Where’s My Guitar?: An Inside Story of British Rock and Roll

4.

Welcome to the Real World

I finally left school in 1967, without any qualifications, but also without any misgivings. I did feel a little sorry for myself though and found myself kicking my heels around the town. School done, Liz Rees gone – I supposed I’d have to go to work, then.

To my folks’ relief I found a job, at a ladies’ hairdressing salon in Bletchley, about ten miles from Buckingham. I commuted on my scooter, on which I had painted bright coloured flowers – 1967 was, after all, the year of the hippie and of having flowers in your hair (or painted on your Vespa). My treasured Hofner guitar was similarly adorned. What a sight I must have been, a long-haired kid zooming down the A421 Buckingham to Bletchley road every morning. I got a lot of stick for it but all I cared about was making enough money to buy a Fender Strat and eventually, in my dream of dreams, using that Strat to earn me enough money to buy a white MGA sports car.

The reality of my first proper job soon hit home. Adam of York was in Brooklands Road and the owner was a small bald man, certainly not Adam, but maybe he had come from York. His wife was a first-class battleaxe, a Margaret Thatcher lookalike who called her husband ‘Mr Derek’, and I disliked her from the start, though she was fascinating. She was prim, very self-assured and loudly northern, but affected a posh speaking voice, accented by her heavy Lancashire twang: ‘Madam’s ’air lewks loovly – very classy ’air,’ she would say. ‘That’ll be two-poun’ ten, please, lady.’

‘Mrs Derek’ seemed incredibly old but was probably only forty. She was a tyrant and treated all the staff like shit. She obviously believed that she owned people if she paid their wages. I heard ‘I pay the wages around ’ere!’ many times. I should thank the sad old bird, really, because she cemented my desire to be my own boss.

I washed around fifty heads a week. My hands were in and out of hot and cold water every day, sores and splits began to appear and they even bled. I applied tins of Atrixo cream, but the pain was still excruciating. The final straw for me came with Mrs Derek’s point-blank refusal to let me watch Chelsea and Spurs in the FA cup final of 1967. This was the only live football game of the year. I snuck out of the salon at three in the afternoon and watched a bit of it in a local TV shop, before moving next door, to the Jim Marshall music shop but my northern ogre knew where to find me.

‘Get back to work, you little sod!’ she screamed from the doorway, her face contorted.

I was making three pounds and a few shillings a week from this waste of time. It had been my folks who, understandably, thought I should have a real job. But I hated it so much. I returned to the salon one last time. ‘Just stick your job Mr Derek, and your awful wife. I’ve got a gig to go to,’ I said, feeling rather good about myself.

Mrs Derek was furious because she had wanted to sack me first. What a sight she was – eyes bulging, tongue out, spitting out words and looking at Mr Derek for support. He gave none. The older girls laughed, loving the fact that the old bag was getting it from the youngest and lowliest employee.

I walked out, never to return. My folks took it well but were keen to see me employed somewhere. It was not to be with the Originals. I had been feeling very stuck with them, sucked into music I didn’t really want to play. I was a lot younger and had younger ideas. Time to find another band but, as it turned out, they found me.

The Daystroms were the biggest local group in the area, even touring outside Buckingham with their own vehicle – a Ford Thames van. I’d heard a lot about them. They took their name from a Swedish company that produced home kits to make amplifiers. Mac Stevens was their bassist and Tony Saunders was on drums. Singer Dougie Eggleton called the shots and, most importantly, owned the van and PA system. Dougie had seen me with the Originals and decided I would be better off in the Daystroms. I didn’t argue – I wanted to be in the biggest group in the area.

Lead guitarist Alan Rogers was Nipper’s cousin. He was a cool guy; tall, slim and, I noticed, he had very long fingers. I thought this was essential for a guitarist – I looked at my own fingers and inwardly frowned. But even with longer fingers it became obvious in those early rehearsals that ‘the kid’ was already some way ahead of Alan as a lead guitarist.

The group practised in the drivers’ room at Buckingham’s milk factory. It was small, stank of smoke, and was not at all suited for the job but it was free and I loved it. I didn’t love the material much. Even at this very early stage I knew I couldn’t play ‘Silence is Golden’ by the Tremeloes for very long. I was still super-keen to be playing, though, and endeavoured to learn all the rhythm parts. I also knew most of the lead guitar parts, and Alan Rogers was very aware of this as he struggled to play them.

My first performance with the Daystroms was at Whitchurch youth club. Alan Rogers didn’t show up and Dougie Eggleton was panicking. ‘Bernard, you will have to play lead and rhythm guitar, I know you can do it.’

I knew that I could do it, too, and even if I was a little over-confident everything went well. Afterwards, in the dressing room, Dougie announced that I was to take over on lead. Nobody uttered a word in protest, and I breathed the rarefied air of the lead guitarist.

Over summer we changed our name to the more modern-sounding the Clockwork Mousetrap, and the Ford van became a kaleidoscope of colour. On stage we played ‘San Francisco’ by Scott McKenzie, ‘Massachusetts’ by the Bee Gees and still bloody ‘Silence is Golden’. Despite my reservations about the material, I played a lot of shows, including my first bookings at any distance. We travelled to Northampton, Bedford, Aylesbury and even into Cambridgeshire. It wasn’t exactly a world tour, but for a 16-year-old it was an amazing experience. I was at the annual Buckingham Carnival parade, playing with the band on the back of a lorry. We also played the town hall that night.

I built a musical reputation yet, to a fair few, I seemed like a ‘right little big ’ead’, with an ego. But I was simply growing in confidence because I knew I could play. Most of the criticism came from people who would so have loved to be able to play the guitar. Bitterness is a horrible trait.

We played just about every local village hall twice – or more. We also had more prestigious bookings, like the officers’ clubs of Upper Heyford and Croughton US air bases. The crowd reacted differently to UK audiences. Maybe seeing a band playing American songs reminded them of home, thousands of miles away, as did the drinks and homemade snacks that I had never heard of before: cold Budweiser beers, Hershey bars, and the infamous product of one Mr Jack Daniel. I looked forward to the interval, when I could listen to their great soul records, including Wilson Pickett, Eddie Floyd, Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, James Brown, and Marvin Gaye. I was soon hooked on soul. After the break I’d have to get up and play ‘Silence is Golden’. I really wasn’t impressed.

One GI became a huge factor in my subsequent career. He was a black officer at Heyford and a guitarist, who had seen me struggling with a few parts. He approached me one Friday night during a break. He had a rich, southern accent, somewhere like Alabama. We had been playing our average versions of Stax material, probably ‘Soothe Me’ or ‘Hold On I’m Coming’ and he asked if he could play my guitar. He was good – very good. To my shame I only remember his first name, Bobby, but I’ve never forgotten his help.

He showed me the correct way to play the great rhythm guitar parts and brought his own Fender to the club. Between sets he taught me to play all sorts while the others were usually having a drink. Bobby explained in great detail where and how to shape chords and told me about fret positions. He kicked me into advanced playing by really emphasising the importance of rhythm guitar when I had previously been of the mind that lead guitar was of prime importance. Bobby spoke about ‘the feel’, over and over again. He told me that ‘the feel’ should be the very first and the very last thing I think about when learning a song. That tiny but monumental piece of advice stayed with me throughout my career.

We enjoyed our weekend partnership for some three months, during which time he even gave me records from Stax, Motown, Atlantic, and King and then he told me at one Friday night gig that he was leaving the air force and I was devastated. He had been the first real guitarist who actively nurtured my ability. He had turned me around and the advice he gave me formed the bedrock of the way I played from then on, the way I would write songs and, most of all, it ensured I would never do anything other than play the guitar for a living. He was a game-changer. He even joked that I would become famous one day because of his help. Well, what can I say? Thank you, Bobby. Wherever you may be.

I made a return to the Cream gig venue, but this time it was to be me on the stage. When the Clockwork Mousetrap played the Assembly Rooms in Aylesbury, I made sure that I stood as close to the spot where ‘God’ played and I went into my own zone. I still do that today at certain gigs – nothing really changes. On the stage in white paint in capital letters was a warning: ‘NO AMPLIFIERS IN FRONT OF THIS LINE’. I smiled to myself that night. I was sure that Clapton’s Marshall amps went well over that line.

About half an hour before the show Dougie had produced some grey, flared trousers and horrendous pink, polo-neck acrylic sweaters for each member of the band. I looked at him in disbelief and refused point-blank. The other members of the band began to get dressed and Dougie looked at me. What none of them understood was that I didn’t really care. If I wasn’t in that band I would surely be in another. I won the showdown, of course. What could he do? To fire me would mean cancelling the next few weeks’ gigs. My outfit stayed in its plastic bag although, with the others dutifully kitted out, the Clockwork Mousetrap looked like a very bad acid trip under the questionable stage lights. I would always have a problem with stage clothes. I have never really been interested in image, perhaps to my detriment but all I ever wanted was my next pair of Levi’s, a T-shirt or maybe a denim shirt and a leather Levi’s jacket. Rory Gallagher was always going to be my sartorial role model.

I was stonewalled by the band on the way home but the power of the lead guitarist had been established, and I used that little trick for some time, if not for long with the Clockwork Mousetrap. We parted company shortly after the ‘pink sweater affair’, but Dougie, Mac, Tony and, especially, Alan should be credited: they moved me forward a lot. I think they knew the time had come: I was on a totally different wavelength, with a whole new musical world emerging.

It was a guitar player from Seattle, America, who provided the real reason for me deciding to leave the band. I suspect Jimi Hendrix broke up many other bands as well. I saw the unknown guitarist on Top of the Pops performing ‘Hey Joe’. I had never seen anything like him – I suppose Presley accomplished the same thing for the previous generation. Jimi did outrageous things with the guitar, such as playing with his teeth. I was mesmerised – what a sound he created. No pink sweaters on this boy.

I knew I had to form a three-piece: guitar, bass and drums. Everyone I knew was reacting to the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Cream. I was getting tired of being ‘the kid’ and I wanted to be respected as a guitarist. This was a big dream for a 16-year-old from rural Buckingham. I formed the James Watt Compassion (I have no idea why I called it that), with Paul Sandman on bass and Charlie Hill on drums. We settled on tracks by the Bluesbreakers, Cream, and Hendrix, playing them exactly the same as the records – or so we thought. As the other two were both from Bletchley and none of us had a vehicle, we rehearsed over the phone, which was not great preparation for shows. We believed we were the business, but we were just about average, and it was the material that carried us through. We lasted less than six months but I knew it wasn’t working and the others agreed. At the final show Paul’s girlfriend chinned me for encouraging him to leave his previous band. Good girl.

The audience that night also included two members of the best young group in the area, the Hydra Bronx B Band from Brackley. They were there to offer me a new job, not knowing that I was just out of a band. Ian Dysyllas and Ray Knott said I could have the use of a Marshall 50 amp and speaker. A bribe, yes, and I took it with both hands. They even had their own rehearsal room at Ian’s house in nearby Turweston, packed with amps, guitars, microphones and a drum kit. They also had a coffee machine, which was all new to me.

They were more of a soul than a blues band and they did play some great stuff: ‘Hold On I’m Coming’ and ‘Soothe Me’ by Sam and Dave, ‘Sweet Soul Music’ by Arthur Conley and the brilliant ‘Soul Finger’ by Bar-Kays. The crowds loved their Motown.

Ian ‘Dizzy’ Dysyllas played drums and Ray Knott was on organ. Then there was Tom Kemp on bass, Ian Smart and Cyril Southam on saxophones and the dynamic Chris Adams on vocals. I replaced Graham Smart as guitarist. The band wondered if fans would still come out in force with the change but we won them over from the start. Ian and Ray could hardly stop smiling after the first show. We went back to Turweston and got pretty drunk on cheap Justina wine. For the first time I was playing the music I wanted to. The discipline in the band was very good for me, and Dizzy was organised in running rehearsals and making proper musical arrangements. It highlighted my rapidly improving playing.

The band slimmed down to Ray, Dizzy, Chris and me, playing proper rhythm and blues. There were more changes. I suggested to Ray, ‘Why don’t you play bass guitar? You are so rubbish on that organ.’ Tact has never been my strong point. We drove to London the following weekend and swapped the Vox organ for a vintage Fender Precision bass. Ray still plays bass today. Now going under the name the Skinny Cat Blues Band – I was a fan of Black Cat Bones with Paul Kossoff and Simon Kirke so I think that’s were the cat came in – we set about building on the Hydra Bronx crowd. I was really enjoying myself. The Daystroms had never had a musical direction, but Skinny Cat did.

I thrived on watching other talented people play. I always tried to emulate them even if I often failed. The Skinny Cat guys picked up on this almost immediately and I gained their respect. Guitarists who were years older than me started to come to Skinny Cat gigs, while we would open for other local bands and promptly steal all their fans. That is how it was in those days.

Banbury will always hold a place in my heart, as it was the first area away from home to adopt me, as a musician, openly taking to my talent. I had gone to a new blues club there and asked to play a song during the interval, as I thought I was better than the featured band’s guitarist. Unbelievably, they agreed and the player in question, Ron Prew, even had the decency to loan me his treasured Gretsch guitar. The promoter somewhat reluctantly introduced me, I sat on a stool with this alien guitar, and played Eric Clapton’s version of the Robert Johnson song ‘Rambling on My Mind’. The audience, players and fans alike, knew the track backwards. Most only dreamed of playing the solo, but I could – note for bluesy note. For good measure I threw in a couple of extra lead breaks of my own. I was rewarded with an edgy silence and so, wincing mentally, simply said, ‘Thank you for listening.’ The place erupted with applause. A few days later Skinny Cat was booked into the venue which more usually featured pro bands such as Chicken Shack, Jellybread, Duster Bennett, and the Aynsley Dunbar Retaliation. We were in good company.

We continued to play the venue with our following increasing all the time, although Chris Adams left the band as Ray, Ian, and myself were so tight. Yours truly became the singer, but then ‘Dizzy’ left to get married. The Skinny Cat line-up of eight was now down to bassist Ray Knott and me. Mick Bullard, the drummer with another local band, was given the job. He was used to learning songs from records but we were having none of that. Ray and I wanted to jam and find our own groove, to see where it would lead us. Mick agreed to join us even though we had no money coming in and he had to leave a band whose wages contributed toward his young family. The three of us cut the name down to just Skinny Cat to avoid being pigeonholed by the ‘Blues’ and in September 1969 I went into the studio, with the group, to record for the first time.

We booked a Saturday afternoon at Shield Studio in Kettering, at something like £5 an hour. It was a lot of money for us. The engineer, Derek Tompkins, was from another era – a total boffin with sound but about as musical as a candle. Roger Taylor, later of Queen, recorded his first band’s demos there as well.

I had my much-anticipated Fender Stratocaster by then. I acquired it in 1968 through a Melody Maker ad. It was a straight swap for a Grimshaw guitar. When I met the swapper and took my guitar out of the case, a pick-up dropped out and my heart fell out with it, but luckily the guy loved the guitar and while Ray Knott shook his head in disbelief I had a 1961 three-tone sunburst Fender Stratocaster. Dreams do come true if you wait. One of the best guitar deals I ever did.

I arrived at the recording session feeling a little panicked, having been writing rather average songs for about six months. I wasn’t ever that bothered about lyrics for my songs and tended to have a solid chorus with verses made up as I went along, which was difficult in the studio. I asked the others in the band to write lyrics, but they were not remotely interested.

Feeling insecure – maybe my songs were rubbish after all – I decided to record one of our stage favourites, ‘When You Say You’re Sorry’, by American band Rhinoceros, also recorded by Rod Stewart. The B-side was a very standard twelve-bar blues, along the lines of, ‘I left my baby this morning …’ you get the picture? A very rare 45-rpm disc indeed, I still have the one and only copy! The photos from this session are better than the record.

We returned to the studio about ten months later, now driving a brand-new white Ford Transit. These later sessions produced a much better tape of four original songs, and the band was tighter and eager to record. Mr Tompkins’s input was actually invaluable. The songs were a little better and this time I actually had written out lyrics beforehand. I heard the four-track acetate again in 2016. There is a diabolical version of ‘We Can Work it Out’ by the Beatles that I had erased from my memory. Nonetheless, I remember our local fans all loved the demos.

I took the tape to London visiting agencies and record companies. At Blue Horizon Records I saw Fleetwood Mac producer Mike Vernon. I was excited to be so close to Peter Green. Mike said he liked my voice and that the guitar was very good and, credit to him, he did come to see us live: many wouldn’t have done so. He wrote that he had enjoyed the playing but the material was ‘not strong enough’. I still have the letter somewhere. Not strong at all, Mike, you were very kind!

I had no luck anywhere else. I went to the label run by Dick James, the Beatles publisher, in New Oxford Street. I had been waiting in reception all morning when I recognised Elton John coming in. He was dressed in denim with fabric badges sewed all over his jacket and jeans. He looked pretty flamboyant, even at that early stage in his career! He had a great record out at the time called ‘Lady Samantha’. He seemed pleasantly surprised that I recognised him and asked if I’d like to join him for a coffee – probably the first real cup I ever had. He was a very nice guy and with a grin insisted he paid for the coffee, as he’d get the money back from expenses. We returned to the office and there was still no sign of the man I wanted to see. I had other appointments and Elton John said he would get the tape copied and leave it for my contact. What a lovely gesture and although I never heard from the label about the Skinny Cat tape, I’m not surprised, thinking back. The songs were not exactly John and Taupin. I had missed my chance – it could have been Bernie Marsden, not Bernie Taupin! Dream on, BM.