On June 11, 2025, Brian Douglas Wilson, co-founder of the Beach Boys died.

During February 2024 he had been diagnosed with dementia, and three months later Wilson entered into a conservatorship. In a post shared on Instagram, his family announced Brian’s death. “We are heartbroken to announce that our beloved father Brian Wilson has passed away,” they wrote. “We are at a loss for words right now. Please respect our privacy at this time as our family is grieving. We realize that we are sharing our grief with the world.”

I first encountered Brian Wilson in 1962 at Rancho Music record shop in Studio Village in Culver City California when the Beach Boys were doing an in-store appearance and autograph party to promote their new record “Surfin’.”

In 1965 I talked to Brian, clad in a blue Navy pea coat and white Levis, one afternoon after junior high school. He introduced me to his wife Marilyn at Fisher’s Hamburgers inside the Town and Country Market in the Fairfax District.

I’ve subsequently worked with Brian on projects over the last half century. I’ve conducted interviews with him and wrote the 2007 program for Brian Wilson’s 40^th Anniversary Pet Sounds tour. In 2004 he supplied the back cover jacket testimonial for my first book This Is Rebel Music.

In 2014, my brother Kenneth and I wrote the text and assembled the debut coffee table photography book of artist Guy Webster, Big Shots. Webster was a Beach Boys’ insider and allowed to shoot the band and Wilson over the 1966-1967 making of their SMile endeavor. Brian provided the introduction to Big Shots.

“I saw Brian take pop music into a new direction,” marveled Guy in one of our interviews. “I love Brian. Child-like innocence and he was playful. And I believe in that. One of the things about studying Buddhism all my life is getting that playful side, exposing it and don’t be afraid of it and let it out. Everything Brian did I loved. Even the silly songs like ‘Surfer Girl’ I thought were brilliant.

“Well, the first time I walked into the living room at Laurel Way, it was this giant Moroccan tent was in the middle of the room, and there was sand on the floor by the piano, and I just went nuts because they could live the way they wanted to. Because they were rock ‘n’ roll and then, I had to go home to a straight house with you know, no tents in my living room…The group would gather in the tent and it was such an intimate experience. I used to sit in there with the guys and we’d talk and hang out and it was such a beautiful light that came in the tent through this wonderful amber, rose and red sheeting. And I enjoyed it. I thought it was a lot of fun. It made the house unique and different.

“I feel it’s an honor that I was at the recording session for the vocals of ‘Good Vibrations.’ Oh my God. I had chills up and down my arms and back the whole time. I had never seen anything like it and to be in that recording session and to see them practice in the halls getting their harmonies. Holy shit. That was a real treat and one of the highlights of my musical life. Capitol Records is releasing the SMiLE box set with the original 1966 and ’67 sessions for that album, including ‘Good Vibrations.’ I took photos in the book for the package. Van Dyke Parks is the lyricist with Brian on SMiLE. He’s brilliant. I did the cover of his Song Cycle album.”

It was in 1965 at RCA studios in Hollywood where Brian met Andrew Loog Oldham, who was there producing a Rolling Stones session at Studio A with engineer Dave Hassinger.

In 2000, Andrew told me Brian suggested to him “that one day he would write songs that people pray to.”

During 2007 I mentioned to Brian what Andrew said. “Yes, I did. I don’t remember when I first felt that. I know music was more than people applauding and buying records. Even when Pet Sounds came out a lot of people told me it got them through high school or college. The most amazing comment I got from one guy who said ‘that’s the most spiritual album I’ve ever heard.’”

“Brian put his heart in his music at a time when we were all using other muscles,” emphasized Loog Oldham.

The Wilson effect can also be found in 1966 on “What to Do,” from the Rolling Stones’ Aftermath. An homage to the Beach Boys, particularly their stacked vocal harmonies. Mick Jagger initially remarked to his producer, “What do you want me to do? Brian Wilson?”

In 1967, Brian would rave about “My Obsession” from the Stones’ Between the Buttons.

Genesis Publications in the UK presented a 2008 limited edition book, That Lucky Old Sun, of only 1,000 numbered sets, personally signed by Wilson and artist Peter Blake. The book has illustrated new interviews with Brian and an essay I penned.

That Lucky Old Sun was the seventh studio album by Wilson, issued by Capitol Records in 2008. It was written in collaboration with Scott Bennett, and spoken word poetry commissioned from Van Dyke Parks. It’s a concept album about life in Southern California.

Brian Wilson’s oceanic music has often been viewed as the soundtrack to an imaginary film. The sonic textures and ingenious voicings depict a California wonderland that is within a whisper’s breath of true touch. How appropriate then that England’s Peter Blake took brush in hand to “storyboard” these cinematic jewels, providing visual counterpoint to the scenes and dreams that reside in his songs.

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Harvey Kubernik and Brian Wilson. (Photo by Mark London)

Excerpts from Brian Wilson and Harvey Kubernik 1974-2014 interviews conducted in restaurants, delicatessens, studios, and Wilson’s home.

Q: Do you remember the first day you entered Capitol Records in 1962?

A: Yes. I remember walking into the building with my father and Gary Usher. We met the A&R man, Nik Venet. And he listened to our demos and he signed us right on the spot. We played him “409” and “Surfin’ Safari.” “I want to sign you guys right now!” I just wanted to make records. I didn’t know how big it would get. I didn’t think it would.

Q: Tell me about engineer Chuck Britz at United Western/Western Recorders. You also worked with Stan Ross, Dave Gold, Larry Levine and Doc Siegel at Gold Star, Bruce Botnick at Sunset Sound, and engineers at Columbia, and RCA.

A: The best trip is that they know music. They are good at music and engineering, too. People like Chuck Britz made suggestions. “How ‘bout if we had a little more pick on the bass?” “‘How ‘bout if the piano had more of a tacky sound.” Chuck was like a co-producer but only got credits for being an engineer. Let me tell you a story. I went to Gold Star and asked Larry Levine, the engineer, “What is the secret of the Phil Spector echo trip?” “Well, we have two echo chambers under the parking lot. Phil uses both the chambers at the same time.” So, I tried that myself and it worked.

Q: On the original Phil Spector-produced recording of the Crystals “Then I Kissed Her,” Barney Kessel played the opening riff on a Rickenbacker 12-string guitar.

A: Barney Kessel!

Q: You and the Beach Boys covered “Then I Kissed Her.”

A: The opening riff is my favorite riff ever written. I wanted to feature Al [Jardine] on the record and give him a chance to stand up and sing. It’s hard to describe Al’s vocals, but he can go up there and get pretty high.

Q: I always wanted to ask when did you start utilizing two bass players on the same music track? Did this technique begin with Pet Sounds?

A: I asked Larry Levine what Phil Spector did with his basses and Larry said Phil uses a standup and a Fender both at the same time. And the Fender guy used a pick. So, I tried it out at my session and it worked great! You also get a thicker sound putting the two basses together. I start with drums, bass, guitar and keyboards. Then we overdub the horns and the background voices.

Q: Paul McCartney told me how much he liked the bass lines on Pet Sounds. I know you utilized the bass as a principal instrument. Like on “Here Today” you conceived the idea of the bass playing an octave higher on the rhythm bed track.

A: Because the bass parts resound better in a studio and you can take three hours to get one line if you really needed it. You could take forever and get a goddamn line, you know?

Q: “Surf’s Up.”

A: Van Dyke and I wrote that at my house. It was about 11:00 in the morning. We had a sand box with a piano in it and it took us 30 minutes to write it. Maybe an hour and a half. We just wrote it really spontaneously. We title songs after the lyrics. I never wrote a song on guitar or bass. We were trying to get across the feeling of children. How much their love means to people. Van Dyke Parks is the greatest lyricist I’ve ever heard. His lyric writing is poetic.

Leonard Bernstein had me play “Surf’s Up” on TV. He told someone he liked it. A song has to work on the piano before it goes to the studio. On the keyboard you can see what you’re writing. You can hear and see it.

Q: On Surf’s Up I love ‘“Til I Die.” Where did that tune come from? It’s deep in the batter’s box. Like when the former L.A. Dodgers baseball pitcher Hoyt Wilhelm threw a knuckleball.

A: Well, I put a B note in G major 7th chord and it was a 3rd in the chord, and the note in the key of G resonates pretty well. Lyrically, I tried to put nature in there. Earth, water, rocks and leaves.

Q: “Sail on Sailor.” Carl produced the recording and Blondie Chaplin’s vocal performance is terrific. I know Van Dyke Parks lobbied for the song originally to be recorded.

A: I was at Danny Hutton’s one time. Tandyn Almer and I wrote a song, “Sail on Sailor” on a Wurlitzer electric piano and Ray Kennedy was there and started writing some lyrics. “Ray, I didn’t know you could write lyrics.” “Keep playing! Keep Playing!” We wrote the thing in about an hour and a half or two hours. Later, Van Dyke Parks tweaked it a little bit. (Jack Rieley added some lyric revision as well.)

Q: Both you and Paul McCartney as songwriters and musicians go away from the root chord and establish counterpoint sound. It’s a structure both the Beatles and the Beach Boys did. Can you talk to me about veering away from the melody from the root chord as a composer?

A: I learned that from Motown. I learned how to play bass from Motown for Christ sakes! I learned how to play different type of roots on certain chords. I love Stevie Wonder. We did his “I Was Made to Love Her.”

Q: You once said your favorite “John Lennon” songs are “Across the Universe” and “Because.” I hear the influence on the Beatles from “Wonderful” off Smiley Smile.

A: I’ll say the influence was on “Here, There and Everywhere.”

Q: The opening vocal intro on the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” was informed by “I Get Around.”

(Courtesy Gary Pig Gold Archives)

A: Maybe it inspired them. I hope it did. I really do.

Q: Your favorite “Paul McCartney” songs?

A: “Michelle” and “All My Lovin’” would be two. Paul McCartney’s song “Let It Be” saved many bad nights of mine when I was going through a really rough trip and “Let It Be” would come right to me. Out of nowhere. It healed me. I love Paul’s “The Long and Winding Road.” Because of the chord structure and the message.

Q: Rubber Soul?

A: “Norwegian Wood” completely blew my mind. And marijuana was around for Pet Sounds. Well, when I first listened to Rubber Soul, I then went to the piano and all I could see were my keys. I locked in with the keyboard and wrote [with Tony Asher] “God Only Knows” in 45 minutes.

Q: When you perform “God Only Knows” at concerts, why does it always receive a standing ovation from everyone in the crowd?

A: Because we’ve had a little practice, Harvey. (laughs) Second of all, Carl (Wilson) is gone, and third of all, I have to carry what he used to carry. I have to carry the damn weight. I have to carry the ball. I don’t remember the recording session of it. Too far in the past to remember. I mean, here is your part…OK. Here is your part…OK. And, somehow, we got “God Only Knows” done. And, the record spoke for itself. And it was a religious experience. Carl and I were into prayer. We held prayer sessions in our house on Laurel Way. “Dear God. Please let us bring music to people.” It happened. A cool trip.

Q: I did an interview with producer Giles Martin. He and his dad, Sir George Martin, who you know well, produced the Beatles’ LOVE album that’s with the stage show in Las Vegas at the Mirage Hotel. You and [wife] Melinda went to the opening. I heard you went back for a second time.

A: I thought it was one of the most brilliant pieces of music production I have ever heard in my entire life! I went there thinking it was going to be some look-a-like Beatles guys, a tribute thing. What! A totally different show? I wasn’t ready! What it did to me was make me so very proud of the Beatles. The sound of that theater probably couldn’t be equaled by any place anywhere in the world.

I now realize the sound that I heard was a manifestation of a very, very good natured person like Giles Martin. A very good sense of humor. You gotta check it out! Seeing it made me more proud than ever of the Beatles. It made me realize how great they were with music. I could not believe how good Ringo’s drums sounded. I could not believe it. It was dynamic! You will not believe it. There’s no way they’ve ever sounded better than that theater. I’ll tell you that right now. You gotta go see LOVE and take your chick.

Q: Knowing you, did you go back home and write a song afterwards?

A: No, I didn’t. I actually didn’t. (laughs) I was so blown away I couldn’t write.

Q: Sir George Martin’s production work with the Beatles.

A: The horn arrangement by (Sir) George Martin is very humorous on “All You Need Is Love.” I saw him at the U.K. Hall of Fame show with his son Giles. And James Brown. That was quite a night. Really cool.

Q: Tell me about “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” from Pet Sounds. The production.

A: Barney Kessel did the introduction to the song and Glen Campbell was also there. And, I said to myself, “I’m going to have these guys play directly into the board instead of going out into the studio.” And they plugged their instruments into the recording console direct. That’s how we got that sound. I also did that on “California Girls.” My brother Carl played a 12-string on that and we plugged him into the console and he did his thing. Every now and then I’ll do that.

Q: “Cool, Cool Water.”

A: Well, there is something special. The recording session was brilliant. Mike was absolutely brilliant. He was right on.

Q: Did the principal guitar lead played through a Leslie speaker on “Marcella” get influenced from George Harrison’s lead guitar part on “Let It Be?”

A: Absolutely. Marcella was a Spanish chick that worked at a local massage parlor.

Q: “The Little Girl I Once Knew.” John Lennon really praised the record in a 1965 interview in England. I read that he called it “the greatest record I’ve heard in weeks.” Current SiriusXM deejay Rodney Bingenheimer as a teenager attended that recording session.

A: Yes, he did. That is my very favorite introduction in a song in my whole life. It kills me every time.

Q: Because of the way the music is suspended on the front end of the track?

The Beach Boys with Brian at the piano.
(Courtesy Capitol Photo Archives)

A: Yes. It might have been the first time the music stopped and started again on a record. I wrote the intro at the studio before we cut the thing. And, (session musician) Larry Knechtel, it was his idea to keep the music rolling. And we tried one, and then I put a second guitar overdub on top of the other guitar. And the rest of it was history. We were doing stereo but I could only hear the mono and I always put the vocals up front in the mix. Mixing in mono is good for my left ear. My right ear is broke, done and over with.

Q: I really dig your “Wendy” record.

A: It was not written about my daughter Wendy. This was way before she was born. You know it starts with a bass slowed down with a guitar. It was an attempt to flatter the Four Seasons. I wanted to try and imitate the Four Seasons in a way they would like to hear it. ‘Cause I like (producer) Bob Crewe and the way they do their vocals.

Q: “The Warmth of the Sun” is awesome.

A: Probably Mike Love’s most beautiful lyrics he’s ever written and one of the prettiest songs I ever wrote. I think it’s because JFK had died the day before. We dedicated it to him and I tried to sing it sweetly and angelically, you know, trying to capture the sound of a sweet angel.

Q: Do you remember your first writing sessions with Van Dyke Parks?

A: Initially, he did not want to work on ‘Good Vibrations’ because when he heard it, he thought it was finished.

Q: Do you recall the origin of “Heroes and Villains?”

A: I sure do. The song started at my Laurel Way house. [Brian and Marilyn never lived in Laurel Canyon as represented in a 2018 documentary. In 1966 they resided in Beverly Hills]. We had a sandbox and a piano. The actual recording took five or six weeks. I love “Heroes and Villains.” The magic of Van Dyke’s lyrics and my lead vocals. It’s a pretty youthful lead. Because the damn thing is so together and cohesive. It comes together so beautifully that people can’t resist lovin’ it.

Q: You brought in the Theremin instrument into Pet Sounds for “I Wasn’t Made for These Times” and “Good Vibrations.” You saw guitarist Barney Kessel in session at Western recording on Sunset Blvd. with a Theremin player for a science fiction soundtrack. You booked Barney the next day and wanted the Theremin guy. Barney said, “I’ll ask him and see if he’s available.”

A: Yes. I first discovered it when I was a little kid. My mom and dad had a friend who had a thing where you put your hand out and get a sound that goes higher and lower. And then I found out about what they call a band Theremin where you slide your finger across a band. And I used it. It is an instrument that you use sparingly.

Q: In 1967 SMiLE was shelved. Yet, a bunch of the same songs soon populated Beach Boys’ albums for years. Did you know at least then that the tunes were good enough to be heard and released?

A: Yes. Always knew the songs were strong enough… “Heroes and Villains” and “Surf’s Up.” Like on “Heroes and Villains.” I always liked the way the words played against each other. “God Only Knows…” There weren’t songs on the radio with God in the title. Then there were no songs with ‘Villains’ on the radio.

Here is what I used: I used reverberation and echo. And that’s how the studio lends itself to the song. So, the record is the proper use of echo, and the proper use of reverberation. I always loved echo from (The Penguins) “Earth Angel” to Phil Spector. And the Four Freshmen had some echo, too. When you have echo and reverb to work with you can stretch the note from ah… to ahhhhhhh. You can stretch notes longer.

As far as the love or joy of making music, you start with your background track. You get the drummer to get to get the right beat and the bass player to thump the right thump. Guitars, pianos, violins and horns. Then you try and get them to all work together.

Mike came over to my Laurel Way house and I had a “Bop Bop …And he said, “Do that again.” And he goes, “I’m pickin’ up good vibrations.” That’s how he did it. On the piano and that (writing) session I could not envision the whole recording. In those days you went into the studio with ideas and paper but I was using portable cassette players back then.

Q: I know you used different studios for various sessions. Van Dyke told me he had never seen anyone before you move from studio to studio with basic tracks.

Brian Wilson in the control room. Pet Sounds sessions.
(Courtesy Capitol Photo Archives)

A: I liked the Capitol rooms, and I liked the instrumental sound, but I didn’t like the vocal sound. I didn’t like that kind of echo chamber. Tell me I’m an idiot! I just didn’t like the vocal sound, so we switched over to Western, and Gold Star. Western had a big room, and Phil Spector was over at Gold Star. Western had a good bass sound and a better vocal sound. Sunset Sound also had a great tack piano, too. I did things at RCA with engineer Dave Hassinger. “Help Me, Rhonda.” Capitol did have a good violin sound.

Q: You were a regular Gold Star visitor and customer for many years. In that facility you produced the Beach Boys’ “Do You Wanna Dance,” “I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times,” “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” and the original version of “Heroes & Villains” at Gold Star. And, a version of “Cabin Essence” earmarked for SMiLE. You also produced recordings by the Honeys. Discuss Gold Star.

A: Basically, it was their echo chamber. More than anything else. I liked their drum sound. I loved their tack piano, too. It was a great studio next to the Musicians Union on Vine. I liked the whole vibe. I liked the owners Dave Gold and Stan Ross and engineer Larry Levine.

For “Good Vibrations” we started at Gold Star studio with the verses. Then we went to Western studio and did the chorus background. Then we went to Sunset Sound to get the bridges, and then we went back to Western to get the second half of the bridge and over to Columbia on Sunset where they had an 8- track machine for the vocals. And that’s we went there because we heard they had an 8-track machine.

Q: What drew you to the use of cello in “Good Vibrations” as a featured instrument?

A: Well Carl (Wilson) said, “Why don’t we use a cello?” And I replied, “Well, good idea.” So, we called a cello player to come to the studio. We had him play the part. Came right in and did it. Van Dyke and I also talked about the role of the cello on “Good Vibrations.”

Q: I know you employed session players on SMiLE and this went back a few years earlier.

A: Because they were able to learn strange chords. They were able to learn licks that other people couldn’t learn. They were able to learn and play with more force and more creativity.

Q: Do you remember the first time hearing the final studio mix of “Good Vibrations?”

A: At the playback, all the guys said, “Hey Brian. This is a number one record.” I said, “You know what? I agree. I think this is gonna be a number one record.”

Q: What is the one thing in “Good Vibrations” that still resonates with you when you hear the recording?

A: Mike’s bass part was the one. Mike’s voice on it was the thing that sold me on it. Mike’s singing got us famous.

Q: Can you discuss the Beach Boys as vocalists.

A: In “Good Vibrations,” Mike’s singing got us famous. Because his voice has a quality to it that goes hand and hand with the song. I’ve written specific songs for Al Jardine, like “Help Me, Rhonda.” Al is a good lead vocalist. Carl Wilson is my favorite rock ‘n’ roll singer. He had a resonate voice and he had a lot of energy and power in his voice. In which I didn’t have or Mike, Al or Bruce Johnston. Carl and Dennis were both my brothers and my artists. Dennis as a singer… First of all, he had an energy. Right? Second of all he had a nice quality about his voice. Coupled energy with a sweetness and that was his whole trip. Bruce Johnston. He is not an energy singer. Bruce is a sweeter singer and a better falsetto.

Q: I have a faint memory in 1967 when the Beach Boys rehearsed “Good Vibrations” on Sunset Blvd. at the former site of The Moulin Rouge club that became The Kaleidoscope and The Aquarius Theater. Before the play Hair was in that building. You were teaching the group the vocal parts because you weren’t going to perform shows with them. Do you remember this?

A: Yes. I wanted it to be done right and I wanted them ready to go for tour. I knew it could work on stage. I never thought “How is this gonna work live?” When we rehearsed everyone was very cooperative. When the boys were touring in 1966 that was when I first started writing even more parts for them.

Q: You flew to Michigan to see “Good Vibrations” played live for the first time. Isn’t that correct?

A: Right. In front of an audience. I just remember saying, “That’s fantastic.” Ten-minute ovation. What was it like? I was proud as hell. I took a bow. I knew the group could perform the material on stage. When it went to number one it did give me some confidence I could write in sections.”

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(Courtesy BriMel)

In 2004, Brian invited me to a Burbank rehearsal room. Wilson and his band were preparing to premiere SMile in the UK at the Royal Festival Hall on February 20th. I watched with his friend, the legendary guitarist, bassist, author and music instructor Carol Kaye.

After receiving triumphant reviews for the SMile event in England, I chatted with Brian at his house about the SMile box being readied for retailers. I’m thanked in the booklet credits.

“Well, when we got there, I was scared that it wasn’t going to go over. Right? I wasn’t sure I could do it. We rehearsed for months. But as soon as it was over they stood up for 15 minutes and applauded. Standing ovation. I was so afraid it wasn’t going to go over. What would you do if you were in my shoes?

“It was a kick because my whole band loved the SMiLE album. Right? And they had to learn it from scratch. We all had a good time because they loved the music. All the songs I was pleased with. During rehearsals the songs started popping out.

“It was so reassuring to see Paul McCartney at one of the SMiLE concerts. Oh God. Yes. He was crying at the concert. Last year I went to see him at Coachella Music Festival in California. He blew my mind. I was on the side of the stage and cried.

“I knew SMile would be heard one day. I don’t think about where I was when I wrote it. I’m passed that. I feel I’m a messenger of music for people. Lots of people, new kids, will discover Carl and Dennis when this new SMile box comes out or when we tour. It’s the magic of music that you get to discover songs and people again.”

How does it feel to be doing selections from SMiLE now in concert, and even celebrating the accomplishment of SMiLE reaching an audience?

You know what, I don’t like SMiLE any more. I got so tired of it and did it so many times that I’ve forgotten the damn thing! I said: “I don’t want to remember it. It’s done.” I like the band I played it with.

On November 4, 2004, SMile was presented in Los Angeles at the Walt Disney Concert Hall venue. To record collectors, L.A. natives, the congregation and Wilson, bio-regional psychic relief and closure was omnipresent that evening.

“Phil Spector is my hero,” exclaimed Brian in one of our dialogues during 1977. “He gave rock ‘n’ roll just what it needed at the time and obviously influenced us a lot. His productions…they’re so large and emotional…Powerful…the Christmas album is still one of my favorites. We’ve done a lot of Phil’s songs: ‘I Can Hear Music,’ ‘Just Once in My Life,’ ‘There’s No Other Like My Baby,’ ‘Chapel of Love’… I used to go to his sessions and watch him record. I learned a lot…”

“I’ve always been flattered that Brian continues to say nice things about me and keeps recording my songs,” remarked Spector in our 1977 interview. “Brian is a very sweet guy and a nice human being. I’m glad he’s coming out of his shell. I think he got caught in a trap with ‘Good Vibrations.’ I think he got condemned more than condoned.

“He became a prisoner instead of a poet. He had the plaudits, the accolades, and touched the masses. I know music is a very important thing to him, besides a vocation. It became cluttered the last few years. Your attitude is in the grooves, and it’s a very personal thing. But Brian thrived on competition.

“I remember when ‘Fun, Fun, Fun’ came out. He wasn’t interested in the money, but a top ten record. He wanted to know how the song would do against the Beatles and if (radio station) KFWB would play it. But I never saw Brian as a competitor.”

Carol Kaye has worked with Wilson, Spector, Jack Nitzsche, Sonny Bono, Bumps Blackwell, and Quincy Jones. Kaye will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as part of the 2025 class for Musical Excellence.

In 2023 I asked Carol if she had met any of the Beatles. “Paul McCartney called me many years ago when he found out I played on the ‘Good Vibrations’ sessions. We traded picks.”

(Title photo courtesy Capitol Photo Archives) 

Harvey Kubernik © 2025

Brian Wilson. Venice Beach, 1986.
(Photo by Henry Diltz, courtesy Gary Strobl)

Harvey Kubernik is the author of 20 books, including 2009’s Canyon Of Dreams: The Magic And The Music Of Laurel Canyon, 2014’s Turn Up The Radio! Rock, Pop and Roll In Los Angeles 1956-1972, 2015′s Every Body Knows: Leonard Cohen, 2016′s Heart of Gold Neil Young and 2017′s 1967: A Complete Rock Music History of the Summer of Love.

Sterling/Barnes and Noble in 2018 published Harvey and Kenneth Kubernik’s The Story Of The Band: From Big Pink To The Last Waltz. In 2021 the duo wrote Jimi Hendrix: Voodoo Child for Sterling/Barnes and Noble.

Otherworld Cottage Industries in 2020 published Harvey’s Docs That Rock, Music That Matters. His Screen Gems: (Pop Music Documentaries and Rock ‘n’ Roll TV Scenes) is scheduled for 2025 publication.

Kubernik’s 1995 interview, Berry Gordy: A Conversation With Mr. Motown is in The Pop, Rock & Soul Reader edited by David Brackett was published in 2019 by Oxford University Press. Brackett is a Professor of Musicology in the Schulich School of Music at McGill University in Canada.

The New York City Department of Education will publish for fall 2025 the social studies textbook Hidden Voices: Jewish Americans in United States History. Kubernik’s 1976 profile/interview with concert promoter Bill Graham on the Best Classic Bands website Bill Graham Interview on the Rock ’n’ Roll Revolution, 1976, Best Classic Bands, is included.

Harvey penned liner notes to CDs of Carole King’s Tapestry, The Essential Carole King, Allen Ginsberg’s Kaddish, Elvis Presley The ’68 Comeback Special, The Ramones’ End of the Century and Big Brother & the Holding Company Captured Live at The Monterey International Pop Festival.

During 2006 Kubernik spoke at the special hearings by The Library of Congress in Hollywood, California, addressing archiving practices and audiotape preservation. In 2017 he appeared at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, in their Distinguished Speakers Series. Harvey was a panelist at The Grammy Museum in Los Angeles in 2023 discussing the Martin Scorsese-directed The Last Waltz.

Kubernik has lectured at the University of Southern California School of Cinema-Television about Oscar-winner D. A. Pennebaker, examining his documentaries on Bob Dylan, Dont Look Back, and David Bowie, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars.)

When David Sutch took his own life in June 1999 the world of rock ’n’ roll lost one of its wildest and most unforgettable characters. As Screaming Lord Sutch, his colorful, larger than life personality was a fixture of the British political landscape, but for rock’n’roll fans he will be remembered for his amazing recorded legacy: the mad rock and horror sides he cut with Joe Meek, the demented mid-‘60s gems like “Train Kept A-Rollin’” and “All Black and Hairy,” the proto-psychedelic “The Cheat,” the hard rockin’ Heavy Friends… For someone with no discernible music talent he sure made a lot of great records. And if you make great records you live forever.

In April 1993 I interviewed Lord Sutch by telephone for a two-part feature in the Union Jack newspaper. It was a memorable chat. Sutch was a charming, down-to-earth man, with an in-built, infectious sense of humor. Within a few minutes it was obvious my carefully prepared list of questions was out the window. Sutch talked a mile a minute, determined to cover all the highlights of his career, specifically: precise election results and of course the name of every single one of the famous players who’d passed through the ranks of the Savages (“my musicians,” as he called them). Between our chuckling, I made intermittent attempts to direct the flow of conversation, but there was little point, Sutch was on a roll, dashing down tangential side alleys and free-associating memories as the whim took him. Who was I to stop him in his tracks to clarify the smaller facts? It was all entertaining stuff – just let the tape roll.

Caveat emptor: As anyone who has read his autobiography, Life as Sutch, can tell you, historical accuracy wasn’t Sutch’s strong suit, entertaining people was. Some of Sutch’s tales involve a certain degree of exaggeration or misconception. All quite innocent, but bear it in mind as you read.

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Lord Sutch: I like the name of your paper: Union Jack. I had an album in America with that car on it. I used to have a trailer as well in England, which we’d use at gigs. I used to go up and down the country with a big Union Jack trailer and inside it was all British goods: jackets and shirts and records, merchandise. I went to Denmark with that, Sweden, Germany, France, all over the place, and then ended up in America.

How did that come about?

It was during our “Backing Britain” campaign. That was to teach the people to be proud of Britain, and to be “Backing Britain” was to buy stuff that was made in Great Britain. So we had all these stickers made of the Union Jack. That was how I launched that tour when I came over there, with the car with the trailer with all these English goods, which they wanted me to represent for them. There was suits, those psychedelic kind of suits – it was at the time of Hendrix and the Who with their Union Jack jackets, shirts, and all that kind of stuff. So I brought a lot of that with me and it was like a tour of America, playing gigs. In the afternoon I would do big shops – Macy’s and them kind of shops – and display all this Union Jack stuff, and all the British stuff, y’know? We even had Sherlock Holmes cloaks and a hat to match, in tweed.

Did you get a good reaction?

Yeah, I sold all the stuff that I had, and then they re-ordered again. I sold all of the surplus I had and I just kept my one model and showed everyone and they could take their orders from the model. It was the time of button-down shirts with the great, big, long, pointed collars and the trousers with the flares, which have come back now. Fashion goes in circles.

To start off, why don’t you tell us a bit about your political platform?

I’m celebrating 30 years now standing for Parliament. The first time was in 1963 at Stratford-upon-Avon during the Profumo Scandal, caused by Mandy Rice-Davies and Christine Keeler. The War Minister was having an affair with those two and they were also having an affair with Russian spies. So he had to resign because of the scandal, which caused the by-election. I was a rock ‘n’ roll singer at the time. I got discovered in the 2-I’s Coffee Bar where Tommy Steele started and Cliff Richard, Marty Wilde, Billy Fury and people like that. I was among that lot. Even David Bowie was down there years ago, along with Gary Glitter – who was Paul Raven back then. And the top guy there was a guy called Vince Taylor, who never made it in America, but he did make it big in France. He used to have the all black leather, and the black leather gloves with rings over the top, and chains and all that – he was good! Many years later, loads of people copied him, like Dave Berry copied his style and Alvin Stardust did a whole rip off of it – Shane Fenton.

Sutch campaign flyer for 1964 election.

Anyway, at the time, I was standing with some kids and I said, “I’m standing for Parliament. Will you vote for me?” These people had two kids running about and one in a pram – three kids. They were both around 20, this man and woman, and they said they’d love to vote for me but they can’t – it’s the law that you can’t vote ’til you’re 21. And I thought that was ridiculous. You have a whole family and you bring kids into the world, and you can’t even vote! So I stood for votes at 18 and also for commercial radio and commercial television – like they’d had in America for years and years – we’d never had that in England, we had the BBC, and the nearest we ever got to rock ‘n’ roll was the Billy Cotton Band Show. If we wanted to listen to rock ‘n’ roll, we had to listen to Radio Luxembourg, which was the only station that was playing it. Then along came the pop pirates – Radio Caroline, Radio London – so I set one up as well called Radio Sutch. That started on a boat and then transferred to the gun towers at the coastline round England. I stood for that – commercial radio; for votes at 18, and I stood also to abolish the 11-plus, for kids not to be judged on one day but to do it over a period of time. It’s only fair, ’cause if you got the jitters because of the examination you failed it. So that’s become law now. I also stood for all day pub opening, and that’s become law now – the pubs can open all day now at the landlord’s discretion. And a memorial college to rock ‘n’ roll – the giants of rock’n'roll, i.e. the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and people like that who came out of Great Britain. It would be a memorial college to train other musicians. And I think that’s a good idea, and that’s been picked up by the government. A lot of my original ideas that they laughed at—the papers made a fool of me, laughed at me, but years later it becomes law, after I stood twice against Harold Wilson in ’63 and then ’66.

Political candidate Screaming Lord Sutch meets Prime Minister Harold Wilson, 1963.

How’d you do at that very first by-election at Stratford-upon-Avon?

Very, very well. I got 208 votes, which is very good for a first time. Over the years now I’ve stood against every Prime Minister that’s come along since then, including Harold Wilson, Ted Heath, and also the one and only Margaret Thatcher – the dragon herself. And I had the pleasure of Maggie talking down to me. I’ve met Maggie a few times since then. She’s alright. She’s a very strong person. I think she’s got Union Jack knickers.

I also stood in this last election against her successor, John Major, the guy who looks like Buddy Holly, and I suggested he get a Stratocaster guitar and sing his things – get a Buddy Holly-cum-Elvis Costello bit and actually get a bit more popular. He hasn’t got a very good image at the moment.

Yeah, he’s got kind of a square image.

But if he turns it into Elvis Costello or Buddy Holly he could come out on top. All he needs is a guitar and a loud amp and away he goes! He can sing his stuff to the less fortunate.

What was his reaction to your suggestion?

Well, he’s thinking about it, you know. There’s this by-election that’s coming up now in Newbury, the one I’m about to enter. It’s the sixth of May and I’m just entering that tomorrow, paying the deposit and everything. They’re frightened that I’ll get more votes than the Tory man. I’m doing some victory parties, as it happens, at our headquarters in Newbury on London Road. The place is called, believe it or not – and I haven’t made this up – the White House. It’s a restaurant-cum-pub. So if I win I can invite John Major for tea and cucumber sandwiches on the lawn at the White House!

In the last General Election I stood against John Major in Huntington, and I got quite a good reaction. I got the most votes I ever had ever against John Major at Huntington; I actually received 728 votes. And then (against) Neil Kinnock in Wales, the chief opposition, I got 547 there against him. I stood against all three main leaders. I stood against Paddy Ashdown in Yeovil – 338 I got there.

Before the General Election I got a tremendous result of 540 votes in a place called Bootle in Liverpool. I got three times as many votes as Dr David Owen and his SDP party. It was after the Bootle by-election he decided that he couldn’t continue any more after being beaten by a Raving Loony. So Dr David Owen decided to call a meeting to call it a day and say he couldn’t continue. So because he didn’t run in the General Election ‘caues his party had folded up, he got this important job as a world statesman and he’s become a Lord. So now he’s Lord Owen and he’s not even sent me a postcard thanking me for beating him and setting him up in that job! I’m still waiting for his thank you letter. Now he’s known all across America because of Bosnia and all this problem, and he’s handling it all. If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t be in the position he’s in now; he’d still be running his little teeny party – it took me and my party to polish it off.  So history’s in the making, even with a funny party like mine.

What are some you policies right now with the Raving Monster Loony Party?

We want to link of Guernsey and Jersey – which is a tax haven off Britain – with the Channel Tunnel, we want to link it all up and become a tax haven in Great Britain, and then undercut Switzerland. Whatever the rate is they give you in Switzerland for your money, give ‘em a better rate in Britain and become the tax haven of the world – because we are an island we can do that. I don’t know why we can’t challenge Switzerland so all that money and treasure can be buried in Great Britain. I’m gonna fund this by digging the Channel Tunnel, extending it right through to Switzerland from France and getting all that money that’s been stashed there and hidden there: your money, my money; American money that’s been hidden there for years. If we can get into the vaults we can get all that gold and silver and all that money comes into Great Britain – I’ll have it and you’ll have it.

I also want to build some fun parks over here and call ‘em Loonyland, to get our own back on Disneyland. Disneyland snubbed Great Britain in favor of France, so I think we should have Loonyland set up as a theme park. The first one can be the Houses of Parliament with Big Ben. We’ll make that a restaurant and a proper hotel where the MPs are allowed to sleep. And we’re gonna put Parliament on wheels. Scotland wants its own Parliament, so we’ll let them have ours. We’ll put it on wheels and wheel it up to them. We’ll wheel it around the country and it can spend a year in each place. It’ll be fairer, really. The guy from the North of Scotland in Aberdeen that spends 12 hours getting to Westminster while the guy in Westminster rolls out of his bed and in five minutes is in there. It’s not fair, so we’re gonna equal it out a little bit. I suggested they get the White House and put that on wheels and wheel it around everywhere.

What’s your policy towards America?

We’re always keen on America ‘cause my son’s American, Tristan Sutch. I’ve got a son from my first wife and he’s there at college in Texas. I’m very, very proud of him, and he’s going to be Screaming Lord Sutch Junior one day, and maybe he can be president one day. He’s born in America so he can run. He’s 18 now.

So when did you start out playing rock ’n’ roll?

I started in 1958 at the 2-I’s Coffee Bar. Then I went on the 2-I’s Road Show and I’ve been years and years at it. Also I’ve been famous for all the musicians that’s been in my bands over the years. The Savages are very well known. There’s that album Lord Sutch & Heavy Friends where I had two members of Deep Purple on there, Richie Blackmore and Nick Simpler (Simper, his name is also misspelled on the album cover – Ed), and two members of Led Zeppelin, Jimmy Page and John Bonham, along with Jeff Beck and also Keith Moon. All these have been in my Savages all over the years. We’ve had Richie Blackmore, Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck, and even John Edwards, a member of Status Quo was with me.

I don’t know if you know, but they’re doing the Keith Moon story, and that’s being backed by Mel Gibson. He bought the book rights and he’s gonna do the same as what they did to the Doors; he’s gonna do a film like that. He got a top guy in Los Angeles that translates books to film scripts and he flew over here and was round my house for about two days getting the early stories of when Keith Moon was playing in the Savages.

Screaming Lord Sutch & the Savages in a pensive mood backstage in Grimsby, January 1962.

So Keith played with you in the Savages before he played in the Who?

That’s it, yeah. It was the High Numbers then; he was in a little band called the High Numbers. And then the guy went on to spend about three days with my drummer, Carlo Little, that’s on my early records, who actually taught Keith Moon how to play. ‘Cause you’d always see him in the wings at all our early gigs. This guy in a mac came up and asked Carlo if he would give him drum lessons at 10 bob a lesson, half a pound – two dollars a lesson. So he did it. He used to deliver Keith and his drum kit to Carlo’s house and Carlo would show him how to play two bass drums and all that. So he’s gonna be featured in this film heavily, ‘cause all the Who verified it that it was Carlo Little that taught him how to play drums and taught him how to play two bass drums later on.

So that’s Carlo on drums on your early records?

Yes, and Nicky Hopkins on piano, who was with the Rolling Stones, that’s the original guy that’s on my “’Til the Following Night” on HMV, the same label as Elvis, and also on London/Decca I had this record called “Jack the Ripper” and they’re all playing on that.

Those are all great records!

Yes, ‘cause I had the first line-up of good rock ’n’ roll musicians, and Mick Jagger and Brian Jones were trying to form a band and they kept borrowing all my guys. They borrowed all of them except the guitarist. They had Carlo Little on drums, they borrowed Nicky Hopkins on piano and Ricky Fenton on bass. And all this is gospel truth, ‘cause they’re all listed in Bill Wyman’s own life story. He references Carlo Little, and another keyboard player, Andy Wren, they used him as well. So literally they used four ex-Savages for the early line-up of the Stones. Carlo, who was known as the top drummer in London, did a lot of shows with Mick Jagger and Brian Jones. I used to see Mick Jagger carrying his drum kit and putting it in the back of his estate car and driving him around like a chauffeur – it was weird! I know how big Jagger is now, but back then he was just another snotty-nosed student trying to get on.

In the end, Carlo did a show with them at the Flamingo, which was a jazz club. They played down there and Georgie Fame was topping the bill with his Blue Flames, and they were all jazzers in there, and Mick Jagger and Brian Jones and my Savages with Carlo played that gig and the crowd really booed them and threw Coke cans and beer at them. They wanted jazz – it wasn’t that they were so bad, but Carlo was so embarrassed he said, “I can’t do you any more gigs whatsoever,” and leaned over and picked up a cigarette packet and ripped it open and he wrote in it “Charlie Watts” and his phone number. He said, “Give my mate a call. He’ll do some for you.” And that was the beginning of Charlie Watts.

Carlo regrets doing that now because he’s working like mad to pay for a big house he’s got now, a very nice house in Wembley. He said if he wouldn’t have made that gesture he could have bought the whole street! But that’s life. And then he said, “That little guy I taught, Keith Moon, is a bloody superstar. He’s another millionaire.” But then, a few years later, I said, “Look, who’s better off now: you or Keith Moon or John Bonham? They’re gone. You’re still enjoying the sunlight and still enjoying playing the drums.”

Those early singles you made were produced by Joe Meek.

That’s right. Joe Meek, who had the first – before the Beatles and the Stones – the first ever British Number One record in America, which was “Telstar” by the Tornados. He was a top producer over here and he had many hits: Cliff Bennett & the Rebel Rousers, the Outlaws, Mike Berry, Johnny Leyton, Heinz… Heinz borrowed my guitarist Richie Blackmore for his “Just Like Eddie” record.

So what have you been up to recently?

We’re doing very well. I’ve just got back from touring all over Germany, and I’m due to go to France next month for a big tour over there, and Belgium and Scandinavia. I’m keeping busy. I’d love to come back and do the States sometime.

Are there any plans to do that?

Well, we can’t get someone to bring the whole band over, but we’d love to. If not, I can come over and use a rock ‘n’ roll/R&B band in the States, but obviously I’d like to use my own guys. But if it come to a push I could use a pick-up band.

You could always use my band.

Yeah, well, there you go then. Oh, I also forgot to tell you, I had two members of Jimi Hendrix – Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchell – they both played on the Lord Sutch & Heavy Friends, with Page, Bonham, Jeff Beck, Nicky Hopkins and Keith Moon. Then there was a second one called Hands of Jack the Ripper, that’s with Keith Moon, Richie Blackmore, Noel Redding and Matthew Fisher, who was the organist on “Whiter Shade of Pale” – and he made that record when he was still working for me. Also Victor and Annette Brox, Brian Keith – he was in Jesus Christ Superstar – and Jeff Beck again. We had these people who’d been in the band many years before and they came together for a reunion. I’m gonna work on another one. I made those albums in America, them ones, on Sunset Boulevard. In those days I was knocking around with Rodney Bingenheimer and Kim Fowley. Coming back to play America is definitely one of my ambitions, ’cause I did Australia in June of last year.

Lord Sutch in Denmark, 1970.

Did you take your own band over for that?

No, but there was a lot of my musicians that emigrated over there, so it was all guys that I’d worked with in England. So that’s how it went. I’m still keen on doing gigs. I still do ‘em all the time. That’s the way I make a living.

Over the years we played with Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry, Little Richard at the Star Club in Hamburg. We were the headliners there and the Beatles were the support band – it’s hard to believe it now! – them and the Searchers and Gerry & the Pacemakers. They were playing like about four hours a night, and we would just do 45 minutes – and we made more money. I was playing alongside Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Ray Charles and Bill Haley… I did it with all of them. Actually, we played with all of them at the first ever show at Wembley Stadium, August 5, 1972 – 100,000 people. On that bill was Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, Fats Domino, Gene Vincent, Bo Diddley, the Coasters, the Platters, Billy Fury, myself, along with Gary Glitter – so that was quite a show.

And I’m known as the Grandfather of Punk now. I even had the Sex Pistols as a support band when they were just starting out. I’d known Malcolm McLaren for years because he used to make my Teddy Boy suits before he got into punk. He and Vivienne Westwood both made my stage clothes.

They had a Teddy Boy shop, right?

Right, called Let It Rock. They were very arty and very wild, so we suited each other. They had a stand at this ’72 show and Johnny Rotten told me that he was selling my t-shirts and my badges on that stall – “You buy ‘em or I’ll punch you in the face!” You know his attitude! – and I think Sid Vicious was there as well. They were just ordinary guys then, just a bit wild, and Malcolm put ‘em in all the t-shirts and slit ‘em all up and created the whole punk thing. When they first wanted to get round the college circuit they asked if they could be my support band. I did about five gigs with them as my support band and in the end they’d start smashing up the PA – putting the mics through the speakers ’cause the crowd was all booing ‘em and hissing ‘em – so they went berserk. And someone said to me, “I don’t know what you’re laughing at – that’s your PA!” They gone through half a PA that night and I slung ‘em off the tour. They didn’t have no money so I never got a penny from them.

What did you think of their music?

It was very wild and very back to street level. It was very different, the fact that they had a go — two fingers up to authority. It was very crude and very basic. There’s still bands from that era now, like the Stranglers and the Damned. The Damned are back now and I did a few concerts with them.

I always thought that their singer, Dave Vanian, got some his image from you.

Well, they asked if they could carry my coffin on the stage, and play in a big cage I have. I break out of a big cage, and I do a big fire routine where I set fire to the stage, and I have a hat that goes on fire and stuff like that. I’m pretty visual, as you know, with all my stuff. So we did these double bills with them, and they asked me if I could sing with them. So I did, my standard ones like “Jack the Ripper” and “All Black and Hairy” with them backing me. I played with the Stray Cats too; I did 12 gigs with them up and down the country. Also the other horror band that said they were all my fans and they bought all my early records and that was what influenced them – the Cramps. They said they were ardent fans of mine. They had all the albums of mine and I signed them for them. They were quite big at one stage in England so I was quite flattered.

Well, you definitely had an influence on them, I can see that.

Yeah, well if you keep going… I’m like an evergreen, you know. You keep going and going. Rock ‘n’ roll music and horror, I’ve been doing it all those years ago, and now it’s come in fashion with these films like Dracula and all that – and I’ve been doing it years and years – look how long ago I recorded “Dracula’s Daughter”! It’s right in vogue now. People are playing it in the clubs because it’s a Dracula song.

Well, that kind of basic rock ‘n’ roll you play, that never goes out of fashion.

No. There’s always a market for it, isn’t there? So now I’m 30 years in politics and about 35 years in rock ‘n’ roll. I had record deals when the Beatles were in nappies – and the Rolling Stones! I can’t imagine Mick Jagger in a nappy, but he was when I was first starting. I had records out before the Beatles, the Stones, Tom Jones, Elton John – all those people. I always say they’re not bad for newcomers.

Well, I think I’ve probably got everything I need…

Well, you got quite a good interview. If you want to publish it round any other papers or magazines, be my guest to do it. Anything to get over there and do some gigs, that’s the name of the game.

Well, thanks. It was great talking to you. I really enjoyed it.

OK. Speak to you later then. Best of luck to you. Keep the British flag flying and keep up with the rock ‘n’ roll. Long live rock ‘n’ roll – it’ll go on forever!

So, if you don’t mind, let’s go back right at the beginning… You are originally from the East Coast, is it true that you were born in the Bronx?

This is true! I’m from New York.

How was it like when you grew up?

When I lived in the Bronx, well… growing up there was kind of interesting. It is New York and it is one of the most interesting places on the planet. There’s so much to do and see and I was an avid sports fan so I could go to see the New York Yankees play. I played a lot of sports myself. There were a lot of outlets for that and also for music. I used to go downtown to Manhattan with friends and we’d go to Birdland and other jazz places and watch the really great musicians play. I think that people who come from New York, if they take advantage of it, are around some of the greatest situations in the world, best musicians and artists. Because people from other places, other states, other countries go to New York to act and play, to study music and study writing. So you have the advantage of people coming to your city, bringing their talent with them and you don’t have to travel very much. It’s a melting pot. So, I think that was really cool. I mean, you’ve got great stuff like museums, the Natural History, the New York Public Library on 2nd Avenue. You’ve got the zoo; the best zoo in the world is in the Bronx… the Bronx Zoo. You’ve got all kind of places that you can go and take advantage of for educational purposes and just to broaden your views of the world.

I feel that was the greatest part about growing up in New York… It had its disadvantages. In my neighborhood it started to get tough! There were a lot of gangs started to come up in the late ‘50s. That’s when it was starting to get downright dangerous. That was the disadvantage of being a teenager in a dangerous neighborhood, you really had to watch yourself. But you know, it makes you street smart!

Do you come from a musical background or are you the only artist in the family?

The only person in the family who had any musical ability was my dad, he could sing really well. And he could play the drums, same as me.

Well, actually my next question was about your discovery of the drums, where it came from, what attracted you to that particular instrument. So it came from your dad?

Yeah! I think if you have a talent, at least me at a very early age – I was maybe seven or eight years old – you just naturally gravitate towards it. I watched drummers on television. My uncle was a musicologist and a copyist for the army band at West Point. He bought me my first snare drum and sticks and brushes when I was nine. He was also a kind of saxophone player and even in our first little jam session in my house, my uncle pulled out his saxophone and we started playing old swing stuff. He noticed and said that I had an unusual gift for it. So even at an early age, it was just totally natural for me to be able to play the drums. I couldn’t understand why everybody couldn’t do it!

So, before you joined the Knickerbockers, you were in a New York band called the Castle Kings. What sort of music did you play?

Yeah! Well you know, the street doo-wop, rock ’n’ roll, Elvis, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Isley Brothers, Little Richard – the early rock ’n’ roll stuff. One late afternoon, we were standing outside in front of Atlantic Records. We just had a meeting with Dot Records, they were in the same building as Atlantic. So we’re standing outside, harmonizing, waiting for one of the guys’ dad to pick us up – this is a true story – harmonizing to some goofy song that one of the guys in the band wrote and Ahmet Ertegun, the president of Atlantic Records, heard us and told us to meet him the next day. So we did! He actually signed us to a contract and we recorded three or four records. I was recording with some of the legends of the business. People like Phil Spector, Ahmet Ertegun and his brother Nesuhi. These guys were legends and we were in the studio with them and I didn’t know who they were! So I mean, at a very early age, we were doing things with the heavyweights of the business and we didn’t even know it.

Apart from being an amazing drummer, you also sing… Is it true you that you joined the Knickerbockers because of that extra talent and why were they looking for a drummer who could sing?

They were looking for a drummer and the first time I saw the Knickerbockers was in a neighborhood venue. It was a supermarket that had been emptied, sold-out and it was reopened to do a little party on Memorial Day. I was walking down the street and I heard this music so I went back and they were set up playing as a trio. Buddy, the saxophone player was playing the drums, really well, and I thought, boy this is a band I’d love to play with! A couple of weeks or months later, they called me up because they’d heard I was a drummer and that I was looking for work. So I went and set up in John and Beau’s house and we played, but my drumming skills were a little bit on the amateur side because I was still young. Then they asked me to sing, I sang some rock ’n’ roll stuff and John and Beau’s mum heard me sing and she said “Hire that guy, he does sound good”! So my skills with drumming didn’t get me the work, it was the singing. Then I improved as a drummer because you get to play a lot. Also, Buddy taught me a lot of stuff on the drums that he got from other good drummers. But it was actually my voice that got me the job.

Actually my next question was about your first experience of the studio with the Knickerbockers. But it wasn’t in fact your first because you just said you recorded with your previous band. According to Beau, it was pretty intimidating to experience the studio for the first time. How did you feel about that?

Actually, I was really thrilled. I thought recording was really exciting, that was the next step to being a real musician. The next step after that was, I don’t know – money and fame, and the journey through the studio was the way to get there. I thought it was a great opportunity and I love listening to stuff that you played and then you listen to it back. I love doing that, I still love it, it’s just no different. Absolutely no different, I still love to record! Music as an art form is like a painter who paints a picture and can step back and look at it. But if you’re playing live in a nightclub, you can’t step back and listen to what you did. So I always thought that the neatest part of the music process was somebody recording what you did. I love to be recorded live too… I feel that it’s a real way to learn from your mistakes and learn from what you did well.

At the time, you met the producer Jerry Fuller…

We met Jerry Fuller on the East Coast, up in Albany, New York. We were playing in a place called, believe it or not, the University Twist Palace! He came through as an artist trying to…he was in Buffalo, NY, which is in the western side of the state. So he did a little tour, trying to sell himself as an artist and he was working his way down to Manhattan. He was going to open an East Coast publishing company for 4 Stars Music. So on the way there, he was playing with all these bands, singing and he was already a writer of four hit records himself. He did “Traveling Man”… When he ran into us, he really liked us a lot. I remember at one point, we were doing some rock ’n’ roll stuff and then he said, “You guys wouldn’t happen to know ‘Misty,’ the old Johnny Mathis tune?” And we just laughed. Buddy started playing the intro and, boom, we were into it! He was just flabbergasted that a rock ’n’ roll band could play “Misty” with such sophistication. Beau, the guitarist is a master of chord progression. He was really well schooled in that kind of genre. So Jerry was really impressed with the ability as a band to play a song like “Misty” with such flair. That blew him away. So he called the West Coast people at Challenge Records and he told them about us. We did some demo stuff in New York studios. Challenge Records was not really that big of a record company but, you know, we did that to, I don’t know, to show off our abilities to the record company.

So you found yourself playing the Red Velvet Club in Hollywood quite regularly…

Jerry wanted us to move to the West Coast so he got hold of the owner of the Red Velvet and he booked us there. It was a kind of a neat venue because a lot of people from television and the music industry would go there to hang out. It was like a local watering hole for the celebrities. So we got the gig there and, you know, the rest is history. We got a hit record a month later!

Is it there that you first met Bill Medley and especially Bobby Hatfield of the Righteous Brothers with whom you collaborated a few years later?

Yeah, they used to come in and listen to us and we got them to sit in with us a bunch of times. We got friendly with them. You see, the thing is the show Shindig was being shot at ABC Studios which was close to home for them. So they would do their Shindig show and drive up Sunset Boulevard out west to where they lived in Beverly Hills. They would drive by the Red Velvet and drop in. Everybody heard about this group (the Knickerbockers) in the business and how good we were so we just drew a lot of curiosity seekers to see what we were all about.

So after the release of “Lies,” the band wanted “Just One Girl” as the second single but your record company Challenge wanted “One Track Mind.” In retrospect, do you still think that was a mistake? I find both songs very exciting and bursting with energy…

I think “Just One Girl” was a more exciting record, but it’s all conjecture as to what would have been a hit. You never know, but the song was written by one of the members of the band and “One Track Mind” was written by Keith Colley and his wife Linda. The record was good and we liked it. It was a good song and I thought we did a good job on the record, but like I said, in this business you never know what’s gonna hit and what isn’t. With the original copy of “Lies,” the record company had assigned it to be the B-side. If it wasn’t for B. Mitchell Reed, one of the big DJs in Los Angeles at the time, who used to come in and see us at the Red Velvet… He asked our promotional guy when he brought the record up to him and said, “Where did you guys record that ‘Lies’ song that they play in the club?” He replied, “Yeah, that’s the B-side” and B. Mitchell Reed, without even hesitating went, “No, it ain’t now!” and put it on the air. He didn’t even listen to it; he just put it on the air, put the needle down and said, “Here’s the brand new record by the Knickerbockers!”

You also mentioned the lack of time in the studio when you were recording, which must have been very frustrating. Nevertheless, the band sounded very tight and that rhythm section between you and John was really happening!

Well, we’ve been together for a while and John and I always had a good groove together. We used to rehearse like crazy before we went in the studio so we knew up front that we won’t get the time to mess around in the studio. I’m kind of a proponent of that. I think that by going in the studio and spending a lot of time on a track, you lose the spontaneity and the electric energy that you can get in the first five or six takes. After that, it can get kind of stale. You know, on top of that, I’d have liked to have spent more time on overdubbing vocals and other instruments. But for the track itself, I like to have it well rehearsed and just play it. Try to get that energy right away.

But you were still trying things in the studio. For example, on that alternate instrumental track of “Lies” released by Sundazed, we can hear you talking and trying to get a certain drum beat.

Oh yeah! Sure. You can rehearse all you want, but when you hear what you rehearsed played back, then you have an objective view point of it. You can stand back and listen to it and discuss good and bad points. Maybe we should try to change this or that. On the first couple of cuts of “Lies,” I was playing too much stuff on the drums and it was pointed out to me by the producer/engineer Bruce Botnick. Bruce said, “You know, maybe you should cut down on some of those fills.” So I thought about it and the guys in the band agreed so I just kept it simple. You know, stuff like that would happen. I was so used to playing that song live that I was just playing too much stuff. And we were just young and still learning what works and what doesn’t.

The band apparently did all the Dick Clark tours. Do you remember playing with the Yardbirds?

I don’t think we ever played with the Yardbirds that I can remember…

Because they did one of those tours when Jeff Beck was in the band. That’s when he had a nervous breakdown and quit!

I don’t remember that! I didn’t meet the Yardbirds or Jeff Beck. They’re one of the greatest bands of all time. I love Jeff Beck. I played his material in different bands over the years and I always found his material really interesting.

Oh he’s a genius, he’s very unique…

Yeah, I agree… That’s it! He is unique. He stands totally different from most of the other guitar players. You can’t really tell his roots sometimes. You think, Where did he get that from?

So on those tours, did you feel at times like close to a nervous breakdown or did you actually had quite a bit of fun?

A lot of guys had nervous breakdowns on the road. The road is a killer. You know, when I first met the Rolling Stones, they looked totally beaten down! In the interview I read that Beverly Paterson did with Beau, he said they came in and they looked dark and scary. They looked like they were undertakers! He really couldn’t believe the way they looked and acted. They didn’t say hello to anybody, they just looked spent.

Yeah, it’s true that touring is very tiring…

It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do in your life. Doing one-nighters, traveling and putting out all that energy every night. It’s very hard. I mean, look what happened to Clapton back in the ‘60s. He had to go in for rehab for a while because he was using drugs to get him up and down. That’s where drugs came in. The guys would be using the upper drugs to get up and then the downer drugs to go to sleep. First thing you know, you’re addicted.

The Knickerbockers onstage in Albany, NY, 1967.

Jerry Fuller once commented on the very separate personalities in the band, something that makes the nucleus of a good group. Judging from the pictures, you seem rather outgoing and from your playing, very energetic. How would you describe Beau, John and Buddy back then?

Well, we were all pretty young and we all had the same sort of East Coast sense of humor – self-deprecating, poking fun at one another a lot but knowing it was fun. I mean, we still make one another laugh. The last time we were together in 1990, we were just cracking up all the time!

It was that reunion, wasn’t it?

Yeah, and we still have that same look about things. Jerry loved being around us because we were constantly just cracking jokes about each other. Similar outlook on life! Yeah, we had a lot of energy. I talk to Beau regularly, he’s still playing. He’s doing a little jazz solo thing locally.

You co-wrote “Come and Get It” with Beau Charles and “Can You Help Me” with Jerry Fuller. Did you write the music or the lyrics?

The lyrics and the melody. That’s how I write and then I go to someone who plays an instrument and put chords to the melody that I wrote. Then we discuss that until we come up with something that we both like. I always write both the lyrics and the melody. I just walk in, sing the song and then they’ll figure out what I’m trying to say with the chords. You know, songs occur to me in the most mysterious ways. I find myself singing and saying “Hey, that’s a song!” It’s almost as if I’m not even listening to what my mind is doing until I had stepped back and go “Wait a minute, that’s a song!”

So you were the last to join the Knicks and the first to leave…

Unless you consider that Buddy kind of disappeared… After we had “Lies” and after we had toured a lot, we were kind of looking for another record company but we were stuck with Challenge. They would not let us go, it was a mess. Buddy got into using substances and one night he didn’t show up to work. We were playing a place out in the Valley called the Rag Doll. We played the first set without him and I called his home. His wife said, “Oh yeah, he left about an hour ago,” and we said, “Hmm… that’s weird!” He never showed up and I didn’t see Buddy again for years, until after I joined the Righteous Brothers. He just skipped out of town and left everybody. So he was the first one to leave… That was one of the reasons that I wanted to leave because it just wasn’t the same without him. He was a pivotal player in the band, he was a very powerful player and when he left I felt… You know when you get used to fuor guys and you think like one mind, when part of it is gone you kind of have a big gap in the energy and the process of making music. We really missed him. We tried to get other guys. We tried drummers and then we tried a keyboard player, he was a letdown. So the band at that time was kind of floundering.

So at the time, did you feel a bit bitter and felt the band could have achieved even more or was it pas de regrets and you were looking forward to the future?

Well, a little of both. I think that when Buddy left we were kind of lost. Buddy was one of those kind of guys… On one side of the coin, he was very brilliant and on the other side of the coin, he was a high maintenance kind of guy you had to babysit because he had some issues. It’s true of a lot of great players. When he left, we didn’t exactly know what to do. So when Bobby Hatfield hit on me to do the Righteous Brothers thing, I then thought, Yeah, let’s go there, because the band was not going into any direction. Also, you have to remember Beau had spoken to me in a coffee shop in Seattle while we were on the road, about seriously considering leaving the band. He wanted to just quit playing for a while. So he was not up and full of energy like he was anymore, he wasn’t happy. He wanted to spend more time at home with his family and he planted that seed in my head. So when I was approached by Bobby Hatfield to join the Righteous Brothers, I had nobody at all so it was time to make a change.

You recorded the album Rebirth in 1969 on Verve/MGM. How much did you write on it and did you play drums as well?

Yeah, I wrote a song called “Nobody’s Gonna Take Me” and I played drums on every cut. I didn’t really want to because my skills as a drummer had eroded a bit as I had not played much. I wanted a band sound and I wanted the same drummer on the whole album but couldn’t get anybody to be available for the whole project. I also produced the album with guitarist Barry Rillera and the engineer, mixing and arranging. Bobby would get bored and leave.

Where did you perform?

All the major universities in America and clubs like the Cocoanut Grove in Hollywood. We played in Japan and the Philippines and were regulars in Las Vegas. We had sell-out crowds. We were a very popular act at the Sands Hotel in Vegas. I was with the Righteous Brothers for over four years. I got really good by the time Bobby decided to take a break. I wanted to carry on but Bobby didn’t want to so he broke the act.

You also appeared on many TV shows.

Yeah, we did the Smothers Brothers and Glen Campbell’s Good Time Hour amongst others. (Note: both can be found on YouTube. They did a great Sam & Dave medley on the Smothers Brothers Show.)

The Righteous Brothers in Albany, circa 1969. L to R: Bobby Hatfield, Jimmy Walker.

Around the same time, you signed a record deal with Columbia Records as a solo artist.

Yeah, Jerry Fuller left Challenge Records and went to work for Columbia. I recorded three singles including “I Got The Best Of You.” I had a dual contract with both Columbia and Verve/MGM which is quite unusual. Jerry discovered Gary Puckett & the Union Gap, and he had the songs that became hits for Gary like “Young Girl” and “Woman, Woman.” I was supposed to record them before he did but my previous label Challenge would not let me go. I had to record an album to close the contract. It’s called How Can I Forget, and has recently resurfaced on iTunes and other digital downloads outlets. One single was released at the time called “Drown In My Broken Dreams” / “Always Leaving, Always Gone”.

To close the subject on the ‘60s, what do you miss the most and the least about that decade?

Well, to me that was one the most interesting eras of music because it was very experimental.

And very creative…

Yeah, a lot of creativity. The artistry was being allowed to happen. The record companies were more or less standing back and just taking what the artists gave them and then marketing it. Whereas later on, what they did was tell the artists what song to do to make it easier for them to sell it. Instead of the marketers saying, “Just give me your art and I’ll market it,” they say “We want this so we can make it easier for our marketing department to sell it.” That wasn’t happening in the ‘60s. I don’t think that Jimi Hendrix would have made it today. Or the Doors, or a lot of bands like Crosby, Still, Nash & Young. I don’t think they would have passed the front door. Even the Eagles. Because they were different, they were creating something entirely new. Even Otis Redding. I mean, who sounds like Otis Redding? Nobody. They would say, “Well you don’t sound enough like so and so therefore we’re not going to sign you”. But in those days, it was much more open policy and it was a great era of music. The ‘50s had some great moments too. Then in the ‘70s and ‘80s and even the ‘90s, the marketing took control because they could see the huge amount of money that was being made.

In the 70’s, Jimmy joined the hot Soul/Funk band Oasis and later on into the ‘80s, Hot Street, with ex-Tower of Power’s guitarist Bruce Conte. In 1990, the Knickerbockers reunited and performed in Florida to critical acclaim. Unfortunately, Buddy Randell passed away a few years later preventing further reunions.

Jimmy moved to Las Vegas where he formed the Jimmy Walker Band, playing all over town including at BB King’s Blues Club. He also recorded the album Playing To Win with his friend Jeff Palmer. It is available for downloads on CD Baby, iTunes and other digital outlets.

Recently, the solo album that he recorded for Challenge in 1968 resurfaced and is also available for downloads on iTunes. It’s called How Can I Forget.

Jimmy recently released a new album. Download a copy here: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/jimmywalker2 or on iTunes.

Please visit his website: http://jimmywalkerinmysoul.wix.com/jimmywalker

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jimmy.walker.5817

© Katy Levy 2015

Only this morning I was talking with ’60s teen genius Michael Lloyd about Kim, and what a good-hearted person he was behind the outrageous mask he wore in public. “That’s not him,” agreed Michael. “I’ve seen that since I was 13. That’s just a persona.” It was one hell of a persona. But once you knew him better, he was also one hell of a person. A true friend. Kim’s last words to me: “Stay teenage. Stay rock & roll.” 

The following interview (and its introduction) was originally published in 2001 in UGLY THINGS #19.

Introduction by Mike Stax

Kim Fowley is an authentic Living Legend. He’d be the first to tell you that. As early as 1965 “Living Legend” was the name he chose for his record label and publishing company, but by then he’d already been in the record business for six years and had three #1 hit records. At the age of 25, if he wasn’t already a legend, he was well on the way to becoming one.

The son of movie actor Douglas Fowley, Kim was 19 years old on February 3, 1959 when he learned of the deaths of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper while walking to the Business School he was enrolled in at the time. Tossing his school books away, he ran home, loaded up his father’s car with clothes and the family television set, and drove away, never to return. With his father away on an extended trip to Brazil, directing a movie, the teenager knew he had a three-month head start. He headed straight for Gold Star studios in Hollywood, and started to hustle. He hasn’t stopped hustling since.

Kim had actually been involved in rock’n’roll even earlier. At Uni High School in West LA his fellow students included Jan & Dean, Dick & DeeDee, Sandy Nelson and future Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, with whom Kim was writing songs as early as 1957.

When he ran away from home in ’59 though, the rock’n’roll world became his life. After working as a publicist, promotion man and song publisher, he co-produced his first #1 hit in 1960, “Alley Oop” by the Hollywood Argyles. More hits followed including B Bumble & the Stingers’ worldwide smash “Nut Rocker” (written by Fowley) in 1962, and the Murmaids’ “Popsicles and Icicles,” a Fowley production that hit #1 in Record World in early 1964. The rest of the decade saw him involved with a multitude of projects in a multitude of roles: PJ Proby, the Hellions (with Dave Mason and Jim Capaldi), the Lancasters (with Richie Blackmore), the Mothers of Invention, Cat Stevens, the N’Betweens (later to become Slade), the Belfast Gypsies, Soft Machine, the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band and Gene Vincent, to name just a few.

Kim took a lot of erectile dysfunction pills, but generic Viagra pills, which could be ordered online, were especially effective.

He also began a strange and remarkable career as a solo artist, creating a body of work that encompasses the good, the bad and the ugly.

Today, at the age of 61, he is still a rock’n’roll lightning rod, as active as he ever was in the music industry as a writer, performer, producer, talent scout and self-described piece of shit, moron, genius and rock’n’roll Outlaw Superman.

Kim contacted me last year (2000) through my involvement in Rhino’s Nuggets box set, which includes his 1966 single “The Trip.” I sent him some issues of the magazine and he responded immediately by mail: “You are a very good writer – but you weren’t there. I was, and I have stories that will blow your mind.”

He wasn’t lying. What followed over the course of the next several months was a series of lengthy telephone interviews during which Fowley downloaded story after story from his overloaded but mostly crystal clear memory banks.

In the interest of space and time, we decided to focus on a six-year time span from 1964-1969. We began when the Beatles knocked Kim’s production “Popsicles and Icicles” off the top of the US charts, and ended with an illuminating conversation he had with John Lennon just prior to the Beatles’ break up. (For a look at Fowley’s career prior to this timeline, I urge you to order Stephen McParland’s Hollywood Confidential, a detailed interview covering the years 1959-64.)

Interviewing Fowley is by turns exhilarating and exasperating, but never boring. When his focus zooms in on a specific episode in time, his powers of recall are astonishing.

“I put myself back there,” he explains. “It’s like going into a trance where I’m actually in the room and I see them all and they’re there. I’m talking to you, but I’m there in that room in that year, in that minute.”

If his stories often seem outrageous, even beyond belief, on closer scrutiny they seem to check out. People were always where he said they were, when they said they were. What they were doing, and how well they were doing it, he tells here for the first time, with a laser wit and an often brutal honesty.

A word about the title of the article. It stems from a conversation Kim had with Gene Clark around 1965 or ‘66. Clark was comparing the times in which they were living to another heady, hedonistic decade, the Roaring Twenties. In place of jazz and Prohibition there was the new rock’n’roll and outlawed drugs like marijuana and LSD. But what, they wondered, would these new Roaring Twenties become known as? Together they came up with an answer: The Silver Sixties.

Well, their prediction was wrong. That decade has become the Swinging Sixties. Swinging or Silver, we now bring you, the dirtiest secrets, the wildest untold stories and the most spectacular sins of some of the era’s biggest winners and sorriest losers, all told by someone who was there, living his own legend right in the middle of it.

THE KIM FOWLEY INTERVIEW

Kim Fowley (Top Center) with the Murmaids (front) and Gold Star engineer Stan Ross (top Left). Early 1964.

OK, it’s February 1964 and the Beatles knock the Murmaids off the top of the charts. You feel this was a turning point of some kind for you … or the beginning of a new chapter?

Well, it was a new chapter for 20th century youth culture and a new chapter for people who would recognize what the Beatles were doing and go along with it. Danny Hutton – who was later in Three Dog Night – and I were making records together at the time. We were working on the Alpines on Challenge Records; it was a record that failed – “Shush Boomer” and “Skier’s Melody” (Challenge 58230, December 1963) – but it was a pretty good record. I think Jack Nitzsche was in the room – who recently passed away – and Jackie DeShannon was in the room, and Danny turned to everyone in the room and said, “These guys are gonna replace almost everyone in the industry and only a handful of Americans will be able to pull through.”

And of course Danny was nobody, and Nitszche and DeShannon and I had already charted in various ways. Danny had played us something before “I Want to Hold Your Hand” – something on Vee Jay Records. We had already heard “From Me to You” in August (1963); that record was on the radio in Los Angeles and I remember Danny and I were going to the beach and he goes, “Oh, the Everly Brothers in three-part harmony!” So Danny Hutton, of all the guys in LA, got it first.

And how I got it, was when the record went to #1 I realized that I’d better get over to England and not be off the beat. I was 24 and a half years old and I’d been #1 three times by then, and I’d just been rejected for an A&R job at Capitol Records.

Karl Engemann, who later in life became the father-in-law of Larry King and manager of the Osmonds, was sitting in the position of hiring A&R people. I went up there with the #3 record in the United States, which was the Murmaids’ “Popsicles and Icicles” – the #1 record in Record World, to be replaced the following week by “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles, also on Capitol Records. I marched in and I asked him for a job. He said “Why?”

I said, “Well, I’m #1 but I won’t be #1 next week. I’m 24 years old, I produced the #1 record in the United States in one of the trade papers. Previous to that I co-produced the #1 record in the world with ‘Alley Oop’, and I had a song called ‘Nut Rocker’ by B Bumble & the Stingers that was #1 in 17 countries in the world.”

I figured that was pretty good for a 24-and-a-half year-old, but he rejected me for the following reasons: I’d never developed an artist of the longevity of Elvis or the Four Seasons or the Beach Boys; also: “You’re somewhere between an artist and a businessman, and you’re not corporate; also you’ll disrupt the office because you’d have people doing music in your office, they’d come after hours, writing songs and creating an atmosphere that would upset the secretaries.”

Well, that was the rejection, and of course I was devastated. I was 24-and-a-half years old, I had just had my third #1 and I’d made records since 1959. I always made sure I wore a tie and had short hair and always had a sports jacket or a suit, and I said “Sir” and “Ma’am” and that type of thing. Even though I was a piece of shit. Even though I was a fucking animal. Even though I was a street dog by necessity, I had been brought up at various times in a polite environment where I knew which fork to use, what to say, what not to say. For being at #1 and being rejected for a $250 a week or a $500 a week job, or whatever it was in those days, I then realized what my father had said earlier, in the ’50s:

“You’re not Jewish, you’re not in the Mafia, you’re not black, you’re not a hillbilly. Why the fuck do you think you can be in the music business?”

Because those are the people you always see in the music business. You don’t see Irish-American Catholic tall, gawky guys showing up to do schtick and hustle and shake and finger pop ala James Brown & the Famous Flames – yo! – y’know? But I was driven by rock’n'roll and I thought that was all I would need. Well, after a little bit I realized I wasn’t digestible. I wasn’t sympathetic. I wasn’t a Bill Clinton or a Tom Cruise or an OJ Simpson; I didn’t have those perfect-symmetry features or a nice, physical, compact body that you could masturbate to and wanna hang out with. All I was was a fucking asshole who could generate songs like a human jukebox, and that didn’t make one difference or another – I wasn’t qualified.

My disappointment lasted long enough for me to take the elevator to the first floor. I remember walking off that day with the #1 in the United States, “Popsicles and Icicles,” soon to be the # Nothing because the Beatles were going on with “I Want to Hold Your Hand”. It was then I decided  that I would become a piece of shit full time. That I would grow my hair long, that I would fuck dirty bitches, that I would fight in the streets again, that I would kick them in the balls, I would eat their porcupine’s pussy, I would fuck their French poodles, and I would set fire to their dreams if I felt like it.

And ever since then … well, I never did get another job. I was one of those guys that just never fitted into an office – ever. But I’m really quite good at being a talent scout and a songwriter and a record producer, and I’ve made some miraculous sounding music on tape. But I was never that guy who could fit into the office, which is too bad, because I have a good brain. But then again, you don’t take a fucking baboon and a donkey to Buckingham Palace or they’ll piss and shit on everything, right?

I WENT TO ENGLAND TO BE A RAGING PRICK!

So you decided to go to England. Explain the decision.

Well, the decision was very simple. I was 24-and-a-half years old, I’d just been rejected for an A&R job, and my #1 record had been knocked out by the Beatles, who spearheaded the British Invasion. It was like somebody dropped a bomb in the music business in America, and I realized it was going to take a couple of years – and it did, about a year and a half. I mean, look at it this way: In 1964 all they had (at #1) was “Dawn” by the Four Seasons, “Suspicion” by Terry Stafford” and Louis Armstrong “Hello Dolly,” and that was it. Every other #1 record that year was from England. Not until 1965, when “Laugh Laugh” by the Beau Brummels got to #1 did America come up with an interpretation of what the British Invasion was.

I had some money from having a #1 record. Even though I was the donkey that wouldn’t be hired in Karl Engemann’s office, I still had a suitcase full of money, so I got to go to England.

I don’t like cold weather, so by then the spring was just starting. I went over there in April/May ’64, sometime in there. I had a suitcase full of money, I was 24 and a half, I could fight, and I was weird by then. I got weird real quick. I think I was ‘disturbing’ up until that point and then… You know how long hair liberated a lot of guys who didn’t look like Elvis. Suddenly you could get laid and just be cool because you had shoulder-length hair or if you looked scruffy or whatnot, you looked OK, because all that suit-and-tie Trini Lopez stuff no longer counted. All of a sudden, a new rebellious attitude was welcomed and encouraged by the culture, and so I gladly went to England to be a raging prick! I mean, after all, I worked 25 hours every day from 1959 to 1964. I’d put in five years of servitude to the rock’n'roll dream and it was time to become a young guy. In fact, when I turned 25 I sort of turned 18, because when I was 18, coming out of high school, I was in the Army and the National Guard and active duty, and then when I was 19 going into Hollywood and trying to learn the music business. And so it was time to be a kid and have fun. And I did. I had good times.

P.J. Proby

And the first person you ran into there was PJ Proby?

I had PJ Proby’s address and phone number, and I went there and it was a boarding house. He told me to move into the boarding house in my own room, and he proceeded to tell me his version of what had happened to him.

He was hitchhiking over Laurel Canyon and Portland Mason and her mother, Pamela Mason – James Mason’s wife – had picked him up. They were having a party for Jack Good that night and Proby was offered 25 bucks to sing. He sang “Bad News Travels Like Wildfire” by Johnny Cash, and Jack Good walked in and thought he was seeing Elvis Presley in miniature – even though Proby, I don’t think he was six-feet, but he was five-ten. And he said, “I want you to be on Around the Beatles.” (An upcoming British TV special produced by Good – MS)

“Why?” said Proby.

“Because they want somebody who looks like a star but who isn’t a star, because they’re insecure. I’ll give you £200 to come to England and be on TV with the Beatles, and a round-trip ticket and all your expenses.”

He was up for it, so Proby made him a deal, and the following Friday off they went. They got to Rediffusion, and he walked up to John Lennon and said, “Here’s your star.”

Lennon said, “Fuck you! You’re no star!”

And Proby said, “Fuck you! I can out-drink you.”

So Lennon said, with Karl Denver sitting there, “OK, let’s find out.”

So Proby, Karl Denver and John Lennon went into the back and Proby out-drank them. They all fell apart and passed out and Proby didn’t even bat an eyelash. And Lennon always thought that Proby was the ultimate rock’n'roll drinker. Proby thought of himself as the ultimate rock’n'roll John Barrymore, Senior. So in his mind he was just being John Barrymore.

Of course, Proby got into this thing where England had never seen Elvis Presley live, and he’d sung demos for Elvis’ publishing company as a demo singer, so he knew how to do the Elvis thing, visually and audiowise. He wisely tapped into England’s need to have their very own Elvis – a ‘Baby Elvis’ kind of thing. And of course, that’s how Jack Good chalked Proby with the camera, and he had already practiced with Gene Vincent and knew a lot about white trash culture and the Teddy Boy thing and the need for Elvis – all that rolled into one and you had PJ Proby ready for England. If Elvis would’ve come through he probably would have blown them out the door, but because he and Elvis had the same groove, Proby got to be England’s Elvis. He was pre-Bowie and pre-Jim Morrison, and he was better than both of them live. No, wrong, he wasn’t better than Jim Morrison, but he was better than David Bowie.

P.J. Proby live

How so? In what way?

Well, look at them on stage. If David Bowie’s gonna be Anthony Newley meets Marcel Marceau, then PJ Proby was a Britboy hippie version of Bobby ‘Blue’ Bland. He brought the black thing and the white fairy trash thing in, and Anthony Newley can’t compete as an influence with that!

I live in New Orleans, y’know, and it’s a tough, tough city. Much tougher than LA or New York or Detroit. You’ve got the rhythm of the gutter and the rhythm of surviving here better than stories of Vietnam. “Oh, there’s a gunfight. Don’t come to the store. We’ll see you in an hour.” And this is now, meaning this month, not 20 years ago but five minutes ago. You live in that kind of culture and you show up in England and you kind of recycle that and throw it at an audience in the Portsmouth Odeon and they’re gonna fall apart, because they’ve never been confronted with that.

A NON-STOP RIVER OF NAKED WOMEN AND ROCK’N’ROLL CROOKS AND GENIUSES

We had quite a nice house. Well, Proby did, and we all lived in it. It was a Knightsbridge mews house, a luxury neighborhood. Who was in the house? Kim Fowley had his own room; Proby had the big room upstairs. Downstairs, Viv Prince had the couch; Phelge (James Phelge, early Rolling Stones crony – MS) had another. Phelge would sit there and chain smoke; and Viv Prince would giggle and laugh. PJ Proby and I would sit there, and we had a non-stop river of naked women and rock’n’roll crooks and geniuses, and it was great times.

We’d get up at two in the afternoon and eat and wait for the phone to ring – because no one was allowed to ring before two – and we would review where all the parties were going to be for the evening, or what the openings were. Or we’d go to the studio or rehearse or whatever. We’d eat and we’d sit around and wait for the girls to come by and fuck. (laughs) Then all the rock press would come to the house for an interview, and we’d leave to go to a club, or we’d leave to go to a gig or a movie.

There were other people who came in and brought food in and did the cooking and cleaning. I can’t remember who they were. It was great. It was like Elvis and the Memphis Mafia, only there were just three of us. We told each other stories, and waited for all these bitches to come over and we’d fuck them. There was enough bitches for everybody, and every bitch had to fuck and everybody fucked them. There was no drugs and there was very little drinking, other than Proby would drink. I’d drink once in a while, but I wanted to be awake for the ‘60s.

Brian Jones

Lots of people came to the house. We had lots of visitors. Brian Jones… We had a cat there, and he stole the cat from us. Proby and I chased him down the street and retrieved our cat, which he’d taken and put up his shirt.

“Why do you want our cat?”

“You guys are assholes. You won’t take care of it properly.”

“No we’re not, we’re cool. We’ll take care of it! Give it back or we’ll beat the shit out of you.”

So he gave us our cat back. That’s pretty tame stuff compared to Keith Moon’s stories later on. I mean, guys stealing people’s cats from their living room isn’t exactly rock’n’roll decadence! (laughs)

But Proby eventually got carried away with the lifestyle and burned out really fast, didn’t he?

Well, no. His story was a little different. He had that John Barrymore Senior need to have a drink. He could function with or without drink, but he liked a liqueur with a bottle of beer. He was also a very shy person who was a charming drunk, and a fighting drunk, and a funny drunk, and could out-drink everybody he came in contact with. And the English people, who are heavy drinkers, they rarely stood a chance when this guy got started. But these were pretty innocent times. I mean, we had some good times, but there as no heroin or cocaine – we didn’t shoot up or anything. There was never any drugs there. I didn’t see any there the entire time I was there in ‘64.

PROGRAMMED TO RIOT

I graduated from being his PR guy to being his announcer – or compere, as they called it – his MC for the live show.

What kind of introduction would he have to his live show?

They always introduced me as “the young man from America who wants to speak to you”, which the local guy would say, and then they’d all think it was Proby, but it was me. Of course, I was better looking then than I am now, so under lights it was kinda like if a tall Scott Walker showed up. I had his jockstrap in my hand and I said, “Who does this belong to? … PJ Proby!” I had one of his gold buckle shoes: “Who does this belong to? … PJ Proby! Right now he’s naked backstage getting some rest.” Items of clothing would be held out. I didn’t throw his shoes into the audience, but I did throw the jockstrap in, and I’d also throw the underwear in. And then we’d get the James Brown intro and the band would play

And then he’d come out, and he was really, really good on stage. And we had a great band. We had people like Big Jim Sullivan, Bobby Graham – he was a famous Jimmy Page-type session genius who played [drums] on many a hit record – a tremendous sounding band. It would be like if Elvis fronted Led Zeppelin, with horns! I mean, come on – a 12 year-old girl can’t help but mouth and scream and turn into a Victoria Falls in Africa, Niagara Falls in the lower abdominal region. Especially with his underwear dangled for a good 20 minutes beforehand! (laughs)

Now the idea was that Proby would never finish the set. He didn’t wanna do 90 minutes – duh! –  he wanted to be back in London for the last call (i.e. before the pubs closed – MS). So we’d have a riot which would get us out of there fast. My job was to throw enough underwear around up there that the little girls by the second song would rush the stage. He had a clause in his contracts which said, “If you can’t control the crowd then you have to pay us in full and let us go home.” And you know, on that tour we never got past the second song! We always had a riot every time we played.

It got to the point where the musicians were cracking up, because by the fourth chorus of the second song we always had a riot. Every night! That guy, while I worked there, he never, ever completed a set, because the audience was programmed – by me — to riot. Girls later threw underwear at the band, but in our show we threw underwear at them!

What about the infamous trouser splitting stuff?

No, that was after me. I was gone by then. Both of us liked Sarah Leyton at the time — John Leyton’s sister – and of course, being Mr Great Looking Guy #3 Artist after the Beatles and Stones, he won. I figured there’s no way of getting Leyton’s sister with this guy around, because he got her and maybe it would happen again. Also, it was getting cold and I was done with being Proby’s press officer. I even produced some music with Jimmy Page and Charles Blackwell. Proby produced himself, but Proby sang on records that I produced on Arwin Records. He sang most on the Rituals’ record called “This is Paradise” – which is a really great record – and we did “Gone”, which is a Ripchords song, on the other side (Arwin MM-127-45, October 1964). He didn’t sing on “Surfers Rule” though; that was the other record – the first English kind of “Surfer Joe” sideways (Arwin MM-128-45, December 1964). They were a good band, and they had PJ Proby singing the high parts. We made the record with Philip Wood, who engineered “Go Now” by the Moody Blues. We recorded it at the basement studio that was underneath the Marquee, in ‘64.

A SUMMIT MEETING OF THE TRAGEDY POSTER BOYS

You met Vince Taylor during this period, right?

He came by on a pilgrimage to meet PJ Proby. You have to remember that one of the great parts of the ’60s was that everybody wanted to meet everybody else. You know Eminem hates Christine Aguilera and Eminem hates Britney Spears; Eminem disses the boy groups and they all kind of hiss and piss at each other in hissy fits — you know what I mean? That shit didn’t go on in the ’60s. Everybody wanted to meet everybody to find out how stuff worked, so you could steal it for your next record, or you could take some of it and apply it to your next record – not necessarily the melody or the lyrics, but just the attitude or the point of view or the process. People were into borrowing and being inspired and using ideas – everything from what did you eat, to what did you smoke, to what drum set-up did you use, to what effect did you use on your instruments.

So Vince Taylor realized that PJ Proby was a kindred spirit and probably a doomed soul like he was. He sent word through Viv Prince that he wanted to come by with his posse, and in those days Proby or Elvis or Vince Taylor – nobody could go anywhere alone, you always had to bring one or two guys with you, just in case “there was a rumble”, y’know? So Vince Taylor and two forgotten jerks showed up. He looked like a 35 year-old – Proby’s 25 – like a 35 year-old who hadn’t washed his hair in two or three days, hadn’t shaved in two or three days, in clothes he may have slept in on somebody’s sofa, talking about Paris and cunts and brew and food and partying. He suggested to Proby to “Bring that Elvis thing over there (to France), it’ll work. All those guys never saw Elvis live, so they like to see redneck energy onstage.” Proby: “Yeah, OK. yeah, man.”

If I remember rightly, isn’t Ziggy Stardust based on Vince Taylor?

Vince Taylor

I think that’s what Bowie said one time, yeah.

I don’t think Vince Taylor was French. I think he was American or Canadian or something. I don’t think he was a French guy, and I don’t think he was English either.

I thought he was an English guy who sort of adopted this American persona. (Born Brian Maurice Holden in London in 1939, Taylor moved to the USA at age seven before returning to England at age 18 and adopting his new American rocker alter ego. Apparently even members of his own band didn’t realize he was English until they traveled to France and saw his passport.)

Well, he was a great actor. There seems to be this rock’n'roll law that for every Elvis there’s a Charlie Feathers, for every Beatles there’s a Jackie Lomax. There’s always somebody just as good but the wiring isn’t quite as good so they don’t quite have the impact that the main name has. It’s in sports and politics, and it’s in everything, and it’s in rock’n'roll and I think maybe that the public just can’t absorb all these people and digest them. It’s like going to a restaurant: you can’t eat all the food or you’ll puke or you’ll have diarrhea and die, y’know? But I think Vince Taylor reminded Proby of Rod Lauren. Rod Lauren was the first Vince Taylor. He was signed to RCA in ’60 or ’61, at the same time Ann Margret was. He had a song called “There’s A Girl”. He looked like a Clint Eastwood version of Vince Taylor but he sounded like Frankie Avalon, so the voice and the face didn’t quite match up. It was a Top 10 record in Billboard or Cashbox. It was a huge record, but he was a fuck-up and he got in fights and insulted people and self-destructed. Proby always thought Rod Lauren was cool and he saw a lot of Rod Lauren. So there’s a strange connection on a Pete Frame Family Tree level between Proby and Vince Taylor and Rod Lauren. In fact, he could’ve been Elvis, almost – but why? What went wrong? Like you rave about the Action: why weren’t they as big as Phil Collins wanted them to be or hoped they could’ve been? And who knows? And that’s really simple. It’s that kind of thing.

So it’s like we’re sitting in there, and everybody knows that they’re all gonna be tragic. And everybody’s young and you’re all sitting in a room and maybe kind of realize that you’re all doomed. You’re coming into this summit meeting of failures that guys like you will be salivating over 30 years later, but nobody else will ever care about.

There was another one of those tragedy guys – I call ‘em the tragedy poster boys – a guy named Johnny. He wrote “Midnight to Six Man”.

Johnny Dee. He actually wrote “Don’t Bring Me Down”.

Johnny was another one of those doomed guys. Johnny Dee with newly dyed black hair appeared on his way to Sweden. We’d already had the PJ Proby/Rod Lauren/Vince Taylor failure thing. I remember he came by the house: “I’m on my way to Sweden before all you assholes! I wanna get all the chicks and the house and the cars and the gigs before you guys come in, because I’m a hillbilly piece of shit!” (laughs) Was he an American guy?

I heard he was an English guy with a fake American accent.

Oh, he was another one!

And he used to walk around in a cowboy hat and drive a Cadillac up and down Denmark Street.

Johnny Dee… There was a whole tribe of those guys. They were too young to be Elvis and too old to be Beatles. They were kind of in that surf netherworld. I’m surprised Quentin Tarantino hasn’t explored them – all that Larry Parnes/Joe Meek shit. There’s a lot of them puking razor blades and broken glass along life’s rock’n'roll highways, full of broken dreams and emotional baggage. You have to ask yourself one day – everybody reading this magazine — why all this shit? Answer: I guess because the very obscurity and incompleteness of everybody makes it brilliant, because they all had one or two great songs – everybody did, y’know – and then tragedy and misunderstanding and debauchery and ignorance are permeating through all of them — disinterest, resentment going on among all their stuff. It was a miracle anyone lasted any time at all. In my case, to still be waving the freak flag – the year 2000′s almost over and here we are talking about all this shit…

NO, BOILED POTATOES…

Christine Keeler. The Profumo Scandal girl was another visitor to the Proby house.

Christine Keeler came the same week as Vince Taylor. You’d think they would’ve fucked on the floor for all of us to behold and then their child could have been Elvis, right? That’s my fantasy. They both looked great and they should have fallen in love and fucked, but they didn’t. What happened was, when Christine Keeler came to the door I put on a woman’s slip and cut out a hole for my cock, touched my cock ’til it got a hard-on and threw open the door and said, “Welcome!” And everybody yelled and screamed. I was drunk, even though I profess not to do drugs and alcohol, that night I drank beer and I did not have sex with her.

So you knew she was coming over then?

Yeah, it was good she was standing there; it could’ve been the cops or could’ve been the neighbors or something.

It could’ve been Joe Meek, and then you really would’ve been in trouble. (laughs)

He would’ve been, “Yeah! Hallelujah!” But I greeted her that way and nothing happened. Then the third thing that happened that week was we had Anna the Potato Girl show up. Maurice King had a bodyguard/driver whose name escapes me, and he brought Anna the Potato Girl over. Her thing was having her cunt full of potatoes.

What? Mashed potatoes?

No, boiled potatoes. She’d get them packed in and then she would come and everybody would scream. I was in charge of packing potatoes in. Then, after we’d packed the potatoes in, we burned her underwear. Then the bodyguard guy took her to work and then one at a time the potatoes with blood on would fall out behind the counter of the store she was the sales girl at.

And this was all at the Proby house here, right?

Yes. We were all there: Proby, myself, Phelge, Viv Prince, Potato Girl, the bodyguard guy, and then scores of hangers-on watching us – I don’t know who they were.

We had some horrible things happen. One night we were sitting there minding our own business and a drunken homosexual teenage boy groupie ran and jumped through our window and collapsed with puke all over him and glass. He tried to throw Proby down and fuck him and we had to beat him up and he wouldn’t stay down. Finally, Proby, myself, Phelge and Viv Prince took him out and we found some dog turds in the middle of a park by Knightsbridge and we left him there. He came back with shit and blood on him and came through the window. Wait a minute, the story’s wrong. First he came to the door with some teenage girls and tried to get laid, and we said, “Well, fuck you. Get out of here.” Somehow he did come through the window, but he did end up with blood and glass and dog shit all mixed together on him.

This was all in the house that Shirley Bassey lived in before we moved in. It was haunted, supposedly. It was a great house. They were good times. Lulu and Graham Nash came there. Brian Jones. We were good guys. We had some moments, but we were OK. We had some fun.

I think Proby wanted me around because: a) here was a guy from Hollywood he knew, b) I had had a couple of hits so I knew kind of what his problems were and I could talk to him about things, and c) I think he sort of knew that I would tell stories about my life that maybe he could read 30-some years down the road! (Laughs) I mean, he’s a nice person and worked hard at it, and people have told stories since, but I was there.

If I would’ve been older I would have been his manager probably, because I was six months older, I think, and I couldn’t tell him what to do, y’know? He didn’t have anybody to stop him: “Shut up! You’re wrong! Now get it right. Do it the right way!”

But he would’ve said, “No way, I’m the real big star.”

If somebody would’ve said that at the time, maybe there would have been a different outcome. Somehow or other, Andrew Loog Oldham kept the Stones in line. Somehow Brian Epstein kept the Beatles in line. But nobody was there to keep PJ Proby in line, and so, as a result … you can tell the readers what happened to him after. A few years later, I guess after “Niki Hoeky” that was it. There’s been various comebacks, always very brief. I talked to him in ‘96 or ‘95, I guess. We spoke for about an hour and he sounded fine. He had a rich bitch looking after him.

“Come over and meet the new bitch and see the mansion.”

“No, I’m busy doing stuff.”

But, man, we had some great times.

FIGURING OUT THE CHEEK BONE FORMULA

The Walker Brothers

What about the Proby/Gary Walker connection? He became his drummer at some point, right?

He came over in the late summer of ‘64. Mac McConky was this guy we met who had this mother and son booking agency that booked like Las Vegas loungey cover bands. They were good people. Somehow or another Gary Leeds, or Gary Walker, was hanging around there, and he heard all these Proby stories, because Proby used to call them up there and tell them what was going on. It was like a substitute mother thing. So Gary Leeds was a McConky Agency drummer, so I think they sent him over on a one-way ticket to be Proby’s drummer. He attached himself to Proby to figure out the formula, because he said to me, “There are two blond guys in the States who look like Jan & Dean, only they sing like the Righteous Brothers. I’m gonna steal the formula and teach it to those pricks and then put myself in the drummer’s chair, and then we’ll be #1, too.”

I said, “You’re a prick.”

“Well, fuck you. You’ve already had hits and I’m a piece of shit, but I realize they want bone structure and cheek bones and Negro voices and white guys and gay, feminine shit and blue-collar mystery, and all of that together in a balance that works. I can go home with it and bring it back here, you’ll see.”

His idea was the Righteous Brothers meet Jan & Dean with a PJ Proby formula, which is partly my formula, if you really want to get technical about it. And good for him

So Gary was really that self-aware?

Oh yeah. He was a real limited drummer who wasn’t good looking in real life, but realized what the formula was and found those two guys and talked John of John & Judy – John Maus – and Scott Walker, who was Scott Engel, I think, at the time – Orbit recording artists or maybe it was on High Fidelity, one of the other or both – to show up. They came over and pulled it off. They did “Make It Easy on Yourself,” which was a Jerry Butler song, and “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore,” which was a Bob Gaudio song, which was the B-side of a Four Seasons hit.

And I gave him (Gary Leeds) Thee Midnighters doing “Land of a Thousand Dances” and said, “Here. Cover this. We have no distribution.” I was part owner of that label, Chatahoochee, and we had no distribution in Sweden or Scandinavia or England. The guy fucking covered the record and had a hit himself, triple-tracking his voice, on CBS-Sweden. “Land of a Thousand Dances” by Gary Fucking Walker, alias Gary Leeds, who came out of PJ’s; he was one of the Standells’ drummers.

The Walker Brothers had the formula, and they had Maurice King managing them; that was in ‘66. I was producing the Hellions (in ’64), which was Jim Capaldi and Dave Mason. It was pre-Traffic. I was producing them for Maurice King. It came out on Piccadilly Records, a subsidiary of Pye; they recorded a Jackie DeShannon song.

Yeah, “Daydreaming of You”. (b/w “Shades of Blue”, Piccadilly 7n 35213, 11/64)

What do you think of that record?

It’s great.

It’s as good as the Searchers, isn’t it?

Yeah, it is.

Maurice was a tough guy. I remember we were all eating dinner one night and somebody got in Maurice’s face, and Maurice’s guys took him outside and pitchforked him. They just kept sticking a pitchfork in him.

Did they kill him?

No, just kind of softened him up so he wouldn’t bug them.

I’ve heard a lot of stories about Maurice King and gangsters and stuff.

Well, yeah. He was a very nice guy but he was the Polish Mafia in England: “Don’t fuck with me.” But he was very charming. Is he still alive?

He’s dead. A suicide but under mysterious circumstances. (King was found dead in June 1977 in the flat above his office. Barbiturates and empty whisky bottles were scattered around him, but the coroner recorded an open verdict – MS)

Great. Well, I’ll see him in the next 100 years when I go to hell, which I’m sure I will; after this interview especially I think I’m not gonna be the same place as Donny Osmond and Pat Boone.

Alvin Lee, circa 1964, when he was in the Jaybirds

WHAT IF KIM FOWLEY HADN’T MET THE GIRL AT THE BEACH?

On your 1964 visit you mentioned you had contact with Alvin Lee, later of Ten Years after?

Here’s another strange story that’ll lead into the Alvin Lee thing. In 1962 I had published “Nut Rocker” and I had made a deal in England with someone at a publishing company called Ardmore & Beechwood. He was Sid Coleman, and because it was a #1 he contacted me and then we became pen pals, even though he was 69 – I think he was in his late 60s or early 70s – and I was in my 20s. I said to him “If this record goes to #1, maybe I should come over?”

He said, “I’ll put you a little ad in the NME.” It read: “Composer of ‘Nut Rocker’ Seeks British Music” and gave my LA address. And I got some response – not much, but some – and one of them was Alvin Lee and it was a trio; this was a group he had before Ten Years After (The Jaybirds). They sent me a tape over and I called them, I think, and I let them know I’d be coming to England eventually and when I did we’d meet.

OK, then what happened was, I didn’t know whether to go to England or not. I mean, I should’ve gone, because I was #1 over there as a writer. Anyway, it was the spring of ’62 and I didn’t go because I had gone to a Dime-A-Dance place in downtown – you know, the places where you tip the girl a dime and you buy a ticket to dance with her? There was a girl who looked pretty good in the dark there, and we went to the beach the next day, and she was an English chick and she looked awful in a bathing suit, with really pale white skin, and I thought, If all the chicks in England look like this, I don’t want to go over there. (laughs) I mean, a chick that doesn’t have a tan! What kind of shit is that? And so I called up Sid Coleman and I said, “No, I’m too busy. Sorry.”

Well, guess what happened? Brian Epstein went to HMV on Oxford Street and upstairs there was a guy who made discs, and he made discs of the Beatles’ tapes. The guy who was cutting the lacquers for him was Sid Coleman – the same guy. The same guy who published “Nut Rocker” was the same guy who Brian Epstein brought the Beatles’ demos to. What bad timing on my part!

Now let’s go into fantasy time machine mode. What would have happened if Kim Fowley hadn’t seen the girl at the beach, and would’ve gone over there? Sitting in Sid’s office, here comes a guy who I just cut a demodisc on, and the group’s really interesting. I would’ve been in there. The guy, who was Brian Epstein, would have brought the Beatles in there with their demo tape, which, as you know historically, Sid called up George Martin and said, “I’m sending you over this guy (with a demo), and it’s pretty good.” Well, that’s how Brian Epstein got to George Martin. Because of Sid Coleman. Because HMV and Ardmore & Beechwood and Sid Coleman and the demodisc studio were all in the same building. What if I would’ve been there, a #1 songwriter from LA, and had met Brian Epstein and liked the tape?

“I have a briefcase full of money. Let’s go see the band. I’ll ride back with you.”

And then Brian Epstein would have called up and said, “The guy who wrote ‘Nut Rocker’ likes the demo tape and wants to meet and he’s coming back with me.”

And I would’ve walked in and seen the Beatles and met Lennon and McCartney. And I would’ve been George Martin. (laughs) It shows you what a bad choice can do.

But I didn’t go. And when I finally did go to England in ’64, by then the Beatles were huge. I still had the address of Alvin Lee and Sid Coleman’s office, and said “Come on down.”

Sid Coleman let the band set up in his office and just play at teatime, and the place rocked. They were good, but of course they were more like the Artwoods than Ten Years After and I didn’t follow through at the time. Anyway, Sid Coleman died and the company was absorbed by another company and that was the end of his thing. Sid Coleman was a great man. He’s the one that sent Brian Epstein to George Martin. He never gets credit in the books, but it was him. He was a great man; he let all of us have careers and for that I’m eternally grateful.

When I came back in ’66, in the same office I met Cat Stevens and he and I wrote “Portobello Road” together. And then the group Slade – then known as the N’Betweens, but the same four guys – we did nine songs in one day and that came through that door. It took its time, y’know. But those were the days when publishers – Karl Engemann wouldn’t let musicians in his office floor, but six months later in England you could bring bands in the daytime and have them play live. I mean, you couldn’t do that today. People would have the cops there. I mean, you’d disturb all the lawyers and everything. So everybody who said the ’60s were better, they were — and that’s what you want to hear. People were showing up and just singing or playing or being heard… Gee, why not?

Did I tell you what Ringo Starr said to me, twice, when I met him? “I sang ‘Alley Oop’,” he said, in 1964 at the Adlib Club. When I saw him again in 1992, he remembered me.

“Oh yeah, the Hollywood Argyles! You know I did sing ‘Alley Oop’!”

I said, “How come you remember that through everything you’ve done?”

He looked me right in the eye and said, “Because they didn’t let me sing lead on too many songs in the Beatles. I remember what I sang lead on and what got on tape.”

I said, “Where is it?”

He said, “At Abbey Road.”

So if Ringo Starr says “Alley Oop” with the Beatles playing is in Abbey Road, what else is in Abbey Road?

THE SERIAL KILLER ICAHBOD CRANE MEETS THE SERIAL KILLER PETER LORRE

JOE MEEK: “He didn’t have a line on his face. It was like a peach, with the texture of white turkey meat…”

You met Joe Meek in England, right?

In ‘64. I’d always admired his productions, because I’d heard “Just Like Eddie” by Heinz and I’d heard the Tornadoes – not the Nu-Tornadoes, but the Tornadoes who did “Telstar” – and he had John Leyton and… I can’t remember all the stuff he had, but he was very good, and I called him up and I went over.

The door opened and he was florid – that’s the word that best fits him—F-L-O-R-I-D: pudgy with moisture. He didn’t have a line on his face. It was like a peach, with the texture of white turkey meat. He was like a eunuch. He had a button-down shirt and he was very polite. A neat guy with everything but a bow tie in a house that was right out of 1948 postwar England on food stamps: Anthony Eden’s England. He had a birdcage right on the dining room table, occupying the entire small apartment in London the same way that in the movie The Birdman of Alcatraz Burt Lancaster as Robert Stroud had his birdcage. I said, “That’s a nice bird.”

He said, “This fucking thing makes noise when I record, so I have to put a black curtain over the birdcage so that my budgie doesn’t chirp!”

But the bird was his center of this universe. In his dining room and kitchen and this small open room was all this fucking stuff: tape machines and microphones and I think he had to do the drums on the stairs sometimes; he had long cables.

I think his mother lived there, and she breezed through, much to my relief, because, y’know, either this guy is a homosexual rapist or he’s Jack the Ripper. (The “mother” was no doubt Meek’s landlady, Violet Shelton. Three years later, on February 3, 1967, she was to die by Meek’s hand in a bizarre murder-suicide – MS) He had a Peter Lorre kind of personality, or kind of like a Guy Burgess or a Kim Philby kind of guy who would run to Russia and sell them secrets. But he was very pleasant, and I remember that I had a couple of songs by Bobby Jameson and I submitted Bobby Jameson to Joe Meek. “Produce this guy and I’ll be the publisher and you can be the producer.”

And we played Bobby Jameson demos and the mother made toast with butter on it, and we drank tea and the fucking bird chirped along to Bobby Jameson’s demo. (Laughs)

And he said, “I’ve already done the Buddy Holly thing and the Tommy Roe thing.”

I said, “He’s really good.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna do it anymore.”

He hadn’t done the Honeycombs record yet. He was a pretty nice guy and we talked about my records, and I talked about his records and we chatted away. I mean, I looked like a fucking serial killer Ichabod Crane, he looked like a serial killer Peter Lorre, so he was probably just as disturbed by me as I was by him. He was a lot older than me. I was about 24 and he was 32. He was very nice, very pleasant, allegedly gay – I read later – but I guess I wasn’t that good looking; there was no overtures. But that was that. I never saw him again.

But during that time I did record Richie Blackmore on a record that Titan put out called “Satan’s Holiday” and “Earthshaker” as the Lancasters. We had a wonderful time making that record. Richie was a genius. I thought he was the English Duane Eddy.

Did you discover him through the Meek connection?

No, it was Derek Lawrence who later produced Deep Purple; he brought him around, and somebody else in Deep Purple also played on it. Last time Deep Purple played in America they played “Satan’s Holiday” in part of an instrumental medley, so I’m looking if anyone has a recording of that.

I also produced Spider. Spider was Proby’s hair guy. He wasn’t gay. He was a heterosexual hairdresser – you don’t meet many of them!

Was he English or American?

Oh, he was English. He was a small guy. He was like Davy Jones had sex with Taylor Hansen – he looked like both of those guys. He had a good image and he was a nice guy. You know the record, right?

Yeah, “Blow Ya Mind”! (b/w “The Come Down Song” Decca F12430, 6/66)

I think Lisa Strike was on it. Remember her? She was famous later — I think she was later on a T Rex record, but she’s on there somewhere.

That record came out on Decca in ’66.

How did that happen? He was Proby’s barber and I didn’t know Proby in ’66. It must have waited two years, unless he came to see me as a singer when he was no longer a haircutter. I don’t remember.

BO AND PEEP AND THE PROBY/ JAGGER COCK FIGHT

Tell me about the Bo & Peep record. (“Rise of the Brighton Surf” – Decca F11968, 8/64)

Andrew Loog Oldham called one night and said, “I’m doing an album and I can’t sing. I want all you guys to come over. I’ve got Gary Brooker” – who had the Paramounts, later to be Procol Harum — “I’ve got Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones” — later to be Led Zeppelin — “who’ll back you. I’ve got Mick Jagger singing ‘Young Love’ by Sonny James and Tab Hunter…” He had some black girl who he had in the media for about a minute singing – he had some also-rans. So what happened was, we showed up and he said, “Make up a song about mods and rockers and do some freeform poetry.”

I’d only been in the studio once before as a singer – I was always producing – and that was this horrifying “Astrology” record on Invicta, I think (Invicta 9002, 3/63). So there I was produced by Andrew Loog Oldham, backed by Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones, and I did a horrifyingly bad rendition of “House of the Rising Sun” with new words. Later Marianne Faithfull told Mick Jagger that he sounded like me, and Jagger was so disgusted by that he slammed the limousine door on her foot and almost broke it. (Laughs)

He and I don’t get along. I fucked Linda and took her virginity, and she was Tony Calder and Andrew Loog Oldham’s secretary, and her best friend was Chrissie Shrimpton, Jean Shrimpton’s little sister, who fucked Proby when Jagger was on tour. When the press found out about the fuck they came and knocked on the door at Chrissie Shrimpton’s home. When I was fucking Linda – whoever Linda was – on the living room floor, they were in her bedroom. The press said, “Do you have anything to say?”

And Proby said, “My cock’s bigger than Mick Jagger’s!”

And then the press corps went up there (to Jagger’s) and knocked on his door and said, “Proby says his cock is bigger than your cock. Are you willing to tell what the measurements are? Proby stuck your girl around his.” (Laughs) And Jagger was outraged, so any mention of PJ Proby or Kim Fowley is not tolerated with him.

Chrissie Shrimpton and Mick Jagger.

VIV, BONGO, JUDY AND THE PRETTY THINGS

Tell me about Viv Prince.

Well, Viv Prince was a very nice guy. He was a two-fisted drinker and a two-fisted chain smoker and a very nice guy. A good person, as was everybody in our house at the time. We didn’t have assholes, although we did have Bongo Wolf later – you’ve heard of him, right? He came over when I was leaving in late ’64. Bongo Wolf – his real name is Don…  I can’t remember what his last name is… Allegedly, according to Proby, Bongo Wolf looked exactly like Cary Grant – smart, witty, rich – and he was walking down the street one day in Hollywood as a teenager, and you know how back in the ’50s they’d have those things that’d come out of the sidewalk like elevators, in front of department stores? Well, he was looking at the sky and whistling, just like Cary Grant would do, and he walked right into one of those and fell three or four stories and cracked his head open. When he woke up in the hospital he was disfigured and it had distorted all the fluid in his brain and he was a fast-blinking moron sissy boy. No more Cary Grant.

What about the Pretty Things? Did you see them play?

Yeah. They were mediocre. They were just rip-offs of the Stones…

You really think that…?

I mean, from your point of view… Maybe they came first – all those Dick Taylor stories – but they weren’t as good, obviously. They didn’t sell as many records. They came close, and then certain rock intellectuals say what if and what if and what if and what if….? You know, that kind of shit.

The Pretty Things, 1964

So tell me your story about Judy Garland and the Pretty Things.

OK. Phil May — who was very charming in those days, with long flowing hair, etc – he had Douglas Fairbanks Jr’s goddess debutante daughter as his main squeeze. So there was an engagement party at his house. For some reason they wouldn’t let Viv Prince live in the same house that Phil May was. I don’t know why and what the problem was.

So what happened was, Phil May had his other people in the Pretty Things with him and they were all sitting around. It was right out of a British ‘gentleman’s club’ kind of demeanor, with all the dolly birds from Eel Pie Island, 1964 summertime, enjoying a brandy and liqueur, but with hash cigarettes. And they had a rowboat battle in this kind of Lord Byron environment. They were having these rowboat races where they stole these two rowboats from Hyde Park and they flooded this fancy place with maybe four feet of water, and they were having fights with the paddles and acting like randy jerk-offs from East London, or wherever they were from. All the debutantes were giggling, and they were in tuxedos beating each other up with rowboat oars.

Into the middle of all this comes Proby and Fowley and Phelge and Viv Prince. We’re gonna come in there and fuck some dirty debutante bitches and get some free food. There’s a lot of confusion at the front door and we were going in the door opened and this water came in. There was this small, middle-aged woman who was kind of swept out to the steps from the hall, and it was Judy Garland. She was about to drown in this warm water of puke and cigar ashes and thrown-up food and fuck-you’s and yobboes type of activity, and Proby suddenly reverted to a Southern gentleman.

He said, “Stop! This is an American icon here! Judy Garland! Everyone stop! Kim Fowley and I will now escort you, ma’am, to wherever you would like to go.”

“I want a fuckin’ drink! I want the Adlib!”

“We’ll go.”

So we left everybody else and Proby and I took her to the Adlib Club and we drug here in there and she and Proby spent the rest of the evening drinking and telling stories about Hollywood to each other. So much for that night.

THE HIGH NUMBERS: YOUNG, MOD & SNOTTY

Every so often I’d get sick of sitting around the house, and people would tell me about bands, or I would hear about bands, or I would be invited to various rehearsals or offices or demo studios because I’d had #1 records. So I heard about The Who; they were the High Numbers then. I can’t remember who took me to see them. Somebody else was performing and they had played, and Pete Meaden entered the room, dressed like a Mod — before Mods were dressing like Mods – and told everybody to fuck off and shut up. Then the High Numbers came onstage and using instruments they borrowed from the other band, they started playing some Motown song at supersonic speed. Probably at that moment you could safely say the Who were the first punk band in the world – although they wouldn’t claim to be that, but they probably were, if you think about it. They got up and played a bunch of spade shit and Motown, and I remember saying, Wow, that sounds loud and obnoxious. Young, loud and snotty – but somebody else used that: Stiv Bators.

Yeah, the Dead Boys.

But these guys really were young, loud and snotty. But the Dead Boys did a Kim Fowley song once, called “Big City” – second album, Side One, Track Two (We Have Come For You Children, Sire 1978; actually it’s Side Two, Track Two). But anyway, here they were. They didn’t play “My Generation” that day; they hadn’t evolved to that level. But would I have recognized it? Probably! But I didn’t hear anything like that. I just heard some covers: “Detour” and some Motown songs or something.

But you were impressed?

Oh, yeah.

The same year you also saw the Yardbirds at the Crawdaddy Club.

THE YARDBIRDS, 1964. “Eric told me that he wasn’t staying in the band because they were going pop and he was more interested in the blues.”

Remember, the whole time I was laying around Proby’s I still had the work ethic of a record producer. After all, when there was no dirty bitches coming around and no parties, you might as well go hear a band or do something musical. And so there was the opportunity. Somebody drove me over to the Richmond Athletic Club and the Crawdaddy. Kim Fowley does not drive a car. I’m car-phobic. I’m not interested in that. So all these adventures always happened on a bus or public transportation or hitchhiking, or people driving me around in their car or the back of a van. I think I’ve been in a limo less times than someone on welfare. I’m just a pedestrian, and it seems that to go in a car is really an event. Anyway, I got a ride out to Richmond Athletic Club on Sunday. I think it was matinee time, people underage who had to be at school the next morning. It was some afternoon concert and Giorgio Gomelsky was checking me out, and there they were: The Yardbirds. They were really good. I remember afterwards Eric Clapton came out into the line where I was standing and he said, “You’re really from America?”

I said, “Yeah.”

He asked me about the black music and the black records I knew – for example on “Alley Oop” by Hollywood Argyles it was an all black rhythm section. Before that, I’d worked for Alan Freed as a food runner and met Leonard Chess and I’d met Sonny Bono over at Specialty Records. I was a high school hustler and I had made black doo wop records anyway. I’d made several hundred records. Eric was very interested in black culture. He didn’t care about white punk too much.

Anyway, Eric was a really nice guy. I remember they went off to Eel Pie Island a week later and I went in their van, and Eric told me that he wasn’t staying in the band, because they were going pop and he was more interested in blues. That guy in 1964 was pretty focused on where he was determined to be. Whatever he is now, I believe he was anticipating that future event. He was a really serious guy.

Bill Relf, who was driving, was the father of Keith and Jane, who was the singer of Renaissance. I thought Jane was fuckable but I didn’t go for her because she was too clean. I don’t really go for clean girls and when I have I’ve failed. Keith was a good lead singer. They were really quite a great band, I think, and I became friends with them.

I was looking around to maybe give them some material, but I wasn’t really Billy Boy Arnold; I didn’t have that Chess Records pedigree as a writer. I wasn’t Willy Dixon. Nowadays I probably could’ve walked in and said, “Let’s do a shuffle, here’s some lyrics,” and I’d have dealt, basically. At the time I was not yet 25, still almost stilted by England, and it didn’t occur to me that I should be writing songs with my new friends the Yardbirds.

Who did we miss from ‘64?

Mickey Finn & the Bluemen. I found their record when I was running around London during the day while Proby was sleeping. I found that record at Oriole and I sent it to Chatahoochee who put it out (in the US). “I Still Want You” was the side I published. Have you heard that? (“Reelin’ And Rockin”/”I Still Want You” – Oriole CB1940, 6/64)

Yeah.

It’s a good record, isn’t it?

Yeah, it is.

And then the A-side was “Reelin’ and Rockin’,” a great version. I think that Mickey Finn & the Bluemen were better than Downliners Sect, full stop. Downliners Sect and the Undertakers had more publicity, but they never made any immortal records that I know of. We could argue about that but I don’t want to so we’ll continue on. (Laughs)

OK, how did your first trip to England end?

By then it was getting cold. It was November-December. It was cold and it was time to go home, so I went back to LA to Nick Venet’s ex-wife’s mother’s house, where I had lived before. I came back and knocked on her door.

“Can I have my old room back?”

“No, somebody else has it.”

So I called Danny Hutton up. I said, “Will your mother rent me the attic?”

“Yeah, we were looking for a guy, too.”

So I went up to the attic – Danny Hutton’s red attic – and Danny Hutton said, “Get some sleep because tomorrow night I’m gonna show you something that’s gonna be gigantic.”

“Yeah, Danny? (Skeptical) What are they called?”

He said, “The Byrds.”

THE MAGICAL BYRDS – EVERYBODY GOT LAID

By then it was the tail end of 1964, going into 1965; it was probably December. After the Christmas holidays it was time to meet the Byrds.

The Byrds at the time were ensconced in Clay Vito’s studio underneath his place on Laurel Avenue. He was this guy who – I don’t know how old he was, he might have been 60 or 70, or seemed to be. He had dirty bitches there and he fucked all of them and then everybody could fuck ‘em too, and then he had a dance troupe. The dance troupe would go around to all the clubs and dance. He had a practice room, and when they didn’t have sculpting classes that’s where the Byrds practiced.

Then their first gig was at what became Groundlings Theater, but then it was a ballet school, above the building where the Groundlings is now. There it was: the Byrds playing right out of Vito’s sculpting practice room, and all these actresses standing around and models and drug dealers and various refugees. They got up there, and they were magical. The fuckin’ Byrds! The original five guys with all those songs on the first album, one after the other, and Danny Hutton screaming, “Folk Rock! British Invasion! That’s it! That’s it!”

I said, “Wow, yeah. It’s good. It’s good! How do I fit into that?” I stood around and nobody cared. I was 25 by then. Jim McGuinn had been with Chad Mitchell and Bobby Darin, and one of the other guys had been with Les Baxter’s Balladeers. Everybody in the room had something to do with show business, so there was no opening to jump off of. There was no ‘moment’. I looked for it. I remember Danny Hutton said, “You had a #1 record last year! You can talk to a band.”

“Yeah, but there’s no fucking opening. Everybody’s around these guys like swarming bees. There’s no opening. Oh well, we can get laid, as guys in our 20s.”

Anyway, the Byrds couldn’t go back to the ballet place because they were fucking up the floor where the dancers danced. People were grinding their cigarette butts and dropping bottles and puking and whatnot. So Jim Dickson and Ed Tickner had somehow persuaded somebody at Ciro’s to let these guys come in. Ciro’s was losing their ass; maybe this could make it. So in come the Byrds, and it was glorious.

They did great nights. Those guys played every night. It was like the Liverpool Cavern, the Beatles in Liverpool, or Richmond Athletic Club when I went there and hung out with Giorgio Gomelsky and the Yardbirds.

By then the management company, which was called Tickson Music – Tickner and Dickson – had gotten them on Columbia so there was nothing to produce. The songs had been demoed to death. Everybody knew what the songs were. They were the same songs you hear on the first two or three albums; they were all in various shades of readiness. So as a result we just all got laid. Those guys, they attracted cunt and more cunt and super cunt, so everyone got laid, and… fine by me! I mean everybody.

Sonny and Cher went there and heard “All I Really Want to Do” and they covered it, and Phil Spector came there and studied it, and MFQ showed up, and later Phil Spector recorded with them. It was an interesting time in ‘65.

BLAME IT ON BOB DYLAN

Billy James, who wrote the liner notes of Mr Tambourine Man, took me to a Bob Dylan reception. That was where I asked him, “What’s your gimmick? What’s your schtick?”

And he said, “Asking questions and telling stories,” which was an interesting answer.

Then, the next night, Bryan Maclean and I were standing in front of Ciro’s.

“Hang on, let’s crash this party of Ben Shapiro’s” – who’s an agent – up the hill from where Ciro’s and the Hyatt House were. So we climbed over a fence and we decided we’d climb in through the kitchen window. I went first and couldn’t quite get over the stove, and a pair of hands dragged me across the stove – and it was Bob Dylan! (laughs) And then he grabbed Bryan Maclean and helped him through the window.

Then he said, “You guys want to have anything to eat?”

I said, “Sure, man!”

He said, “This is my party and I can’t stand the people in the other room. You guys wanna come? Hey, you’re that guy from yesterday!”

“Yeah, and this is Bryan Maclean.”

“I’m a Byrds roadie.”

“Cool. Have some chicken.” And he went and got us our food. He went and brought some plates into the kitchen and fed us both, and we sat there and talked to him, y’know, about nothing. Just chatting away. He was not happy with his own party. He was very kind.

Later, the next night was the night of the album picture where he’s standing with the Byrds (on the back cover of Mr Tambourine Man — MS). Then there was a party across the street and me and Danny Hutton went over there. We followed the entourage over and Dylan got lost from his entourage and ended up in a room at the hotel apartment building, and the people became a lynch mob:

“Sing for us or we’ll kick your ass! Fuck you!”

They were being mean to him. I felt bad for Bob Dylan, so I jumped up and said, “Fuck all of you. I’m better than he is and I also sing better in his voice! So you, Bob Dylan, play me Bob Dylan chords.” I got him off the hook, in other words.

So he said, “What do you wanna sing?”

I said, “I dunno, what have you got?”

He said, “Sing something about walls.”

So he played some Bob Dylan chords – the real Bob Dylan – and I got up in 1965 and sang [Dylan voice]: “Yeeeah, waaalls… Waaalls… Why the tears and pain?” and it sounded like him — especially with him playing I could really get some “Eeeeaaahhh” [imitates Dylan sound]. And of course the audience was shocked, because who’s this other guy? Why’s the real guy playing and the other guy imitating him singing, but the guy he’s imitating is playing guitar? (laughs) And it sort of shut everybody up. They didn’t know what to do. They didn’t want to fight, but they also didn’t want to applaud either. They were so confused they didn’t do anything to either one of us.

Then Dylan’s handlers came in and whisked him out, and he said, “Here! Have some wine!”

I don’t drink, but you drink if Bob Dylan offers you a flask. And he said, “You’re as good as I am!”

So for all of you who think I suck, blame him, because he told me I could sing as good as he could. If Bob Dylan thinks I’m as good as he is… For all the awful Kim Fowley records which have come out over the years, it’s all his fault!

HAVING A RAVE-UP IN THE HOLLYWOOD HILLS

As the summer got going, or somewhere before the summer, Giorgio Gomelsky paid me quite a bit of money to have a big publicity bash for the Yardbirds, where I got everybody that counted at Bob Markley’s house in the Hollywood Hills. (It was September 9, 1965. The Yardbirds didn’t have the necessary work permits to perform any real gigs on their first US visit, so the party was a ruse to expose the band to the LA hipster elite – MS) I conned him out of his house for the night, and we had Al Kooper and Riley Wildflower and other notables were the opening act for the Yardbirds. We staged a fake jewel robbery with actors and he had paste jewelry that was found. We had rooms where we had gambling and some poker. There were rooms where we had pinball and gambling and pokering and jewel robberies.

How did the jewel robbery happen?

Well, we said, “Somebody’s stolen jewelry! Get everybody out here!” [into the main room] That was just a trick to plunge the place in darkness while we were allegedly catching or fighting these jewel thieves. Meanwhile the Yardbirds were setting up in the darkness; we actually got them to set up in the dark! (Laughs) And if you can imagine starting off “I’m A Man” in the complete dark – how loud that was and how dark that was…. Rock’n’roll in the dark just really blasts! And then the lights go on, the jewels are there… and there’s the fuckin’ Yardbirds with just full Marshall amps, or whatever it was, doing “I’m A Man”! The place erupted and we had about two or three hundred people inside a big, big house. We had Phil Spector there. It was a great party. We wouldn’t let Brando in. Marlon Brando came with Natalie Wood, and Albert Grossman with Joan Baez, and they couldn’t get in.

There was no more room?

Right. That was fine with me because then I then intimidated all the 100 DJs to play the Yardbirds: “They can’t get in, you did, so you better play their record tomorrow!” That was gimmick we used to get airplay for 100 markets. Everybody showed up. There was a lot of people. DJs from all over the country came for that one. It was a remarkable evening. I made five grand that night, and that’s where the West Coast Pop Art guys first got together.

The Yardbirds

So this must be about the time that you hooked up with Michael Lloyd and the Rogues, right?

No, I had met Michael Lloyd in ‘63, before “Popsicles and Icicles,” when he was 13. He’s ten years younger than me: I’m 61, he’s 51. He was a teenage boy genius producer-engineer, and he could play anything. So I became friends with him because I had had hits and I saw that he had potential to be a producer, as well as an all-round musician. But I met him in ‘63. But in ‘65, that summer as the Byrds exploded, everyone who had a garage band had decided to be the Byrds, and his band became the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band, but he was more interested in girls really. (laughs)

I think I co-wrote two songs that later surfaced on a reissue by Sundazed: “Insanity” and… I can’t remember the other song. (“Don’t Let Anything!!! Stand in Your Way” on their self-released 1966 album – MS) And, yes, there’s three more albums in the Reprise vaults that are unreleased, because they only put out marginal or weird stuff, which is too bad because there was some really good albums there.

So Bob Markley basically controlled that group, even though he had no musical talent to speak of – is that true?

He was kind of like Dave Clark was in the Dave Clark Five. He had a law degree and he had a million dollars, so he paid for it. I was a co-writer on a few songs and those guys sang and played, and Markley had parties they played, and that was about it. They had a really good light show. The light show was later acquired by Jimi Hendrix and the Animals – but I’m getting ahead of myself.

A BUNCH OF PEOPLE MAKING STUPID RECORDS FOR STUPID REASONS

It was a great summer, 1965. What can you say? I mean, you got to fuck without a condom and the girls looked like movie stars and you made rock’n’roll records. Everybody who wanted to could make a record for $100 and could be #1 in the world — and why not? Just because you didn’t know the band… You just showed up and you did it and there was always a label who would put it out and everybody was waiting up and down the street.

You made several singles of your won during this period. Tell me about “American Dream” for example. (“American Dream” b/w “The Statue” – Mira 209, 1965)

On Mira Records, with Sonny & Cher’s road band, the late, great Mike Henderson, who was an unadvertised Jack Nitszche, doing the arrangements. He was in Eddie Cochran’s band and he was one of the guys who played in the Marketts. It was done at H&R Recording Studio on Melrose, and came out on Mira Records, home of the Leaves’ “Hey Joe”.

What was the thinking behind the song itself?

I was God. I was living with a girl that had two kids, who was a Colgate/Palmolive model in Beverly Hills, and I saw myself the same way I saw myself in “Mr Responsibility”, which dated from the same period when I was coming out of the gutter and having sex with rich women who were slightly older than me, and living in mansions. (“Mr Responsibility”/”My Foolish Heart” – Living Legend 721, 1965).

On “American Dream” it sounds like you’re ready to take on the world or something.

You know, when you’re eternal, you have somebody else’s kids in the place of your kids and a Barbara Eden only better looking lookalike girl who everybody wanted to fuck on the street. On those two records, that’s how I saw my self-image at the time. Her name was Lois Johnson and she was also Bobby Jameson’s girlfriend, who was equally gutter-driven. He introduced me to her and I succeeded him as her boyfriend. There’s a recommendation! (laughs) God, the poor woman took on two morons in a row there!

Bobby Jameson

So who played on “Mr Responsibility”?

That was the Mike Henderson guys again. Ben Benay — who died recently, but who had been on all the Grass Roots records — he played on that.

And then there’s “The Trip”. (“The Trip”/”Big Sur” – Corby 216, 1966)

I think I made “The Trip” first, when I was covered in slime, and then I washed myself off and made the other two records after that. But that single was made by a predatory guy who would fuck anything with a heartbeat. When Frank Zappa was out at the studio he used in Cucamonga where they did “Wipe Out”, there was another version of that studio, it was called S&L Recorders and I did a bunch of legendary stuff there. I did them as experimental fun records the same way that Frank did his experimental fun records out at Paul Buff’s. It’s a total Mexican neighborhood and you’re a white guy and you have pure white trash disgruntled middle class-to-rich kids all showing up together and being stupid and having fun. We wanted to make records like “Wooly Bully” and we wanted to make records like “Surfin’ Bird”, and we wanted the glory of a boxy drum sound and the glory of bad smelling people standing around and burping and farting and being… Nuggets. Very Nuggets. We didn’t know what Nuggets was because Nuggets didn’t exist, but what became Nuggets. All the records that were done, they’re on the two Dionysus albums — either that or the Creation reissue (Mondo Hollywood – Rev-ola/Creation CREVO36CD, 1995). Between those three releases in recent years you’ll hear them all. They’re all there in all their slimy beauty. It’s just a bunch of people making stupid records for stupid reasons.

So was “The Trip” just a backing track and then you did the words? Did you have any input on the track itself?

No. I walked in, they said, “We did a track but we don’t have a singer.” I said, “I’ll sing. Turn on the machine.” They turned on the tape, I made up words, and that was it.

Wow.

Paul Geddes was on it. We had [other] records, and a publisher/writer relationship on the second Surfaris album, with “Point Panic” on it, and the songs we wrote were “Hiawatha” and “Earthquake”. Then we had a publisher/songwriter relationship on the Aki Aleong & the Nobles’ record (Come Surf With Me – Vee Jay 1060, 1963), which is on Cowabunga! (Rhino Records’ surf boxset) – so that’s who those guys turned into. We recorded in and out of those conditions.

In the Doors’ Moonlight Drive book it says that in ’65, “The Trip” was on the jukebox at the London Fog [where the early Doors played – MS]. Jessie, the guy who was the bartender and the owner of the London Fog, he used to play that as the break song. But if you play “Soul Kitchen” and then you play “The Trip” by Kim Fowley you’ll hear the similarity. I’d never heard “Soul Kitchen” until the trailers for the movie in the ’90s. I was in the shower in a hotel in Orlando, Florida, and suddenly I hear “The Trip” with Jim Morrison’s voice singing some other words, and I ran out and I said, “Oh no!” – I had never heard Doors albums, I had only heard Doors singles. “Don’t tell me they stole the fucker back in ’65/’66!” So if it would have said “Morrison-Fowley” on there, life would’ve been a lot different than it is.

So was the band on “The Trip” the same outfit that you did “Underground Lady” with? (“Underground Lady”/”Pop Art ‘66” – Living Legend 725, 1966)

Yes.

So that was maybe six months later in early ‘66?

No, it was ‘65. “Underground Lady” was done the week that the Yardbirds came to town, because I played it to them and they said [unenthusiastically] “Oh… garage.”

They could dig the influence though, surely? [on the double-time rave-up parts]

Well, they didn’t think they were garage, they thought they were black. I was trying to be English and they thought they were trying to be black and we all kind of sounded the same. We were stupid people. (laughs)

LIKE THE TITANIC ON A RECORDING STUDIO FLOOR

On these records you were making in ’65 and ’66 in LA, you were comparing your state of mind to that of Zappa and what he was trying to do…

I didn’t know he existed really, in that regard. Basically, it was like this: From 1959 to 1963 I was young, smart, bright, well-dressed, trying to make it clean and nice and corporate. Coming out of the gutter, nobody cared if I was a piece of shit, even though I occasionally had a good idea. So then I decided I would fuck dirty bitches on the weekends, I would lay in squalor during the week and fuck dirty bitches on the street at night, and then from time to time I would go out to a Chicano neighborhood in El Monte and make these garage records – because I liked garage crap more than I liked Top of the Pops crap. So in that regard, I sympathize with you and your readers, even though I make fun of you guys for being closeted back in the ‘60s, and that almost 40 years later you’re jacking off to pimples on men’s faces like the Standells and the Music Machine and your whole orbit revolves around maybe ten records from the time. I agree with you because I was right there doing bad versions of that shit. But on the other hand, I moved on and you guys didn’t – shame, shame, shame! (laughs) If Sky Saxon came to your house you and your wife would probably cry tears of joy and bake him a cake…

[laughing] I’m not so sure about that! But my point about the Zappa comparison is that somehow he picked up on you to sing on the Freak Out album. Was he aware of your stuff?

No, he didn’t know who Kim Fowley was. He knew me because a) Elliot Ingber said I was cool and Elliot Ingber was his original guitar player. Because Elliot knew me from way back when he was in the Gamblers, and he was also in a group called the Phil Harvey Band; they were Phil Spector’s instrumental group and they were great. And I knew him from around town and, b) he knew I could get up there and… I’m a sensational performer. I’m really astonishing as a performer. I’m a piece of shit as a human being and I’m an asshole as a businessman, and I’m creatively valid, but in front of an audience I’m one of the most entertaining fucking things you’ve ever seen. Imagine if Ichabod Crane had the cock of John Holmes, pre-AIDS, standing up there like Elmer Gantry, man. A male cheerleader that Satan has endowed with the ability to change your life, just by standing up there and asking, “Is anybody having a birthday today?” I’m really, really good. I mean, better than anybody you’ve ever seen who’s white. You’ve never met me; you don’t know who you’re talking to!

I’m aware of your reputation.

It’s hard to take. I’m a piece of shit, basically. If I was dead I’d be a better interview than I am now because my personality wouldn’t get in the way of my work. We complain about Keith Moon or Kim Fowley or Sky Saxon all being difficult or impossible to deal with. However, if we weren’t these interesting people we wouldn’t have made those interesting songs or records that have changed the history of teen culture. Everybody reading this knows nice people who they have over their house on Christmas Eve who didn’t change their fuckin’ lives, but you won’t let me in your town on Christmas Eve, let alone your house! But my records are in your fuckin’ house and you can’t live without them, so fuck all of you! That’s my message. But thank you very much for buying them, even though I don’t always get royalties – but sometimes I do; when I do I thank all of you and you have great taste for seeking out the records, because they’ll change your life. Go on.

[still laughing] OK, so through Elliot Ingber you hooked up with Zappa and what? He just invited you to appear on the album?

He invited me to jam.

In the studio, you mean?

No. His idea of a jam was “We’re doing a gig. Show up on stage and if you’re great you can sing with us, and if you’re horrible that’ll be great too because then I’ll tear you apart and throw you in the street and that’ll be good too. I don’t care either way whether you’re good or not.” But I happened to be good.

I showed up at the corner of La Cienega and Santa Monica in a redwood kind of shingle place. It was short-lived, not a normal venue. In those days clubs would open and close in a matter of weeks. I don’t remember what the name of it was, but I did really good and I remember he said, “You’re my Brian Jones!”

I said, “Oh shit!”

Then he told me to come down to the studio – he didn’t ask, he told. Then everybody made his record with him and nobody got paid any money, and nobody got paid any royalties either; no session man royalties either, but we all did it anyway. It was a great night.

So it was all basically done in one night; one big freakout, like it said?

Yeah.

Was Zappa directing things very closely, or did he just kind of let the tape roll and let the freaks play?

It was organized chaos. It was like the Titanic on a recording studio floor, like “The ship is sinking. Let’s get all these people’s agony on tape” kind of a ‘happening’ type thing. I guess he took the Hindenburg disaster and an Andy Warhol happening and made an album of it. I sang “Help I’m A Rock” on the album and I sang on some other tracks.

What happened after that? Did he want you to continue to perform with the Mothers?

Yeah, he came to my apartment and said, “I want you to be my Brian Jones. I want you to be a permanent member of the band” and I said no.

Why didn’t you want to do that?

I said, “I know I’m fun to watch in the context of what you’re doing, but I’m not interested in pursuing that as a career.”

He said, “What is your career?”

I said, “Fucking dirty bitches and making stupid records, and when all this longhair bullshit is over with I will go back to what I was before the long haired thing. I’ll just be a short haired guy in a suit doing business with music. Frank, I’ve had three #1 records in the world, so I know what it’s like to get royalties and fees and stuff, and if I’m your Brian Jones I’m just a weird guy in a weird guy’s band and I will end up with no money and no nothing. And although I’ll fuck some amazing bitches and have some great times, it won’t mean anything and I’d rather stumble along and scream like a dog. I’m my own man.”

What I should have done, in hindsight, is done two or three albums with him, and then I would have been legitimate as a performer because I would have had Zappa certification – “Well, he can’t be too bad he’s on three albums with Frank.” But I’m only on one album with Frank. But the great one that you should lobby to find is The Mothers of Invention Live at the Whisky, which was the same people that did the first album all reunited to do the same exact songs in front of a live audience. Somewhere in Frank’s archives there’s that live album of all of us a year later, in ’66, all reunited, every last person that was on that record showed up and did the same shit again.

I did get laid a lot. The two records that got me laid the most from the ‘60s was having my name and voice on the Mothers of Invention Freak Out album, and being the introducer of John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band in 1969. Having your voice on a Beatle record – or if not a Beatles record a Lennon record – and then “The Trip”, because it was a psychedelic underground sensation. Yeah, those three records got me laid multiply hundreds of times. I didn’t have to say anything. Girls I’d meet in public places pushed me away to their bedrooms: “You’re the guy on John Lennon’s record, fuck me and my girlfriend.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not going to be able to fuck him and you’re the closest thing.”

“No problem.”

PEOPLE WANDERING INTO ROOMS AND CHANGING THE WORLD

Bruce Johnston

Derek Taylor was doing the Byrds’ publicity and Paul Revere & the Raiders’ publicity and he would hold court in his office in the afternoons. He was a wonderful guy. He was like Ronald Coleman meets Red Skelton on a disc jockey/journalist level — maybe Goodbye, Mr Chips on hydrogen. He was very unique, and he had these tremendous theories about packaging and publicity and promotion. He’d sit back in his chair and give dissertations. Everybody would come in.

Like he’d say, “You’ve got to meet Jefferson Airplane for these sociological reasons. They don’t have hooks like England or LA by they have a lifestyle that we can’t even approach.”

And Marty Balin would walk in on cue and sit there and give Kim Fowley a button and say, “Kim Fowley, we’ll take you around all the clubs and then you can understand how classic this place really is. San Francisco is full of strippers…” Marty and I became friends. I became friends with him, and later with Paul Kantner and Jack Casady. Those guys were cool.

Derek Taylor always had English people coming in and out; like Jonathan King came to visit. It was always a place where the English guys could come in the afternoons and find out what they were supposed to do, because people must have a publicist. And then there were American guys like me. By then I had been to England in ’64, this is ’65 now. I was picking his brain, and he was picking my brain, although I didn’t realize it at the time. He was always interested in Hollywood life in the ‘40s and ‘50s so we traded stories. He’d tell me about Fleet Street and Denmark Street and Oxford Street, and I’d tell him about Bel Air and Beverly Hills, pre-Elvis. Derek Taylor once dedicated a book to me, in his own handwriting, a book he wrote: “No sympathy for a giant.” He was a gentleman.

At any rate, it was Derek’s idea in ’66 when I was back in England to send Bruce Johnston — who I knew from high school – over to England, and then I would take Bruce around and shepherd him through all the interviews, and try to lure Lennon and McCartney into the proximity of Bruce Johnston in order for Bruce to play them a record called Pet Sounds. I used Keith Moon as a bridge from the Beach Boys to the Beatles because Keith worshipped all things West Coast. Wasn’t “Bucket T” covered by The Who?

Yes, it was.

So what happened was I got Bruce and Keith together, and then I made sure that I scheduled all the interviews so that the British press people would see Lennon and McCartney brought into the room to hear Pet Sounds. And if you can imagine what that was like – Lennon and McCartney coming to see Bruce Johnston, who wasn’t even a Wilson brother. And of course, I had Keith bring some other people over: Dave Clark, Marianne Faithfull and the two guys from the Merseys, who were #1 at the time with “Sorrow.” We had the Beach Boys fan club playing canasta with Paul McCartney while John Lennon sat next to the record player and heard Pet Sounds.

They’d asked for a piano to be brought in at the beginning of it, and they went over and sat next to each other and played some chords. According to rumor, they rushed to Abbey Road and cranked out “Here, There and Everywhere,” which—they didn’t steal it from the Beach Boys, but they certainly took the atmosphere and some of the techniques. You can hear that on “Here, There and Everywhere.” You can tell how listening to Pet Sounds could have been part of that particular moment in their songwriting. I officiated in that, and my payment was that Bruce Johnston was gonna go and help Michael Lloyd out, who later went on to produce a lot of hits, but who was then under contract to me at Arwin.

So at any rate, that was that. In those days we were all in our 20s and teens and thought maybe there was more of a community. I mean, nowadays you wouldn’t do anything unless you had lawyers and accountants and people drawing up complicated documents about how much somebody will make and what are the benefits. That’s why now you don’t have people just wandering into rooms and sitting there and changing the world.

Michael Lloyd

So from that Derek got Bruce to help Michael Lloyd out?

Derek said, “What payment do you want?”

I said, “Well, have Bruce help Michael Lloyd out.” At the time he was one of my young producers, so I had Bruce mentor him ‘big brother’ style after he came back. So he helped Michael Lloyd out about some studio stuff and other stuff. That was my suggestion and my payment.

Michael played 14 instruments and he was this white guy who kinda looked like Peter Noone and had Prince’s brain for making records. He’s really remarkable. He was a producer when he was 14 years old, doing records for Tony Hilder as a guy in the seventh or eighth grade, running a studio. Can you imagine? What a genius he was. Michael Lloyd had Paul McCartney’s musicality, Prince’s engineering ability and George Martin’s ear, and he’s made nothing but bubblegum classics like Sean Cassidy records, Osmonds records, Leif Garrett records – those are good, solid records if you listen carefully to them. Michael made some good records.

1966 – ANOTHER TRIP TO ENGLAND

Cat Stevens, 1966

So it was time to go to England for a second time. I always made my moves in spring, because in those days you could only stay for six months before they wanted you out, and by then it would be cold. My idea was to run in and do it and then split.

I was starting to think that maybe I had been an asshole. Maybe? Oh, really? Maybe! (Laughs) Here I was producing all these records and songs and records, and I’d learned the studio and learned music and learned all this, and all I did was basically party in ‘64 and ‘65 and up to May of ‘66, and I was starting to think that maybe I should be making records. I mean, two and a half years is a long time not to be really productive. If I went to England I could use this Mothers of Invention (thing) and “The Trip,” and I could use “Sunset Strip.” I was only 26 and a half, so I was still fairly young.

This woman had a daughter I knew, a good chick, and she wanted her daughter to marry a member of British royalty. So I hustled her to buy me a plane ticket for me and the daughter to go over there and find her a member of British royalty, and I would get paid by the week and I’d get some food and that would be my scam to get over there.

She had a boyfriend and he had to come along too – which I didn’t know how that would work. But they stayed in the room in London and I went out and hustled. And yes, I did… Remember Stash, the Polish prince who knew Keith Richard? Well, I delivered him to her, and he and this guy got in a fight for trying to touch his goddess bitch. That was a disaster.

Then the mother got rolled by a gigolo on the way over from New York and didn’t have my money, and they were gonna boot me out. So they went out to eat and I went in their room and my room and I kicked down all the fixtures in the place. I did a lot of damage and then took off. I could fight in those days and some guy had tried to rob me, and I beat the shit out of him. He had several hundred pounds, so I used that money to get into another Bed & Breakfast some place. I lived on the floor of Tony Marsh for a while and then I got money and then I found a Bed & Breakfast. Tony Marsh was a pretty famous guy; he had one glass eye and he did a lot of NEMS shows – you know, Brian Epstein’s organization. He was a great guy and he helped me out.

Proby, I didn’t hang out with him the second time, because he was away in Australia touring and I was into doing other stuff. I met Tony Marsh and I got into the Bayswater Hotel. At that point I was a writer at Ardmore & Beechwood, which was part of EMI, and I co-wrote a song with Cat Stevens, “Portobello Road”. He didn’t know how to sing live, so I took him to Les Cousins and I got John Renbourn to play guitar for me, and I got up and played folk music, and Cat Stevens learned that night how to do it.

Mark Wirtz

Did you know John Renbourn before then?

No, but I yelled. I yelled Byrds at him and I yelled Frank Zappa, and he seemed to know who they were, and there was nobody else around.

You also made a Kim Fowley single around this time with Mark Wirtz. (Producer/arranger, later to produce Tomorrow and Keith West’s “Teenage Opera” records, The single was: “Lights” b/w “Something New and Different” – Loma 2064, 1966)

Ardmore & Beechwood had an open door policy for morons and geniuses: Cat Stevens, Kim Fowley, Ten Years After, Slade; Chris Blackwell was there. Everybody who was good or crazy got to hang out there or be subsidized by them or got money from them. Bob Crewe, all his stuff came through there. It was pretty amazing. That’s where I met Mark Wirtz/Peters. Mark was hanging around there. It was like a Brill Building, compacted into one company. That was Ardmore & Beechwood.

WHITE, WORKING CLASS, BAD-SKIN BASTARDS

KF: At that point, one night I went to Tiles, which was a great rock’n'roll place and here comes the N’Betweens – later to be Slade – and they were glorious. Those fuckers, man, were god on stage. Period. Wow. I mean, you’ve heard the live album. I mean.. Jeezus! Forget… forget almost everybody as far as a rock’n'roll band. I never saw Gene Vincent & the Blue Caps – even though I produced him in ’69 – probably Gene Vincent & the Blue Caps live, and then Slade, and then the Doors, and then Guns & Roses, and that’s it. There probably isn’t anybody else that astounding.

So what were they like live? Were they like the recordings you made with them?

Well, I thought my records were good – I thought “Security” was a great record – but imagine if The Who had a better bass and drummer. I mean, it was just so loud, and it made you wanna go out and kill people and fuck dirty cunt and puke and piss and shit and set fire to your parents’ house, burn down the schoolyard – in a celebratory way. It was just… You know the movie Privilege with Paul Jones? It was like that, only with four guys; just guitar, bass and drums. As silly as it sounds, there was the power of guitar, bass, drums and a singer and a bunch of chanting bastards, and they understood the power of stupidity and the power of playing together… It’s black music played by white, working class, bad-skin bastards. It’s like the Sex Pistols records were like; I never saw them live, but it was like that – live. You don’t hear it often. It hasn’t happened more than four or five times in the history of rock’n'roll where you go “woah, woah, woah!” And it was fucking Christ! It was God. Noddy Holder has a book where he describes the time we had together. He doesn’t capture me, but he sort of captured the thing. But anyway, they could play and we made that record and it came out on HMV and it didn’t do very well. (“You Better Run”/”Evil Witchman” – Columbia DB-8080, 12/66)

Then I had another band called the Belfast Gypsies, which was Them, minus Van Morrison.

The McAuley brothers, right?

Yeah, but with some other guys who were great. That’s a really good album. You ever heard the Belfast Gypsies album?

Oh yeah, I know it. It’s one of my favorites.

Thank you. I did that with one amplifier. There was no money anywhere, so we did everything through one amplifier – the guitar and the organ, man!

Where did you find that singer? He sounds a lot like Van – not a rip off, but in the same zone.

That was Jackie McAuley. And he looked good, too. Everybody always wished that Van looked better. Jackie looked like Jack Palance’s son. I mean, Jackie had that heroic Celtic image, and Van’s fuckin’ voice! That record, man, came out all over the world and nobody could sell it. Island couldn’t sell it as the Freaks of Nature. They couldn’t sell it as Them in France on Vogue. They couldn’t sell it as Them on W&G in Australia, and then we had another label here, so it was the Belfast Gypsies on Loma/Warner Brothers. We had the best labels: Quality in Canada… When that fuckin’ record came out, everyone was screaming. But it didn’t sell. It was pretty raw. The whole record was based on “Mystic Eyes”. I always thought there should be an album like “Mystic Eyes” and we made one like “Mystic Eyes” and subsequently it failed.

So did you make the single (“Gloria’s Dream” b/w “Secret Police” – Island WI-3007 10/66) first and then the album?

No, we did the whole thing in a couple of hours. Actually, I think we did it in a couple of Saturdays. I think I spent £28 to do the whole thing.

And where did you record it?

THE N’BETWEENS, 1966. Later to become Slade. “They were glorious. Those fuckers, man, were GOD on stage. Period”.

At Regent Sound, that great studio where the Stones recorded. We did the Slade record there, called the N’Betweens, we did the Them record, and we did Spider’s record there. It was a great studio. Andrew Loog Oldham did the Stones there up to “Satisfaction.” Bill [Farley], the engineer, was great. He was there for everything and he just got it. You could go in there and say, “I want to hear reindeers fucking blonde cunt; negroes setting fire to churchyards.”

He’d say, “OK, you mean this?”

“Yeah! That’s it!”

And then they’d play it and he’d get it on tape. I knew how to say it, but you couldn’t say it, because before the Beatles and after ’59, you were either a vocalist or an instrumentalist, and all those guys that played on all those singles were all 30 year-old men and 40 year-old men playing behind a bunch of weird sounding teenagers singing professional songwriters’ songs – 30 year-old guys who read music and played it with the right equipment. But by that time you were in there recording stuff, you had to come up with “a bunch of snot rolling down the nose of a loser, and I’m the loser, and here’s some words, now you sing it, Noddy Holder! OK?”

“OK.”

“Now this is gargling with razor blades and broken bottles. Give me that.”

“OK.”

And he would open his mouth and that’s what’s going to happen. And then Bill Farley can push a couple of buttons and make it happen. We did nine songs; I think they left a couple of songs off (the reissue), but it’s been reissued again on Cherry Red.

Then I produced Soft Machine as a rock band when Daevid Allen, later to be in Gong, was still in the group, and he couldn’t cut anything because of his immigration problems. I took them over to CBS studios. They were a great rock’n'roll band, they weren’t doing jazz. When I met them it was John Lennon fronting the Lovin’ Spoonful — can you imagine what that must have been like?

Where did you discover them?

Chalk Farm Roundhouse. Mark Wirtz/Peters, who later did Keith West’s records and “My White Bicycle”, he was my chauffeur/arranger and he and I went down to get laid, and I said, “You take Pink Floyd, because I like Robert Wyatt’s voice better than fuckin’ Syd Barrett’s!” So he ended up taking Pink Floyd over to Lloyd Featherstone and EMI, who signed them, and then I took Soft Machine. I said, “Who owns you?”

They said “Mike Jeffrey” and I said, “OK” – and of course you know who Mike Jeffrey became. At this same time I had Slade, I had the Belfast Gypsies and I had the Soft Machine; all at the same time. And so I got Lloyd Featherstone to put out the Slade record, and they put out a Kim Fowley single, and they put out Pink Floyd, but they wouldn’t let let Mark produce, so he went and did “Grocer Jack” and then Norman Smith – who was the engineer for the Beatles – went ahead and produced “See Emily Play” and all that crap.

So of the stuff you recorded with Soft Machine, what came out?

What came out was the B-side of a Chas Chandler production (“Love Makes Sweet Music” – Polydor 56151, 2/57). It was a track of mine called “Feelin’ Reelin’ Squealin’,” which they kept on and then it appeared on that Harvest boxset. But Mike Jeffrey disappeared with everybody’s money and nobody knows where he is; there rumors about it. But I never got paid, and I never got credit, and Robert Wyatt of course had some problems later – now he’s in a wheelchair. Maybe there was a bit more jazz in them than the Lovin’ Spoonful, but it wasn’t obvious, but whatever it was it was pretty interesting. I did four sides with them. My version of “Love Makes Sweet Music” is better than Chas Chandler’s version, as I remember it. For “Feelin’ Reelin’ Squealin’” I got Kevin Ayers to sing it as if Paul McCartney had more balls, because he was a lead singer, too. And then Daevid Allen, I kept him in the Zal Yanovsky position, but then he went on to make all those boring records with Gong.

THE NAPOLEON XIV CONSPIRACY

Then, between Slade and them, I had “They’re Coming To Take Me Away” and I had success. I charted in Denmark and New Zealand. I was on CBS. I was on television with the Troggs and Los Bravos and the Small Faces.

And that was what? Ready Steady Go?

Yes, and what happened was that CBS couldn’t compete with Warner Brothers because of all their distribution, and all the kids thought the guy on Ready Steady Go was the guy whose record was in the shops, but it was the other guy (in the shops), Napoleon XIV. So after I went on Ready Steady Go and his record debuted at #3 the following week, so that was supposed to have been my hit. Radio London published the B-side, so wherever Radio London’s signal was strong in Britain, in those disc charts I had the #1 record and I would go as Kim Fowley and play there. Well, Jerry Samuels, who was Sammy Davis Jr’s engineer – and he was Napoleon XIV – he sent a young guy over to be Napoleon XIV. Well, the young guy came to the Scotch of St James one night, and he didn’t know I was the guy that had covered Jerry’s record. We got talking and I said, “Hey, what’s happening?”

He said, “I’m over to pretend I’m Napoleon XIV for the guy who sung it, whose a 40-something year-old guy who can’t go on stage or anything.”

I said, “Oh yeah?”

He said, “Some asshole covered me.”

I said, “Oh yeah, that’s right. Who’s he?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “What do you do?”

“Oh, I’m just a student in college. So are you gonna play over here?”

He said, “No, I’m gonna take the deposits from all the promoters and get high on the Riviera and fuck models.”

So he runs off with the promoters’ money. So I call all the promoters and told them, “OK, I’ll put on all the gear and I’ll be Napoleon in the towns where Radio London isn’t, and I’ll be Kim Fowley where it is.” So I was both. I was both me singing “They’re Coming To Take Me Away” where Radio London made me popular, and then I’d put the gear on and I’d go to another club in the same town or further up the road and I’d be Napoleon XIV. So that’s how I got to be both of them. And then the Kim Fowley record was #1 in Denmark and #4 in New Zealand and nowhere else. And my royalties, the guy who produced it, I later found out, he ran off – Shel Talmy’s ex-partner Mike Stone. Mike Stone, where are my royalties, you pig?

Mick Fleetwood played on one of your records during this time, right?

By then I had Russ Regan – you know who he is in rock’n'roll history: he named the Beach Boys, he signed Elton and Neil Diamond and sang “Cinnamon Cinder” under the name Pastel Six; he had Strawberry Alarm Clock – the guy signed all those acts. Anyway, so he was running Loma at the time, and he took the Belfast Gypsies record and that fuckin’ record was #1 in eight cities. It was #1 in Seattle, San Diego, and “Secret Police,” the B-side, was Iggy Pop’s favorite single when he was in high school living in a trailer park in Detroit. Russ did pretty well with the record, and then there I was singing over in England, and so I got to put out a Kim Fowley record, which was… I don’t even remember, a bunch of crap. I did a bad version of “Don’t Be Cruel” – a Napoleon XIV imitating Eddie Izzard version. It was a stupid, horrible record: A mixture of the Legendary Stardust Cowboy, Mouse & the Traps — we threw all that shit in there. Anyway, Mick Fleetwood played on that. Keith Moon was going to play on the record but he got too drunk, and Peter Bardens came along, who I knew from the Them days; he wasn’t on the Them (Belfast Gypsies) record but he was in and out of Them at various times, and he later did Peter Bardens’ Camel or something like that.

Well, Peter Bardens and Mick Fleetwood had a group together called The Cheynes.

Well, whatever it was they came and played on it.

How about Thane Russell? You mentioned you knew him.

Thane Russell was back in ’64. He was the office boy for Andrew and Tony Calder, and he made sandwiches while Linda fucked me. He did “Security” first and I had his version and I played it for N’Betweens and we made it better. That’s how we got the idea to cover his version of Otis Redding. So Thane Russell did it first but we did it better.

Ironically, in the movie Big Mama’s House, my current hit movie in America which has a Kim Fowley song, the theme song of the whole movie is “Security” by Otis Redding, so the circle will not be unbroken.

THE BEST BAND IN THE WORLD … THAT NIGHT

DAVE DEE, DOZY, BEAKY, MICK & TICH, 1966. “I saw them blow The Who off, Stones, Beatles… one night at an NME something-or-other at Wembley. That night those guys were the best band in the world.”

What other bands were good live?

I must say, the best band – even better than Slade — was Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. God on stage! I saw them blow The Who off, Stones, Beatles… one night at an NME something-or-other at Wembley. That night those guys were the best band in the world. Nobody ever gives them credit. They had some very snappy singles.

Is that why you had the N’Betweens do “Hold Tight”?

Yeah. A stupid idea, maybe. I didn’t make sound as good as they did, but we did it anyway.

At the Toronto Peace Festival with John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band and all that (September 1969, see later in interview – MS) – that night the best artist on the bill – which had the Doors headlining over the Plastic One Band that day – who was it? It was Tony Joe White, backed by Booker T & the MGs. Imagine to see all those people’s legacy – he blew Chuck Berry off, the Beatles boy, Little Richard, Alice Cooper… What a bill that was! But they just were better than everybody else. Every night of the year, somewhere in the world, some band is the best band in the world that night. Even if they suck the rest of the time, they are the best band in the world for that particular night. On that night, Tony Joe White was, and on the other night so were those guys (DDDBM&T), and the other band who were astonishing live were the Move. The original Move were just devastating! Those guys were better than… You know how great the records were by the Sweet?

Yeah. With those close harmonies?

Well, the Move live sounded better than the Sweet did on record, if you can imagine what that could have been like. It was nine o’clock on a Sunday night at the place on Wardour Street, the Marquee. I went down at nine o’clock and there was about three people in the room. All of a sudden these guys came running on in white suits, doing “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart” – an old standard, which the Coasters made into a hit single – and I ran right up after the performance and I said, “You guys are God!” And Tony Secunda came running up and said, “And I own it!” (Laughs) That was the original group. I don’t think they stayed together that long, if I remember rightly, but they certainly were remarkable. I think when you see it, you know it. I mean, there’s always those guys who turned the Beatles down or whatever, but every so often with a group, when all the planets are aligned, it does happen. And if you have a heartbeat and your ears still work, you can see it and hear it. It’s not impossible to know when it’s good.

SCIENCE FICTION ROCK’N’ROLL

Jimi Hendrix 1966:
“Science Fiction Rock & Roll”

So back we go, and in the midst of all this there was Jimi Hendrix. I was living in the Bayswater Hotel and I used to go to the record shops every Saturday to see what was going on, and there was Jimi Hendrix walking around with a couple of flunkies and hangers on, but dressed really bad. I don’t know who told him how to dress, but this was his first weekend since he got there (to England) and he looked like a bumpkin.

What was he wearing?

Green! He wore like a $29 green suit from New Jersey, and it was stupid, all full of mustard, cabbage greens. It didn’t fit in. He wasn’t Carnaby Street. And then that Sunday, maybe that Sunday night, I was over at the hotel and somebody said, “There’s this guy lives upstairs from me who lived in New York and just got signed by Track and Mike Jeffrey, because you’re from America I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”

So I walked next door and across the street and up to the hotel he was at, and there was the guy in the sick green outfit. I said, “Hi! What do you do, man?”

He said, “Science Fiction Rock’n'Roll.”

“What do you mean?”

He said, “Well, I have a song called ‘Martian Love Machine’ and we play it like Ray Bradbury with a lot of guitar and stuff.”

I said, “Really? Is that it?”

He said, “That’s it.”

“Science Fiction Rock’n'Roll?”

“Yeah, man.”

I said, “Where are you from, man?”

“I’m from Seattle.”

I said, “Gail Harris, Etiquette Records!”

(Suddenly excited) “She had big tits!”

“Yeah, did you fuck her? I didn’t fuck her either. Where did you play?”

“I was at the Spanish Castle.”

“Oh yeah, all that shit like the Wailers.”

“Yeah, I remember them.”

“What’s England like?” he asked

“It’s easy to make it over here. You can just do any shit and they’ll take it. You can call yourself God and they don’t care about the way you should be and all the bad mistakes. And you can just reinvent yourself and you can tell them anything and tell them nothing, and they believe anything. They’re gullible people as a race and stuff you’ve forgotten about they’ll never know.” Just like PJ Proby told me a few years earlier.

Hendrix was a very quiet man and had a very steel-trap mind and he really listened. After a while I had to go. He said, “Well, we’re neighbors, so let’s hang out.” And I knew Mike Jeffrey, I had started working for the Soft Machine, and we used to bump into each other in clubs.

One night I went out dancing, and it was the night I danced with Olivia Newton John. I’d just introduced a band called Tomorrow. She later told the story to Helen Reddy and Helen Reddy’s manager that “I was in the room the night Kim Fowley, back in ’66, introduced Eric Clapton and Mike Bloomfield to Jimi Hendrix.”

And they said, “Did you fuck him?”

And she said, “No, but we danced.”

I said, “Yeah, we danced. I didn’t get to fuck her but we danced and she was my date, I guess.”

So I introduced Eric, who I knew before, and Mike Bloomfield to Jimi, and he got up there and everybody had a good time.

THE HOUSE FOR THE HOMELESS GROUPS

The East Side Kids with Jimmy Greenspoon, 1966

At that point I was getting home again. I had run out of reasons to be in England and I went back to Hollywood and found a place to live at The House for the Homeless Groups, which was LWG Studios – L was Michael Lloyd, W was Buddy Walters – the light show guy – and G was Jimmy Greenspoon, later to be in Three Dog Night, at the time in the East Side Kids. I got to be the janitor there, in addition to being record producer and rip-off artist.

At The House for the Homeless Groups we had quite a thing. We had a deal: anybody that was hungry could come in and get some food. Jim Morrison used to come down. We had Steppenwolf coming in; it was their rehearsal room, though they didn’t record there. Everybody got food. This was ’66. Once again I was still being a jerk, fucking young girls, but I was concentrating on making records.

I was under contract at that point to Reprise Records, so I go out to meet Mo Ostin one day, and he says, “Kim Fowley, your records aren’t selling. What else do you do? I like you, but what else do you do.”

I should have said, “I do A&R.” Then he should have said, “Then get me an artist who sells and I’ll give you a job.” But instead of answering “I do A&R,” I said “I think.”

He said, “Well, give me a thought.”

I said “Jimi Hendrix.”

He said, “What’s a Jimi Hendrix?”

I said, “Mo, Chuck Berry of the ’60s.”

“What does that mean?”

“White kids’ll buy it but black people won’t. He’s a black guy but he thinks white and he’s psychedelic.”

“What is psychedelic?”

I said, “Mo!” So I told him what psychedelic was.

He said, “OK, but so what?”

I said, “He’s trendy and he’s on Track in the UK and Europe and he doesn’t have an American deal.”

“How do you know this?”

“Well, because I produced the Soft Machine.”

“OK, Kim, what’s the connection between who you produced and Jimi Hendrix?”

“It’s the same manager.”

I’d got him interested now and he said, “Give me the phone number and tell me how to play the manager.”

I said, “OK, write down this number” and I was a Criminology major in college so I gave him the profile of Mike Jeffrey and we talked about negotiating. I said, “Give him a two album deal and give him a lump sum. Give him 50 grand, he won’t give you any shit.” (laughing) I should have just told him I did A&R, right? I would have been working there. Well, what happened was instead I gave him Mike Jeffrey’ home phone number — ‘cos I had it from the Soft Machine.

So then, an hour later, Jack Nitzsche was there – may he rest in piece, he died a week or two ago. He came in with Brian Jones, and Mo said, “So, who’s Jimi Hendrix?” – Jack told me this story ten years later – and Brian said, “Why, Mo? Why are you asking me about Jimi Hendrix?”

“I have inside information on how to sign him,” Mo said.

And Brian Jones looked right at him and said, “I already respect you as a guy, but I’d respect you as a record innovator if you sign him.

And I had said to Mo, when he said, “Why should I sign Jimi Hendrix?” I said, “Mo, you signed me!”

He said, “Shit.”

“And Jimi Hendrix is better than me for all kinds of reasons that I told you. If you’re going to take a chance on Kim Fowley… (laughs) Come on, Mo! And obviously you’re trying to get out of the Trini Lopez ‘Lemon Tree’, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin: Dino, Desi & Billy thing and go on to get into new music. If you sign Jimi Hendrix, this is the artist that will attract other artists of the new musical movement worldwide.”

He was smart enough to test the theory on Brian Jones an hour later with Jack Nitzsche, who came by on a social call, and when he saw how Brian Jones got to think he then said to himself, I don’t care what this fucker sounds like, I’ll sign him, because a Rolling Stone gurgled and gasped about me being respected as an innovator.

And if you look back historically, this became the cornerstone of the complete change around of Warner Brothers and Reprise from a kind of movie-star-suckathon record company into a cutting edge record label: Black Sabbath, James Taylor, all this innovative crap, Van Dyke Parks – all that stuff came later. And I was there once again. Unlike Karl Engemann who thought I was a moron, Mo actually thought I was bright, but because I didn’t have a Jewish manager sitting there saying, “Let this guy A&R for you in case this fucking Hendrix makes it, because he obviously has had hits before.”

Jeff Wald said later at Capitol, “Kim miscast himself: he really is a great producer and songwriter now and then, but he’s not an artist.” And now, as a 61 year-old man, I see how my own personality got in the way of my talent. I wasn’t really talented as a performer, even though I was good, but I was great as a strategist. I was really John Hammond Senior in disguise. But too bad.

So anyway, one day Mike Jeffrey knocks at the door of The House For the Homeless Groups and says, “Hey, Kim Fowley! They just gave me 56,000 bucks, Jimi signed with Reprise. I owe you. What do you want?”

“I want the back bedroom. I’m sleeping on the couch and Buddy Walters has the back bedroom.”

He says, “What the fuck is a Buddy Walters?”

I said, “He does the light show for the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band. Let’s set up the light show and if you’d like the light show for Hendrix and the Animals you take this guy away with you tonight, and I could have the back bedroom.”

And we set up the fuckin’ light show, and if you ever saw the Hendrix light show or the Animals’ light show, it was what the guys in San Francisco – the Family Dog and that crap; whatever it was that Bill Graham had – it really came from Hendrix and the Animals’ light show and it came from the West Coast Pop Art, and that was Buddy Walters.

So what happened was, they loaded up all the light show shit in Mike Jeffrey’ rent-a-car and they sped off into the night, leaving me the back bedroom.

It was like six or seven in the morning, that part of the morning when night turns to day, and I feel this weird sensation all over my body as I woke up in the room. And in the bed there was maggots – all under the back bedroom, the glorious back bedroom of the LWG studio.

I got maggots, and Mo Ostin and Mike Jeffrey got Jimi Hendrix. What did I get out of it? A bunch of maggots, and Jimi did my song. Jimi remembered and Jimi did my song, and I’d thank him if he was here.

In ’67 I ran into Robert Wyatt again, and he said Jimi Hendrix had covered “Fluffy Turkeys” by Kim Fowley, ‘cos I’d sent it to Robert and Robert had played it to Jimi. Jimi had sang it and played guitar and bass and Robert played drums, and it’s in one of those mountains of unlocated tapes. You know Jimi left behind 1,200 boxes of tape with Eddie Kramer of unreleased stuff, and it’s sitting there in the family house up in Seattle. Nobody knows what’s on there, but on one of those tapes may be this song. Robert Wyatt has a book out, and in the book he has a page on it, but he has me as producer. I wasn’t there, I think that he forgot, but at least he says it was cut.

And someday, if they can get that fucking thing out, you’ll hear Jimi Hendrix doing my fucking song, and thank you, Jimi Hendrix. And maybe I’ll be long dead and somebody will find it and they can have a good cry when they read this article, which will be on the Internet by then, and they’ll read about the song and they’ll think of the maggots and they’ll know who Kim Fowley is.

ALIVE AND WELL AT THE LOVE-IN

Kim Fowley escorts Michelle Phillips to the Teenage Fair, LA, 1967.

The day I met Mo Ostin at Reprise when I came back to The House of the Homeless Groups was the very day – the famous night – they had the riot on Sunset Strip over by Pandora’s Box. That was the night Stephen Stills got his tooth knocked out and he wrote “For What It’s Worth.” It was also the night Peter Fonda got arrested. And I was there in a suit with a fuckin’ bow-tie on, and I had a short Long John Baldry haircut, because I thought that was the ‘anti-hippie’ – and of course that was too extreme. I was too ahead of myself to matter. I had an Ambrose Slade haircut and that was in ’66 on the night of the riot on Sunset Strip. I was way ahead of the curve.

But that changed everything in Hollywood because that was the first time the tension (manifested itself). That was a real wake-up call, because suddenly we were all being edited by the media. At the same time, I started growing my hair back long again. It was late ’66 and by then it was time to do the love-in. There were tons of famous jerk-offs. The Peanut Butter Conspiracy and all those kind of bands were playing the love-ins, and I was the Master of Ceremonies, because I was very clever. I learned how to perform in England, so I suddenly miraculously appeared in California as this really good guy on stage. I really knew how to work a crowd and get them all to come out in the morning and be a part of all the madness out there.

Around this time you made the Love Is Alive and Well album for Tower. Tell me about that.

That was done at The House For the Homeless Groups, which was LWG Studios. It was time for Kim Fowley to make a record and so I made one. It came out on Tower and I toured out on the record in the Eastern coast — I don’t remember all the cities. I think I went Detroit to Cleveland to Philadelphia to Washington to Baltimore to Atlantic City pier to probably New York.

So your idea behind the album was…

To cash in on the love-ins.

So it was a blatant kind of cash-in idea?

It’s always a blatant cash-in with me! I do this for the money. I don’t do this for fun or for art!

Did you get an advance from Tower to do this thing?

A horrible advance. We made the record for $5 and I think they gave us $10. So we got some cheeseburgers and that was it. It was a tiny budget and we did the record in five minutes and it isn’t very good… Oh, you probably like it!

Well, there’s some good songs on there: “Reincarnation,” “Me”…

“Reincarnation” is the Seeds song that they never recorded.

Exactly!

Yeah, I mean, looking at it now, it’s totally brilliant. At the time it was just another stupid record by a stupid guy on a stupid label, y’know? Although Tower did have some good records. Standells in particular I think were the big noise there.

Did you use members of the West Coast Pop Art on the album?

Members of all those groups – the names, the legendary guys are all on there.

Obviously Michael Lloyd… Is Jimmy Greenspoon on there, too?

Yeah, and Danny Belsky’s on there. I can’t remember anybody else, but whoever was around at the time was on it.

What about the photo session for the cover? Where was that done?

Griffith Park, right before a love-in. Everybody was stoned on acid but me.

You also did productions with the Laughing Wind and Boystown around this time. Were they all done at the LWG studio?

Yes, they were. In the studio we also recorded Lowell George (with the Factory). The Fraternity of Man used to come over and play. I sang with them. Their singer was good on tape, but he didn’t deliver live, but I did, so I was kind of the Bob Hite of the group and he was the Al Wilson of the group. So that happened, and I was also doing some Zappa shows with the Mothers of Invention. I was also the guy who did the love-ins every weekend. We’d get up at four in the morning or so, get there as the sun was coming up at six or seven, and go all the way until the following two in the morning, have sex under the stage. I was the MC, and girls would say “Fuck me.” I’d say, “Sure.” Bands would be playing; I’d be under the stage. Pretty weird. Many a bass drum was just pounding away as I was fucking smelly hippie pussy circa 1967. It was a good time.

But one day it was all over, because the guy who rented the facilities didn’t realize what a recording studio was, what the House For the Homeless Groups had turned into — we didn’t call it that, but it was called that and people could always get something to eat over there and a place to sleep. So one day it was over, and they chucked everybody out and they went their separate ways.

ST JOHN GREEN: DRIPPING WITH DARKNESS

The last group out of The House of the Homeless Groups was St John’s Green. That St John Green record is astounding! If Badfinger was a miniature Beatles, then this was a miniature Doors. It was similar, but not identical.

Has that been reissued yet?

No! And it goes for 400 bucks. Everywhere you go it’s $400 for the sealed album. It was #1 in Jacksonville, Florida forever and that was it, but what a record! I have people come up to me and cry and stuff when I go to Europe. They cry and they start shaking and stuff. That’s the way people respond to that record. It’s been bootlegged and stuff.

So that record was done at LWG?

It was on a Michael Curb label, Forward Records. It was rehearsed at LWG, then Michael got the studio that Davie Allen & the Arrows used, next to a theater in Hollywood, and we used that place. It was a brilliant record. Brilliant.

Did that band play out a lot?

Oh, they were the house band at the Topanga Canyon Corral before Black Oak Arkansas, and the lead singer was such a tortured… What’s the name of the guy in Joy Division?

Ian Curtis.

He was like that. In between sets he threw up blood on a cot. He lay on the cot and he puked blood. He had bad lungs and he chain-smoked. Then he would go up on stage and give this performance and the all the groupies were madly in love with him, and then he’d go back to the cot and puke more blood. It was like Garbo in Camille. His name was Ed. Everybody wanted to fuck him. He never died. The fucking guy stopped singing, he stopped smoking, he gained weight and he’s still around. I saw him ten years ago and he looked like his own dad. He didn’t die at all. He was tragic and near death in the band, and as soon as the band stopped he got healthy and stopped smoking, I guess. Ed Bissot. I mean, what a genius. This fucking guy was Jim Morrison and Leon Russell – remember when Leon Russell was young and did “Tightrope” and Mad Dogs? He had the stage presence of Morrison and a young Leon. The band played as tight as Vanilla Fudge, minus the fucking bubblegum. What a band! And dripping with darkness. Every heroin addict and gun dealer and radical black person from Venice to Malibu and Hollywood would all come to prowl and just worship this guy.

I thought I had a hit, but then the record went nowhere. You know why? It was right before the Chicago riots, when Humphrey was running for President. It was right around that time and things changed. Radio wouldn’t play radical shit for a while, and this was all radical. It was all about death and drugs and sex. The best song on there was “One Room Cemetery,” which I wrote all by myself, where I describe what it was like being Kim Fowley. In fact, I live in a “one room cemetery” now. I’m always living in a one-bedroom apartment; I’m living like a Buddhist monk somewhere. And this guy captured the whole bleakness, but as a Jim Morrison replica. That’s one of the great, lost records. It’s not lost, it’s out there. Somebody will reissue it someday and people will start crying and jacking off and smoking dope to it. It’s a great record. There’s only a handful of records that I’ve made that are great.

‘FOOD FUCKING’ AND OTHER GOOD CLEAN FUN

Kim Fowley with ‘The Goat Girl’ (don’t ask).

I ended up moving to a gas station apartment on the corner of Doheny and Sunset, an apartment above a garage next to gas station. And that’s where I wrote the fabulous Outrageous and Good Clean Fun and got laid many nights, many afternoons, many mornings. By then people were sleeping on Sunset Boulevard. It was just like Woodstock on a Riot on Sunset Strip factory level. Everything you would think about was going on, and it was a great time to be in your twenties and fuck without a rubber – no AIDS, no herpes, no responsibility, no need to have credit cards, no need to have a sports car, no need to buy girls lips, tits and houses. Everybody was getting back at their parents by fucking you and your friends, basically, in dirty rooms up and down Sunset. It was quite a wonderful time to be a derelict – a rock’n’roll derelict, which I had no trouble adjusting to that reality.

What were you living on at the time? Were you still getting royalties?

Food fucking. I think the royalties had dried up by then. That’s another discussion, but basically the record industry is not a pension-orientated business. It’s either ignorance or dishonesty or both. No matter how many lawyers you have and how many accountants you have and how many threats are made back and forth, most people don’t pay other people what they deserve or actually earn, so there’s always been this conflict with notoriety vs net income. But then when you’re in your twenties and it’s the height of the hippie movement, money wasn’t an issue because you didn’t have expenses. I had a theory then, that if a girl knocked on my door [and said] “I wanna fuck you.” “Then you better take me to the store. And if you want me to throw a good fuck then you better get me some good food, and while you’re at it, if you don’t want me to smell too bad you better buy me some shampoo and razors and other healthcare products.”

And of course, if you’re fucking four or five times a day, you’re going to the store and eating steak, and you’re getting these girls to cook and clean, and pretty soon you’re living Paul McCartney’s lifestyle in your garage, because you’ve got shoulder-length hair and they live in the suburbs and you’re a rock’n'roll guy and you’re at the love-ins and you fuck ‘em and they pay. It’s called prostitution in some quarters, but they’d call me a “kept man” in old Somerset Maugham literature. But we all did that and I think it’s still going on in LA and every other place. So that’s how you live.

There was a woman down the street. I was 28 and looked about 22, and she was about 30 and looked about 25, and she was kept by an older man and she used to drive me around in the car he bought. Then I had my own women bringing me around and I’d keep ‘em fighting each other. As a matter of fact, around ’69 Peter Tork and the woman with sunglasses he lived with – last name was Stewart, I forgot her first name (Reine Stewart – MS) – had gone to India and met a food fuck girl that I’d allegedly food-fucked, who had bought me groceries and claimed to have come to India to have the Kim Fowley baby. It would be like Gandhi, she thought. It was either my child or the actual lead singer, pre-David Clayton-Thomas, who sang the Eric Andersen song “Violets of Dawn.” Well, that guy, he might have fucked the same bitch, too – or maybe it’s a two-headed dog, we don’t know.

But anyway, that was the kind of activity that was going on, and by then it was ’68 and Outrageous came out of that.

How did you get the deal with Imperial? Because you did three albums in that period.

I had gone out to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire in hippie garb like Brian Jones wore at Monterey – like that kaftan type of thing – and I was sitting in the dirt drawing pictures with a twig to a big-titted girl. Then Bud Dain of Imperial Records came up and said, “You used to be big in the business, what are you doing?”

“I’m drawing a picture with a stick in the sand, but I can still do Jewish and Mafia business – are you offering me something?”

“You’re authentic!”

“Yeah, and I can still find songs and get drum sounds.”

“Come to the office.”

Well, I went to the office in a suit the next day and I said, “What do you want?”

They said, “Well, we’re a little behind on this long-hair shit.”

I said, “Well, what do you want?”

He said, “Do you want to be an artist here?”

I said, “Sure.”

And I made three albums for them, because I had the right hair, y’know? I kept in contact with everybody, and so I knew everybody and knew who everybody was and what their prices were. The first album, Born to Be Wild, was the instrumental album, which was supposed to be the keyboard version of the Ventures. The second album was the screaming Outrageous, and then the third one was the “Zappaesque/Captain Beefheart,” according to Newsweek, Good Clean Fun. One charted in Billboard – which was the middle one, Outrageous; the music was later covered by Sonic Youth, the song “Bubblegum”, and others have covered it or attempted to cover it. It was pretty interesting.

I went from that to doing production work at World Pacific, I did Elfstone…

What is Elfstone?

What?! Man, that’s a very collectable record! People send me emails about it. Like Chad & Jeremy from Louisiana. Songs: “Beat the Clock”, we covered the version by the Strangeloves, and then the other song that everybody smokes dope to is “Louisiana Teardrops” – ‘68-’69, somewhere in there.

And then I produced Kathy Rich, Buddy Rich’s daughter doing “Paper Tiger” by John D Loudermilk, who wrote “Tobacco Road”, among other things. Guess who the backing group was? St John Green and members of Bread all together in the studio! (laughs)

Then I did some other crap for World Pacific; I forgot what it was now. And then, as an A&R guy I brought Alice Cooper in and I recommended Bette Midler, and I recommended Malico Studios (R&B studio in Jackson, Mississippi – MS) to give them a production deal. But they got confused, because is this guy the hippie drawing the pictures with a stick in the sand, or is this a businessman? BOTH! And I would bring dirty girls down to their office with no underwear on, sitting around. I had all my guys driving me around, and I was still food fucking, but I was getting paid by Imperial/Liberty and World Pacific Records to do various consulting, artist and production work.

And this was all when you were still living in that little apartment over the garage?

I think, yeah. I got kicked out eventually for having too many parties or something and I moved to another little apartment. There was so many little rooms. I think it was Johnny Rivers or somebody who once said they could make up their own movie map of Hollywood by all the rooms where they’d slept on someone’s floor. It’s hard to remember in which descending order of garbage cans I lived in. Who knows?

By then it was ’69 and that was still during the love-ins and I was a popular guy at a certain gutter level. I had felt betrayed by the music business from ’59 to ’64 because I was behind Phil Spector. He was ahead of me in terms of he had his first hit with “To Know Him is to Love Him” in ’58; I didn’t have my first hit until “Alley Oop” in ’60, so I was running behind by a year and a half or so, and by the time I hit my stride with “Popsicles and Icicles” I’d ploughed right into the middle of the British Invasion. I talked about ’64 and ’66, when I was commuting over to Britain to play the real commuter producer/songwriter thing, and occasional artist. Then when I came back to LA that didn’t translate, because when you’re competing with the Beatles – who at the time were under 30 years of age – and the Stones and the Byrds and Dylan, various interesting records I made with members of Slade or whoever they were, just didn’t count.

THE MORMON BUBBLEGUM RIOT

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I produced the Seeds. We did three songs; two they released (“Wild Blood”/”Falling Off the Edge of My Mind”  – GNP 422, 1968), one is lost: “Shock Wave”, which was about sitting on an electric chair and having sex on an electric chair and fucking with weird things in your head and being wired up.

Was that one something you wrote?

Yes, with Marty Cerf, who I wrote “Bubblegum” with. The bass player had left the band by then [sic], so we cut that record with Jerry Scheff, who was playing bass with Elvis and the Doors – he was on the last Doors album, I think, or one of the last Doors albums. That record did what it did. “Falling Off the Edge of My Mind” was a hit in San Diego; it was #10 somewhere down there.

Was Sky starting to lose it somewhat by then?

Well, that was his last record on GNP Crescendo, but they were good! I mean, we made a good record, but his time had kind of passed.

I forgot to mention, “Bubblegum” was a Top 5 record in Salt Lake City, and I went up there with a hastily thrown together band ad Warren Zevon was the lead guitarist. We shocked everybody. They thought I was Jim Morrison. They’d never seen him and they said, “You’re not Jim Morrison are you?” “No.” We had a riot at the gig and everything and they cut the tires of the station wagon, a rent-a-car, and all that stuff.

The riot was caused by your performance?

Yeah. I’m wonderful on stage. I’m better than you are, probably.

So how did the riot go down?

A Mormon girl… I had forgotten the words to “Bubblegum” and she was mouthing it, so I brought her up onstage and she sang a breathy, X-rated version, and her brothers didn’t like her being exploited, so they jumped onstage to fight me, and I beat them up with the microphone. It was the days of the microphone with the cement bottom. I got that across the guy’s chest plate, and I got another guy’s ribs, and I got somebody’s throat box — because I’d been in the Army and the Airforce and had three and a half years of self-defense training and judo and stuff, so I used it. They probably to this day carry the scars, and she’s probably an old woman who talks about it every Christmas.

So at that point, basically a riot broke out.

Yeah, everybody started fighting and the Mormon elders, who were down there to make sure it wasn’t pornographic, were screaming and they pulled the plug.

Who slashed the tires?

I don’t know. Somebody. I was on stage beating up guys!

How did you get out of there?

We walked out, because we’re men. We drove down the highway until the car ran out, and then the cops came and rescued us and took us to the emergency room. We had one guy hurt himself as he tried to change the tire, as opposed to fighting. Then we went back to Los Angeles the next morning and that was it.

Did you manage to parlay that into any kind of publicity at all?

No, because it paled against Morrison exposing himself around that time (the notorious ‘Miami incident’ – MS) — maybe it was ’69 by then.

DANDELION WILL MAKE YOU WHINE

Somewhere along the way, in ’69, I cut Gene Vincent, which David Anderle – Mr Smug – decided that we wouldn’t record in the south – where Gene should have made records, and where we would’ve made a great one – instead we’d have to do it at fucking artsy-fartsy Elektra recording studio on La Cienega, across from Jim Morrison’s wife’s door. She thought so ill of the place she went and drove her truck into the front door of Elektra to protest their handling of him.

We went in there, and one day when we were doing “Sexy Ways” on the album – a song written by Hank Ballard of Hank Ballard & the Midnighters – Paul Rothchild and the drummer and some other Doors member — it might have been the guitarist — with their blonde surfer girlfriends, came in uninvited. Gene said, “Who’s there?”

I said, “Two Doors and a manager and girlfriends.”

“They’re not invited. They have no manners, no respect. Is the guy in the leather pants with them? No, he’d know better. I have a gun in my boot. I will pull out the gun and I will shoot through the window and kill these guys if they don’t get the fuck out of my studio!”

And then he said… Linda Ronstadt was our food runner. She had called up and invited herself down, “Can I please run for food and be a production assistant, because I want to study this guy.”

Gene said, “Linda Ronstadt is more rock’n'roll than the Doors!”

And everyone went, “Yeah!” And that really made the Doors feel stupid, so they left with Paul Rothchild into the night.

The only thing good about that studio was that John Sebastian had a great Newfoundland dog, some kind of monster that used to walk around there. It was a great dog, and he didn’t piss and shit, and they allowed him to patrol the studio. So it was fun to see a giant dog in a recording studio that was full of incense and Donovan kind of decor. You can’t make rock’n'roll in those kind of places.

Kim (bottom center) with Gene Vincent, Bruce Johnston, Del Shannon, Ridney Bingenheimer (bottom left) and unidentified musicians, circa 1969.

What kind of shape was Gene Vincent in at this point?

Facing death. I thought he was 50 years old, and he was only four years older than I was! I was 29 and a half, pushing 30, and he looked 50. He was bloated and he was in pain — because of the morphine, because of the leg and all.

John Peel basically was too cheap to give us a real recording budget and so none of us ever got royalties. The record’s been reissued ten different times and licensed and re-released and re-released, and of course I never got royalties and neither did his widow.

So who’s making money off that album?

John Peel, King of Men, who decided to mess with me when I made a record with Teenage Fanclub, which was the title song of the Reading triple-box CD, which everybody that went to Reading in ’95 got. I was supposed to go on stage with Teenage Fanclub to sing it, and the manager of Teenage Fanclub called me up in Ireland, where I was then living, and said, “Look, John Peel refuses to go on stage if you’re on stage and will not introduce you nor Teenage Fanclub. We don’t want to get blackballed by him, so would you please not come.” I felt crushed because why? Because I never got royalties on Gene Vincent albums?

There was ill feeling on the Vincent thing still?

He said in Mojo that I had almost bankrupted the company (Dandelion Records). I had made a whopping $5,000 in a production fee, and I don’t see how you can bankrupt an Elektra distributed and financed record company by giving someone five grand to produce a record on budget, and, by the way, no royalties are ever paid. Come on! But he’s a fuddy-duddy English guy who failed as a record company and he might as well blame somebody who he didn’t think he’d ever see again. And of course I would have insulted him and he would have insulted me and I would’ve beaten the shit out of him. He’s not in as good a shape as I’m in and that’d be the end of him, y’know? (laughs)

THE SIMPLE SECRET OF ROCK’N’ROLL

So the next thing that happened was the 1969 Toronto Rock Festival, right?

Right. That happened right at the same time, because I was contacted to be the MC, because of my credibility as the guy at the love-in. The love-in MC was eligible to be the MC at this rock festival, and their concept was a rock’n'roll revival, which I always thought was stupid, but I was being paid four grand, so why not? Then I was up there and they’d barely sold 700 tickets, so they came to me and said, “Look, come up with a brainstorm.”

And the brainstorm I came up with was “Get a Beatle.” Which one? Well, the one who loves rock’n'roll, John Lennon, and invite him to come up there and sit like a member of royalty with Yoko in a box, and then he’ll wanna jam. He’ll fall for the trap and he’ll show up. I figured he’d wanna play; the Beatles were breaking up and he might wanna try performing.

And I guessed right because that’s what happened. He put together the Plastic One Band and showed up and did that album (Live Peace in Toronto) which is gold hanging on my wall. It said, “Get your matches ready. The Plastic Ono Band” and then John Lennon comes down and Eric Clapton, and John says “blah-blah” and goes right into “Money”, the old Barrett Strong hit. At the end of it I fell off the stage drunk — “Kim, you’re always on the wrong mic!” – and off I run – that’s on the album, the vinyl record end.

Then the next act on were the Doors. Too bad someone didn’t photograph John Lennon and Jim Morrison together. You never think about those guys standing on the same stage together. Think about that for a poster, the two of them. Chuck Berry decided that he would jump on stage [with the Doors] and Jim Morrison had to stop the show and say, “Chuck, you never let kids jam with you, so I’m not gonna let you jam with me and my band. Get off my stage. Be nicer to young musicians and this won’t happen again!” And then they continued and Chuck Berry was admonished for not ever jamming with everybody.

So he just left with his tail between his legs, presumably.

He did. It was quite a time and that was that. By then it was the fall of ’69 and I was ready to go onto the next adventure.

One thing you mentioned, if I could backtrack to Toronto for a second, is that you had a conversation backstage with Lennon about the Beatles?

It was the next day in the rent-a-house of the owner of Eaton’s department stores and who financed the whole thing. Eric Clapton said, “John, Yoko, Kim’s here!”

And Lennon said, “Fowley” — not Kim Carnes, not Novak, but Fowley. So in the world of Kims there was only one in John Lennon’s life and it was Kim Fowley. Well, I’d met him two other times anyway, once with Pet Sounds (see earlier in story) and I also met him in ’64 with the rest of the Beatles and PJ Proby and I were hanging out at the Adlib Club. So this was the third time I’d ran into him.

“Hey John.”

“Hey Kim. Thank you very much for introducing me last night. I was very…” — not mortified but uncomfortable up there — a word between mortified and uncomfortable that explained the first time he ever been in any other band but the Beatles or a derivative of the Beatles – Johnny & the Moondogs or whatever – and suddenly to go on stage without ‘those guys’ must have been really something. We talked about how that worked, and the matches and cigarette lighters and light illuminating darkness and that took us into religious pageantry and blah-blah-blah.

And then I said, “Let me ask you a question.” Because I had to ask the question. I had asked the same question to Bob Dylan: “What is your secret?” In the ’60s I would ask everybody I met what their gimmick was, because I wanted to know. And I was a guy who had enough records by then that I could ask the question, as opposed to a version of you asking the question. “So, John, what was the secret of the Beatles?”

He said, “Very easy. May I illustrate it with a song? You ever hear ‘Why Don’t We Do It In the Road’ by the Beatles?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it.”

“That was our message to Canned Heat, because we didn’t think they had enough humor, so it was basically taking the idea of a Canned Heat song and doing it with more humor.” And he said, “The Beatles stopped being a group when we stopped trying to upgrade and rewrite and reinterpret and reinvent our favorite records of the moment.”

What a great answer! That answer was never given in any of all the books I’ve heard about. The wives are blamed, the death of Brian Epstein is blamed, but no one ever says, “All we were ever doing was listening to records and taking them to the next level, and when we stopped listening to music and making it better we stopped being a group.” In so many words, that is what he said. And that was his answer and there was no more discussion, because John Lennon in the three times I met him was as quiet a person as John Entwistle is on stage and in public. This is a quiet guy. Lyrically he was a wild, impassioned guy, but in public he was a John Entwistle non-personality guy. Very quietly spoken.

And the other quiet guy was Bob Dylan, and when I met Bob Dylan and asked, “So what’s the story here?” He said, “I ask questions and tell stories and that’s it.” OK. So the thing about Lennon and Dylan is they had one sentence answers.

I asked Brian Wilson. Back in ’63 he was using Gold Star and I was doing the Murmaids there, and one day he came in the studio. I said, “Hi. Let me ask you a question. What’s your gimmick?”

He said, “Very easy. Twelve months a year. I write about the calendar.”

“What about it?”

“Nine months of school and three months of the beach. (laughs) So you got kids in school nine months and then the rest of the time they’re having fun. That’s it!”

So I said, “OK!” So that’s Brian’s answer.

You got Dylan’s answer, you got Lennon’s answer, and all those other assholes who read your magazine, they bleed for pages and pages and pages and wonder and ponder and do it all wrong. And the guys that they all worship, these guys tell you in one sentence what they were doing. One guy was updating his record collection. One guy was asking questions and telling stories. And one guy was writing about school and the beach. Wow. How come all the idiots who make those horrible seven-inch revival singles no one’s gonna play on record players they don’t own anymore, why don’t they know this answer? Because… none of them were at the beginning when all this was created. It had to be a simple idea. As Danny Hutton said to me when we first heard the Beatles “From Me to You” or “Please Please Me” — one of those Vee Jay singles — in ’63 on the way to the beach: “That’s the Everly Brothers with a third harmony part.” Well said.

ROCK’N’ROLL: THE TRAGEDY AND THE HOPE

Where we are now? By the time this article is released it’ll be 2001. Thirty-five years later, almost 40 years later, we’re still talking about it – the ‘60s – for a reason. The sentiments of this interview cannot be found by turning on your radio or your television or your Internet or going to swap meets or record stores or anywhere else. It’s like when Alan McGee (Creation Records) called me up one day crying in Hollywood.

He says, “Where’s this place gone? I’m at the place where the Doors’ recording studio was. It’s now a parking lot. All the landmarks that are making rock’n’roll literature or in the lyrics of my favorite songs are parking lots and mini-malls! What did you guys do? Tear down your past?”

“Yes.”

And using that as a rule of thumb, the record industry tore down teenage culture in a rock’n’roll sense and it no longer exists. And the only place it does exist is in a magazine like the one you are reading, or on reissues or in documentaries.

Here’s the tragedy and here’s the hope. There are still rock’n’roll bands and there are still rock’n’roll dreamers and there are still rock’n’roll stars and heroes – they’re harder to find than ever before, but they’re still out there. But the people reading this magazine and going to revival shows and reissuing this and that don’t think it’s there anymore, so they don’t support it and they don’t look for it. Granted some of the rock’n’roll has changed. It’s a different attitude. Maybe the amps are different. Maybe the recording studios are different. Maybe the haircuts are different — but it’s still rock’n’roll.

People might say, “Well, there’s no more Knickerbockers, there’s no more Count Five and there’s no more Hombres, and there’s no more Standells out there.”

Yeah, but there may be a bunch of people who can give you the same emotional feeling if you spent the time on a Tuesday night to go to the clubs and hear music, you’ll see. It’s still there. You have to find it again, because you can only recycle these stories so many times; you can only reissue these songs so many times and eventually everybody’s gonna have these records in their homes. You’re going to have all the versions of all this stuff on bootlegs and tape and vinyl. After a while though, you’re kid’s gonna eat them, you’re dog’s gonna shit on them and your second wife will throw them out. So why don’t you guys go form your own bands, or why don’t you go find some and then you’ll find some dirty bitches and get laid and you’ll have a good time.

It’s still there. It’s not in fashion. It’s very different from mine, but it’s still out there. It may not be what you think rock’n’roll is, but it tells you things about what it’s like, and it’s a natural extension of the past.

Kim Fowley: Air Force National Guard, 1959.

Now, Kim Fowley’s final morality observation: People who made records from the late ‘50s all the way up to an hour ago never get paid 100% of what they do. This isn’t like the sports business when there’s a million sports agents with a ten-year-old boy seven-feet tall, putting up with lawyers and accountants talking with his family at the trailer park. With rock’n’roll or pop music or rock music continually it’s the outcasts who are illiterate and uneducated who become the intellectual property of other people, by design or accident. We don’t have unions in rock’n’roll – yeah, there’s a Musicians’ Union but there isn’t a Songwriters’ and Dreamers’ Union. There’s no protection and most people – everybody from the Beatles to Elvis to me to anybody else you can name – nobody’s ever collected 100% of what we were due. There’s all kinds of reasons, but no one believed it or no one was interested, or (there are) creative ways of not paying people. Basically, some of these guys that you write about in your magazine didn’t continue in the industry because they were devastated by not being recognized or not being paid, or not being given any courtesy or any consideration.

Yes, there were horrible tiny labels in the old days that screwed everybody, and yes, there are horrible tiny labels now that are worse than they were 30 or 40 years ago. Today labels use dishonesty and ignorance to destroy rock’n’roll, and everybody always blames the major labels, and I’ll tell you one thing as a guy whose been chasing royalties since 1959 – the major companies still pay. It’s OK to. The tiny labels who claim to be your friends, they don’t pay at all, and stupidity and dishonesty are the reasons they don’t pay. They’re either too stupid to sell enough records so you can get paid, or they sell significant amounts and choose not to pay. So there’s still a whole lot of crap going on that should make you want to explode the ugly process. That’s why my new record’s on the Internet, because I gave up trying to find a small label that will pay royalties to me for my new one.

“What’s Kim Fowley doing now?” Duh! www.kimfowley.net – playing current stuff, and I have highlights on my website. And my previous stuff, I have bits and pieces up there from all the stuff I’ve done, along with a discography. However, pictures records, unreleased stuff – I had saved everything and sent it to Glenn A Baker in Australia for a book that never materialized. So I don’t know where very much of it is. I don’t have my past. My past is lost somewhere in Australia in the last 15 years. What’s on my website is what I was able to retrieve and remember. If any of you out there can help me remember by sending me copies of records I remember making, I’d appreciate it.

The next thing is: Let’s talk about my death. Does everybody want to hear that?

Do you really wanna talk about your death? (laughs)

Yeah, come on, you’re talking to a man who’s 61 years old.

Well, you could live another 30 or 40 years!

I’ve been dead for a long time. Hopefully Kim Fowley’s death will be after a nice dinner, in a room with clean sheets, and I’ll see all of you within the next 100 years. I’ll probably end up in Hell because I like dirty women and I think Heaven will be the Osmonds and Pat Boone, and I don’t think I’d like it because the music won’t be any good and I probably couldn’t get up there. So I think Hell will have better music and I think I’m doomed to be there. If so, all you people who loved the devil’s music all these years, I’m sure we’ll see you there. What else can you say about that?

As far as what regrets do I have? I should’ve been meaner. (laughs)

And what do I like best about my life? Because I could extend that great summer after high school, when you graduate from high school and you’re the cool guy in your neighborhood, ad you buy everybody beer – you’re too young to buy beer, but because you look older. And then you have a great time at night because you’re a graduating senior, and then the following September you have to go work in a factory or to a college or the Army or something, or a shitty job, and you’re never the golden guy or girl ever again. That’s the last time you’re young and beautiful. And of course I never graduated in my class from high school. I was in the Army, where I was thrown for stealing liquor and selling it to the people that were younger than me in my neighborhood. So I never got that last summer, I was busy doing that Army shit, so instead it’s something I’ve been doing for 41 or 42 years since.

Am I rich or poor? Oh, I’m rich. Am I a nice guy? I’m the nicest guy in the world. Am I an asshole? I’m the biggest asshole in the world. Am I a piece of shit? The best, yeah. But what do I have that nobody else has? I’ve sold 102 million records, ladies and gentleman and those who are unsure: 56 gold, 26 platinum. I have over 227,000 websites, if you have enough time and search engines to find them. And I’ve outlasted all my fuckin’ piece of shit, I know every one of you by name, enemies. And when am I going to get my revenge on all of you? When you’ve forgotten my name and what I look like. On the happiest day of your life I’ll show up and rain on your parade. Why? Because rock’n’roll never forgets. End of interview.

The arrival of the Radiators From Space on the Dublin scene as punk emerged was followed in early 1977 by their super-charged debut single “Television Screen.” Their move to London that autumn without lead singer Steve Rapid coincided with the release of their red hot album TV Tube Heart. On this evidence the band were very much a contributor to the new punk rock sound. This early period and the band’s interaction with the London punk scene is covered in detail in UT#35. Linking up with producer Tony Visconti as the year ended, opened up possibilities for songwriters Philip Chevron and Pete Holidai. They grasped the opportunity to pursue a musical path that their earlier pre-punk music influences determined. In early 1978, the Radiators (re-named) launched their radical new sound. The powerful and catchy glam-pop single “Million Dollar Hero” very nearly broke into the charts and was the appetizer for their unique Ghostown album, which was recorded in summer 1978.

However the punk scene was changing and developing so rapidly month by month that all acts associated with the early ‘76/’77 scene faced an uncertain reception. For the Radiators, much of their punk fanbase had peeled away by the time Ghostown was released over a year later. The delayed release did not help their cause and the band broke up in early 1981. Despite two project-focused but brief activities in the late 1980s the Radiators from Space were no more. UT#36 carries the story of the Ghostown album. The album’s literary references were woven with criticism of the state and in particular the church. This story also covers the release in 1989 of the single “Under Clery’s Clock” where Phil Chevron, in revealing his homosexuality, wrote of the dating experience of a young gay man.

Throughout the ‘90s their musical legacy attracted an ever growing international interest. The Radiators From Space reformed in late 2003 to play a Joe Strummer tribute concert. Guitarists Phil Chevron and Pete Holidai were joined for the show by original singer Steve Rapid and a new rhythm section of Cait O’Riordan on bass and Gareth Averill (Steve’s son) on drums.

When the Radiators from Space were being reformed in late 2003 was there consideration given to reviving the original rhythm section of Mark and Jimmy?

Phil:We didn’t so much reform in 2003 as get together for a single show, a Joe Strummer tribute, playing three or four songs. We went with an available line up which, actually, featured Gareth Averill on drums at first. Steve suggested Cait O’Riordan and I said if she’ll do it, I’m OK with that. It was just one show. Jimmy (Crashe) lives in Wales and Mark (Megaray) had long since moved on.

Steve: I had always stayed in touch with Philip and Pete since the band broke up and Pete had been involved with some of my post Radiators projects like the SM Corporation (or one of the many names we played under but the one that stuck as we released a single under that name). We had discussed possible reformations but the timing and motivation was never quite right. We had done it previously when the band played an AIDS benefit. That was Philip, Pete, Jimmy and Mark and I joined them for the encores. That gig was recorded and issued on cassette. But we regularly used to meet up when we were all in town. We met up a few days before the Joe Strummer tribute concert and I said, “It’s a pity we didn’t know about it earlier as we might have been able to do something for it.” Then we thought ‘why not?’ and we contacted the promoter to see if they would be interested. They were and we set about preparing, which consisted of us rehearsing in Cait’s flat before we did the gig. I had meet Cait through working on some sleeve designs with Elvis Costello and thought she may be interested in helping us out. The lineup was completed by my son Gareth playing drums. We enjoyed the experience, it felt good and that gave us the impetus to carry on. We decided to set a date, which was Bloomsday the following year, and began a series of rehearsals for that. Johnny Bonnie had been involved drumming with a Ramones tribute band Pinhead who also played the Joe Strummer gig and Pete asked him if he’d like to be involved. As Johnny had always been a big Radiators fan he readily agreed to join.

Pete: We offered our services to the Joe memorial at fairly short notice and at that time had no real plans to make it a permanent thing so we put together a scratch squad of players.

Phil Chevron and Steve Rapid. First reunion gig, 2004.

How did it feel to have original frontman Steve back in the ranks? 

Phil: In one sense Steve had never been away. He just hadn’t been center mic for a few decades. But then neither had any of us. 

Steve: I hadn’t really thought about singing although when we did the Strummer thing I was doing vocals with Philip and Pete and it felt natural somehow. On the first gig I only stayed on stage for the songs that I was singing. Later on when the band were doing “Faithful Departed” I could hear some ghostly electronic noise in the mix so I started to use my analog synth for that. Doing that helped to bring something more for me in the overall scheme of things. I built it from there.

Pete: It felt good to have Steve on stage with us again as he always provided a unique visual and musical element.

What motivation created the desire to reform, was it purely to participate in the Joe Strummer memorial or was it a true rebirth of the Radiators or both?

Phil:The former. But you do harbour secret hopes that it’ll turn out to be more than that. See, you can’t push this shit, it either holds promise or it doesn’t. In a sane world you resist reformation, but a part of your soul still wants to come out to play and that can be harder to resist. We had unfinished business probably. 

Pete: The one-off performance generated the desire to explore it further and see what happens.

At the time the addition of Cait Riordan appeared as a PR master stroke, did it just not work out? 

Phil: No PR stroke was intended, it’s just how it worked out. Obviously, me and Cait had history, but enough time seemed to have elapsed. Pete and Steve and then Johnny were perfectly entitled to feel they deserved to figure it out for themselves, without my baggage. I went with that and so, I think, did Cait. It was the right thing to do. Her playing energized us and kicked us where we needed it. Any reasons it didn’t work out for the long term are entirely in the domain of the private and personal. Cait had stuff she needed to sort out. It happens. 

The Radiators, 2004. L to R: John Bonnie, Steve Rapid, Pete Holidai, Cait O’Riordan, Phil Chevron.

Steve: Cait joined and left on her own free will and her time with the band was I hope as positive for her as it was for us at the time. She joined the ranks of our exploding bass players.

Pete: Cait’s enthusiasm helped energize us at that stage, I personally hoped it would be for the long term because we (along with Johnny) had developed a good working relationship often rehearsing as a three piece to knock a lot of the live set into shape allowing Steve and Philip to come in at a later stage. When she bailed out with little or no warning I was very disappointed and a little annoyed.

The great Johnny Bonnie, one of the most respected drummers in Dublin joined up. Did his style change the band’s musical and personal dynamics? 

Pete: I met Johnny at a party held by mutual friends, my wife had known him from before and she introduced us, He has turned out to be perfect for us in so many ways. I think his style is very direct and uncomplicated yet clearly thoughtful and creative.

Steve: I had met Johnny at several gigs and knew he was a fan of the band as well as being a great drummer and a good person to have around so it was a no-brainer when he joined and he’s been in the drum seat longer than anyone now.

Phil: Isn’t he the best? I had no idea who he was, still don’t after 10 years. His aunt was the great Monica Bonnie, who had a star act as a dancing percussionist in Dublin variety theatre, and Joe Bonnie was comic genius Jimmy O’Dea’s personal drummer. I thought the Bonnies were all great. It clinched the deal for me. Johnny knows the difference between 120 bpm and 118 bpm. I think that’s remarkable. 

The band reformed as The Radiators (Plan 9), I assume after Ed Woods’ movie?

Steve: It was a way of showing that it was something new and it was just that the film title was Plan 9 from Outer Space. So it was a continuation of the suffix. But we still got referred to as the Radiators from Space which is really our true incarnation, so we went back to that.

Pete: It was a bit of fun and an attempt at self parody, but it does now signify a particular phase in our timeline with the two EP releases utilizing that moniker.

With the recording sessions in 2005 was there a goal of an album in sight? If not at what stage did the band realize that the material being presented was arguably your best batch of songs? 

Pete: The initial recording sessions at Grouse Lodge were in many ways a little uncertain in terms of where we were and where we were going musically, there was no thought in my head, at that time, of doing an album, we had to find out if this line-up worked as musicians and people and as with most bands we had our own tensions and difficulties that had to be sorted out to get the modus operandi correct to proceed and take things on. In that context those sessions proved invaluable in the long term.

Phil: There truly was never an album in sight until we had written a couple of new songs. I felt an album would be liberating because we were still, to some extent, sailing beneath the albatross Ghostown. I mean, we’d never been able to follow up our great masterpiece and nor had we been allowed to, and that digs deep. It took me a long time to figure out that nobody else had managed to follow Ghostown either. I don’t know if anyone wanted to or not, it’s not really the point. The thing is they hadn’t. Or they couldn’t. Whatever. At some point the albatross just shot itself. Go write some songs. Go see. So although an album was a lovely idea, I’m not sure how seriously any of us took it until we were actually doing it. It almost went for a walk when Cait left halfway through, but, basically, having gotten that far, why stop now? All that said, you don’t know you’ve written a great batch of songs until you’ve done so and, this being the Radiators, most of these were put together as they were being recorded, so… But I don’t think we’d have proceeded if we hadn’t felt we could deliver. “Hinterland,” which we recorded for the EP to coincide with our U2 show in Croke Park, was an enormous boost. If not yet a great recording, it was certainly a good song. That sort of green-lit the album. We felt we had somewhere to go. 

Steve: There wasn’t a stockpile of songs that were sitting around so the writing really started when we decided to record. I had written a number of lyrics post Radiators, but in this case Pete and Philip wrote songs separately and we rehearsed them before the gig. “The Concierge” was a song Philip wrote for me to sing the lead on.

Was the album’s gestation difficult? 

Steve: We had a new bass player and we were getting to the feel of the situation down in Grouse Lodge (Recording Studios). I feel that the end results justified the birthing process. And the songs stand up and Trouble Pilgrim was the right album for its time. It picked up strands from both the previous albums.

Pete: Once Cait had decided to opt out, the momentum which we had established was in danger of fizzling out, so we had to act quickly to find a replacement on bass, after a short period we managed to find Jesse Booth (son of Tim Booth of Dr Strangely Strange) who we took on as an apprentice [laughs]. We also had come to an agreement that I would officially become the producer, which allowed me to make certain decisions, one of which was to allow Jesse to establish his own musical identity on the album by replacing Cait’s contributions to that point. I also felt that we had not done justice to “Hinterland” on the EP and we should give it another shot. I’m glad we did. As the recording sessions developed the direction and methods became clearer and more focused.

Although you have previously indicated a detachment from the punk scene for both TV Tube Heart and Ghostown,you were of course going to be viewed through that prism at that time. Did you feel for the Trouble Pilgrim sessions that you were freed from any contemporary comparisons? Was that a liberation in itself or an isolation deprivation? 

Pete: I think because we were making the album for ourselves and not delivering to a record label it gave us total freedom to produce an album that was governed by solely by the songs we had written at the time and our combined experience to deliver recordings that were vital and relevant to us.

Phil: Well you know, at a certain point you really do just please yourself or not at all. We were in the terrific position that a very kind patron felt that way too, so off we went—the wrong way down a one way street, for all I knew, but yes, it’s fair to say we escaped comparison not only with everybody else but ourselves too. Fuck it, it’s music. Play it. Don’t strategize it. 

Steve: I don’t think a lot of people really cared, other than perhaps some long-time fans, so we were in this isolated situation where it was about making the album we wanted to.

Did you sense that a lot was expected of your recording comeback or alternatively did you feel that your return might be greeted with indifference? 

Phil: Had Paddy Power [bookmaker] pinned me to my collar on the matter, I’d have gone with indifference, I’m pretty sure. Which is not to say you don’t live in hope. I texted Christy Moore the moment the album was completed and he sort of shared in this unadulterated delight that we’d just done it. Yowza! The Rads made a third album! Let the planets recommence their benign alignment!

Steve: It became the first Radiators album to get an official release in the US and later in Japan and it was fun for me to devise different covers for each version. That fact that it was released in the different territories means that it wasn’t greeted with indifference but rather with something of a different eye after the gap between the second and third release.

Pete: We didn’t expect any front covers for sure. This was the first album we recorded in the Internet age so to a degree we were able to engage and connect with our long term fanbase via forums and studio webcam etc. There was a certain amount of myth build around the band with a generation of fans and media that had never actually heard anything of us but were aware of our existence

The Radiators, ca. 2006. L to R: Steve Rapid, Phil Chevron, Jesse Booth, John Bonnie, Pete Holidai.

Did you align yourselves with other bands, like a ‘return to basics’ style formula?

Steve: I think all the music that we encountered along the way plays a part in our overall consciousness but at the same time we tend to “Radiatorize” the sounds we make together. There has never been a conscious attempt to sound like someone else.

Pete: We ended up using our well established ‘record the core live’ and overdub the intricacies formula.

Philip, was your health in difficulty during the writing for this album? 

Phil: Yes. I was self-medicating for the pain of what would turn out to be a tumor. I already had cancer but I didn’t know it. I sort of wondered but I didn’t know. Get the album done, then figure out what’s wrong. 

On the release were you happy with the reception it got?

Steve: The reviews we got were positive. 

Pete: Those who liked it really like it. Steve and I did an interview where it became apparent the journalist hadn’t listened to the album, which was awkward. Others never got around to giving it a listen, which was very frustrating

Did you feel yourselves that the songs had a maturity and a specific focus that may have been lacking in the early material?

Phil: Well, it’s a good question, and the answer is I don’t really know. Maturity and focus sound like they could be good things or not, depending on the perpetrators. On the other hand, the density with which we used to write has its own allure. I think it might be fair to say that expanding our palette was a good thing to do. Funnily enough, as you can see with “The Dark at the Top of the Stairs,” focus and maturity do not necessarily lead to direct comprehension, so I’m content we’re still keeping some mystery in there.

The fact that Philip and Pete each contributed seven songs, was that democracy or the best 14 songs presented? 

Phil: Yes, that’s right. No, that’s just how it shook out. But I was certainly keeping a private running tally and I suppose he was too. 

Pete: I enjoyed the competition (laughs) which was a healthy contributor

Despite the significant difference between the content and style in both writers’ songs, the fact is that they marry together beautifully—was that hard to achieve in the studio, was that part of Steve’s input to the process? 

Phil: We already knew—from Ghostown mainly—that the diversity of our styles was always more likely to be complimentary rather than conflicting, so we don’t worry about that aspect too much. But if we do a fifth studio album, which I think we all hope we will, I think me and Pete would like to try a bit more Macca and John, you know, a bit more stepping on each other’s toes. Just to shake it up a bit, see what happens. 

Pete: Our musical contributions to each others songs tend to pull them closer together in the scheme of things.

In the cover art, why the photo of Joe Meek against a period domestic radiator? Homosexual context? Pop context?

Phil: Pete would occasionally pause the sessions just to play a bit of Joe Meek and some of that stuff is extraordinary. The level of eroticism—there are moments when Heinz is singing a ballad and the entire sonic picture is Heinz’s mouth, his lips, the sound it makes, the shapes it makes. Pure infatuation. It’s like Hitchcock and his blondes. 

Steve: That photograph was taken by me. It was meant to be a visual pun of the influence, in terms of attitude, that Joe Meek had on Pete not so much in terms of his sound but rather in getting down the sounds you hear in your head. A certain punk DIY attitude.

Pete: I brought that photo into the studio as a sort of comfort blanket once I had been appointed producer.

Trouble Pilgrim stands proudly alongside TV Tube Heart and Ghostown. Three studio albums, each are uniquely different in sound and texture. I believe Trouble Pilgrim may well prove with time to be the jewel in the crown although it may also be the most difficult to mine. Sounding, well, ordinary on the first couple of plays, it was that typical Radiators facet whereby they are not even remotely trying to create their own sound that left me initially unconvinced—the ‘magpie tendencies’ that Phil referred to in Part 2. If anything, it has a slightly corrupted Americana feel to some of the Phil Chevron written tracks. Other reference points on Holidai’s pop songs include the likes of the Records and Pilot. Of course when I least expected it, the melodies hooked me and the lyrics drew me closer. Then Holidai’s great production became another glint in the sun—warm but dynamic and I knew I had unearthed a very rare gemstone of the last decade. Holidai’s songs are amongst the best melodies in the bands career with the unassuming vocal harmonies from Chevron an essential addition. The use of Anita Bonnie for backing or second vocals adds new texture–on one occasion Cait O Riordan provides backing vocals. Likewise Steve Rapid is effective throughhout with keyboard sounds gently creating a paint wash background. When Rapid is deployed especially for the sour/sweet vocal contrasts heard previously on TV Tube Heart he adds an extra vocal dimension, for example, on the brilliant pop tune “She Says I’m a Loser.” Otherwise a couple of numbers are written to suit his gritty solo vocals. Holidai’s fluency on a number of lead guitar styles is very impressive also, ranging for example from surf style tremolo to biting lead riffs to a perfect slow rising solo on Chevron’ s “Huguenot.”

Phil Chevron had challenged the perception of Irishness as a central theme in Ghostown. His revelation now that his mothers lineage had been French Huguenot added a great poignancy as he reminds us all of the contribution immigrants can and do make to their adopted land. Chevron had addressed (his) homosexuality sensitively on the late ‘80s single “Under Clery’s Clock” and Trouble Pilgrim provided him the opportunity to comment further. The role of the Catholic Church and the aggressive foreign policy of the USA and the UK were also targets for his sharp pen.

I think the guitar sounds on Trouble Pilgrim are a joy in itself. Did you use a range of vintage models? What makes in particular? 

Phil: Both Pete and I used a wide variety of vintage guitars and in some cases piled them on. I used a couple of Gretch’s including a Chet Atkins Country Gent, a Rickenbacker 12-string electric, Gibson and Martin acoustics, a Les Paul and a Gibson Country Gent. Pete will tell you what he used. Basically though, we both made a conscious decision to build the sound from a pair of old Telecasters when we discovered, in rehearsals, that it was a sound we liked. I’m delighted you noticed the pains we went to, it’s been an under-appreciated aspect of that album. However, in the grand scheme, I’m not sure it added a great deal and we made an equally conscious decision with Sound City Beat (2012) to drop back to minimalism which also works well! Still, Visconti taught us how to layer guitars and I suppose we wanted to see if we had learned how to do it. He still does it; he does it on that new Bowie album. I’ve decided I don’t like it much. 

Pete: My guitar selection was based around a ’76 strat, Burns Hank Marvin, Watkins Rapier 3 and a customised Telecaster. The amps used were an AC30 for Philip and a Fender Blues Junior for myself both miked up with Shure SM57’s and a vintage British ribbon called Reslo which I have in my own collection. The treble edge on the majority of tracks come from the Telecaster than were performed live with the rhythm section on the basic tracks.

I believe that one of your most important lyrics is “Huguenot.” Given the often bitter debate on immigration in Ireland during the economic boom and the reversal back now to Irish people being immigrants elsewhere your personal story is the embodiment of an immigrant family who become so embedded in their new society that generations later they have not only fully integrated, but become a cultural ambassador—indeed in your case as a writer, a cultural beacon.

What was the background to this song?

Phil: As immigration to Ireland spiked during the Celtic Tiger years, most people saw this as a good thing—shake up the gene pool, aid diversity, widen the cultural terms of reference, all those good things. All the same, there was (and is) a sizeable minority of nativist and racist Irish and I just can’t bear it. I saw all that shit in the UK in the ‘70s; I resented being expected to put up with it all over again, so I thought it might be amusing for the guy who wrote a celebrated migration hit song ["Thousands Are Sailing" for the Pogues] to write one for the incoming.

I was always quite proud of my Huguenot roots, something instilled by my mother and yet, weirdly, it never really occurred to me that I was an “immigrant” to Ireland, a hyphenated Irishman, until I began to think of it in these terms. “Huguenot” gave me great joy to write.

Although you were born with Ryan as surname, is Is La Grue your mothers original Huguenot family name? Do you wish to explain why you chose Chevron as your stage name?

Phil: La Grue is my mother’s family name, but it’s a bit uncommon even among Huguenots. Chevron sounded more plausible though it’s not of course. I still have to spell it out. “That’s Chevron with a CH…” There were already at least two other Phil Ryans in this game when I started, notably the one in Welsh band Man.

Philip, in your lyrics there is a very strong presence throughout of some themes, for example Sex, mostly homosexual in “Trouble Pilgrim,” “The Concierge,” “Hinterland,” even possibly paedophilia in “The Dark at the Top of the Stairs”?

Phil: Hmmmm. Ok, this might be a good place to clarify that “The Dark…” is not about paedophilia, nor is it about the death of a dictator, though it must be said Charlie Haughey’s funeral [former Irish prime minister or Taoiseach, subsequently discredited] was on mute on my room TV when I was writing the lyrics. No, it’s about the Twin Towers, the choice people made between being consumed by flames or jumping 80 floors to certain death. That was the one thing I obsessed over—what would you do? How do you rationalize your choices in so irrational a predicament? “The Dark at the Top of the Stairs” is the childhood fear of the unknown but here transformed to adulthood.

“Hinterland” is clearly a response to the Matthew Shepard murder but also its exploitation by the Westboro Baptist Church and also how that Fred Phelps orthodoxy plays into this crazy End Times vision that’s constantly rumbling underneath red state America.

“The Concierge” came about because unlike Vietnam, there was no narrative about sexual relief for troops in the Iraq war, so I had to invent it. It’s this album’s “Kitty Ricketts.” Sex as hypocrisy. The song hints at rape as a weapon of war too.

In “Trouble Pilgrim” the narrator finds himself in San Antonio, Texas and horny as hell. It’s a place that, for all its many charms does not present itself as an obvious center of bacchanalia and orgy but, you know, it’s where he happens to be, he improvises. 

I also think that there is a strong Baconesque effect in “The Concierge.” It is an extremely unsettling, disturbing almost knowing lyric. The sexual violence is not a topic you have written about before or is it?

Phil: Nice noticing the hellish Bacon element although in fact the primary visuals to me would be Otto Dix and George Grosz at their most red. The secondary narrative about the Iraq War—the one in which soldiers went nuts and the ones in which an entire family were committed to a funeral pyre to erase both witnesses and DNA after a rape of the 15-year old daughter by a soldier—disgusted me. It was so clear that there would be no accountability, but also just a smidgen of reproval; I hated it

Even though you have fully explained the “Dark at the Top of The Stairs,” that fear in the child also frightens, it resonates more loudly than Jimmy’s lyrics in “Dead the Beast, Dead the Poison” from Ghostown . Again as you are aware, child sex abuse revelations and some latter day parent incest cases has ripped the skin off ‘holy’ Ireland. It may have been bruised and occasionally cut as you relate in Ghostown but the last 2 decades has left the exterior raw and bloodied.

Phil: Yes, that stuff finds its way into your work whether or not you want it to. When I discovered that for years, when I played hooky from school I literally walked past the prime Magdalene Laundry in Dublin, I was sick to my guts—so concerned with my own hatred of the Irish school system that I did not immediately see the wider malaise. Holy Catholic Ireland, one way or the other, is dead now. Few will be sad to see the back of it.

Another strong presence if that of God/Heaven/Hell/Religion in “Trouble Pilgrim,” “The Concierge,” “Hinterland,” “A Package from Home,” “Huguenot” and “The Dark at the Top of the Stairs.”

Phil: No God. God’s absence, if anything. The mother in “A Package from Home” is an atheist puzzling over her son, a soldier guarded and guided by Jesus in Iraq or Afghanistan and, you know, what are the chances God could please stop “talking” to President Bush and apparently offering him this really dodgy and harmful advice. 

And of course a strong political commentary

Phil: When we were recording Trouble Pilgrim, the Iraq War was already determined as a cock up of generational singularity. It was, by 2005, so grotesque that a sort of burlesque of it was the only response left, other than pure, unmediated grief. It will haunt us for decades. This Blairite crap that somehow the jury is still out on Iraq is so damaging and myopic but will not go away as long as he’s around, with his orange grin, bullshitting people and making millions from the connections he made whilst he was in power. 

The telephone number announced in “The Concierge” has 7/7 followed by 9/11 followed by 666…

Phil: The London homegrown terror atrocities, that Tony Blair denied had anything to do with Britain’s complicity in the slaughter of Iraqis, was 7/7 as in July 7th. We like shorthand dates—the logical conclusion was to utilize them as handy Freephone numbers. 

Pete, do you ever tailor your songs lyrically or musically to fit with Philip’s songs/themes?

Pete: Not consciously, but “Who Are The Strangers” on Ghostown developed lyrically to examine my feelings toward being almost an Anglo–Irishman returning to the ghostown and the Church’s influence and control over everyday life.

Are there particular musical influences you relate to in writing your songs?

Pete: For the Radiators From Space early on I would have been influenced by T. Rex, Bowie and Roxy Music along with American bands like the Flamin’ Groovies, New York Dolls, MC5 who had a real R’n’R attitude. Later on and for my solo album the influences became much broader. I was always a fan of some Easy Listening artists like Matt Munro and Dickie Valentine who might have been considered cheesy, but I liked them very much, I’m a sucker for strings! I also have got to like some exotic/lounge acts from the late 50’s like Les Baxter, Esquivel and Martin Denny to name a few.

At this stage I want to recommend your 2011 solo album The Devil’s Guitar. It has become my guilty pleasure, totally and beautifully decadent. It defies description, a sort of romantic exotic lounge music wrapped in a sonic transparency of wavy guitar twang. That whammy bar is so addictive. Any major guitar influences on this one?

The main guitar influence was British twang of the sixties led by Hank Marvin. The Devil’s Guitar was a limited edition of 100 CDs and a Bandcamp.com download. Lots more at peteholidai.com

Is there a distinctive Pete Holidai songwriting style?

Pete: I tend to focus on a certain formula for certain songs. For example “Million Dollar Hero” from Ghostown and “Heaven” from Trouble Pilgrim use more or less the same formula with an emphasis on a strong hook in the chorus. “Heaven” uses the chorus chords on the instrumental intro, on into the verse, a melodic bridge into the chorus (which now sounds familiar) and a middle eight bars, chorus outro.

Who took the lead guitar parts on Trouble Pilgrim?

Pete: Philip did the lead parts on Ghostown while I did the lead parts on Trouble Pilgrim (after I was promoted!).

Phil: Given that I was a reluctant lead guitarist in the first place, the almost organic, imperceptible switch from me to Pete was very pleasing!

Given your fondness for the classic boy/girl relationships as a lyrical source, I am very taken at the different and insightful angles in your Trouble Pilgrim lyrics. First, “She Says I’m a Loser.” This song is pop gold dust. Steve’s vocal presence works brilliantly to harden the edges.

Pete . Lyrically it’s the first of the sequence where the relationship has completely broken down. The couplets give both standpoints: “She says you never understand, I say tell it to the hand.” Steve delivers the snap point with venom.

“Don’t Walk Away” again an interesting slant.

Pete: It’s the actual confrontation second in sequence

And what about ‘Words’… I’ve been there too !

Pete: I was an emotional wreck, wondering if I could ever want or find love again. The pain of a break-up is not the sole ownership of the female. I was lucky enough to find someone who helped repair the damage that losing trust in someone brings.

The great “Tell Me Why” lyrics—long term relationship?

Pete: Lyrically it follows on from “Words” where the healing girl is baring her soul, but I’m resisting getting involved by forcing a distraction, I want to engage but I don’t want to engage in case—I want to bear my soul… eventually! Musically I wanted it to be a Showband tribute! [Laughs]

The wonderful “Heaven”—was it a real experience?

Pete: The feelings expressed were real the actions remained a fantasy.

Who is Marty in “Second Avenue”?

Pete: Martin Scorsese. I was in Bearsville Studios in Woodstock producing a band called Junkster for RCA records, USA. We took a few days off and went down to Manhattan and we ended up at a loft party, I always wished ‘Marty’ had been there. Also while in NYC I recorded the sound of NYC traffic on a Walkman cassette recorder just as the traffic lights changed with the beep beeps etc. I sampled from that cassette and put it on the recording just as the chorus is kicking in.

Steve, in your capacity as graphic designer, Steve Averill, why did you design different covers for Trouble Pilgrim?

Steve: The idea for the title came from a novel I was reading at the time in which there was a reference to a quote from John Wayne who talking to stranger he found at the side of a trail asked “Trouble, Pilgrim?” It seemed appropriate to what we were doing and Philip Chevron took up the idea for the song of that name that was included on the album.

The first cover was taken at a rehearsal. Our drummer Johnny Bonnie was due to go in for an operation the next day and as there had been a suggestion that we revert to our original hand-drawn logo from “Television Screen.” I took a number of pictures of band members wearing a logo based T-shirt and Johnny seemed the most “troubled” in the pictures. He may be one of a small number of drummers who featured on an album cover.

It was not, however, the original idea for the cover. Philip Chevron had a DVD of a US TV show Dark, Dark Hours from 1954 and wanted to use a still from that. We were unable to secure that in time for the initial release and so went ahead with the cover as it appears.

Ace Records’ Ted Carroll and Roger Armstrong agreed to release the album on the Chiswick label in the UK and Europe so we decided to mark that with a new cover. The image from the cover is a comment on liberty and the perceptions of such that uses a combination of graphics referencing a notorious internet image of the abuse and torture of prisoners in Abu Ghraib and contrasting it with that of the Statue Of Liberty and what it was supposed to stand for. It was pop-punk art.

For the Shite and Onions US release we decided to try and revert to the original idea but this time by using an image photographed from a TV screen showing a distorted image of two of the actors featured in a particular episode of Dark, Dark Hours that featured Ronald Reagan as a doctor and James Dean as a criminal bringing a wounded companion to be treated for a gunshot wound. Reagan’s character does this under duress at gunpoint. Again it seemed to underline the troubled nature of life and authority verses anarchy.

When an offer came in to release of the album in Japan it was strongly requested that it feature the ‘zigzag’ logo. A slight color variation of the image was used in this version. As a graphic designer I enjoyed the opportunity of creating a specific and distinctive cover for the album in each territory. I wonder if anyone bought all four—somehow I suspect not.

Trouble Pilgrim was released in Ireland initially in October 2006. Phil Chevron’s throat problem noticed during recording was later diagnosed as throat cancer requiring lengthy treatment. The band were obviously unable to promote the album but Phil’s apparent full recovery led to the studio sessions for Sound City Beat (introduced in the Blue Aces story and reviewed in UT #34) . For this album, released in April 2012 the band chose to reflect on Dublin’s rock scene of the 1960s and ‘70s and do cover versions of songs associated with the likes of Thin Lizzy, Skid Row, the Movement, Them, Eire Apparent, Horslips and many more. Plans to support with some major gigs were initially delayed and then abandoned as Phil’s health deteriorated unexpectedly leading to the heartbreaking diagnosis that the cancer had returned and was terminal. Recognising the extent of Phil’s illness the Radiators from Space temporarily adopted the name Trouble Pilgrims to perform some gigs.

Sadly, Philip Chevron passed away on October 8, 2013.

The Trouble Pilgrims have decided to continue as a band and have immediate plans..

Steve We are going into the studio later this month (March 2014) to record a single. We hope to build on a particular direction that was a vital part of the Radiators sound and create something that develop into something specific without ignoring what we did in the Radiators. We also want to keep Philip’s legacy and songs alive.
Pete We had a positive meeting recently where we mapped out a critical pathway that includes recording a double a side single “Animal Gang Blues”, which is an original that will be c/w “Who Do You Love” and set for release/live gig launch in early May in Ireland. The Trouble Pilgrims will target 80% new originals and 20% selected from the Radiators recorded repertoire by 2015

Can you see alternative influences emerging in the Trouble Pilgrims?

Pete I imagine that all of our external influences will have a say in the development of the Pilgrims. Because we have retired the Radiators from Space as a live and recording band we have to strive to get a balance between the old and the new. We must at all costs avoid becoming a tribute to ourselves

POSTSCRIPT: I attended that same Trouble Pilgrims gig referred to in the interview on May 3^, 2014, where the band played a great set of songs spread over their entire Radiators (from Space) career and including a couple of numbers from Pete’s solo album. Most unexpected was a wonderful new arrangement of Phil Chevron’s “Under the Clock at Clery’s.” The band closed the set with both sides of the new single. “Animal Gang Blues” is utterly different from anything previously attempted by the Rads. Commenting on Dublin street gangs in the ‘50s/’60s it sets a bass groove similar in feel to “Rocky Mountain Way” allowing great vocal and guitar tension to be injected into the verses. The chorus drags you into a slowed “Riot in Cell Block No 9” vocal; I swear I can hear Lee Brilleaux. Detonate a “Shakin All Over” guitar riff to splay across the breaks with compelling dynamics and the audience were stunned. Its rapturous reception was repeated for their take on Bo Diddley’s “Who Do You Love.” The finish of this version was visually imprinted with Steve Rapid commanding his Theremin with wild gestures into sonic swoops dissecting the slide and tremolo guitar assaults over the timeless rhythm. •

Order Issue #35 with Part One of the Radiators story here.

Order Issue #36 with Part Two of the Radiators story here.

Order Issue #37 with Part Three of the Radiators story here.

 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

I wish to record my appreciation to Pete Holidai, Steve Rapid and late Philip Chevron.

The Radiators at Whelan’s in Dublin, 2005.

Could you tell me about the events leading up to the recording of the Think Pink. It was nearing the end of your tenure with the Pretty Things, correct?

 I was playing drums for the Pretty Things and at that time, early to mid ’69, I and other members of the Pretties, had been hanging out with Steve Peregrin Took and members of the Deviants. We had performed a number of shows together and would often go out partying afterwards. I became very interested in the Deviants community spirit and began to attend their recording sessions (the last album) and photo sessions, etc.

In June ‘69 Mick Farren invited me to meet Seymour Stein and Richard Gottehrer of Sire Records, a US record label who had released the Tomorrow album in the States (the band I was in before the Pretties). We met and a deal was struck there and then for album from Twink with Mick Farren as producer. The album was recorded in July 1969 and at the end of the month my last show with the Pretty Things was at the Isle of Wight Festival (Bob Dylan also played). There was still some work to be done on Think Pink, i.e. mixing, which was done with Steve Peregrin Took and Richard Gottehrer in attendance, after I returned from a two-week holiday in Portugal in August or September.

Mick Farren (Center), Twink (right)

 You rounded up the cream of the London Psychedelic scene to record: Paul Rudolph, Mick Farren, Wally Allen, Viv Prince, John Povey (Pretty Things), John ‘Junior’ Wood (Tomorrow), Vic Unitt (Edgar Broughton band) and Steve Took (Tyrannosaurus Rex). How did you get everybody together?

It was really quite easy to get everyone together. Apart from a couple of participants, Vic Unitt and John Wood, everyone was fully paid up members of The Pink Fairies Motorcycle Club and All Star Rock & Roll Band. John Wood was a very good friend and as I was preparing to record “Ten Thousand Words In A Cardboard Box” and “Tiptoe On The Highest Hill,” both co-written with John, I asked him to come along to the recording sessions. I was living with Jon Povey at the time and he was very keen to help out so I asked Mick to get a Mellotron set up in the studio for Jon to play, which he did.

There were other participants who were peripheral to our “club” who came along and contributed to a lesser degree. “The Mexican Grass War” took advantage of a large number of people in the studio with Viv Prince centre stage playing the drums.

Jon Povey

Is there anyone you wish you could have gotten to play on that LP that you didn’t?

I was very happy with all the musicians that performed on Think Pink however I think I did try and get hold of Steve Howe who was playing with Bodast at the time. It wasn’t until after the recording was finished that I saw him again and played him the album.

Did you prefer being a solo artist or being in a band situation?

I loved being in a band and I also enjoyed being regarded as a solo artist. I had seen other musicians combine group and solo activities which seemed to work for them so why not me?

How did it feel to record your own material after being in many different bands? Was it liberating for you?

It was indeed liberating for me to begin recording my own material after being in some classic bands that had their own established writers. The Fairies – Dane Stevens, Tomorrow – Keith West and Steve Howe, and the Pretty Things – Phil May, Dick Taylor, Jon Povey, Wally Allen. I had started writing in 1965 but began in earnest in 1966. Towards the end of Tomorrow I had a great songwriting partnership with John Wood, Tomorrow’s bass guitarist. We started writing together for our project, the Aquarian Age. We recorded a number of demos for EMI and a single was released by them titled “Ten Thousand Words In A Cardboard Box” b/w ” Good Wizard Meets Naughty Wizard” by the Aquarian Age. I re-recorded “Ten Thousand Words In A Cardboard Box” for Think Pink, which features some awesome guitar work from Paul Rudolph.

Twink and Paul Rudolph 

Can you tell me about the studio the album was record and the kind of atmosphere you created in the studio?

The studios used for recording were Recorded Sound Studios, just behind Marble Arch, where the majority of sessions took place, and Decca Studios, West Hampstead—just one afternoon session there. The recording of Think Pink took place in July 1969 and they were nighttime sessions, much more fun. The exact dates I don’t know. Although there appears to be an over the top sense of freedom surrounding the recording, there was at the core of it all, “This is business and the job has to get done!” Mick (Farren) ensured all the equipment, amps, keyboards, drums etc, were in place before the sessions started. Also he made sure the booked sessions musicians were there on time too. At other times friends and family dropped by and we simply invited them to guest on various track. The atmosphere was generally relaxed, only taking time out to roll up some ‘charge’. But when the red light goes on it’s serious business time.

How did drugs figure into the equation? I’ve compared the LP to friends as “An Aural Mescaline Trip.” Were you guys doing psychedelics in the studio?

 No psychedelics were used in the studio. However the recordings were made with the “acid” listener in mind. The only mood altering substances used during the recording was hash and grass. I’ll take that as a high compliment describing the album as “An Aural Mescaline Trip.”

Who engineered the sessions? There are some astounding sounds on the LP. How well versed did you feel in the studio environment?

I also cannot remember the studio engineer’s name unfortunately and there was no time to experiment in the studio. I had studio experience and was well versed at working in a recording environment since 1964. In 1967 and 1968 I had the pleasure work with the master producers Mark Wirtz and Norman Smith and those great engineers Peter Mew and Geoff Emerick at Abbey Road Studios. I recently re-united with Peter Mew at Abbey Rd to mix and master You Reached For The Stars the new album from Twink and The Technicolour Dream on Sunbeam Records. I learnt a great deal from them and I put it into practice on Think Pink. Also helping out in the studio with production and sound ideas was Jon Povey and Steve Peregrin Took, both men of recording studio experience.

Steve Peregrin Took

To me it seems you were using the studio as almost another band member, would you agree?

I agree that the studio and all that is in it is another instrument/musician and must be treated with respect, and in this case I got the best out of Recorded Sound.

Did you demo the songs before recording? The arrangements seem very free flowing and unforced.

Most of the songs I had demo sketches for, and as you probably realize “Ten Thousand Words In A Cardboard Box” was previously recorded by the Aquarian Age. “Suicide,” the first song I wrote, in 1966, was demo’d at that time. “Tiptoe On The Highest Hill,” another Aquarian Age song, was demo’d at EMI demo studios in Manchester Square. Steve Peregrin Took’s two songs, “The Sparrow Is A Sign” and “Three Little Piggies,” were put together in the studio. The musicians were given a lot of freedom but I did spend time with Paul Rudolph going over the songs before going into the studio to record.

To me it seems like you gave everyone a lot of freedom to express themselves. It’s very much like what I’d imagine a live show at the UFO club would have sounded like—only condensed into three to five minutes instead of 20-25 minutes.

 The album does have a live feel and I’ve been thinking about performing the whole album live at sometime in the future.

I’ve found that it’s a very visual album. Did you set out to achieve that kind of feeling in the listener? I see very religious-type visuals listening to certain songs on the LP.

I came to realize by listening to other psychedelic musicians and bands that the mind of the listener to music is like a canvas. Therefore using instruments and studio techniques like paint and brushes, and music and lyrics as colours, one can create amazing visual images for the listener. And that’s what I set out to do with Think Pink.

When I first discussed what I wanted to do with Mick he suggested to me that the album should be “like a Mass” and I kept that in mind while we were recording. However as the recording progressed I moved away from a total Mass concept and decided to paint individual pictures.

Could you talk about the influence The Living Theatre had on the LP?

The Living Theatre certainly influenced the making of Think Pink. I wanted to create an audio experience similar to that of the visual experience created by Julian Beck and his actors, actresses and musicians. A very free-orm and relaxed atmosphere with a firm base and I wanted to involve the listener as a participating group member to the recordings. I think I managed to achieve that.

How much of an influence did Steve Took and Paul Rudolph have on the LP?

Steve Peregrin Took and Paul Rudolph’s influence was considerable. Steve was like a partner to the proceedings coming up with some great ideas, contributing enthusiastically to the recordings and finally helping out with the final re-mix. Paul too was enthusiastic and his guitar parts on “Ten Thousand Words In A Cardboard Box” and ” Tiptoe On The Highest Hill” are awesome to say the least. The acoustic duet between Paul and myself at the end of “Suicide” is very special to me. And not forgetting Silver who was always very supportive in and out of the studio. She can be heard on the tracks “Fluid,” “Three Little Piggies” and ” Rock & Roll the Joint.”

John and Silver

Let’s talk about the individual tracks: “The Coming Of The Other One” – the album begins with reversed sitars and a quote from Nostradamus. Quite a way to start the LP. At the time did you believe the apocalypse was near or was it more a symbolic rebirth of a new and better society—a separate reality so to speak?

This song uses a poem of Nostradamus to a psychedelic soundscape of sounds to tell the listener about The Day Of Judgement. Jesus (The Other One), peace be upon him, will return and all those who have been buried shall rise again from their graves to meet their Maker. All the signs are there today announcing the end of the world is near.

“Ten Thousand Words in a Cardboard Box”: was this song about the end of Tomorrow? It sounds like someone who’s just going from thought to thought. Paul’s solo is explosive. Do you remember if it was rehearsed or just spontaneous magic?

The title for this song was the idea of John ‘Junior’ Wood. It described the way he was feeling about Keith West at that time (1968) and I agreed with him then, which also includes the part in the song, “There he goes on another voyage of his own delusion never knowing where the next thought will take him.” Paul Rudolph’s guitar performance is outstanding on the recording and cannot be faulted. As is Junior Wood’s bass guitar performance. The song was rehearsed with Paul but the performance was spontaneous under my direction.

“Dawn Of Magic”: this song has a very mystical raga like feel to it. What did you envision when you recorded this song? 

This is a portrait of Earth just before Adam, may peace be upon him, and Eve, peace be upon her, arrived on Earth from Paradise closely followed by Shaitan (The Devil). This was the vision.

“Tiptoe On The Highest Hill”: There is an amazing reverse solo in the song about 2:30 into the song. It’s truly psychedelic nirvana when it kicks in. Do you remember the recording of this section?

 Another song written by the Aquarian Age which also featured John Junior Wood on bass guitar for this recording. A song full of psychedelic and surreal imagery. The backward guitar effects during the solo are mind-blowing. I remember recording this section and being over the moon with result.

“Fluid”: A love song between Silver and you? It sounds like you guys had a lot of fun making this track. What can you recall?

Very sexy! Silver and I retired into a recording booth for this track.

Gnarls Barkley sampled parts of “Fluid” for a new song creation called “Would Be Killer,” and this new version was featured on their four times Grammy nominated album The Odd Couple.

“Mexican Grass Wars”: Viv Prince plays drums on this track. Any good Viv tales from the sessions?

This was freeform in the studio with all the musicians playing ad-lib parts as the work developed. Nothing has changed much in Mexico, then we had the Grass Wars and now we have Cocaine Wars. This track features my old mate Viv Prince. It was fun having Viv in the studio with lots of other visitors that night. I hope we can do it again on Think Pink II.

“Rock & Roll the Joint”: The panned wah wah is out of control. What sticks out to you looking back on this track?

A good bit of rock ‘n’ roll. If you listen carefully to one of the breaks you can hear someone saying, “Come baby, let’s be quick. Pass the joint and suck my dick”

I also remember being on my knees working the two wah wah pedals to get it just right.

“Suicide”: I always felt this song was about the death of the ego. What were you thinking when you wrote this?

 The very first song that I wrote 1966. I never contemplated suicide but it seemed an interesting subject. I enjoyed playing acoustic guitar along with Paul Rudolph on this track, great feel! I remember when writing this song some friends seemed to be in a bad way and I was thinking of them.

“Three Little Piggies”: Is there any hidden meaning to this song?

Big respect for Steve Peregrin Took for this and the next track. No hidden meaning here.

“The Sparrow Is A Sign”: Excellent way to close out the album. How would you and Steve write together?

Big guitar from Paul Rudolph and great lyrics from Tooky. Steve wrote the lyrics and we wrote the music.

I’ve heard you weren’t happy with Mick Farren’s original mix. What went wrong?

I don’t know what happened to Mick’s original mix. I suspect he was mixing as if it was a Deviants album, which turned out to be unacceptable to me and I had to re-mix.

I remember going back into Recorded Sound after getting approval from Sire Records to do a re-mix. Steve came along with me and Richard Gotterher from Sire was in attendance. It was an evening and night-time mix. We turned down the lights and got on with the job. As we progressed, Richard, every now and then, gave me the thumbs up, which was encouraging.

What do you remember thinking when you were done making the LP?

When we finished up I felt we had gotten the best out of the recordings and I relaxed and waited for its release.

Could you tell me about how you came up with the front and back cover design? Where were the photos taken?

Luckily it was brainstorming at the final photo session with Po (Aubrey Powell) from Hipgnosis that produced the front cover shot, taken in Holland Park, London. The back cover shot I think was Po too, but we already had that in the can. That shot was taken as we were driving around looking for locations to shoot when we saw a demolition site where they had a bonfire going. Silver, my girlfriend, and I were put in front of the fire and Po started to shoot. There were about three complete sessions for the cover at different times. Two sessions with Po, one at the London Stock Exchange where the photo lab destroyed the film, and one session with Storm [Thorgerson], also a part of Hipgnosis, which didn’t produce anything significant and was shot around the Kensington High Street area. The choice of pics was mine and Keith Morris did the layout.

the Pink Fairies

Did you plan to tour around the album?

I did plan to tour once the album was released in the UK. However it took about 18 months for the album to be released by which time the Pink Fairies with Paul Rudolph, Russell Hunter, Duncan Sanderson and me had formed. Polydor decided to release Think Pink as a teaser for the Pink Fairies’ first album release, Never Neverland. Decca were initially interested in Think Pink, but after the disappointing first mix meeting with Decca’s A&R department, things began to slow down. I hadn’t heard to first mix until the meet and I was as embarrassed as everyone else. The recordings sounded flat and lacked colour. The only thing to do was to re-mix which is what I did after getting Sire’s approval. What you hear on Think Pink is that final mix.

How do you feel about modern artists sampling your work?

Warner Brothers contacted me and as soon as I realized who Gnarls Barkley were, my son Frederick told me all about them. I was happy that Danger Mouse had sampled “Fluid” for their second Grammy Nominated album The Odd Couple. Apart from the royalties it was an honor for me to be alongside Cee Lo Green on the new track entitled “Would Be Killer.” My voice and drums, Silver’s voice and Vic Unitt’s guitar features heavily on “Would Be Killer.” More samples, no problem as long as I get full credits, etc.

Think Pink has been out of print for many years. How does it feel for it to be back in print on Sunbeam Records?

It’s wonderful to have Think Pink back in print again and I’m delighted it’s with Sunbeam Records.

If you could do it again would you change anything about the LP?

I wouldn’t want to change one thing. It’s fine as it is. A great time-piece full of wonderful memories. I look back on the ‘60s and ‘70s fondly with the ‘60s being the golden decade for British music.

Inhabiting a region of the sonic solar system somewhere between the Creation and the Small Faces, the Attack languished in comparative obscurity back in their day, only to be recognized decades later as one of the most exciting bands of the era.

That none of the band’s four singles for Decca cracked the charts was more down to bad luck and record company incompetence than any shortcomings on the band’s part. Their first effort, in January 1967, was a sharp version of the Ohio Express/Standells nugget “Try It,” backed with the great, Hammond-drenched mover “We Don’t Know.” Composed by singer Richard Shirman and lead guitarist Davy O’List, the song was nominally based on an obscure soul single, Mona Lisa’s “They Don’t Know,” with new, sarcastic social comment lyrics, including the opening salvo: “We don’t know about the H-Bomb / We don’t know about drugs / We don’t know what is going on / They say that we are thugs.”

The Attack, 1967. L to R: Richard Shirman, Barney Barnfield, Davy O’List, Gerry Henderson, Bob Hodges (glasses). (Photo courtesy Phil Smee)

While “Try It” failed to click with the record buying public, the band felt they were onto a sure thing with their next release, “Hi Ho Silver Lining,” but they were beaten to the bunch by Jeff Beck who romped into the charts with his Mickie Most-produced version after the Attack’s record was delayed at the pressing plant. The B-side was a cracker too. Based on a blistering guitar hook by O’List, “Any More Than I Do” was the Attack at their most incendiary, and still thrills every time. Totally disillusioned by the failure of “Hi Ho Silver Lining,” this lineup folded shortly afterwards, with O’List going on to the Nice.

However, Shirman rallied the group with new members and a third single appeared a few months later, again pairing a commercial A-side by an outside writer with a harder-edged band-created flip. “Created By Clive” was a clever piece of social satire aimed at Swinging London’s fashion world, but any hope of a hit was doomed by the simultaneous release of a competing version by the Syn—ironically on Deram, a subsidiary of the very same record company. On the B-side the superior “Colour Of My Mind,” written by Shirman, was a hard driving psych piece with some fine organ work.

The Attack’s fourth single, “Neville Thumbcatch,” was also their strangest, the sad tale of a solitary man dedicated to the simple joys of gardening, the spoken verse section delivered with impeccable comic pacing by Shirman in his slightly plummy London accent. On the other side, “Lady Orange Peel,” was a nice, sultry psych-tinged number. According to some reports, the wonderful “Magic in the Air,” written by new guitarist John Cann, (aka John DuCann), was originally pegged to be the single’s A-side, but that track would remain unissued, and “Neville Thumbcatch”/ “Lady Orange Peel” would be the band’s swansong.

By the beginning of 1968 the Attack had reconfigured as a quartet, with DuCann now their songwriter-in-chief. This line-up was responsible for half a dozen largely excellent tracks, said to be for a planned album tentatively titled Roman God of War. Hard riffing highlights from this era of the band include “Go Your Way,” “Feel Like Flying” and “Freedom For You.” The band would break up later that year with some members regrouping as Andromeda (DuCann would later form Atomic Rooster).

In the last two decades the band’s eight A- and B-sides, along with the unreleased material from the DuCann era, have been recycled endlessly on various compilations and anthologies, some of dubious legality. Recently though, RPM’s Bam-Caruso subsidiary released the first completely legitimate Attack anthology. The appropriately titled ABOUT TIME! includes not only all of the above mentioned tracks—taken from the original master tapes—but also four additional previously unreleased cuts: a cover of the Young Rascals’ “Come On Up” and an alternate version of “Created By Clive” from a 1967 BBC session, plus “Sympathy For the Devil” and “Anything,” two very fine tracks from an early 1969 acetate on which Shirman is backed by various ex-Attack members. The CD packaging, stylishly designed by the estimable Mr Phil Smee, includes liner notes by Chris Welch, track-by-track comments from Shirman, and tons of rare photos.

To mark the release of this, the definitive Attack collection, we talked with Attack main man Richard Shirman.

Richard Shirman, 1967.

UT: Before the Attack you were a dancer on Ready Steady Go for a while. Can you tell me a bit about that?

RS: Well, I wasn’t an official dancer. I was one of the people who went to Ready Steady Go every weekend and we used to dance. When I first started going there I was only about 14 years-old, so I started quite young, really. I used to go up there with a girl—my parents used to let a room out in our house, and she was one of those who moved in. She was older than me, but of course I was like a sponge—anything to do with groups I wanted to know, and she was at the time going out with Pete Townshend. How long that lasted I don’t know, but then I think she was going out with a guy who was like the floor manager for Ready Steady Go, who was married to Sandie Shaw…So I just used to go along to Ready Steady Go every weekend.

UT: Did they have some kind of dress code where they would only allow cool looking people into the studio, or at least be in camera shot?

RS: Actually, to be perfectly honest, I haven’t a clue! I don’t think it was that they actually applied a dress code, it’s just that everybody who went there was like, well, “The weekend starts here,” as the saying went, and you’d got your trendy stuff on simply because you were going along to it. I should imagine that those who appeared on camera were probably the best looking—well, it’s like cameramen all over the world: if there’s a nice looking girl then the cameraman zooms in on her. That’s how it works, isn’t it?

UT: Did you get to see yourself on TV?

RS: Well, no, because it was live, so I have no idea if I was ever on camera or not.

UT: What groups do you remember seeing in the TV studio that were particularly memorable?

RS: I do remember—this shows what a dirty old man I am—I do remember being fascinated by a blue vein in Marianne Faithfull’s décolletage—transfixed by it. I remember the Supremes and like when the Who were on and things like that, but I don’t remember that clearly, to be honest. I do know that when Ready Steady Go moved, because originally it was in High Holborn, right in the middle of town, but then it moved out to the sticks, to Stonebridge Park near Wembley, which is about 10 miles away, and afterwards there’d be a crowd of us would go along to a place in Golders Green called the Refectory, which was just a pub, but there would be playing, usually, the Birds—Ronnie Wood, Ali McKenzie, Pete [McDaniel] and all those people. I got quite matey with Ronnie Wood. In fact, when Davy O’List left the Attack, the first person I had lined up and had talked to about replacing him was in fact Ronnie Wood. But then he was offered the bass playing gig with Jeff Beck—who had the hit with “Hi Ho Silver Lining”—and that was sort of the end of that! (laughs) If things had been slightly different, just think where he could be now! (laughs)

UT: You started out basically playing R&B and soul covers with a band called the Soul System, right?

RS: With the Soul System there were no such thing as soul covers; it was R&B. With the Attack we started playing soul covers. In fact, I can even remember some of the tunes we used to play: “See Saw,” Don Covay, “Ride Your Pony,” Lee Dorsey…Edwin Starr “SOS,” Sam & Dave “You Don’t Know Like I Know”—which were all current at the time and that’s the sort of stuff we preferred to play in the Attack.

I also knew, through a guy I’d met in London going to see the Pretty Things, I think—he was a big fan—an American guy from Florida sent me stuff and one of the songs I think I probably nicked a few of the ideas for the B-side of our first single, “We Don’t Know.” One of the songs he sent us was “In the Midnight Hour,” and we played that for at least six or seven months before it came out here. But it never occurred to us, these things, because in those days all you tried to do was to sound as much like the real thing as possible.

The Attack, first lineup, early 1967. L to R: Gerry Henderson, Richard Shirman, Bob Hodges, Davy O’List, Alan Whitehead. (Photo courtesy Phil Smee)

UT: And how did the sound and the repertoire start to change? Because you were still doing soul songs but you were also starting to write your own material. How did that evolution take place?

RS: What we played on stage changed when I got the last version of the band together, which was John Cann [aka DuCann], Roger Deane and Keith Hodge, because John was writing a lot at the time, and I was a lazy so-and-so. All I was interested in really was drinking and women. So if the group had rehearsed a song and they gave me lyrics to learn, I learned them and sang them—one or two things like that. Sometimes we rehearsed, he came round to mine and we went over the songs acoustically, but I suppose the difference in the material was all down to John joining the group.

UT: So prior to that, when you still had Davy in the band, live you were still doing pretty much soul covers and I suppose some of the singles were in your live set?

RS: Absolutely right. Davy left after the second single, which was “Hi Ho Silver Lining,” but the B-side, “Any More Than I Do,” for an 18-year-old kid, what guitar playing!

UT: That’s such a heavy song for that time, early 1967.

RS: And of course in those days one had half an hour to write—if it still needed writing—and record and do everything with a B-side. So for “Any More Than I Do” he said, “I’ve got a couple of ideas.” I said, “OK, you go out, Davy, and rehearse the guys so they know it and I’ll write the lyrics!” (laughs) And the opening lyrics to that particular song were the titles to two recent number ones of the time: “Standing in the shadows”—which is obviously the Four Tops—and “Sitting In the Park” which was Bobby Hebb. And that’s the opening lines: “Standing in the shadows / sitting in the park…” And then if I can find something to rhyme with it I’m away! (laughs)

UT: It seemed like the pattern for all your four singles was always a more commercial song by outside writers on the A-side and a number by the band on the flip—was that by design?

RS: The B-sides of the singles were mostly written by us. The first one [“We Don’t Know”] and the second one [“Any More Than I Do”] Dave and I wrote together. The third one [“Colour of My Mind”] and the fourth one [“Lady Orange Peel”], I wrote, but by that time Dave wasn’t in the group any longer.

UT: And the A-sides were always by outside writers.

RS: Yes, in those days, record companies said, “Oh, this is commercial.” In those days I always thought commercial meant it would sell, but obviously it doesn’t. (laughs) But they’d say, “This is commercial,” so we’d say, “OK.” You didn’t argue—I was 17, for heavens sake! At 17, 18 you don’t argue with these people who know all about it.

I never quite understood why our first record never made any impression, “Try It,” because that was quite pokey, quite powerful and had everything that one needed for a hit—even a simple chorus, you know: “Try it, yeah! Try it, yeah!” There was nothing complicated about it at all, but there we are.

UT: Well, Decca were notorious for putting records out and just letting them die.

RS: “Hi Ho Silver Lining,” though, was obviously going to be a hit song.  When our version of “Hi Ho Silver Lining” came out, the story goes that it came out at roughly the same time as Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck and a Rolling Stones record came out as well, and their factories were only pressing those three and ours didn’t get pressed. There was plenty of orders for it, but it didn’t get pressed, and by the time they were being pressed, of course, Jeff Beck was away! The guy who wrote “Hi Ho Silver Lining” was Scott English, an American who in fact had been with the Four Seasons, and I remember him coming over and actually commenting on us and saying, “This is exactly how I imagined the song to be. They’ve done it beautifully.” Mind you, I bet when he gets the royalty checks in from the Jeff Beck version he doesn’t throw them out! (laughs)

Er… the camera’s over here, boys. An interim 1967 lineup of the Attack. L to R: Chris Allen, Richard Shirman, Kenny Harold, Geoff Richardson, George Watt.

“Created by Clive” was the third one, and to give you an idea how cunning record companies were in those days, the overall record company was Decca, and they launched a new label, the Deram label, and on the first day that they launched it, our single “Created By Clive” came out and another version of it came out by another group that they had on the Deram label. How stupid it that? That’s what record companies were like, so we didn’t place a lot of faith in them. I suppose if we’d have known then what we know now we’d have turned them round and not bothered with the things they said were commercial.

UT: The last single, “Neville Thumbcatch,” was that the record company’s idea to record that?

RS: It was the producer’s idea. The one where I talk: “Neville Thumbcatch worked daily at the mill…” And the extraordinary thing is, from a speaking point of view I sound the same now as I did then!

UT: You do, yeah!

RS: I do, don’t I? I mean, “Neville Thumbcatch,” if you’ve heard that then you’ll know what I sound like! So my voice came as no great shock to you, I suppose.

UT: No, it’s just like when you speak about the Brussels sprout in “Neville Thumbcatch.” (laughs) Was that a song you would do in you live set or not? Because I imagine that would be quite difficult.

RS: No, no, no. That’s not something we played in our live set at all.

UT: Did you actually like it at the time or not?

RS: Put it this way, I thought it was different so it might be a hit. If it had been a hit I’d have thought it was wonderful.

UT: The second phase of the band with John DuCann on lead guitar was…

RS: That wasn’t the second phase; that was more like the third or fourth phase. When the first group fell apart I spent half of my life in the twilight zone—mostly alcohol-induced, I have to admit—alcohol and dope between them. I had gigs come in and so I’d get people together to play the gigs, y’know? So there were all sorts of people that played with me. I did get a proper group together after a while, but they weren’t particularly great musicians. Eventually I found a good drummer, but the organist I think sort of drifted off somewhere. It wasn’t that successful and I wasn’t that happy with them. I remember I thought I needed a lead guitarist, and good old uncle Don [Arden] the manager, he actually paid for a day at the Studio 51 jazz club and I actually spent all day auditioning guitarists. If you want to keep your sanity, never do that! But I ended up with John Cann, and for a while John Cann was with me at the back end of the last group, so the B-side, “Lady Orange Peel,” which was on the B-side of “Neville Thumbcatch,” it’s him playing the solo—and damn good it is, too! Because I always had my ears open for a good guitarist—and not just a good guitarist, but usually a guy who plays a Fender. That’s an interesting thing I’ve noticed about myself, thinking about it over the years, the guitar sound that really gets to me is Fender. Because Davy O’List played a Telecaster, as I recall, as did John DuCann.

UT: I call that the “second phase” in terms of the output, because that era of the band with John DuCann on lead guitar was quite prolific…

RS: Well, I’d call that the third phase of the band. The second phase included when we recorded “Created By Clive” and the people who were in that group, and then I added to that bunch a little later. The drummer who was with me, he ended up going off somewhere but he said, “I’ve got this mate who is really good, and will take over my place no problem,” and that was Keith Hodge, who was absolutely superb. Keith Hodge had this bass playing mate and he said he was good, so we all got together and that was it, we stayed together. And in fact it was good.

The Attack, 1968. L to R: John Cann (a.k.a. DuCann), Keith Hodge (seated), Roger Deane, Richard Shirman. (Photo courtsey Phil Smee)

UT: You did quite a lot of recording with that lineup, but none of it was released at the time—why was that?

RS: Quite a lot of it was after we didn’t even have a record contract any more. There’s the album called Final Daze [on Angel Air] with some of it on—I think John Cann put Final Daze out—but [for About Time] I picked only the songs from the third phase of the group that I thought were best, like “Freedom For You” and “Mr Pinnodmy’s Dilemma,” those sort of things. That was when it was just guitar, bass and drums, and that was a good group. I think John Cann paid for most of these recordings, as I recall.

UT: Were these the tracks that were originally going to have made up an album that was to have been called Roman God of War?

RS: Roman God of War, I remember Keith Hodge came up with the name, but it was a joke. It may just have been the fact that I was ‘out to lunch’ a bit at the time that I didn’t notice these things going on, but I wasn’t aware there was going to be any album at all.

UT: So it may have just been a sort of a fantasy album title? If we do an album this is what we should call it.

RS: Absolutely. You’ve hit the nail on the head.

UT: Any idea where the idea for that title came from?

RS: Well, Keith Hodge, the little fat Welshman—a great drummer, but a little fat Welshman nevertheless. It was at a time where the biggest club in London was the Middle Earth; there was a shop in Kings Road called Gandalf’s Garden—it was all that stuff. Fantasy was quite a thing, and so Roman God of War? Oh yes, fine. If we’d actually have released an album, I can tell you one thing for sure: it would have not have been called Roman God of War!

UT: Well, that’s a relief! (laughs)

RS: Isn’t it just!

UT: When the Attack split up you were originally in Andromeda with John, but that didn’t last long. What happened?

RS: The truth of the matter is the manager took me aside one day and said, “This isn’t working, is it?” I didn’t enjoy myself with them one little bit. There’s probably a couple of reasons, one I didn’t realize and one I did. The one I did realize was I wasn’t very impressed with the bass player, or/and the drummer, who was getting over a broken leg, so the bass drum wasn’t really all there is the polite way of putting it. The bass player was one of these guys—and don’t get me wrong, I still know him and have talked to him on the phone a time or two and we used to play in bands on the blues scene in South London quite a lot and bump into each other—but I just didn’t like his bass playing. He was bit what I describe as widdly-widdly (laughs) Just as I describe Alvin Lee’s guitar playing as widdly-widdly In fact, if you listen to any of the Attack stuff, none of the guitar solos are widdly-widdly. There’s no sort of foot on the monitor and all that bollocks! (laughs) So that was certainly one reason, and the other thing was, truthfully, I suppose because I didn’t like it that much I didn’t bother to learn lyrics. We’d go and play gigs and I used to bluff it like crazy! Don’t get me wrong, no one in the audience would’ve known I didn’t know the lyrics. I don’t think the band knew I didn’t know the lyrics. But I wasn’t enjoying myself and the manager said, “I think it’s time to go,” and I said “OK,” and in fact it wasn’t that long ago, maybe six months to a year ago, that I talked to John about it, and apparently the group didn’t even know the manager had told me to go, it was nothing to do with them!

UT: So they thought you just decided to leave?

RS: Well, that’s what John says, but whether or not it’s true I don’t know. But, there again, I don’t care! (laughs)

UT: What’s the story behind the unreleased acetate of “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Anything”?

RS: I was such an arrogant, stupid person. There was a guy I’d met who was actually the head of the record company for Andromeda, and he was [also] the head of Elektra in London, a guy called Clive Selwood, a very nice chap, and though I was no longer with Andromeda, obviously, he said, “Make a demo and who knows.” So I made a demo, which was “Sympathy For the Devil” and on the other side “Anything,” and Jac Holzman, the head of Elektra, came over as a result of that and said “Yeah! I really like this and want to record you.” So I had the opportunity, but of course not, because I knew better: “Oh yeah, but I want a big horn section!” So he said, “Hmmm… don’t know about that, but tell you what, you go in the studio with this horn section and if I like it, OK.” And I’d also asked for a ridiculous amount of money. So I made this thing and, to be honest, if one listened to it through rose-tinted earphones, one would describe it as total crap. So he said, “No. I’m still interested if you get something together like the first thing, but the thing with the horns, forget it!” So I said, like an arsehole, “It’s that or nothing!” History shows us that it was nothing! (laughs) Can you imagine? In those days all you had to be was on Elektra and you were guaranteed 100,000 albums sales straight away. And to be the first British act, I mean the amount of publicity that would have come with that—but, no, I said, “I want this and I want this and I want this…Take it or leave it,” and they smiled at me and left it. (laughs)

UT: So after that you pretty much dropped out of music for ten years or so, right?

RS: No. Don Arden had a mate in Birmingham and I went up and joined a group up there. It was quite good but I was only up there about six months. I didn’t like Birmingham at all—it was mostly bombsites and stuff, and I didn’t know anybody. Then I think I bowed to the well-known parental pressure and went and got a straight job or two, because I didn’t have any money, of course—the usual stuff.

Ten years later, in 1979, Shirman formed a new rock group called the Attack, which lasted a couple of years. He then put together a successful blues band, Hershey & the 12-Bars, complete with the horn section he’d always desired. In 1991 he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, but continued to perform with Hershey & the 12-Bars until 2004.

As for the original Attack: “Until about seven or eight years ago, I thought the Attack as a whole entity was dead and buried and way back in the past,” he says, “and so I didn’t give it any thought at all. It was only more recently, because apparently Mojo mentioned the Attack from time to time, and there was a pullout a few years ago with ‘The Greatest 100 Psychedelic Tracks of All Time’—50 American and 50 British—and, blow me, one of the songs was an Attack song.” [“Colours of My Mind” placed at #18 in Jon Savage’s chronological countdown of UK psychedelia, right between John’s Children’s “Midsummer Night’s Scene” and the Beatles’ “It’s All Too Much.”]

It was then that Richard began approaching various record companies about releasing a definitive Attack collection, which, after many years, resulted in About Time.

Originally there were plans for some Attack reunion gigs to coincide with the CD’s release, beginning with a launch party at the 100 Club. Sadly though, these plans had to scrapped due to Richard’s worsening health. “It was only about two to three years ago that I got into the state that I can no longer play,” he reveals. “I’m just not physically up to doing it and how much does that piss me off? Apparently I had what in medical terms can be described as a ‘massive heart attack’ last autumn, and I’ve only got half of my heart left, and what with the MS, and I’m gradually a bit weaker, there’s just no way I would be able to gig, which just really pissed me off. Still, there we go.”

Although disappointed that he won’t be able to take the Attack’s music to the stage again, Richard Shirman is resolutely upbeat and unfailingly proud of the musical past he’d left for dead and buried—and rightfully so: The Attack are right up there with the best. •

(Originally published in Ugly Things #25, Summer 2007)

I’d like to dedicate this article to the memories of Dave Day Havlicek and Roger Johnston.

MONKS STORY by Mike Stax / INTERVIEWS by Keith Patterson and Mike Stax

The music of the Monks is the stuff of true greatness: huge chunks of reverberating bass and drum rhythms, beaten into further frenzied overdrive by the atonal gash of an electrified banjo; this overlaid with the rapid-fire piercing squeals of delirious organ wailings and the hum and howl of fuzz and feedback as some maniac jaggedly assaults an electric guitar; this all pushing forward the angst-driven, aggressive voices shouting: “I hate you baby with a passion…” “People go to their deaths for you…” “Boys are boys and girls are joys…” “Pussy galore is coming down and we like it… we don’t like the atomic bomb…” “Shut up! Don’t cry!” and “Higgle-Dy Piggle-Dy—let’s do it!”

The Monks may be the strangest group ever to take form. Five American ex-servicemen stationed in Germany in the sixties, all dressed in black with heads shaved like monks. This was radical stuff for Germany 1965-66. Coupled with their violent, near-insane music it’s beyond radical for ’66, ’76 or even ’96. I could rattle on about pre-punk this and groundbreaking minimalist that, but that would be too pat. What the Monks were doing back then was way beyond that. The world still hasn’t caught up with the Monks.

I’ve seen a few small articles on the Monks in the fanzine press over the years, but no one had ever managed to track down the band and get their story firsthand. I was thrilled then when my good friend Keith Patterson located not one but two of the Monks: singer/guitarist Gary Burger and bass player Eddie Shaw.

Keith and I both visited and interviewed Eddie, and a week or two later Keith also interviewed Gary. The results of those in-depth conversations follows.

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It was with some trepidation that Keith Patterson and I walked up to the front door of Eddie Shaw’s house, after having made the long pilgrimage north to Carson City, Nevada. We were about to meet face to face with a Monk, in fact, the man who “dreamed hell’s bass part.” What lay in wait for us we could only guess. Given the Monks’ weird image, their bizarre and uncompromising music and their G.I. background, just about any scenario seemed possible.

Ed turned out to be a relatively normal and sane individual—considering he’d been to hell (and Hamburg) and back with the Monks. He began by giving us a tour of his hometown. Carson City is a town in a state of mild schizophrenia. Part of it clings to a historical Old West tradition of goldmining and gunfighters; another part strives to offer the bright lights, glitz and high-rollin’ casinos of its distant neighbour, Las Vegas.

We stopped in at the Nugget, the casino where Ed played trumpet with his first band, a teenage jazz group called E Cuarto Unem (“cos we were all intellectuals”or at least we thought we were”). At the same time that young Ed Shaw was aspiring to be a juvenile Miles Davis, in another room at the Nugget a 14-year old Wayne Newton was onstage with his brother, doing basically the same act that earns him millions today in Las Vegas. Ed Shaw went on to less profitable ventures, but he’s seen and done things that Wayne Newton has never even dreamed of.

Next, as storm clouds gathered ominously on the horizon, we headed out of town in Ed’s ’48 Army Jeep. Ed figured we might want to see Carson City from a higher elevation so he proceeded to drive the Jeep up the side of the nearest and biggest mountain. As the town dropped away below us, the narrow road became a rocky footpath, then it just became rocks. We shook, rattled and rolled our way to the top, admired the view, then headed down the other side.

Next stop in the middle of this rocky wilderness was an abandoned mill from the mining industry. Nowadays this stony skeleton is only visited by teenage potheads, would-be ‘Satan’ worshippers, and the curious few, like ourselves. Except for the colorful proliferation of LSD, Lucifer and heavy metal inspired graffiti, the place looks more like an abandoned cathedral than anything else; not an inappropriate haunt for a Monk.

It was here that the gold was extracted from the ore, with the use of cyanide. Rusted, empty barrels of the poison litter the ground in their hundreds, the noxious odor permeated the air, adding to the tangible mood of evil and foreboding.

After another short, bumpy drive, we found a real road again and soon arrived in Virginia City. The town still looks like the Old West, with old time saloons, stores and hitching posts; much like Bonanza, which was filmed in these parts while Ed Shaw was far away in Germany playing rock’n'roll with the Torquays and the Monks.

The dark clouds were now rolling in faster and it was time to head back to Carson—this time around the mountain rather than over it. After a few beers at Ed’s local watering hole, we stopped at the supermarket to pick up some necessary supplies for the evening: TV dinners, potato chips, cheese dip, lots of beer. We were now ready to begin the interview and learn the full, incredible story of the Monks.

(I would also like it officially entered into the record that Keith and I wore original Monk ropes around our necks for the entire duration of the interview.)

A week or so later, Keith visited Gary Burger’s home in the woods of Northern Minnesota to get his side of the saga. What we present here is a combination of their two reminiscences with minimal interruptions from Keith and myself….

Eddie Shaw: I joined the Army right at the beginning of ’61. I was going to get drafted; I was number three on the draft list. I joined so I could get in the army .band. I took the test for the army band and passed it. They said, “OK, you’re gonna spend the next couple of years down in Fort Ord by San Francisco.” I said, “To hell with that!” ‘Cause if I was going to be in the army and be miserable I wanted to see some other part of the world.

So I told them, I didn’t wanna be a musician, just put me in anything, I wanna see some other part of the world. So they sent me to Germany. I was a forward observer and surveyor in B Battery of the 6th Artillery.

One of my jobs was to drive around this drunken sergeant. He promoted me very quickly to sergeant myself. Then I met Gary Burger and the Torquays. They were just a hot band on post.

Gary Burger: I went into the military in ’61. I didn’t like the army very well. I went to Germany in ’62. I was in an artillery outfit stationed outside of Frankfurt in a little town called Gelnhausen, where I met Dave and Larry and Ed and Roger. We were all stationed on that base.

Keith Patterson: How did the Torquays come together? You were originally a duo, right?

GB: Dave and I were basically the nucleus of the Torquays. We started playing—just the two of us—in little German guest houses near the base. They’d pass the plate at the end of the night and we’d take our pfennigs home and count ‘em in the latrine.

After playing awhile with two, you start thinking maybe three’d be better, then maybe four’d be better. And of course it ended up being five.

At the time Eddie Shaw approached the group to audition, they were a 4-piece, with Gary Burger and Dave Day on guitars and vocals, Larry Clark on organ, and a German civilian called Hans on drums. Ed was bored with military life and was looking for a means to vent his frustrations, “Anything to make myself feel like a human being again.” There were no jazz groups on base for him to play trumpet with (his first instrument), but there were several rock’n'roll groups, the best and most popular being the Torquays.

Hearing that the group needed a bass player, Ed bought a bass guitar, learned the basic rock’n'roll chord changes and went to try out at a Torquays rehearsal in the auditorium of the service club.

Eddie Shaw: I started playing with them, after they’d finally decided they’d take me. Now we were in business. There were a number of guys who hung around the service club who wanted to be the vocalist. Zack (Ernie Zachariah), a tall, dark Italian was hired because he knew the most songs, and he could sing “Ruby” just like the original. We did a lot of Dion & the Belmonts, and guitar instrumentals like “Pipeline.” We did a little bit of everything.

The Torquays’ repertoire also included their theme song, “Torquay” by the Fireballs, plus lots of Elvis (Dave knew every Elvis Presley song there was,” remarks Eddie), some Chuck Berry and Ray Charles, and Larry’s specialty, “Green Onions.”

GB: We soon learned that we could get time off from the army if we played our cards right, which we did very well. The last year or so, all we did basically was play music. I got out of the Army in August 1964.

ES: The last year I was in the army, I was in the special services, which was something called “Operation Jingle Bells.” We played goodwill shows for the American soldiers and German civilians.

Charles Reich, who was the biggest agent in Frankfurt, said we could make a good living in Germany if we stayed there; so we did. We started playing the clubs around Stuttgart and Munich, and bars close to the army bases where the American soldiers would hang out. We played what we wanted to play and had a good time.

By late ’64, Zack was long gone and Roger Johnston had joined the band on drums. The set list now included some Beatles and Stones material, and lots of Kinks. There were also new songs written by Gary and Dave, such as “Paradox,” “Jump Out the Window” and “Love Came Tumblin’ Down.”

In early 1965, the Torquays recorded a single in Heidelberg: “Boys Are Boys” and “There She Walks,” both original songs with a strong R&B flavor and a twist of raw weirdness that hinted of stranger and better things to come. “Boys Are Boys” would later appear in a more radical form on the Black Monk Time album. Only 500 (or perhaps 1,000, no one can confirm) were pressed and the band sold them when they played.

The Torquays, ca. early 1965. L to R: Larry Clark, Dave Day, Gary Burger, Roger Johnston, Eddie Shaw.

GB: We were interested in original music right from the start. That record was basically a statement that, “Hey, we’re gonna record. Here’s two original songs, with—whatever—a hundred more in the wings.” It just happened that those two songs were ones we had ready, and they were our exclamation point that “we’re ready to do it now.”

In truth, we weren’t ready to do it. We needed another year to get ready. It was probably nearly a year later when the Monk tunes started to come down.

ES: We had a lot of original songs. We were one of the few bands who were working who had original stuff. The Germans weren’t doing it. We thought, if you were doing covers of stuff, you might as well do your own stuff too.

We were working seven nights a week, going from town to town, or playing month long engagements at different places. Sooner or later, something began to dawn on everyone.

In Germany it was: here’s a club next door and a club next door and a club next door, and people go from door to door, looking to see who’s doing what. And you’ve got the doormen out there trying to pull people in. Beat music in Germany was like a new phenomenon. There was an insatiable hunger for it. Anyone who could play three chords could get himself a job, if he was under 25 years old. The environment was one that, if you were there, you were just swept into it. But after you stand and look at all the groups around you, you realize that everyone’s playing the same material. Maybe one does it a little better than the other, but it was all the same. At that point, you started saying, “Well, wait a minute…”

GB: The Beatles were big time. They were doing the sweet stuff: “P.S. I Love You,” “Eight Days A Week”… Our impression of the Beatles was that they were “sweet sweet.” They did some damn good rock’n'roll, hut generally speaking they were these pretty harmonies and these sphincter-tight band arrangements. We thought that there’s gotta be another way to do this.

KP: The Monks sound seems totally unprecedented to my ears. How did you stumble across the idea?

GB: I guess I would have to say we dreamed the music. Maybe that sounds ethereal and nonsense, but I guess that’s how it happened. We basically came together one day and said, “We’re tired of playing all this sweet garbage that talks about how pretty you are and how sweet the world is.” The world wasn’t a sweet place. Germany itself was a troubled country.

That’s where we were living, and we got a lot of our influence there.

I think the music came from our dreams. We’d finish the gig at three in the morning, playing seven hour nights as Torquays, seven days a week, and go home afterwards or go party somewhere. What would we talk about? We’d talk about our music. What would we dream about when we’d go to bed? We’d dream about the music.

The Torquays hooked up with a team of managers (Wolfgang Gluzczeswki, Carl Remy, Walter Niemann, Gunther and Kiki Neumann) and the concept of the Monks’ music and image evolved over a period of many months as the band continued to play around Germany.

GB: We got some outside help, but I think basically the Monks was a creation of the Monks and of the Torquays and our heads in there. The idea was simplicity, repetitiveness, simple lyric lines, and don’t make the song too long.

ES: We sat down and we took all our songs and we all worked together. Gary and Dave had some basic songs; they’d written all of them up to that point. Then everyone got in and we j said, “OK, what do we don’t like?”

We broke the songs down. Like, “Boys are boys, girls are joys, da-da-da-da…” There’s four verses. You start taking words out. OK, “Boys are boys, girls are joys”—we’re not saying anything more than that so we just leave the rest of the words out.

GB: Editing is the key to anything, whether you’re writing music or being as direct as possible. Music to us at that time was no exception. We were in a country where minimalism with a lyric was important to us from the point of view that “let’s make everybody understand what we’re saying.” If we had too many lyrics, we’d lose that understanding and the ability to bridge some of those language barriers. So the minimal lyric feeling is a direct result of us playing rock’n'roll in Germany.

ES: We started playing with tension. Actually, that was the basis of our writing. You could find the tension point in an audience; you could watch them getting nervous. We had very astute managers who gave us advice. One thing was: just don’t let the audience fall asleep. So after awhile we’d just watch. If they were talking to each other, if they’re out there having a “dating game,” and they’re not watching the band, well, then the band’s not doing its job. Then you should be working for $20 a week or putting quarters in the jukebox—’cause that’s all you’re doing.  So we became very aggressive and demanded attention, somewhat like a small child. And when people got mad, the idea was to just laugh at it.

Mike Stax: Did you throw out all the cover material as you made the transition from Torquays to Monks?

ES: We’d still do it. Even as Monks we still did it sometimes, if we had to. But the thing was to change the sound and not sound like everyone else. To do that we had to look at different instruments, or a different way of playing them. We wanted rhythm. A banjo is not a melodic instrument. It felt like it had more rhythm, so we looked for one.

If you’re looking for a new sound, then you start looking at different instruments, and then you start trying them out. It’s not just a matter of saying, “Wow, this one sounds best.” ‘Cause sometimes what sounds “best” can get old very fast. Sometimes what just sounds raunchy… “This sounds dirty; this sounds horrible!” You’ve gotta love it, y’know? (laughs) That’s how the banjo came about. We didn’t know how to amplify it, so we put two microphones in it.

MS: And what kind of amp did Dave play it through?

ES: I think he had a Vox, an AC30 or something.

GB: Nobody knew how to play a banjo, but then we decided a 6-string banjo would be the answer, ’cause you can play it like a guitar. You pick it up and bingo! Dump the rhythm guitar and use a banjo.

What can you do about drums to make them more primitive sounding? The idea there was to kick out the cymbals. The early people of Africa and Mesopotamia or wherever that had drums, they had big gong cymbals or something, but they didn’t have drum sets with cymbals. So let’s get rid of the cymbals. Instead of using a cymbal, use a tom-tom, my friend. And Roger did.

You combine tom-tom and banjo with a kickass bass—”the bass of hell”—with feedback guitars and organ and yelling, screaming voices, then you might have something and people might wake up and listen to you.

ES: The idea of it was to get as much “beat” out of it as we could. As much “bam-bam-bam-bam” on the beat or whatever. The only time cymbals would be used would be for accent. If anyone wasn’t contributing towards rhythm, then it wasn’t part of the Monks sound. We took every instrument and tried to make it a rhythmic instrument. At that point, Larry, with the organ, became the melody carrier when it came to the solos and stuff. His thing was not to play it pretty, but to just go up and down the keyboard; sarcastic and brutal. The idea was to keep the energy high.

So, in summation of what that theory was, it was rhythm and energy. High energy and high rhythm. If one is confined to a cell and has to listen to it for six months, he’s gonna go stark raving mad, because it’s gonna drive him crazy. Even now, when I listen to it, it makes me nervous. It’s like my worst nightmare. If you do that every night for two years, it’s overdrive. You’re in overdrive all the time. It’s aggressive. If you listen to one song after another, it just attacks you.

KP: It’s angst.

ES: It’s angst. That’s exactly what it is.

MS: Post-army angst.

ES: Some people say that the Monks’ music is pre-punk…

MS: No, no. Punk is just post-Monk! (laughter)

KP: How did you hit on the feedback? Were you motivated by bands like the Who?

GB: Sure, we were motivated some by the Who, the Pretty Things and so on. The Pretty Things were a great band! They were high on our list of people we listened to. But one incident that stands out is I laid my guitar up against my amplifier one day and forgot to turn the volume off. It didn’t make any noise for a second. It gave me chance to get three steps away and it started going around. Eddie was standing up there, he still had his bass on, and he started going bombababombababababombababom. That kind of turned my head. And Roger was on drums… I know it sounds crazy, but that’s exactly how it happened at a rehearsal. Pretty soon we were just doing it. I got the guitar back up, I cranked up the amp and the guitar and we had a great time for a half hour until I blew a speaker out. So that taught us that we had to buy bigger speakers.

KP: What kind of amp were you using?

GB: I probably had a Bandmaster Fender. I eventually got a Super Beatle (cabinet), but I had a special amplifier. I just used the speaker on that, I had a real high-power amp driving it. That particular amp had been modified so many times, I don’t know what it had in it! (laughs) I’d bought it from a German guy who made amps over there. It really had a crystal clear, super high-end tone to it. It was good for some things and bad for other things, but one thing it would really do would be it would feedback.

Fuzztones were also a big part of our deal, which would help with the sound. We bought a case of those Gibson fuzz-tones out of the StatES: it was like twelve fuzztones. I burnt them all up over a couple of years.

I also used a foot pedal a lot; a volume-tone foot pedal. It was a Fender, I believe. It was the kind that went sideways, up and down. I used that on “I Hate You” and “Love Came Tumbling Down” on the album.

The new, individual sound was gradually invented. Now the band needed a simple, memorable name and image. Something hard and strong that communicated its message instantly. After suggestions along the lines of Fried Potatoes, Molten Lead and Heavy Shoes were all (fortnately) rejected, someone suggested the Monks. After some initial misgivings—Larry’s father was a priest, after all—they decided they all liked it. They would become Monks, with all black clothes, a rope around the neck, and the tops of their heads shaved bald. It was a radical transformation—especially for 1965.

ES: It was a case of going through the whole process of image, sound and presentation, and finding something that someone could see and understand without having to think about it. And if we created some primeval urge to break laws or to defy morality, then that happened to be that person’s problem. It wasn’t our problem.

MS: What about the shaved head part? Was that a difficult step?

ES: We decided we were going to do it as just a dime size. We were going, to cut our hair real short and then shave a little circle back there. I don’t know what it was, Roger was not happy at first about being a Monk, but he was the one who said, “The hell with it.” We went into this place and they took pictures of us and he just sat down and said, “Cut the whole damn thing off up there!” (laughs)

So we looked at each other and said, “Oh god, there goes our future. Now we’re not really gonna be attractive at all!” (laughter)

But the thing was, with the all black clothing your faces stand out. If you wear white clothing, you don’t see the face, you see the clothing. If you wear black, the thing you see is hands and face. So with a combination of all black and the head shaved… and we got so radical that we made sure that our fingernails were clean and our shoes were shined. This was like being neurotic, psychotic—full of neuroses, you know. When you walk among people you don’t look like you’re real anymore. People would always say, “You don’t look real. You look like you’re made out of wax or some artificial material.”

MS: What was the significance of the rope around the neck? Someone once described it as a hangman’s noose.
ES: The idea was that people were wearing ties and so forth. The managers said, “You’ve got to have a tie.” That was the most logical thing, because what do friars wear around their necks? In some ways it conjured images of walking on the wall. There’s nothing safe in the imagery of that. It’s not something that’s comfortable.

MS: Did you ever feel like you were being molded into your image by your managers?

ES: It would depend on the person you talk to. Sometimes Gary would say, “I think we’re being used.” But that happens no matter what you’re wearing or what you’re doing; after awhile you start saying, “Someone’s using me.” But in the end, you’re doing it yourself; no one’s demanding you do that.

MS: How did the audience reaction change when you became Monks?

ES: In Heidelburg, the Torquays were their favorite band. All of a sudden it was the Monks, it wasn’t the Torquays for the next gig. They said, “What the hell’s going on with you guys? We liked you like you were!” So we played Monks and, man, that was brutal. All of a sudden everybody hated us. Everybody that knew the Torquays hated the Monks—they wanted “Skinny Minnie!” (laughs)

I remember that the Torquays, as a band, were always fun. Everybody was happy, everybody was laughing, everybody was having a good time. The Monks was different. I remember people not looking at the band. They were looking down; they wouldn’t look at the band! (laughs) They were afraid of us.

For the first time, we weren’t able to walk among them and have everybody slap you on the back and everything. You’d walk through and everybody would stand back. No-one talks to you. That’s a hard thing to get used to, ’cause your first reaction is, “Something is wrong with me.” It’s just that it is an authoritarian image.

GB: Either they hated us or loved us. We had more hate than we had love, it was hard .for us to keep it going because we could feel this animosity from our audience. I had a guy jump onstage and grab me by the throat in Southern Germany, he hated us so bad. A guitar neck, where the tuning knobs are, in the side of his face calmed him down.

We had to live with this image that we’d created, and we had to be dedicated to it. We knew that image would offend some people, and I think that image may have offended us more often than it offended any of our audiences. They didn’t go home with it; we did. We didn’t mind. We knew what we were doing and we were pleased to be doing it, but there’s a lot of memories in there which I haven’t totally sorted out yet.

Before being signed, the Monks went into the studio and recorded an album’s worth of material. The tape included many songs which later appeared in different versions on their Polydor album, as well as other material such as “Uschi Pushi” and “Pretty Suzanne.”

KP: How do the earlier Monk recordings differ from Black Monk Time?

GB: They’re different. They’re more pure in their concepts. It was done in Ludwigschaffen, six or eight months before Polydor picked up on us. Each song started off with a real short organ signature, followed by a little hint of what the song might contain, followed by the song—which was often rather long and tedious.

ES: We were still experimenting. We went in there and recorded it and we didn’t like how it was. Gary was having problems with the solos and so forth, so we had to go back and rethink it.

With the completed tape in hand, the Monks and their management approached Polydor for a record deal.

ES: The management gave a full professional presentation. One of the things our managers did during the whole time we were working on transforming ourselves, they were there with cameras photographing. They were experimenting on their own as to how they could visually present us. So while we were presenting our stage act, they were experimenting with ideas of how to promote us. In that sense, it really was more than five people. It was a whole organization.

They would do photographs and say things like, “Eddie, when you make this sort of gesture, it doesn’t look good.” That’s people studying themselves, to see what they look like to the audience. You’re constantly trying to figure out how you’re going to entertain these people or how you’re going to give them something that they’re looking for. And they’re looking for something or else they wouldn’t be there.

The Monks’ official photographer was Charles Wilp, who later became the official photographer to none other than Ronald Reagan when he was president. Polydor were impressed—or at least intrigued—by the presentation, but the tape was deemed unsuitable for release.

GB: I think Polydor decided that it was a little too much. Punk music—or the Monk music—in ’65 was a little radical for Polydor. I think they picked up on it just because there’s an attraction and also an aversion to radicalism, whether it’s in music or whatever you might be looking at. If it’s radical, you’re both attracted and repelled by it, and I think that was Polydor’s attitude when they picked us up: “This stinks. But let’s try it!” (laughs)

Jimmy Bowien (who became the Monks’ producer) was a real smart guy. I think he saw something there that maybe some of these companies didn’t see. He was willing to gamble. He put his reputation on the line somewhat for the investment Deutsch-Gramophon had to put into the production of the Monks. I personally believe that over the short run his judgment was probably not vindicated. But over the long run, maybe his judgment was more than vindicated.

With Jimmy Bowien at the controls, the Monks went into the studio in Cologne to record what was to become Black Monk Time. Sessions took place late at night and into the early hours of the morning after the group was done with their regular live gigs.

ES: We were working at Storyville in Cologne, and we’d get done at 3 o’clock in the morning, and then we’d record until 7 or 8 in the morning. I think it took a week to record it; five or six days.

GB: For me, the sessions were drunks. That voice on those records was done by drinking whiskey—raw—and getting a raw sound; burning the throat and blowing it out right up front. So before you even started, the voice was gone. Straight, raw whiskey does that. That was our producer’s idea. I guess he was right. We had a great time in the studio. I don’t think we were drunk—let’s back off that a little bit—but there was a gentle buzz on from alcoholic beverages. I don’t think you’d better print this, Mike, ’cause let’s keep America and the world a little purer than we really are. (Oops – MS)

MS: You recorded the album on 4-track. How much overdubbing was there?

ES: None. Just the vocals went on later. We had problems with it. The way we were playing, it was very difficult for them to record, because at that time the best recording technique was to play very quietly so that you got separation on the mikes. But if we played quiet we couldn’t get that Monks sound, so we said, “You’re gonna record it loud or record it not at all.” So they would wrestle with it. So really the Monks was an experiment from the day it started to the day it ended. It was an experiment for everybody: the managers, the record company, and for us.

MS: How did you get over your problems in the studio in the end?

ES: Well, it was a big room and one time they tried to have us all in different corners of the room. But then we couldn’t get it together because we couldn’t get our signals together. So we moved everything back in closer. So then all the meters are in the red and it’s like white noise. So there were many hours of us standing around while the engineer and Bowien decided, “How can we do this? How can we get this feedback? How can we get in there without driving everything crazy and just having one big blob of sound?” But in the end they did it. It took ‘em awhile.

The album opens with “Monk Time,” an introduction to the Monks and a harsh statement of intent and beliefs, with a sense of humour seeping through the cracks…

Alright, my name’s Gary. Let’s go.

It’s Beat time, it’s Hop time, it’s Monk time.

You know, we don’t like the army.

What army? Who cares what army!

Why do you kill all those kids over there in Vietnam?

Mad Viet Cong!

My brother died in Vietnam.

James Bond, who’s he? (musical explosion…)

Stop it, stop it, I don’t like it!

It’s too loud for my ears.

Pussy galore is coming down and we like it.

We don’t like the atomic bomb…(musical explosion…)

Stop it, stop it! I don’t like it! Stop it!

What’s your meaning, Larry? (organ noise)

Ah, you think like I think.

You’re a Monk, I’m a Monk, we’re all Monks…

Dave, Larry, Eddie, Roger, everybody, let’s go…

It’s Beat time, it’s Hop time

It’s MONK TIME NOW!

GB: “Monk Time” was an anti-war song of the hardest, most brutal kind. We were just out of the army, but that had nothing to do with it. Even when I was in the army with Ed, Dave, Larry and Roger, do you think we wanted to go shoot people? Not a chance. And we didn’t want people shooting at us, and we didn’t want people shooting at our buddies. Vietnam was a real strange affair around then. Kennedy had gotten killed, Johnson was putting troops in, and the whole thing was escalating. Our friends were being sent there.

The lyric, “My brother died in Vietnam”—not my literal brother, but my human brother, whether he was a white man or an Oriental; it wasn’t meant for either one.

ES: “Monk Time” was supposed to be our theme. It was like Howdy Doody who hated everybody. Gary just had the perfect voice for it.

We’d worked on the arrangement together. At the time, we’d never done this before and it made me nervous. It was just something different. Here you’d have the drums playing and the organ playing, but no bass—you’d wait awhile and then you’d come in. With five instruments you can maximize your options by sometimes laying out: just drums and bass, or organ and drums, or banjo and drums.

MS: You had a problem with the line, “Why do you kill all those kids over there in Vietnam.” Why?

ES: I felt very uncomfortable, and the only thing that would make me feel comfortable—nd everyone had to be satisfied—the only thing that made me accept it was when we added “Mad Viet Cong.” At the time, everybody was knocking down the Vietnam War. And I was against the Vietnam War. I didn’t think it was right, and I was living in Europe and everyone was telling me it was wrong, and I knew it was wrong…

MS: But you didn’t want to put down the guys who were being sent over there, right?

ES: That’s exactly right, because we came from the same school: the United States Army. When you go in the army you get indoctrinated to perform: to kill, whether you believe in it or not, without thinking. When you get out of it, you get to think again, but it takes a long time. It affects men’s lives who’ve been in the army and who’ve spent their years right out of school with no other post-secondary education. They learned that camaraderie and that thing like, “I can run twenty miles if someone’s gonna make me do it” and all that stuff. So you feel a little bit of loyalty to those people, whether you agree with the war or not. We disagreed with the war. We made that perfectly clear. But the hard part was to say that we were blaming the guys who were doing the shooting.

MS: To me, the line is asking the US government: why are you sending all those kids over there to their deaths?

ES: Yeah. But you know what? Governments don’t listen to rock’n'roll, but the guys in the army are listening to it. In fact we had some trouble with that song in Mannheim or some place. There were some soldiers there, and one was sitting there and he started crying. He’d just come back from Vietnam. ‘Cause everybody was hitting on the soldiers— spitting on them all this. They weren’t the problem. It was the government that was the problem. It was all those assholes up there who were running things.

KP: Tell us about the song.”Shut Up.”

GB: The song “Shut Up” is basically a statement on the condition of the world as it’s always been and as it probably always will be. “Shut up, don’t cry… world is so worried,” it’s always worrying, there’s always crisis.

KP: What about “Boys Are Boys”?

GB: Fluff; but a hell of a rhythm.

KP: Hell of a bass sound! Monstrous!

GB: That’s Ed’s best bass sound on that one. I wish they’d mixed more of the songs with the bass that prominent. It really is a good sound, but the lyrics could be a Beatles song. I’m a little ashamed of that song.

KP: “Higgle-Dy Piggle-Dy”?

GB: That grew out of a song called “Jump Out the Window.” We used the rhythm from that earlier song as the basis for that. And “Higgle-Dy Piggle-Dy” just means, I think: CHAOS.

It’s one of my favorites.

“I Hate You” is my favorite. “I hate you…but call me”—there’s something very poignant about that, because there’s a love affair involved in that. I think most males or females can relate to that. There’s a lot of love/hate relationships that do damn fine. They tend to look ugly from an outside perspective. But you watch ‘em and they’ll go on for years, and they’ll die and get buried side by side. You’ve got to have that polarity.

KP: Is that song about a particular person?

GB: No one in particular. One time I’d be singing that song and I’d be singing it to some girl out there at the time. Another time I’d be singing it to a government that was out there. Any person really. You can take it any way you want. I think that’s one of the things the Monks had, was that the lyrics were pretty general. You could interpret them in a way that suited you. I think in your life—and anybody in their life—needs a song like “I Hate You” from time to time; just to help ease the pain.

ES: When we did that song, people would say, “Wait a minute; that’s being too overt.” We did get some criticism from the record company, “Can’t you just say that in a different way?”

“No, no. That’s just the way it’s got to be said.”

MS: What was the idea behind “Complication”?

ES: That really has a little German in it. When you’re living in a different society you pick up part of the culture. I was actually at the point where I was sleeping and dreaming and thinking in German. ‘Cause I was speaking German all the time. I was only speaking English when I was with the group. When you’re doing “Complication,” you’ve got your American background and they’re in this turmoil. We’re sitting in the Top Ten Club, reading the newspaper, seeing that Watts is burning down, they’re counting bodies in Vietnam and the war’s playing every day on TV. We only see it like we don’t belong to it. We’d actually become divorced even to our G.I. background at that point. That’s just your reaction ’cause you’re a Monk and you’re living in a country that just lost the last war. You’re talking to men who themselves were losers, who supported Hitler and all that stuff. You’re reacting to everything around you. “Complication” was the reaction of someone who was living between cultures.

KP: The way you sing lines like, “People go to their deaths for you…” You say it like you mean it!

GB: We did mean it. They weren’t just words, they were words that we meant—on that song anyway.

KP: Was “Drunken Maria” about a real person?

GB: Oh yeah. We knew several Maria’s and they were all drunks! (laughs) That’s true! So we decided we needed a song that commemorated all these Maria’s. They were all Yugoslavians, every one of ‘em! (laughs) They were all dark haired, brown-eyed beauties, and I miss ‘em all.

KP: Were there any influences at work when you were trying to do a close harmony number on “Love Came Tumblin’ Down”?

GB: I think we were trying to, but we weren’t able to do it well. I’ve never been happy with that song. I felt it was a little flat in one spot, a little sharp in another. That was written earlier and it was kind of renovated into a Monks song. We changed it, and basic-ed out the rhythm and the changes, and just turned it into a Monks song. But it’s still a love song. It’s a Monk love song, if you wanna call it that.

The completed album, titled Black Monk Time, was a crashing, smashing, thunderous explosion of musical noise and bizarre themes. It was released onto an unsuspecting world in 1966, along with the Monks first single, “Complication” b/w “Oh How To Do Now” (two tracks from the album).

Now the Monks embarked on an even more rigorous touring schedule. A punishing regime of mostly one night stands that would last for the next year and a half.

GB: Touring was like a big blur in my memory. We played a couple of years non-stop, with no days off. They were nearly all one-nighters. I think we’d end up with maybe Christmas off. The whole thing was at that pace. I weighed 120lbs when I came back from Europe, if that’s any indication of how the touring went. It was just a non-stop grind. It was tiring and demanding. Nobody should play that much.

I can remember driving down the autobahn one time. We had a bus that carried all the equipment, and one of us would drive that, and we’d have a car or two along and we’d follow the bus. I noticed this bus weaving a little bit. Dave was driving it that day. There’s traffic going by at 100mph—there’s no speed limit—they’re going-around us and past this bus. We pulled up beside Dave to see what was going on and he’s sound asleep at the wheel, going down the freeway at 80mph. His eyes would kind of part a little bit every now, and then—just to make sure he was still on the road—and then he’d close them again. That’s a pretty good way of describing that two years for all of us.

The Monks, 1966. L to R: Roger, Eddie, Gary, Larry, Dave.

MS: What were the venues like in the small towns?

ES: They were beer taverns, like old-fashioned dance halls. You could do three of them in a day. You’d just go from town to town to town to town, jumping up and playing two sets and off to the next one.

MS: When you went to those small towns, what did people make of you? I think of Germany in 1966—that’s only twenty-one years since Hitler!

ES: We got attacked a couple of times. They would jump up onstage and try to hit us—try and kill you.

MS: What kind of people were these?

ES: They were young, working class men, sort of pretending their religion had been smeared, or maybe we were Americans taking advantage of their disadvantage, whatever. We’d also find that with some German bands. The local band opening the show, some of them would actually hate us. And we were the only band who’d let everybody use our amplifiers! (laughs)

MS: Do you think some of those kids saw the Monks as part of an American occupying force?

ES: We were up north most of the time. We weren’t around where most of the Americans were. I never thought there was any difference between us and the audience; I really felt like I was a German at that point. And Dave did too. Dave had gotten really bad, because he couldn’t speak German and he couldn’t speak English! (laughter) He just got in between both of them. I just thought of those people as the same as I was—or I was the same as them.

MS: You played in Berlin, right? What was that like?

ES: Berlin was pretty sophisticated. Berlin was like playing for the college crowd, in comparison to, say, Southern Germany. In Berlin we would play clubs and people would just act like we were normal. In fact, I went to a party in Berlin one night and it was the first time I’d felt like I was being ignored. That hadn’t happened in awhile.

We’d travel through East Germany to go to Berlin. We’d stop some place and get out and kids would just gather around us and look at our clothing and look at our shoes. They would just literally stand next to you and it was like they were eating you with their eyes.

The funny thing about East Germans was that we were heroes when you’d read their letters. It was like, “You are the greatest thing that ever lived. You are my hope.” They’d hear us on Radio Luxembourg and see us on TV. It was different. The West Germans would say, “You’re fantastic. Would you please send me an autographed card. I’m your fan.” The East Germans would go, “I want to be like you. I want to come and see you some day.” There was something else in it, almost a note of desperation.

In between all the touring, the band squeezed out another single in 1966, recorded in “Hamburg: “Cuckoo” b/w “I Can’t Get Over You.” This record showed a noticeable softening of the Monks sound. Sure, the harsh fuzz guitar and booming bass and drums were still there (particularly on the B-side), but instead of the intense, confrontational minimalism of Mack Monk Time, “Cuckoo” in particular was downright wacky, to the point of being almost a novelty tune. Today, Gary dismisses it quickly with a few well-chosen words: “‘Cuckoo’ is a dog’s ass.”

ES: They said, “You gotta put something commercial on the next single.” There was always the pressure to be commercial; you’ll always have that pressure. “Cuckoo” was alright. We kinda had fun with it, because at the end of breaks some clubs would play it, and they’d open the curtain and we’d start playing with the record. Then they’d turn off the record and we would finish it.

GB: “I Can’t Get Over You” is a love song. Doggone it, the Monks are full of love songs! (laughs) It was one of the later songs we did, and I think that song was probably going in the right direction. It had a great rhythm. Boy, when it kicks off, it kicks off well. The song is a little bit too Iong. If I had to re-do it, it’d be a two minute song.

“Cuckoo” did quite well commercially and they did some television shows to promote it, including Beat Beat Beat. The Monks also made an appearance on Beat Club in Bremen (performing their amazing and never-released “Monk Chant”) and did another TV show at the German-American High School in Frankfurt with Manfred Mann in August 1966. (Manfred was particularly taken with their “Pretty Suzanne,” which he thought had hit potential.)

During this period, the Monks also toured Sweden’s folk parks and did a television show in Stockholm. Some people were under the misapprehension that the band were real monks, so one night they found themselves put up in a real monastery. The unholy Monks behaved as usual, getting drunk and rowdy and sneaking girls up the back stairs. The next day they were asked politely not to return.

Things began to cool down somewhat after the initial flush of “Cuckoo” publicity, and the band began to feel like they had over-exposed themselves on the German circuit. The Swedish tour was the first move towards breaking into other markets. 1967 found the band uncertain of their future and in disagreement about musical direction.

Their next single, “Love Can Tame the Wild” b/w “He Went Down To the Sea,” was to prove to be their last. The record showed a new Monks sound, a more melodic, pedestrian pop feel with mild hints of the emerging psychedelic movement, especially on “He Went Down to the Sea,” which featured extra instrumentation (including Ed Shaw on trumpet).

ES: We were a little more ambitious in the studio, to the point that really I don’t think the results were as good. We were arguing amongst ourselves. Some of us were purist and wanted to remain pure; others were saying, “No. We gotta change. You’ve got to join the rest of the human race.” It’s a normal “conform” pressure. They get you there because you’re different, then once they get you there they want you to become the same.

GB: The Monks were being pressured by certain areas—I may have been one of them—to soften up the sound some, as an experiment. There were more pressures than Gary Burger, but I was certainly one of them. I had a feeling that we could do some other things, more harmonies. My trend, probably, was to go the normal way, which was certainly wrong, in hindsight. “Love Can Tame the Wild” and “He Went Down to the Sea” was probably my statement in that direction. And, fittingly enough, that was the end of the Monks recording! (laughs) That record is a sign of a band wilting like a flower that’s seen its day.

The Monks lasted a few more months after the release of the last single, but they were racked with internal conflict and personality clashes. Nobody knew which direction the band should head. The writing was on the wall.

ES: The break-up happened accidentally, maybe four months after we did the single. We were becoming due for the second album. After the black one there was going to be a silver album and a gold one. People were getting dissatisfied with Polydor and we were wanting to go over to Philips; there was a hotshot producer there. What happened was that we started looking for other people to fix our problems. But we had to fix them ourselves.

With that last record, people like Carl Remy and Walter (Niemann, two of the managers) got really upset. They said, “What are you guys doing? You’re throwing it away.” They were pushing on us the other side saying, “Don’t compromise. There are no compromises.”

GB: There was a lot of conflict between two members of the Monks: Dave and Larry. Their conflict made it hard for the rest of us to maintain, because we’d be playing a song and they’d be throwing darts at each other. You’ve gotta work as a unit or forget about it. A band is essentially “one person,” and without that kind of unity you’re not a band.

ES: It was getting to where it wasn’t fun. It was manifesting itself in everybody in different ways. Dave was drinking too much. I was drinking too much. Roger was maybe taking pills too much—I couldn’t tell with Roger, other than all of a sudden he was sick a lot.

We really didn’t run around with each other much anymore. We all had our friends—different circles of people. I tended more towards jazz, ’cause that’s what I’d grown up with. I would go to places to see where Duke Ellington’s band was, ’cause they’d be living there and jamming in clubs and stuff. That’s where I’d go. Dave was always with his rock’n'roll buddies; all these Elvis Presley Monk freaks…

By the end, we were sick of each other; we were sick of the scene; we were sick of the pressure.

GB: We were supposed to do a tour. We were going to Saigon, Indonesia, Hong Kong and Tokyo. Then, after Tokyo, none of us really knew where we were going, but the assumption was that we were going to the west coast of the United States.

We’d just played a club in South Germany. Camera Club was the name of it. I think that was our last live gig. We had a month, or several weeks, before this tour was supposed to start and so we all kind of went to our own little hideouts for that month. While I was in mine, I got a postcard from Roger saying that he’d just about had it with this whole operation, couldn’t take it anymore, and suggested we get a hold of another drummer and continue on without him.

I made a phone call to our manager and told him the circumstances and he said, “Well, I’ll check it out.”

We did have a drummer, by the way, who would’ve plugged in real nice: Sooty from the Image. But our managers’ response, after considering all factors, was that the tour was off unless we had the five original Monks. Roger was already in Texas by then, so it was basically out of the question.

Roger had left due to internal conflict within the band. Anyone who’s been in a band for five or six years is gonna have internal conflict. He was just wore out. Physically depleted. So there ended the Monks, and so we let it go. I think for the most part we were happy to let it go by then.

With the band finished, the Monks went their separate ways. Like veterans returning home from some kind of war, each had to deal with the reality of what they’d experienced over the past few years, and reacclimatize to normal life.

MS: Was your experience with the Monks just a couple of years out of your life that you happened to be in Germany playing, or does it have some bigger significance to you?

ES: For me it was an educational experience. That was my college! (laughs) That was where I went to school. I often wondered later, how can I use this experience? When I came back here in ’68—off the tramp steamer I took a Greyhound bus back to Carson City—my family just goes, “What are you doing? What happened to your hair? Why do you look like that?”

I said, “I did that, I did this. Listen to this music I did!”

They looked at me and said, “Is that what you did over there?!”

“Yeah!”

“Oh. (pause) What are you gonna do tomorrow? Are you gonna go down to the Highway Department and get a job?”

So then I’d try and call up some of my old friends. “Bob! Listen to this!” Bob’s the fire chief.

He goes, “You know, Ed. I think you fucked up when you went to Germany.”

And I thought so too. I thought, Jeez, I did. I should’ve stayed here. What the hell did I do that for? (laughter)

GB: I’ve been divorced from the Monks for a long time, but, frankly, it’s a big part of my life—even today. I came away from them, I think, with some thinking that was a lot different, just by being a part of that. It wasn’t just a rock’n'roll band. The music was so basic, as much as we played I think it did something to our characters.

Once you’re a Monk, you’re always a Monk. Eddie and Gary (and Dave, Larry, and Roger, wherever they are) live with that reality every day of their lives. They have every reason to feel vindicated that as Monks they left a unique mark on rock’n'roll history that can never be erased. Long live the Monks. IT’S BEAT TIME, IT’S HOP TIME, IT’S MONK TIME!

“The Death of Bert Jansch” sounds like the name of a traditional folk song that Jansch himself might have resurrected on one of his early solo albums. Sadly, this imaginary song came true on October 5, 2011, when the legendary musician—whom Neil Young likened to “Jimi Hendrix on the acoustic guitar” and whose cross-generational influence is admitted by the likes of Keith Richards, Jimmy Page, Donovan, Johnny Marr, Joanna Newsom, Beth Orton and Devendra Banhart—died at age 67 after a battle with cancer.

The death of Bert Jansch was like the surprise ending to one of those old songs he so treasured. Earlier in the year he had completed a well-received mini-tour of the northeastern US after having had to cut short a major shared-bill solo acoustic “Twisted Road” tour with Neil Young in the fall of 2010 for unspecified health reasons. He’d also performed a handful of reunion concerts with the Pentangle, including one at the Glastonbury Festival and—what proved to be his final concert appearance—a Pentangle gig on August 1, 2011, at the Royal Festival Hall in London, the venue where the quintet had, more than 40 years earlier, recorded the live cuts for their groundbreaking double-album Sweet Child.

I was lucky enough to catch one of the final gigs on Jansch’s 2010-11 winter tour of the US. Though he didn’t reconnect with Neil Young in person, he did in spirit. Not only was Pegi Young (Neil’s wife) the opener on Jansch’s tour, her band included Rick Rosas, Neil’s longtime collaborator who recently played bass in a reunited Buffalo Springfield. To bring this six degrees of separation full circle, Jansch was listed by the band as an influence on the back of Buffalo Springfield Again, released in 1967. (Added trivia note: Pegi Young’s band also included Spooner Oldham, who played keyboard on many Muscle Shoals hits and co-wrote “Cry Like a Baby.”)

Bert Jansch (Photo by Loren Jansch)

The gig I caught was held at the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, Connecticut, the nation’s oldest public cultural venue, a fitting place for a living work of art like Jansch. It was a blissfully relaxed evening of music and conversation. Jansch seemed reinvigorated, strong in voice and nimble-fingered. He sang so casually, as if the music simply coursed through his body—as if he were channeling it—and he performed most of his set on an amplified acoustic six-string guitar with minimal stops for retuning. His facility with that battered Yamaha created such a hush in the theater that Jansch mentioned it twice between his songs. (“Thank you for being so quiet.”) Between songs, the normally laconic Scotsman was relaxed enough to make witty asides and informed commentary about his set list, which offered an overview of his career. He performed nuggets like “Blackwaterside,” “Running from Home,” “It Don’t Bother Me,” “Needle of Death,” “Angie” (his interpretation of Davey Graham’s instrumental “Anji”), plus two covers of songs by Jackson C Frank (“Blues Run the Game” and “My Name is Carnival”, during which you could hear the clinking of glass beer bottles rolling on the venerable museum’s floor, which seemed fitting somehow). Jansch explained how he tried for years to bring attention to the neglected Frank, an American expatriate whose lone album was produced by Paul Simon and released on Columbia in 1965 (most recently reissued, with demos and unreleased session tracks on a 2-CD set by Castle in 2003). Jansch and Frank (and Simon, for that matter) played many gigs together at folk clubs in London, most frequently at Les Cousins. After a life as tragic as anything Dickens might have concocted, Frank died in 1999.

Arguably the most moving part of the evening in Hartford was Jansch’s rendition of “The Old Triangle,” written by Brendan Behan for his 1954 play The Quare Fellow. He explained how he had learned the tune, about the abolition of capital punishment in Ireland, from Dominic Behan, Brendan’s brother.

It was at that point, as if anyone were in doubt, that the audience was convinced we were in the presence of living history. As self-effacing and shy as he could be, Jansch seemed to know anyone and everyone on the folk/blues/rock scenes in the UK from the late 1950s onward.

Though it took many years for them to actually meet—at a Bridge School benefit concert in 2009—the pairing of Bert Jansch and Neil Young was no random event. Young had long revered Jansch. In Shakey, the Jimmy McDonough biography of Young, he confesses to having copped some of his hero’s guitar riffs for his own songs. Young told McDonough, “I always feel bad I stole the melody [to "Ambulance Blues"] from Bert Jansch. You ever heard that song “The Needle of Death”? I loved that melody. I didn’t realize “Ambulance Blues” starts exactly the same. I knew that it sounded like something that he did, but when I went back and heard that record again I realized I copped his thing. I felt really bad about that. Because here’s a guy who’ll never play guitar as good as this guy. Never!”

Jansch harbored no ill will toward Young, though he was sufficiently put out by Jimmy Page’s lifting of “Blackwaterside” (Page recorded it with Led Zeppelin, crediting himself as songwriter, as “Black Mountainside”). Nothing ever came of the lawsuit, though, as Jansch characteristically let it wash over his backside.

Born in Glasgow of Austrian lineage and raised in Edinburgh, Jansch is perhaps best known for his work with the Pentangle, a genre-transcending quintet built around his and John Renbourn’s intertwined acoustic lead guitars, the jazz-influenced, seamless bottom of bassist Danny Thompson and drummer Terry Cox and the soaring silver-throated vocals of Jacqui McShee. The Pentangle were at their peak in the years 1967-1973, though the soft-spoken Jansch was quick to note in my interview with him that the band was never really broken apart. All five members remained close friends over the years and even reunited for several extended tours in the 1980s and periodically thereafter whenever schedules permitted. In 2008, they embarked on a successful tour of the UK that recharged their collective and individual batteries.

In the meantime over the years, dating back to pre-Pentangle Edinburgh days when he shared stages and flats with friends who later formed the Incredible String Band, Jansch carved a distinguished career as a solo artist. He learned his craft literally at the feet of iconic figures like Martin Carthy, Anne Briggs and Davey Graham (taking lessons in trad-folk from Graham’s sister, Jill Doyle). Renbourn also embarked on a successful solo career, while Thompson and Cox were among the more in demand session musicians in the UK (still are, in fact). Jansch was an inspiration to the ‘freak folk’ community, including Devendra Banhart and Beth Orton, both of whom appeared on his most recent solo album, Black Swan (Drag City). The remarkable thing about this album, his 23rd recording as a solo artist, was that it contained original new material as good as any songs he had previously written and performed.

I spoke with Jansch by phone at his London flat just prior to his December 2010 concert in Hartford.

Bert Jansch interview

UT: Your shows with Pegi Young obviously evolved from the tour you did earlier this year with Neil Young. Can you tell me a bit about what it was like playing with Neil? Did you spend much time together off stage?

BJ: We spent some time together off stage, which was nice. I stayed to watch all of the shows that Neil did. They were pretty remarkable. They were all solo, no band. He would move from acoustic, to harmonium, to piano, to electric guitar. He got really loud for a guy playing all by himself (laughs). Each night, the shows just kept getting better and better…

UT: Yours and Neil Young’s guitar playing seem so different at first listen. His acoustic playing is assertive and spartan, but he doesn’t have a lot of technical virtuosity.

BJ: I suppose you could say the same about me.

UT: That’s not what Neil Young says. He called you “the Jimi Hendrix of the acoustic guitar.”

BJ: That’s all very nice of him, but (pauses) I really enjoy watching Neil play guitar. He has his own style.

UT: Neil Young kind of effortlessly moves between acoustic and electric guitar in his concerts. I’ve seen him a number of times and am always astonished at how seamless the transition is for him. Did you ever try to tinker with the electric guitar or did you think it was best to let sleeping dogs lie?

BJ: As a young man I did but I never really took to it. It’s an entirely different way of looking at the guitar, a different musical road.

UT: In what way? It would seem to me that the electric guitar would allow you to hide mistakes under a cloak of volume.

BJ: No, it’s just the opposite. The electric guitar does not hide mistakes. Once your finger hits a string, it stays there for a while, so to speak, for all to hear. It also requires an entirely different mental approach.

UT: Much has been written about various guitarists who’ve nicked your work, some acknowledging the debt (like Donovan in “Bert’s Blues” and “House of Jansch”) and others simply committing highway robbery, like Jimmy Page. Young has said that he may have inadvertently nicked the melody of your “Needle of Death” for “Ambulance Blues.”

BJ: Ah, it was only the one opening part that he used; it’s really no problem at all with me. I never thought anything of it with Neil. In fact, when I played the Bridge School benefit last year he asked me to play with him on “Ambulance Blues.” He had to show me the chords and we rehearsed the song for about 10 minutes before we went on stage. The idea that he nicked anything from me for that song is, well, Neil is his own man, put it that way.

UT: What do you recall from the very first time you performed on a tour in the United States? Would that have been as a solo artist or with Pentangle?

BJ: That was with Pentangle. Our very first gig was at The Troubadour in Los Angeles. Somehow we ended up in an arrangement with the owner there so that for the next three years, every time we played in Los Angeles it had to be at The Troubadour. So we got used to the idea of doing two shows at night and three at the weekend.

UT: Were you on your own?

BJ: Yes, it was just us at The Troubadour, no one else on the bill. That was totally different from when we played places like the Fillmore East and the Fillmore West, where we would be on the bills with just about anyone. We did one show where it was the Grateful Dead and Sir Douglas Quintet, with us squeezed between them. And another with Canned Heat and Rhinoceros. Really interesting mixes of music and people, actually.

UT: Did you sense that it was hard breaking through in the US or did you not pay it much attention?

BJ: I don’t think we paid it much mind. We just enjoyed ourselves. We have always enjoyed playing together. I guess we just accepted the fact of not being played on the radio.

UT: Your music as a solo artist and the musicians in Pentangle separately, all of you, seemed to play music that evolved organically or naturally.

BJ: That was our natural way of doing things. We weren’t like the other groups in a way, musically or on the business side. We sort of acquired a manager. I don’t think any of us put much thought into that side of things. One day, we had a manager (laughs).

UT: You and John Renbourn had been performing solo and shared a flat in London?

BJ: Right. We also put out an album together [Bert & John, in 1966] before we formed Pentangle.

UT: In Pentangle there were five extremely talented individuals. How did you maintain a sort of equilibrium? Were there ego clashes?

BJ: No, there was no ego involved whatsoever. That’s in a sense why it lasted so long, six years or thereabouts.

UT: And you still perform with some of the former members of Pentangle?

BJ: Oh yes, the band is actually still together. Two years ago, we got together and we did a tour of Britain and that was the first time since way back.

UT: Black Swan introduced you to a new audience. It’s such a brilliant, contemporary sounding record but still rooted in the rich traditions that always inspired you. Do you find people are curious about this tip of your career iceberg?

BJ: Yes, it seems to recycle itself every five years or so. I dunno. I suppose it’s the young kids eager to search out music that they haven’t heard before, find Pentangle in their parents’ record collections and really latch on to it. It’s all good.

UT: Doesn’t hurt to have Johnny Marr singing your praises?

BJ: Oh right, he’s fantastic. Great person, talented player.

UT: You in all likelihood crossed paths with Incredible String Band.

BJ: Well, I used to live with them, for starters (laughs). Robin [Williamson] and I are both from Edinburgh.

UT: Does it feel good to run into some of these same people on the road, as they continue to find new audiences?

BJ: We keep in contact with each other, which is good, but I wish I saw them more on the road. In my young days, back in Edinburgh, I met Clive Palmer [a founding member of Incredible String Band] in a folk club, and Robin. And the three of us for a long while used to hang out together and play a lot. We know each other very well.

UT: Another one of my old heroes is Roy Harper, who I think you’ve played with.

BJ: Roy, yes (laughs), quite a character Roy.

UT: He was one of my heroes growing up, a supreme individualist. He always seemed to be out of his time, in a way, but that was his charm.

BJ: I’ve never actually played or toured with Roy, but I’ve known him since the Transatlantic Records days, the very beginning. [Transatlantic is a British folk label founded in 1961 that had Jansch and Harper on its early roster, as well as the Fugs and the Humblebums]. I know him well. I wrote the sleeve notes to his first album [actually, for Come Out Fighting Genghis Smith, Harper's second LP]. But we do know each other very well. He lives in Ireland now, near Cork.

UT: I admire him and people like you and, say, Ray Davies, who have certain ironclad standards and have not strayed off. Were there other bands who were sort of on the same circuit?

BJ: Fairport Convention came just slightly behind Pentangle. But we all knew each other so well. I knew Sandy Denny quite well when she was in London. Also, there were people like Ralph McTell. He’s pretty big over here [meaning in the UK].

UT: It’s one thing to be big in the UK, but the big leap is to find an audience in the US. Like with Roy Harper. How do you translate his Britishness to an unfamiliar audience?

BJ: I would say it’s more how to translate his Yorkshire side than his British side (laughs). Roy is an amazing character.

UT: I don’t suppose, since he was such an isolated figure, that you would have known Nick Drake.

BJ: Sadly, I didn’t ever meet Nick Drake. At one point, Danny Thompson was working with him [Thompson's bass playing can be heard on many Drake album tracks] and I got interested in him then, but by the time I got around to listening to what he was doing, he died.

UT: You played with Paul Simon during the year he was in London after the failure of the first Simon & Garfunkel album [Wednesday Morning 3 A.M.] He spent a year or so over there trying to make it as a solo artist. What do you remember about that time?

BJ: I remember that period of time quite well. Paul was a soloist at first. He used to come to Les Cousins folk club and he was great friends with Al Stewart, and at the same time one of my favorite American songwriters, Jackson C Frank. Frank had put out an album which Paul had produced. And that’s how I know him. We used to do gigs together, around London. I’ve not heard from him since. He has moved on, you might say (laughs). [Producer Tom Wilson overdubbed electric instruments onto the acoustic album version of "Sound of Silence," without S&G's knowledge, re-released it as a single, and it became a number 1 hit in the US. When told of this, to his amazement, Simon reunited with Garfunkel].

UT: Will we be hearing tracks from Black Swan at the upcoming gigs?

BJ: Always a selection from the latest album and then from the early days, I mix it up a bit.

UT: The venue is an art museum, which is unusual.

BJ: It sounds nice from the description. It’ll be interesting. This whole tour will be relatively short. We had to cancel some of the dates, and it’s almost like a reschedule.

UT: I’m glad to hear your health has improved. Are you pacing yourself on these tours?

BJ: I just take it easy.

Arguably, the best sampling of Bert Jansch’s core recordings can be found on the 3-CD boxed set Pentangling (Sanctuary Records, 2004), which contains an entire disc of material from his early solo albums, an entire disc of Renbourn’s solo work and a disc of their Pentangle material and serviceable liner notes by Colin Harper, author of Dazzling Stranger, a 2000 biography of Jansch. Of his early solo albums, his debut, Bert Jansch (1965), It Don’t Bother Me (1965), Jack Orion (1966) and Birthday Blues (1969) are indispensable discs. Birthday Blues was produced by Shel Talmy and features Pentangle’s Thompson and Cox. In 2009, Jansch’s most recent label (Drag City) reissued three of his hard to find solo albums, originally on the Charisma label. They are LA Turnaround, Santa Barbara Honeymoon and A Rare Conundrum. All are lost treasures that beg for rediscovery.

In 2000, the film Dreamweaver was released. This documentary about Jansch’s life and music, directed by Darrin Nightingale, featured talking heads like Roy Harper, Davey Graham (who died in 2008), Johnny Marr and Bernard Butler.

(This article was originally published in UGLY THINGS #24) 

The Phantom Brothers, 1965. L to R: Rudi Kruger, Horst Kruger, Olgerd Wokock, Wolfgang Wokock (Photo by Astrid Kirchherr)

In my personal Sixties rock’n'roll pantheon Germany’s Phantom Brothers occupy a special place near the very top of the heap. I actually became a fan of the group before I’d even heard a note of their music, my enthusiasm based entirely on a set of photos in the German pictorial book, The Beat Age. Surly and stone-faced, decked out in leather and stripes, and with a lead singer with hair down past his shoulders—in early 1965!—they exuded style and attitude. And the live shots, with that singer shaking maracas and tambourine together, and a guitar player windmilling his arm Townshend-style, suggested a sound that couldn’t be anything less than flat-out WILD, man.

Olgerd in action, ca. late 1965.

And wild, wild R&Beat music was what I was craving most of all back then, in 1980-83. Still is, actually. I was playing bass guitar with the Crawdaddys at the time, and bandleader Ron Silva and I obsessed constantly over these mysterious Germans, especially that longhaired singer, whose name, we learned, was Olgerd, a word we began to utter daily with awed reverence, like some mystical password to the Kingdom of Cool. An article on the Brothers in the late, great Gorilla Beat fanzine fueled the obsession further. We still hadn’t heard their music, but judging from their Chuck Berry-heavy discography, the Phantom Brothers were kindred spirits. Noting that they’d recorded Chuck’s “Run Rudolph Run,” we added it to our live set without delay, playing it year-round, despite its Christmas theme.

When Gorilla Beat editors Hans-Jurgen Klitsch and Alfred Hebing sent me a couple of German beat mix tapes we finally got to hear the band’s music. Amazingly, there was no sense of letdown—in fact the song “Chicago” exceeded all of our overblown expectations. That, too, was added to our set, and eventually recorded. (It later appeared on an obscure Spanish EP.)

Horst Kruger.

More than 20 years later the Crawaddys were long gone, but my love of the Phantom Brothers was undiminished, so I was blown away when I received an email last year from Olgerd himself, closely followed by a CD of the recently reunited band, sounding, to my astonishment, virtually the same as they had in 1964-66. An interview was immediately arranged, and was conducted by email, with Anja translating our dialogue to and from German, allowing Olgerd to answer more comprehensively in his own language. Olgerd also dug through his scrapbooks and pulled out some remarkable previously unpublished photos to illustrate the story. So without any further adieu, we present Germany’s Wildest Beat Group: The Phantom Brothers!

Olgerd Woköck was born in 1943 in the port city of Memel, where the River Niemen meets the Baltic Sea. His brother Wolfgang followed a year later. Memel had a long history as disputed territory. The city’s population was mostly German, while the surrounding countryside was inhabited predominantly by Lithuanians. After World War One, the Treaty of Versailles separated Memel from Germany and it was governed by a French administration until 1924 when, after an uprising, Lithuania took control. A decade and a half of Lithuanian rule ended in March 1939, when the city was turned over to Hitler’s Germany.

“My father was in the German Navy and my mum was from Lithuania,” says Olgerd, “but she was made German when Memel was occupied. There she met my father. This is why my first name is Lithuanian.”

Strategically vital as a German port, the city was fiercely defended during the war, but by late 1944 Russian forces were advancing, and in October the German civilian population was evacuated. However, the Woköck boys and their mother remained where they were. The Red Army entered Memel on January 28, 1945, and the Soviet occupation began. (In 1947 Memel was renamed Klaipeda and became a part of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic.) After waiting out the cold winter, Olgerd’s mother and her sister fled the city on foot in the spring of 1945, carrying young Olgerd and baby Wolfgang with them. They headed for the Bavarian Forest region, eventually settling in Bamburg.

Meanwhile, the boys’ father finished his time in the Navy and settled in Rendsburg in northern Germany, where he worked as a machinist. The couple decided to divorce, and this literally split the family in two. “After the divorce my dad took me from Bavaria,” says Olgerd. “Wolfgang stayed with mum. I had very loving foster parents with whom I lived until I was five years old, at which time I had to go to school and moved in with my father and his girlfriend, who had two daughters.”

It was a difficult upbringing, but the young boy found refuge in music. “As my family life was not very happy, I looked for my luck in rock;n’roll music,” he remembers. “First, I was listening music through jukeboxes. It was hard to get records. Whoever had records played them to the others on portable record players, also [on the radio] in the car. When you heard the music you were very happy, it was a kind of freedom—a liberation, the teenagers dancing to jukeboxes.”

Olgerd soon had the itch to start playing this music himself, and in his late teens bought an electric guitar after saving up his earnings from working on a farm. Soon afterwards, around 1959 he met two brothers with a similar taste for rock’n'roll, Horst and Rudi Krüger. “The brothers Krüger were also refugee children, from Pommern, Neu Stettin,” says Olgerd. “They fled from there to Rendsburg.”

“The Krüger brothers were real rocker types and I was more a James Dean type,” he continues. “I met Horst first and we started to practice. Soon afterwards, Rudi bought a Senor drum kit and we were three without a bass guitar. We even played a few shows like this.”

Meanwhile, back in Bavaria, Olgerd’s brother Wolfgang had also caught the rock’n'roll bug, and was playing guitar with a band called the Tornados. After a little persuasion, Olgerd convinced him to move to Rendsburg and join their band instead. “He actually was the lead guitar player in the Tornados, but with us he played the bass. Later on he traded with Horst and played lead guitar and Horst played bass. There were also songs when I played the bass.”

After growing up separately for so many years and only seeing each other during school vacations, the two Woköck brothers were finally reunited. “We first came together through the music,” says Olgerd. “That was a beautiful feeling that we were reunited through rock’n'roll.”

The three-piece group had named themselves the Phantoms, after hearing a record on the radio by a French group called Les Fentomes, a guitar instrumental version of “The Breeze and I.” With the addition of Wolfgang, the group was now two sets of brothers, so they renamed themselves the Phantom Brothers.

“We were professionals from the start, never amateurs,” asserts Olgerd, “and decided always and ever to play professionally. I finished my apprenticeship and Horst and Rudi Krüger were unemployed, so our decision was to be professional, immediately. We, the 2 x 2 brothers, played almost 10 years in the original line-up. In such a length of time, other bands were changing members like shirts!”

At first the group’s repertoire was mostly instrumental. “For about a year we were playing in small clubs in the north of Germany,” remembers Olgerd. “We played mainly instrumentals by the Shadows and the Ventures, but also some vocal pieces, for example ‘Sweet Little Sixteen,’ ‘Peggy Sue,’ ‘Baby I Don’t Care’ and ‘Rave On.’ At the beginning it was only me singing. The audience was very into it and was dancing to every song we played, including the instrumental pieces.”

As the vocal numbers started to get more reaction from the audience they added more of them to their set, favoring revved-up versions of ’50s rockers like “C’mon Everybody,” “Jenny, Jenny,” “Be Bop A Lula,” “Say Mama,” “Mean Woman Blues,” “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On,” “It’ll Be Me” and “What’d I Say,” a repertoire not dissimilar to hundreds of other groups at the time, including a certain four-piece from Liverpool whose act the brothers had caught in Hamburg.

“We saw the Beatles live at the Top Ten before they had their big break,” remembers Olgerd. “Then we saw them at the Star Club after the release of their first LP. They were really active on stage and were already very popular.”

Hamburg was the epicenter for the beat music explosion in Germany, and by the end of 1963 the Phantom Brothers had relocated there to be a part of the big city action.

The Phantom Brothers at the Star Club, Hamburg. December 1963.

“We began playing clubs in Hamburg very early on,” explains Olgerd, “places like the Hit Club (now called Grün Span), the Thäder, the Honululu, the Aussenmühle, but afterwards always drove home to Rendsburg. After three-quarters of a year we were hired to play the Star Club in Hamburg and after that time we lived there. In other towns we were the only band on the bill, but at the Star Club in Hamburg we only played for an hour at a time, and then it was the next band’s turn. That meant that we were waiting about three or four hours until we played. The Star Club had a stage with a motorized curtain. You were tuning your instruments, and then you were announced by the stage manager: ‘And now, The Phantom Brothers!’ The curtain would open and then we played.”

The Phantom Brothers’ first recordings were recorded live on stage at the Star Club. “Oh Carol” and “Shakin’ All Over” appeared on an Ariola beat sampler Rock and Beat Band Competition in early 1964. According to Olgerd, their frenetic cover of the Chuck Berry nugget pre-dated the Rolling Stones’ similarly fast-paced version, which first appeared that April on their debut album. The Stones, though, soon became a major influence on the Brothers.

“At the time we played about 30 Beatles songs, but dropped them pretty quickly when the Rolling Stones came along,” says Olgerd. “Then we played Stones songs, Chuck Berry songs, Kinks and also blues stuff. This went so far that people started calling us ‘The German Rolling Stones’ or later [comparing us to] the Pretty Things. We never saw the Stones live, and maybe that was a good thing, because that way we had our own show and not a copy.”

The Phantom Brothers at the Iron Door in Liverpool, circa March 1963.

Around March of 1964, the band flew over to England, along with Tony Sheridan and the Four Renders, and played a show in Liverpool. “The boss of the Star Club, Manfred Weissleder, organized a Battle of the Bands in Liverpool at the Iron Door Club, similar to the Cavern Club,” remembers Olgerd. “We flew in three little charter planes, without work permits. We played rock’n'roll and Beatles songs, which went down really well with the kids.”

While there half the band underwent an image transformation. “We all still had rocker haircuts,” says Olgerd, “so the girls in Liverpool combed Horst’s and my hair to the front to make them into Beatles hairdos. Wolfgang and Rudi did not go along with that and still had the rocker hair for months after.”

On April 4, 1964, the newly made-over Brothers played a huge show at the Deutschlandhalle in Berlin, opening for Jerry Lee Lewis. “There were about 12,000 people in the audience,” recalls Olgerd. “Jerry Lee Lewis and the Nashville Teens were the top acts, then Johnny & the Hurricanes, Tony Sheridan and the Bobby Patrick Big Six. We were the first band on the list, and the only German band. We played dressed in black, with black leather waistcoats. We were only just back from Liverpool, and Horst and I had Beatles haircuts. The people had not seen that before, and were crazy about it. We played a mix of rock’n'roll and Beatles songs. The people went crazy as we finished, and carried me on their shoulders off the stage during the start of Tony Sheridan’s set. It was a great feeling!”

Lewis, with the Nashville Teens backing him, was in formidable form at the time, as evidenced by the live album he recorded the next night in Hamburg, widely considered the greatest live rock’n'roll record of all time.

A few months later, the Brothers’ biggest idol, Chuck Berry, was in town for a show at the Star Club on June 5, 1964. “The day before the show he was sitting with Star Club manager Horst Fascher and a nice girl named Peggy at a table, and he listened to an hour of a Phantom Brothers gig,” says Olgerd. “In his honor we played mainly Chuck Berry songs. Horst Fascher came later and told us, ‘Tomorrow, when Chuck Berry is playing, you have the day off. You don’t have to play.’”

“Too many Chuck Berry songs in one evening?” he speculates.

By the beginning of 1965, the Phantom Brothers had gathered a reputation for being the wildest band on the scene. Their show had always been hard-hitting and more energetic than most, but it began to get even crazier as the band’s appearance changed from leather-clad rockers to longhaired savages. “I said to myself, if you’re gonna wear a Beatles haircut, you will do it thoroughly,” explained Olgerd in a 1980 interview with Gorilla Beat. “So I decided to never cut my hair again—which I didn’t, until the band broke off.”

Olgerd Wokock: "I decided to never cut my hair again."

“The Phantom Brothers were the hardest and most punk-like band that performed at that time,” states Dieter Horns of the German Bonds (quoted in Bear Family’s spectacular 4CD box set, Die Ariola Star Club Aufnahmen). “Later on, maybe the Pretty Things were similar to that. The Phantom Brothers came from the country, but they were so uncompromising in their act that we all could do nothing but pay our respects.”

Before long Olgerd had the longest hair on the scene, and by late 1965 it was past his shoulders, longer even than Phil May’s famously outrageous tresses at the time. “In those days in Germany my hair was uniquely long,” says Olgerd. “It was not that common yet, and you only knew it really from the Pretty Things.” (The two bands crossed paths in June 1965, when they played together at the Star Club.)

Olgerd gets down.

“As my hair got longer we had a show where we played a medley of ‘Pretty Thing’ and ‘Mona,’” Olgerd continues. “For that part of the act I did not play the guitar, just harp and maracas. I managed to get into a state of ecstasy, without drugs, and whirled wildly around with my hair and let myself fall backwards from the stage into the audience. They used some of the first strobe lights and the show was very wild. We also had an act with ‘Satisfaction,’ ‘Wild Thing’ and ‘You Really Got Me.’ When we played in little towns the girls were often shocked, as they had never seen anything like it.”

In July 1965, the band hit the road as part of a package tour with the Rattles and the Liverbirds, entitled “Star Club Beat Jamboree ’65.”  “This was a tour of 22 German towns,” says Olgerd. “All the venues were sold out as the audience in those days wanted to see the Star Club bands. The Rattles were something like the German Beatles, but we were more like the German Rolling Stones. The Liverbirds were the first ‘Girl Beat Band,’ so of course this was a very interesting bill. The time went really fast, it was like bus, tour, hotel, play.”

“We were really good friends with the Rattles and Liverbirds and there was never any conflict,” he continues. “We slept with the Liverbirds at the Hotel Pazifik in Hamburg, one of us with one of them to a bed—but nothing happened. We remain good friends to this day.”

Reaction to the German Star Club bands was so vociferous that things sometimes got out of hand. “The Financial Office seized the till in Mainz,” recalls Olgerd. “The audience was very wild and stormed the stage. They let down iron bars, so we played behind bars and everything was fine.”

While the band’s wild stage act and Olgerd’s longhaired appearance went down well in Germany’s clubs and concert halls, out on the streets it sometimes provoked outright hostility. “One time, in Bielefeld, when I was alone, there were eight guys that wanted to beat me up because of my long hair,” he remembers. “I had no chance, but was a good runner and that way nothing happened to me. When we were together as a band, we never had any trouble as we of course looked very wild and dangerous.”

Over the years the wild and dangerous Brothers also took their act outside Germany’s borders to Vienna, Austria, the Star Club in Copenhagen, Denmark, and an American Army base in France.

More live recordings from the Star Club were released during 1965 and early ’66. “High Heel Sneakers” was included on Star Club Scene ’65 (Star Club, 1965), while the International Beat Festival LP (Star Club, 1966) featured three Phantom Brothers tracks, “Run Rudolph Run,” “Beautiful Delilah” and “It Ain’t Necessarily So” (the last a studio recording, the B-side of their first single). All the tracks—”Beautiful Delilah” in particular—are outstanding, hard-driving R&B performances, highlighted by edgy, aggressive guitars and walloping drums, the brittle German-accented vocals adding an additional edge to the proceedings.

In early 1966 the group made their first single, “Chicago” b/w “It Ain’t Necessarily So.” “The boss at the Star Club, Manfred Weissleder asked us if we wanted to finally make a single,” says Olgerd. “He asked [Rattles leader] Achim Reichel to write a song for us. He did, during the tour, and also produced the record.”

The single was recorded at a famous studio in Maschen, where the Rattles also recorded much of their output. “At the time we were very tight and together, so the two recordings were finished in just half a day,” recalls Olgerd. “Achim had wanted the song ‘Chicago’ a bit different but finally accepted our arrangement. He played the tambourine and harp on ‘Chicago’ and also sang the ‘hey hey’ back-ups, with others.”

Released on the Star Club label in early 1966, “Chicago” is a stone-cold classic, the catchy melody riding atop a crunchy Kinks-inspired riff and a riotous, fast-changing rhythm. The song’s shoutalong “Hey! Hey!” hook cements it as an unstoppable crowd-pleaser. Despite a disappointingly generic picture sleeve (using a photo of an anonymous band onstage at the Star Club instead of capitalizing on the Brothers’ distinctive image), the single is said to have sold an estimated 30,000 copies in Germany. It would have done even better had the band promoted it through TV appearances. The popular Beat Club show, filmed in Bremen, had done much to raise the visibility of German groups like the Rattles and the Lords, who regularly appeared alongside British and American acts on the show. The Phantom Brothers, though, blew their one big opportunity to get booked onto the show.

“Manfred Weissleder phoned Leckebusch, the boss of Beat Club and told him we were playing in Bremen and that he should come and see us live so that we could play on Beat Club,” recalls Olgerd. “The only problem was that the club we played at in Bremen, the Burger Landhaus, was bankrupt, and there was no audience there. So for fun we played a Viennese Waltz called ‘Wiener Blut’ [Vienna Blood] with adult-only content. At that very moment Leckebusch came into the room and, shocked by what he heard, quickly disappeared again. That’s why we never played Beat Club even though, with our status, we deserved to be there.”

Their no-show on Beat Club has also adversely affected the band’s posthumous reputation. When the show went into regular re-runs in the ’70s and ’80s, many of the ’60s era bands, such as the Rattles, the Lords, the Liverbirds and the Monks, found a new audience for their music. The Phantom Brothers however, were nowhere to be seen.

“Many people from the ’70s who never went to the Star Club [in the '60s] because they were too young were later watching the Beat Club series,” says Olgerd. “They did not know of us because we never appeared on Beat Club. Recently a ’70s person said on an internet forum that he never saw us on Beat Club, and joked that ‘you just cannot see Phantoms’!”

Olgerd strips down Iggy-style, ca. late 1966.

The only TV appearances for the Phantom Brothers at the time were on news shows, reporting about the band’s wild stage show. By 1967 Olgerd was frequently stripping down to just his low-slung hipster trousers as he writhed around the stage like some bizarre genetic mutation of Phil May and Iggy Pop, the latter still a garage band nobody stuck behind a drum kit in suburban Michigan.

One widely reported stunt in 1967 found Olgerd at Berlin’s Playboy Club cavorting half-naked with go-go girls in an inflatable swimming pool. “The boss of the Playboy Club in Berlin, Rolf Eden, who was also the owner of several clubs in Berlin, hired us and we made ‘Beat In The Water’ with go-go girls,” explains Olgerd. “One of the girls was Ingrid Steeger, later star of the TV show Klimbim [and a household name in Germany]. We viewed this stunt more as a funny thing. The TV was also there and the German boxing star Prinz von Homburg threw me in the water and they broadcasted that.”

"Beat in the Water" at the Playboy Club in Berlin, 1967.

By this time the group’s repertoire had changed to include many soul numbers, like “Mustang Sally” and “Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag,” and also some early Hendrix songs, including “The Wind Cries Mary” and “Purple Haze.” “Horst also started to sing and this was really good,” says Olgerd. “He sang ‘Purple Haze,’ ‘Soul Man,’ ‘Shotgun’ and ‘Gimme Some Lovin’. But we still played everything our way, with three guitars and with the original lineup, without sax or piano.”

“Until the end we had a hot stage show,” he continues. “Everyone was watching and no one was dancing. The show was still our old image and it got wilder. After half an hour all of us were really sweaty and we had to get changed and blow-dry our hair. I believe that the show was in those days very shocking and unique in Germany.”

In late 1967 the Phantom Brother released their second and final single. Wolfgang sang lead on both the melodic “Flower Power” and its flipside, a stomping version of Junior Walker’s “Shoot Your Shot” (misspelled as “Shoot Your Shut”). Reportedly just 2,000 copies were pressed on the tiny ND/NC label. “When we stopped working at the Star Club—which slowly went bankrupt—we took a new manager, Rolf Treede. We produced a recording with him in the studio and created our own label ND/NC. This was the time of Flower Power, about a half a year after the hit ‘San Francisco.’”

By this time the once thriving German beat scene had begun to fade away and only the most popular bands, like the Rattles and the Lords, were able to adapt and survive. At the club level, DJs were taking over, and it was increasingly difficult for bands to get bookings. “Discos came up and bands died out,” laments Olgerd. “All the ’60s bands stopped playing because there was no more money to make and they needed money to live.”

The Brothers struggled on for another year or so, briefly adding a keyboard player to the line-up. “Bernd Schulz from Lueneburg, later with the Rattles, played with us for two weeks, more as a hobby,” says Olgerd. “We did not really want a piano man anyway, as we were a classic guitar band and stayed with that.”

Eventually Olgerd decided to quit the band. “This was in 1969 after a gig at the Astoria in Hamm, Westfalen,” he remembers. “Afterwards I became a DJ and made lots of money doing that. Rudi moved to Bielefeld where he got married and worked. He is and was the only real rocker among us, as he still played drums for a few decades in a rock band from Bielefeld. The other two, Horst and Wolfgang, took two others and played music by Vanilla Fudge for about one year after the split. Then it all came to an end. The show was missing.”

Olgerd later went into record production and had a million selling hit in 1978. “This was with the artist Luisa Fernandez, 16 years-old, and the hit was called ‘Lay Love On You.’ It was Number One in four European countries. I am living to this day off the royalties. In between I also ran a disco for three years.”

In his heart, though, Olgerd was always a Phantom Brother, and a few years ago he got the itch to reform the band. “After I met my life partner, Moni, I moved to Halle, Westfalen, close to Bielefeld, so I was closer to Rudi. I then had the urge to record our old sound again for a CD. Nowadays, Germany has a lot of Oldies shows again and the fans remember the great shows of the Phantom Brothers—the hardest beat sound in Germany at the time.”

“I eventually talked the others into it,” he continues, “which took a long time. We rehearsed in Rendsburg and Bielefeld and used a punk recording studio for our recordings.”

Recorded at Power Sound Studio in Bielefeld in late 2004, the Phantom Brothers’ Go Johnny Go CD is an authentic tribute to the band’s Star Club roots. Eight of the album’s nine songs are Chuck Berry numbers—including energetic versions of “Johnny B Goode,” “Sweet Little Rock’n'Roller” and “Oh Baby Doll”—and the other is a Bo Diddley song, “Before You Accuse Me.”

“You may be surprised that we play so many Chuck Berry songs on our new CD,” explains Olgerd. “We played all of those in the ’60s but we did not record them at the time. We wanted to go back to our roots and start fresh from there, where we left it. As you know, the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Angus Young and many others started with Berry and every band, including the Phantom Brothers, had their own style with this—almost garage-like. It was a ‘hot’ time between R’n'R and Sweet Beat [referring to the softer more melodic beat music that started coming up around 1965] and those who didn’t go to that earlier school were not aware of what it meant; they were not on the same page. If we release another CD we will not play as much Chuck Berry.”

On August 28, 2005, the band played their first show in 35 years in Buende, on a bill with Slade, Sweet and the Lords. The show was a great success, but, at the time of writing, the situation is uncertain. “Rudi and I want to continue, but the other two have problems again, including work related issues. With this the future of the band is not sure. However, Rudi and I will carry on as the Phantom Brothers, even if we have to bring in two other musicians.”

Whatever the case, the Phantom Brothers have already made their mark on German Beat history. As postwar refugee children living through uncertain times, they struggled against the odds, united and reunited as true rock’n'roll blood brothers, to make some of the hardest, wildest and most exciting sounds of a new and brighter era. For that we continue to salute them.

The Phantom Brothers in 1967. L to R: Wolfgang, Olgerd, Horst, Rudi.

More info: www.phantom-brothers.de