22

IN WHICH… I ACT POST HASTE

I wrote a world-exclusive, front-page story for the Post’s issue of 30 July 1969, Wembley edition, reporting that the local Starlite Ballroom, a venue which staged gigs by many of the top bands of the 1960s was about to reopen, after trouble and violence had broken out at discos staged there. I also reported that Steve Marriott had expressed a desire to debut his new band Humble Pie there: ‘We certainly don’t want to do an Albert Hall concert. I’d like to open up at the Starlite, to play to about 200 people.’ Now you can’t say that wasn’t a scoop…

By now I was writing a weekly column, sometimes known as the Graham Sharpe Page, and also as Record Rendezvous. This began to help increase the size of my record collection – and, probably, my ego, too, as my dreadful, pudding-basined haircut from the photo on my earlier column, Let’s Go, had been dumped in favour of a slightly less ludicrous head and shoulders image.

The new column would certainly also enhance the future value of the record collection. In December 1968, the Pretty Things’ SF Sorrow, worth up to £700 these days, was released, and given a ‘very interesting’ welcome from yours truly. My best single of the week that fortnight before Christmas went to Donovan’s ‘Atlantis’, although when writing this chapter I had to refresh my memory of that now obscure offering.

Back in the office with the New Year just a week behind us, I was idly musing on how we were going to find some decent stories to fill our quota, when Gina, our switchboard operative, put a call through to me: ‘Hello, my name is Elton John. Well, that isn’t my real name, it’s Reg Dwight... anyway, I’m from Pinner, I’ve got a new record out, and Tony Blackburn has made it his Record of the Week on Radio One. I thought you might like to write about me.’ Unable to resist joshing with someone who was clearly another of the no-hope pop wannabes from our patch, I quipped, ‘Never mind, I suppose your career might survive the curse of Blackburn.’

Amongst our other local hopefuls were The Sweet, whose main man, the late Brian Connolly would soon ring to tell me, ‘Our next single is going to be a big hit, you might want to cover the story.’ ‘How can you be so sure?’ I asked naively. ‘Our manager has just been out buying hundreds of copies from the shops which make chart returns,’ he told me confidently and indiscreetly. I would also pop down to reception for a chat with hit-making Edison Lighthouse who, it transpired were all almost seven feet tall. So, I’d thought, anyway, until looking down to see they were all wearing five-inch Cuban heels and platform soles.

But back to Reg.

‘The new single is called “Lady Samantha”. I wrote it with my flat-mate Bernie. Perhaps you’d like to write about us.’

On this particular day I certainly wouldn’t. I had quite enough to do as it was. We all had to contribute to the mounds of stories needed to fill the shared pages of the paper as well as inventing, sorry, sourcing those which would end up on the three ‘change’ pages dedicated specifically to each individual area.

‘Hold on, I’ll see if anyone’s free,’ I told Reg John or whatever his name was, whose patience was probably running short by now.

‘Got some local bloke called Elton Dwight or some such, on the phone who says Tony Blackburn likes his new record. Anyone want to interview him?’ I called out.

Most reporters didn’t even look up, but carried on hammering their typewriters, talking on the phone, smoking, imbibing copious amounts of supposedly euphoria-inducing cough mixture, or flicking paper pellets at each other. The Editor twirled down the office, distractedly puffing on his pen.

‘All right, Sharpe, I’ll take it. Switch the call over to me.’ Bill Kellow, Chief Reporter, sitting unconcernedly in his chair by the wall, put down his steel ruler, used for designing the layout of pages, and sword-fencing against other reporters, rubbed his jet-black moustache, and picked up the phone.

‘Hello, Mr Reg, Bill Kellow here, how can I help?’

Over the years that followed I have regaled scores, if not hundreds, of friends and relatives with this anecdote, claiming that the Post was the first paper ever to write about Elton and that I had enabled that to happen. Yet I was always unable to provide specific proof. When I began writing this book I wondered how to find irrefutable evidence. I vaguely remembered that there had been an Elton John album which came with a pull-out containing a number of early articles written about him and Bernie Taupin before their careers had taken off. I soon discovered that the record in question was Captain Fantastic & The Brown Dirt Cowboy, released on the DJM label in 1975, in a gatefold cover, together with a 16-page colour song lyric booklet, plus another 16-page booklet, titled ‘Scraps’, containing early snippets and articles.

I found a copy for sale on eBay, which boasted that it came with all the extras issued alongside the record, and my bid of £15 was successful. There, on page five of its booklet was a story and photograph headed: LEAPING FOR JOY – AND NO WONDER. The photograph showed Messrs John and Taupin, clad in what appear to be coats made out of carpets, performing star-jumps in their garden. The accompanying caption declares ‘Elton John and Bernie Tautin (sic) take time out to face Post photographer Peter Wilson.’ The fact that we managed to spell Bernie’s surname incorrectly is in itself evidence that this story did indeed come from the Post, where we invariably included literals (mistakes) approximately every couple of dozen words. Over on page 6 was Kellow’s write-up, alongside an extract from Elton’s diary, showing under the date of 17 January 1969, ‘“Lady Samantha” released’, with further literals emphasising the fact that it was our story. ‘Pop singer Elton John (alias Reg Bright (sic) of Northwood Hills, is carving himself a place in show business,’ burbles Bill, informing readers that Elton, 21, ‘composed “Lady Samantha” and was assisted with the lyrics by Bernie Tautin (sic).’ Yup, there it is. A classic Post story – informative, ahead of the game and packed with inaccuracies!

In the same edition of the Post in which I broke the Starlite story opening this chapter, I was also ‘shocked’ by a track on the latest Sly and the Family Stone LP, Stand, called ‘Don’t Call Me N*****, Whitey’. (Not asterixed on the record). A few weeks later, I reviewed the new Bakerloo album, now selling for £300, as ‘competent with a lot to please and a lot of promise’. Another new group getting a debut LP review from me was Yes, which I voted ‘promising with plenty of contrasts and plenty of good ideas’. I still own this, with RRPG pricing it at £175. Number 1 in this particular week was the Zager & Evans’ oddity, ‘In the Year 2525’. I still have their first and only LP, 2525, too. Now not worth even £25.25.

Under the headline ‘Shiver me turntable “The Drunken Sailor” was never like this’, I enthused about Sea Shanties, the LP by High Tide, the group ‘that make Led Zep sound like the Sandpipers’ – perhaps, I thought, ‘the heaviest sound in the world… like an erupting volcano… a whistling hurricane’. This astonishing sonic sensation now has a £200 value. I’m also pleased to note that Abbey Road had a rave review. And the Farx Club was about to welcome gigs by Blossom Toes, Graham Bond, Savoy Brown and Roy Harper. Oh for a time machine!

Looking through old columns reminds me of what remains a truism to this day. Reviewing records is not easy. How do you keep coming up with something different to say without repeating yourself? And when an extraordinary record comes along how can you ensure you do it verbal justice? In October 1970, I had to deal with Fleetwood Mac’s new single, ‘Oh Well Parts One and Two’. You’ll know the track, both sides of it, probably. How would you describe it? ‘Immensely powerful. Racy, exciting guitar work interspersed with pauses for atmospheric vocal’ wasn’t that bad an effort for Part One, you will hopefully agree. There was also an Andromeda LP. ‘They thud solidly’ was probably not an inspired reaction, but why in Heaven’s name didn’t I keep the record which now goes for a grand? I also had The Stooges’ debut Elektra album (now a mere £250 worth) to give the once over. I should probably not draw too much attention to my verdict of ‘frenetic shouting; only average heavy rock’.

Perhaps my favourite headline over any column I’ve ever written appeared on 14 January 1970 in Record Rendezvous:

‘WIFE BEATING, CLANDESTINE LOVE, MURDER AND OTHER GOODIES!’

That entire headline referred to one track on the favourably reviewed Fairport Convention LP, Liege and Lief (£150) and that track was – still is – the eight-minute-long ‘Matty Groves’. Listen to it, if you don’t believe me…

The edition of 29 April 1970 (my wife-to-be’s 16th birthday!) saw me reviewing a single by a new band offering ‘an averagely heavy rock noise’ – The Iron Maiden, four boys from Basildon. ‘Throbbing beat, lengthy guitar, lasting for six minutes, but I like that name,’ I wrote. I was right – great name but it would take a different group to make it the name of a successful band! And that one wasn’t from Basildon but the single, still sitting on one of my shelves, sells for around £45 now. A few weeks later on 12 August 1970, I gave Alan Price my coveted ‘Star Album’ of the week award for The World of Alan Price which sold for a penny under a quid. (It’s probably now worth less than that, allowing for inflation.) ‘Phenomenal value,’ I raved. It wasn’t more than a few months earlier that I’d also handed him Single of the Week for his under-rated ‘The Trimdon Grange Explosion’.

A few years later I paid slightly more than 19/11d to be abused by Mr Price. Not that that was the object of the exercise when tickets were purchased to see him play with his band, including the always excellent Zoot Money, at the Harrow Arts Centre, a local venue holding some 500 when packed. It was far from packed on this particular evening, and Mr Price was far from happy about that. So he set about berating those of us in the small audience – who had, remember, made the effort and paid the money to see and hear him – about those of our neighbours who had found more interesting things to do, and how he’d have much preferred to be doing something else had he realised how few of us would deem his appearance worthy of our time, money and due devotion. Price didn’t shut up moaning – to the extent that I had a quick word with Zoot Money, who had the grace to look apologetic about the headliner’s curmudgeonly attitude, then wrote to his promoter to complain about his attitude. Didn’t get even 19/11d back in response, but I’ve since had the last laugh. I’ve never been to see him again and never bought another one of his records.

By April 1971, with a new regime in charge, my Post column had become Sounds Good and I’m pleased to say I was ranting that ‘I really cannot understand the prejudice that exists against reggae. This form of musical snobbery is utterly beyond me. Trendies dismiss it because it is so direct, danceable and enjoyable.’ Being a journalist had always been my ambition and to achieve it before reaching the age of eighteen was very satisfying. In those days local newspapers were far more influential than they are today and, as a representative of the local media, even as ramshackle and unconventional an element of it as the Post, you had a certain amount of clout. People were slightly wary of you as they knew you could make or ruin a reputation.

I learned the profession literally on the job, attending college once a week to gain proficiency in matters of law, local government and shorthand. These were the best three years of my life, not that I was aware of that at the time. They set me up for what would follow – they also saw me confirmed as a hopeless vinyl addict. Cruelly, vinyl hastened my departure from this dream job.

Newish Post editor, Dina Machalepis, was an Elvis Presley fan. She asked me whether, after I’d reviewed the imminently-to-appear new album by ‘The King’, I would let her have it. Of course, I said I would. I was never an Elvis fan. She went off on holiday, anticipating that she’d have the new LP when she returned. But for some reason the record company, RCA, never sent it. Either that, or the postie or a colleague nicked it while it was on, or before it reached, my desk. On her return, Dina was not happy. She accused me of keeping the record, which I’d never received. What started as an ‘oh yes it did, oh no it didn’t’ row descended into a slanging match. I was reported to the MD, known as AJ, who called me into his office.

‘Miss M tells me you called her a ******* ****. I think you should apologise to her immediately.’

He’d never liked me. I knew that, because when I’d started the record review column in the paper I’d taken to adding alongside my own thoughts, the opinions of ‘my friend Martin’, who worked in the paper’s darkroom. AJ had demanded that I ceased using this phrase, lest people should think we were homosexual. Almost 50 years on from that incident, Martin – now a father to Ollie, who, I’m delighted to report, loves his vinyl – still identifies as heterosexual.

But back to 1971, and here was AJ insisting I should grovel and say sorry, despite being in the right:

‘If you think that, you’re a bigger ******* **** than she is.’

‘I think you should leave immediately.’

I did, but had the satisfaction of winning a subsequent tribunal hearing and, despite having to repeat the words ******* **** to the elderly ladies ruling on the case, I was reinstated. But I never returned to the office.

Instead, I entered my wilderness year. I endured a few weeks on the dole before my Dad got fed up with supporting me and declared I must work for him on the building site where he was foreman. That was tough, and it was another record which finally forced me back on the straight and narrow. I was working on a site where ‘we’ were building a new warehouse. I was the labourer, in a stylish, over-large donkey-jacket, mixing cement, lifting every breeze-block and brick and, the only remotely enjoyable part of the job, zipping around the site in my mini forklift truck. Like on all building sites there was a transistor radio blaring out the hits of the day, and as it poured down yet again during January 1972, it seemed to me that the song ‘Storm in a Teacup’, the last Top 10 hit The Fortunes would enjoy, was played once an hour, if not more. I kept hearing its lyrics:

One drop of rain

On your window-pane

Doesn’t mean to say

There’s a thunderstorm comin’,

The rain may pour

For an hour or more,

But it doesn’t matter…

It did to me. I was bloody well fed up with both the rain and the cold, and when I spotted an advertisement in the local press for a boardman to work in a betting shop, I immediately thought, ‘There’s my way out of this incessant rain.’ The ‘boardman’, no longer necessary in modern-day betting shops, was the person, almost invariably a man, who would, in ancient days, chalk up on a board the names of the runners and sometimes also the riders for each race taking place that day, later adding alongside the name the relevant odds as the race approached. After the race he would write up the result. As the world progressed, chalk was replaced by felt tip pens, blackboards by white boards, pure bleach for rubbing things off the board, by some equally skin-stripping liquid.

I sailed through the interview for the job:

‘What does 2/1 mean?’

‘For every pound you stake you will get back £2 if your selection wins, and you’ll also get your original pound back.’

‘Correct, when can you start?’

The man who gave me the job was Harry Lovett. He did love it – and so, I soon realised, did I. The donkey jacket was handed back to Dad, and I was now gainfully employed by the company with which I would spend over 45 years: William Hill. Although Record Rendezvous and my career as a reporter were no more, I managed to find a new niche for reviews and my Sounds International column was soon giving the lowdown on up-coming disco fare and dance floor movers to readers of Sun News, a weekly English-language paper for exiled Brits on the Spanish Costas, as the 1970s boogied their way towards the 1980s.