutch set fire to a container of newspaper and petrol, resulting in flames four or five feet high. I expected to see our tough guy move back from the heat of the fire, but he stood his ground, although it seemed that his eyebrows were in danger of vanishing! Sutch then ran across, ringing his big brass fire bell, carrying a 2 gallon fireman’s bucket of water to extinguish the flames with. The sight of the leering yobbo was too much for Sutch, however, and, instead of putting out the flames, he gave the bloke the 2 full gallons right in the fact! Retaliation followed in the form of the tough guy’s pals launching themselves at the band in a crazy sea of flying fists and bottles. Under this onslaught the Savages retreated, whilst I wondered if we would survive! Suddenly the voice of Screaming Lord Sutch boomed over the P.A. system announcing that the police were in the building. Like magic, our attackers ran for the exit. Of course, there were no police, but Dave’s presence of mind had saved us from almost certain injury!

Apart from the occasional crowd trouble, it was tremendous fun working with Sutch and the Savages, and I found a friendship with Dave which was to last until his untimely death in 1999. By the end of August Billie Davis had secured a few more gigs, and so our work was now divided between her and Sutch. This was an extremely busy period, and so our plans with Lady Henrietta Guinness had been unavoidably slowed, resulting in her having a change of heart. For reasons never fully explained to me, she had decided to abandon the project, and so another opportunity was lost. I had to explain the situation to Marshall Amplification, who agreed to cancel my order for new gear. I didn’t see or hear from Henrietta again, but reading of her exploits in the press, I realised why she dropped out. It appeared that her romance with one of the staff at Alvaro’s restaurant had led to friction with her family, with the result that she married and moved to Italy, where she raised a son. The ensuing bad feeling kept her name in the newspapers for several years, until sadly in 1978 she took her own life.

On September 10th 1967, Billie Davis and the Quality began a week long engagement at Manchester’s Embassy Club. The venue was owned by a charismatic front man who was M.C., vocalist with the house band, resident comedian, and also a pretty decent impersonator. He came from working-class roots, had obvious empathy with us as performers, and sometimes drove us back to our digs in his new Jaguar car. His name, we learned, was Bernard Manning, destined to become a famous television performer in the not too distant future.

Whilst I never forgot Bernard, it was a severe dose of food poisoning that made the week unforgettable for me! The food in our digs left a lot to be desired, and by Tuesday it became necessary for me to stay close to the toilet. A system was worked out to deliver me onstage one minute before curtain up, and if necessary I was allowed to leave the stage for the nearest khazi!! By the end of the week I had recovered, bidding Bernard farewell, little knowing that he and his club would soon be nationally famous on TV. I also had no way of knowing that our association with Billie Davis was finally at an end.

From out of the blue, Carlo Little had a telephone call from Spencer Davis Management. It appeared that hey needed musicians to support a vocal act that they had signed, named the Flowerpot Men. A single called “Let’s Go To San Francisco” was riding high in the charts, so the logical next move was to get the act on the road, and Billie Davis’ band was in the frame for the job. Sensing a good earner, Carlo swiftly arranged a time and place to rehearse together. The only snag was that Arthur Regis and landed a gig with top soul act Jimmy James and the Vagabonds, so a keyboard player had to found quickly. I immediately thought of Billy Davidson, the amazingly gifted organist who I had met at Joan Watson’s shop. Luckily, he was free to complete the line-up, and so Bill, Ged Carlo and I assembled at a London rehearsal room, where we were introduced to the four vocalists who had been appearing on TV shows all over Europe as the Flowerpot Men. We soon learned that the hot record had resulted from one of the many studio sessions regularly carried out by my old favourites, Carter and Lewis. They had given up performing in order to concentrate on recording their many compositions, some of which were leased out to various touring bands, who then changed their names accordingly. This they had done with their own group, the Ivy League, following many chart hits, and were now doing the same thing with the name Flowerpot Men, borrowed from a 1950’s children’s television programme. John Carter himself had sung the lead vocal on the record, with harmonies provided by a great session singer names Tony Burrows. Ken Lewis had supplied keyboard and piano, with my old mate Robin Scrimshaw playing bass. John and Jen had for many years written songs in varying styles and had now been able to use their skills to capitalise on the current ‘flower power’ rage which had recently arrived here from the USA. Tony Burrows, currently in a new Ivy League line-up, together with Robin, quickly recruited two other singers. Tony brought in Neil Landon, also from the Ivy League, and Robin brought in Pete Nelson, one-time front man of my old mates the Travellers, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that I knew two of the four singers.

The rehearsal was overseen by Ken Lewis in person, and whilst I was knocked out to meet him once more, he was equally pleased to meet Carlo Little, who he greeted with the words “My, what a reputation you have got!!” Carlo blushed at this. “Have I?” was the best he could reply. The four singers than produced a list of 3 and 4 part harmony material by artists such as the Four Tops and the Four Season. They had obviously rehearsed their parts, and the whole package was sounding pretty slick after a two hour run through. Everyone seemed happy with the result, and so several more rehearsals were scheduled before taking to the road.

Carlo, as our elected spokesman, entered into tough wage negotiations. He felt that a top ten hit record would place the act in a high earning bracket, and that good musicians deserved good money. Using all of his considerable powers of persuasion Carlo secured a great deal, which provided us with an excellent retainer, whether we worked or not, plus a decent fee for each show. At last we were about earn serious money!

The next day saw us arrive at the Spencer Davis office where we were introduced to the staff, and provided with cash to buy some suitably “flowery” stage clothes. Following several more rehearsals we supplied with a truck for us and our equipment. Armed with a full gig list, we were ready to hit the road! …

 

to be continued...