The deal I signed to was with Dick Katz/Harold Davison Ltd, and it took us to Pye Records. Typed up in about ten thousand words, what it basically said was, ‘Dear Episode Six, I’m going to earn you £30, 000 this year, and deal with the record company for you.’ It sounded extremely good, and so we signed a royalty agreement that gave us 75 per cent of 1 per cent, rising to ‘of 3 per cent’ after twenty-five years, and on that outcome, as we’d soon learn, we were supposed to live and keep our manager happy!
Of course it’s always easy to be wise with hindsight, but these sorts of deal were commonplace then, and would continue as such for many years, until the balance of power shifted more in favour of the artist, helped by a couple of well-publicised court cases. Still, that was how it was, but it’s certainly not how it’s done now, and it’s good to know that the artist’s status is not as low as it was before, that we’re now getting a fairer share of the pie. If we compare the Episode Six period with today, it also seems to me that, although the kids have much the same as we had, nevertheless there’s more of it now, but probably with no fewer problems, pro rata. Crucially, what we didn’t have then, or was even considered necessary, was a clinical ambition of the kind that seems necessary today, and that’s because in our time we saw ourselves as immortal, and it was that mindset that helped create and drive an ideology, which meant we threw everything we had into what we were doing.
So the reason we got better was simply that we wanted to get better, and our resolve was singular and unambiguous. On the flipside, I have to admit that the kids today are much smarter than we were about what they’re letting themselves in for, and so it appears that most get to understand the basics of business and contract law early on, and keep abreast of things like that, alongside their writing, rehearsing and playing. It’s an attitude we simply never had, or even thought about having, it being our way of being businesslike and attracting attention to (for example) post a spoof advert which read: ‘EPISODE SIX – APPEARING ON DECCA RECORDS (SOON!)’.
Well, Pye didn’t much like that, but we’d committed to them, and went along with being good artists for them to have, just as we also went to work with great energy for Gloria, who kept the bookings up, with weddings, college dates and the odd American bases. However, the same dedication and excitement didn’t seem to be forthcoming from our new business and agency associates, and that was a huge disappointment. When we decided to take the matter up with them, it was quietly pointed out (before the hysteria began) that what we’d signed up to meant they would find us £30, 000 of work before the year end, and, if they didn’t, we were free to leave. It was very different from expectations, and a bitter blow, which left us to join the chorus of musicians who said success was possible ‘despite your agent’! However, as I’ve already alluded to, we’d made ourselves willing lambs to the slaughter, and needed to simply put it down to experience, and not do it again! (Well not until the next time, at least!)
Our first record with Pye was the Hollies’ number ‘Put Yourself In My Place’, which we took from one of their albums, and made after a typically brief session in a basement studio at Marble Arch. It was done with very few takes. Tony Reeves (a respected musician) produced us – he’d later play with a band called Colosseum – and another early studio guy was Glenn Cornick, who went on to play bass with Jethro Tull.
Unfortunately, things in the studio did not go as we’d planned, either, because instructions came down telling us we’d be needed only for vocals in future so not to bring our instruments. A hammer blow, but true, and when we next arrived we found a group of session players waiting, including a drummer, whose very presence deeply (and understandably) upset Harvey. Still, once again, we had no choice but to take it on the chin, and realise this was just another new experience on the learning curve, that the contract allowed for it to happen, and that it did just that for most of our early releases.
As for the song, well, despite all that had passed us by, we were still glad to get our hands on our first piece of vinyl, and an appointment was made for us to meet the group who’d first made it, to see what they thought of our effort. So we arrived at the hotel, where we felt grudgingly received, but still to hand over a disc we’d signed, as a sign of our admiration and gratitude to them. It was all a bit uncomfortable, really, but the song was released in January 1966, with Roger’s composition, ‘That’s All I Want’ on the B side, and we followed it up in April with ‘I Hear Trumpets Blow’, plus another Glover song, ‘True Love is Funny’, on the other side.
In the meantime, and very differently, the Beatles were steaming on with George Martin at the production helm, and John Lennon was telling Maureen Cleave of the Evening Standard that they were ‘probably bigger than Jesus Christ right now’. So it sometimes needed a sense of humour to be in Episode Six, and we showed that in various ways, such as when Roger did a spoof on ‘Surfin’ USA’ (the Beach Boys), except our song was called ‘Mighty Morris Ten’:
Come on, everybody
Grab your automobile
We’re going down the Harrow Road
I’ve got a little old Morris and it’s doing fine
Although it’s ninety-six years old!
Another way of dealing with the different emotions of the time was to enjoy a drink or two, except this slipped into ‘something more’, with beer and Scotch being my favourites. So with this starting to become a bigger part of my lifestyle, and in the absence of any warning lights flashing, it became my fate to acquire a reputation that would cause other people concern from time to time, although, I’d often think, needlessly. However, to neatly digress a little, it’s a drink-related story that gave the band a precious moment to savour, for which read that it cheered us up!
Graham was responsible for the group van, which his (and Sheila’s) lovely parents allowed us to keep at the family home, and this had a valuable and added convenience, because he’d usually be our driver. Now on the occasion that’s about to be explained, Graham must have had other things on his mind, as he drove the six-wheel, long wheelbase Commer van we called Wagger (WAG being the first three letters of the number plate) through the lights, just as they began to change. Perhaps we were arguing, I just don’t remember, but this gent, whom we’d soon discover to be of Irish descent, suddenly drifted off the kerb in front of us, giving Graham only one choice, as he saw it. And the choice he made was to accelerate through and onwards, which proved to be a mistake, as became clear when we had a body on the bonnet, along with our visitor’s face, which was plastered against the windscreen wearing a look that suggested neither joy nor genius. Frankly, I think Graham had panicked, but, whether that was the case or not, he certainly did so next, when he slammed on the brakes, and our impromptu hitchhiker (being only lightly attached) flew off. Graham’s foot then slipped on the clutch, the van leapt forward, and we ran over our unfortunate visitor.
Getting out to check the extent of the damage to Wagger, Graham unfortunately stepped onto the poor guy’s head, but then, to the victim’s eternal credit, he somehow got to his feet and started giving us a hard time! Amid the teasing, raging and laughter, we all agreed on what the moral of the story was: if you want to run over an Irishman and get away with it, make sure you perform the exercise at least ten times; except that I’m going to admit that in later years I’d regret the extent to which the delightful Irish were the butt of too many jokes at the time. I really do, and Gawd bless ’em!
We travelled everywhere on wages of £10 a week; and a typical schedule would look like this:
Although this itinerary is taken from fairly late in the development of Episode Six, it’s still a good example of a routine that involved many miles in a van; but with it, were many great experiences, including two visits to Germany, which I call ‘The Storyville Experience’.
We were put into a B&B under Cologne Cathedral, and told we’d be doing six or seven shows a night, with a matinée on Saturday and Sunday. And the same went for the Star Club in Hamburg.
Of course, these weren’t full-length sets, but we’re still talking about many hours, with lousy pay, most of which went on accommodation and expenses. Still, nobody complained, and the clubs were great, as were the audiences, who wonderfully ‘got off’ on us.
Little things pleased in these conditions, so (for example) when we bought bockwurst, the rolls (which were always piled up in baskets) came free, and nobody seemed to care how many you had. We always looked forward to those rolls and mustard, while the beer was cheap, at least the sort we found was, and, at an exchange rate of four Deutschmarks to the pound, we sourced large bottles of it for 75 pfennigs each, and drank copious amounts of it!
Despite the enormous amount of practice and effort we put in, things often went wrong at the gigs, and I suppose part of the problem was that we were still struggling to find an identity. We were neither the Hollies nor the Rebel Rousers, nor for that matter the theatrical Barron Knights, who’d found a particular niche. We were Episode Six, a band of mainly copy musicians, working with harmonies and showmanship. We didn’t have a lead singer, since Sheila and I shared that role, and, at times, I’d play keyboard while she sang. Our set included a medley of various hits: ‘A Hazy Shade of Winter’(Paul Simon), ‘That’s the Way Life Goes’ (Jimmy Cliff), ‘Light My Fire’ (the Doors), ‘River Deep – Mountain High’ (Ike & Tina Turner) and ‘I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight’ (Bob Dylan). We had our own material with songs such as ‘Monsters of Paradise’, ‘I Am a Cloud’, ‘I Am the Boss’ and the popular ‘Mozart v the Rest’, alongside which we’d also drop in snatches of ‘Running Bear’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ as we went along!
Crucially, we’d unwittingly positioned ourselves at the back of the grid, because we didn’t have our own hit records, and so we continued working our nuts off, coming on stage after all sorts of acts, at all times of night, and in all sorts of places. If little else, it was an eccentric lifestyle, illustrated by the occasion we arrived at one particular club (God knows where), and it was about 1. 30 a.m. There were about fifteen people there, all hopelessly drunk, and groping one another in the dark recesses, as a comedian closed an hour of his wasted talent and time, during which he’d been entertaining the walls. Still, he gave the impression he was having a great time, and we were all cracking up on the fire escape, where the gear was stacked ready to bring in. Suddenly, it was all over, and he started hoofing it out, in case somebody woke up to assault him. Then, as he disappeared into the night, his parting words floated back to us: ‘And good fucking luck to you!’
Talking of luck, Gloria was somehow able to swing a support spot for us on the Dusty Springfield tour. It was our first time in theatres, where we had four minutes to open the first half, and seven to open the second, and the discipline was brutal. If we were more than twenty seconds over or under, we’d be fined our fee for the night, and more than a minute either way would see us off the tour! The compere was a comedian called Jeff Lenner, and he used to walk on stage and say things such as, ‘My wife’s so thin, she has to run around in the shower to get wet.’ Really! He then used to nip off to the nearest backstage bar between acts, and on his return, he’d hang his raincoat on the doorman’s second finger, straighten his tux, and walk into the spotlight, nanosecond-perfect!
Impressed by his professional nonchalance, I asked him one night what he thought of our performance, which is always a risky thing to do, because in my book you should never ask a question if you’re afraid of the answer. However, I wasn’t afraid, because I wanted to learn, and, because of that need, I’d learn something that would stand me in good stead for very many years, as he tiredly explained that I’d never get anywhere in the business until I could persuade the audience to ignore the band and focus on me. He said I shouldn’t be there when the curtain went up, but should make my entrance while the intro was playing; also, that I should move around within my own scope of comfort and draw individuals or small groups in the crowd into a mood of intimacy by means of eye contact. Some things stick in your mind for ever.
Back on the road there seemed no end to the levels we’d go to try to find our niche in the business. We even did the Bee Gees with false teeth, which they loved at the Tiger’s Head in Catford, and the Black Cat in Woolwich, although it didn’t go down so well at other venues, where they thought Gene Vincent would be turning up, when he was already in his grave!
Manchester was another place where we’d do two or three clubs a night – forty-five minutes at the first, load up the Commer (usually in pouring rain), and on to the next venue, keeping our sweaty and stinking stage clothes under macs, while we offloaded the gear and waited for our next call. Sometimes, the club would be on the fourth floor of a building, with fire escapes being the only way to get backstage without interfering with an act or the audience. Even so, we wanted to keep our dignity in case we were seen, and so we tried to look and behave like roadies.
Another example of things going wrong for Episode Six was when I moved into the spotlight wearing my kaftan, red trousers and white shoes, while (in my opinion) generally looking and feeling pretty cool, despite the early hour. Around my neck I had about forty homemade string beads, linked with thin elastic, and so we opened our show with something frantic. Well, I was giving it my best, and generally going berserk, when, for reasons I can’t explain, I bent down in this dramatic gesture, and then straightened up. The beads got caught around my knee and the elastic snapped, so that some of the beads shot out like bullets, leaving the rest to continue in rotation around my head. Would the learning ever end? I used to wish it would, but I’d also get to reluctantly accept that it wouldn’t, and of course it never should!
However, it being another moment when I needed some good things to remember, so that came with the red trousers just mentioned, as thoughts go back to the gig we did at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. The ‘pants’ were very loud and tight, and showed off the ‘three-piece suit’ to its very best! In the interval, the headmistress came bustling over, and said words to the effect that she found my organ offensive, and it was upsetting her ‘gals’. Well, I had to tell her there was no way we were playing without Sheila’s keyboard, and the whole thing ended quite acrimoniously! One of the newsletters deals with my dress sense at the time, telling the fans I’d recently spent a lot of money in Carnaby Street, followed by, ‘And have you seen IAN’S fantasmagorical glitter shirt yet? It’s absolutely gorgeous … and WOW … speaking of tight trousers, eh, which we were, how about IAN’S new cerise pants?!’
Well, that’s how it was in those days, and, in looking back on these brilliant efforts from HQ, the temptation to burst into applause at the end of every publication was overwhelming. It must have been a thankless task, and only gratitude and praise is owing to those responsible.
In dealing with many problems during this difficult time, I then added to them by getting married. It was the summer of 1965, and I suppose I was vulnerable to any situation that would bring real hope to my life. I thought I was by now reasonably experienced in life’s ways, when I met this girl, Jean, at the Establishment in Greek Street, which is in London’s Soho. It was a famous venue, made particularly popular by controversial satirists of the time, with John Cleese, Peter Cook and David Frost being among them. Then, in its next incarnation, the premises went on to become a nightclub, owned by a guy called Raymond Nash. Well it seemed that Mr Nash (whom I’d never met) owned a number of other clubs in the West End, and, both typically and necessarily, they employed doormen, bouncers, personal security, and other things ‘essential’. It was all part of the day-to-day style and running of such venues, and at the Establishment the ‘head honcho’ was Dennis Raine.
Well, Jean and I began a spectacular fling, during which she taught me a very great deal! It also seemed that she had a great deal of money, certainly more than anybody else I knew, and, although she was about ten years older than I was, here, amid all the insanity of pop and rock, was a person who gave me excitement. So, when Los Humphries married Marlene a little while after I’d met Jean, I asked him if I could bring her to their reception, and he said, ‘Fine.’ She turned up (quite late) under her own steam, and, seen from across the room, she looked stunning, and was dressed sensationally under an expensive fur coat, which was OK in those days. Then, with all eyes on her as she crossed the room towards me, I noticed something very sinister, which was that Jean had been beaten black and blue. It was a huge shock, and, with people staring at us, she told me how Dennis Raine had taken exception to her dating a musician at the club, and, although he was not entirely sure it was me, he had his suspicions. Anyway, he’d decided to discourage her from continuing the liaison, and expected her altered appearance would make the point to whoever was buzzing around her.
Upset at her injuries, yet somehow flattered by her closeness and vulnerability, I didn’t handle the situation with great maturity. First, my suggestion that we go to the police was rejected out of hand, on the grounds they had better things to do than become involved in a ‘domestic’, and after that all other ideas were similarly dismissed. So, in the confusion and headiness of Los and Marlene’s wedding, I decided the moment was perfect for a gallant gesture, and asked Jean to marry me.
History is littered with men who have fallen from great heights because they acted on a romantic impulse, and here stood another one about to join the ranks, and not even from a great height! It’s just that the idea of rock singer Ian Gillan saving an abused woman from gangland terror by the offer of marriage had a certain ring to it – and, I know, it’s a dickhead ring! So, with my family decidedly unhappy about the whole business, and my buddies the same, our wedding and reception was a modest affair, after which we went to live with friends of Jean’s in a one-bedroom flat, over a hairdresser’s in Copenhagen Street, near King’s Cross Station. And, about that, one thing bothered me a little, as we found our way across London, and it was that between us we had only about £3. To be clear, I had not gone into this relationship because of the money Jean seemed to have (I’ve never been that interested in it, anyway, through good and bad times), but it did surprise me that she had so little on her that particular day. Still, who wants to talk about such vulgar matters just after one’s wedding!
That night, the telephone rang in the hall, and Jean returned with the news that Dennis Raine had committed suicide, and, with that blurted out, she simply fell apart. Through all the babbling and hysteria that followed, the truth finally came out: that Jean was in love with Dennis, and not me! Well so much for chivalry, and so much for gallantry, because here stood a girl I thought I’d rescued from hell, now showing me that I was really an insignificant, penniless twat! Indeed, so penniless were we both, that we did a ‘moonlight bunk’ from the flat, and, when things had settled down a bit, we found even less salubrious accommodation in an attic behind Baron’s Court, West London.
It’s a funny word ‘salubrious’, because it’s the only word I remember Granddad using to describe the place where we lived, after I’d told him about it. But it was also one word more than what he thought about my marriage!
Fortunately, a complete collapse in my morale was saved by Gloria, who kept our band careers alive with a diet of touring, and it forced me out of any feelings of self-pity I must have had. Anyway I must have been away for a week or so, when either a show was cancelled, or we just drove home through the night. I let myself in at home, there to experience the final humiliation for my naïve stupidity, because Jean had somebody with her in our bed. Well, of course it was uncontrolled gibberish, with explanations like, ‘He couldn’t get home so he…’ But I ignored her, and said, ‘Well, that’s it,’ before taking my leave, never to return.
As we toured the country, problems festered within the band, the main one being what I guess was jealousy over the fact that Roger was doing all the songwriting. The material he was so often coming up with was consistently good, and certainly as good as the songs we were about to record on A sides, written by other artists. Unfortunately, the record company wasn’t interested in giving Rog a break, but he persevered with his B sides, while everybody else continued to moan.
I tackled him on the matter one day, saying, ‘This is brilliant, I wish I could do that,’ to which he replied in a very tough, most un-Rog-like way, saying, ‘I’m never going to speak to you again until you’ve written a song.’ But then he mellowed a little by adding, ‘Or at least until you’ve tried!’
Just the possibility that he might be serious, that I might lose a great friend, galvanised me. Of course I can write! I speak English, don’t I? And, if I can also put words together, then I can write lyrics. ‘Puget Sound’ aside, my first real effort was inspired at around the time of the ‘Yellow Polkadot Bikini’ hit, and my song was called, ‘I’ve Got a Green-Eyed, Curly-Headed Little Pigmy Hanging Round My Neck’. I’d started it and finished it, but it was sad that nobody took it as seriously as it deserved!
Still, Roger and I started working together on lyrics, practising writing poems, dealing with rhythm, looking at the construction of songs written by people we admired, and just getting up, tapping and singing. ‘Ticker … ticker … ticker, ticker … ticker … ticker…’, just as I guess the master, Little Richard, did! We’d sit up all night doing exercises; then one of us would mention a subject, and the other would have ten seconds to make a poem out of it. It didn’t matter if it was a load of rubbish; we were just searching for that little piece of magic.
Otherwise, the band struggled on, and were in quite regular demand with the BBC, where the pay was pretty reasonable: £75 as I recall. Alan ‘Fluff’ Freeman was brilliant to us, and, although other DJs were full of the ‘Hello, dear boy, I do like your record,’ it was Alan who would actually play it. Yes!
I suppose one of the reasons we were popular with radio, or at events such as Wimbledon Speedway, Brands Hatch and even once at the Hilton Hotel (London), where Sammy Davis Jr was star billing, was that we were safe, clean and fun-loving! Unlike those terrible fellows the Rolling Stones, whose name was mentioned in whispers!
However, it was beginning to cross my mind that perhaps being a ‘terrible fellow’ had its attractions, and so seeds were sown! In the meantime it was necessary for me (at least) to ‘hang on in’, as they say, which meant continuing to watch artists such as Tom Jones and the Walker Brothers turn up in limos to mime to their latest hits, sign autographs by the sackful and continue on their way, leaving us to do a live show! Still, our decent attitude got us onto Ready Steady Go, where we met Sandie Shaw, and later performed on Southern Television for Mike Mansfield. It was hard work, but the chart of progress was now better than horizontal!
And so the day came when I met Janie Jones, a gal whose early claim to fame was through her singing in various London clubs, and who had a hit called ‘Witches Brew’. However that was not the reason for her high profile and notoriety, because Janie had also moved into the fixing business, known in the sixties as ‘fixing storms’. Janie was an unofficial playlist compiler, a role I learned more about when I went with a well-known DJ to a party in a very smart London house.
It was quite late when we arrived and walked into a very civilised party, where I quickly picked up on how the other half lives. According to my DJ buddy, we’d timed our arrival about right, and, as we were ushered into the reception lounge, there in the centre stood Janie, who, I should have mentioned, was a very pretty girl. She was dressed in a cocktail frock and surrounded by these guys talking business, and you didn’t need a university degree to realise that three or four of them were big-label record producers. Also present were many familiar-looking media people, plus, I have to say, one or two were also familiar politicians. While they were all chatting away, the same records were being played over and over again, and Janie was saying things like, ‘Don’t you think this deserves to be a hit?’ and ‘Don’t you think that’s just fine?’ as well as ‘I hope you’re going to give this release plenty of plays!’ And, all the time this was happening, she kept moving around, offering to top up the drinks in glasses that never seemed to be empty! I remember being particularly impressed because they were beautiful crystal goblets, and mine saw quite a lot of Scotch pass through it.
It was quite a formal affair until, quite suddenly, Janie drew attention to herself, and pulled her frock up, showing she had nothing on underneath. She then leaned back in a chair, and started playing with herself, before getting back on her feet and gyrating across the floor to where I was getting pissed. She looked at me and, after a few moments, asked which of the girls present I thought the most pretty. When I said, ‘The one that’s dressed like a nun,’ she said, ‘Well off you go, then!’
With a Scotch in one hand, I was led passively by this incredible-looking girl to a room where we began to have lots of fun on a king-sized bed. And then, through the excitement of it all, I became aware of banter and giggles until, putting two and two together, I leaped from the bed and rushed into the hall to find a gathering of voyeurs and well-wishers looking through the one-way glass!
Well, there are people who can get quite upset about being caught out like that, and others, like me, who try to see the funny side of a tricky situation. I remember looking at the gathering and saying, ‘I always finish what I start,’ before returning to the room to prove my point.
Later that night, I was aware of all sorts of other goings-on in the house, such as that certain gentleman who I believe was from the civil service and who had one of the girls kicking and whipping him. I also noticed some private parts and performances from political life the electorate don’t usually get to see, as my wanderings took me past open doors and mirrors. Anyway, I certainly wasn’t complaining, and thought the whole thing pretty spectacular, so much so that I was offered a return visit!
Looking back on it all, I held no position of influence, and had nothing really to sell; I wasn’t even a famous musician. Still, why question a good thing when it was giving me a few clues as to how good life could be if I could only become successful? It refreshed my ambitions at quite a difficult period of my life.
As for Janie, I believe she got involved in the 1971 payola scandal, and went to prison for running a call-girl ring. Still, she was an interesting lady, was Janie. In fact, my kinda gal!
Back in the real world, Episode Six struggled bravely on, but were losing momentum, as the Stones, the Beatles, the Kinks and the Small Faces took control of the music and cultural scene that was already the seed of a major and multifaceted industry. John Stephen, a Glaswegian, had transformed Carnaby Street from a nondescript alleyway off Regent Street into an international style centre for the young, as Time magazine referred to 1966 as the year of ‘Swinging London’, where almost everything seemed to centre on the pill, pot and ‘freedom’.
Still we’d missed the boat, and Gloria explained that, if we were to survive and stay in the business, we’d have to work abroad. She told us what we already knew: that the gig scene had changed, along with the arrival of the major bands making albums, and needing the chance to perform them. The days of package tours with Billy Fury, Adam Faith and that generation of headline acts were at an end; the business was also moving into ‘concerts’. Still, Gloria sweetened the pill by saying that our records were selling well in the Lebanon, and ‘Morning Dew’ was apparently top of the charts in the two shops that had access to copies!
In solemn moments, I wondered if they had been influenced by our newsletter, which described that song as ‘a sound that wraps itself around you … lifts you eight miles high … dreams you nine miles deep … moving brilliants … hues of red and crimson, purple, green…’
I know Gloria was unhappy about our going to the Middle East, but we were outside the mainstream of activity in Europe, and needed to work and earn money. So there seemed no alternative, although I was still surprised that, after all we’d done, we still had to audition for the trip to Lebanon, and that took place at the Marquee in Wardour Street, which Dick Katz had arranged. Charlie Henchis came over from Paris to check us out, and we signed to travel after that. I was worried about losing our tenuous position ‘at home’, and where we might yet be lucky, but we were caught between a rock and a hard place.
Of necessity, we took all our gear with us, and it was considerable, because we’d become a loud band by then and surprisingly had a lot more equipment than Deep Purple were working with at that time. We’d recently taken delivery of a brand-new sound system made by Grampian, and it came with a control panel similar to those used in recording studios. It had loads of effects, such as echo, reverb and the ability to play tapes through speakers that were built into the whole unit. Tony’s guitar was a Gretch Country Gentleman, which played through twin Vox speakers and a Marshall amp; Graham had a Fender with two Saltma Goliath speakers and a Dynachorde amp; Sheila worked with a WEM organ and through two Vox amps; Harvey had a kit that was a mix of Trixon, Ludvic and Avedis; and I had some new clothes! Also, I’m telling you all this because it shows how the newsletter was keeping up to speed on the technical side, and that, as ever, the backroom people were magnificent, and determined that we ‘get lucky’!
We took the whole lot and our wardrobe to Beirut with very mixed feelings, and, once out there, continued to gig on the same lines as before, with kaftans, lots of swapping of instruments between us, and all topped off by our unique brand of comedy, which sometimes went down well, and at other times failed miserably! We mixed popular international hits with our own increased record output, which was still on the Pye label, and with whom the ‘lifetime commitment’ felt like a prison sentence. The songs included ‘When I Fall in Love’, ‘Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart’, ‘Stay with Me, Baby’ and ‘Light My Fire’, to which we actually added mock stage fire! Then there was ‘Jesse James’, which Rog performed, and he was funny (well, we thought he was); while for ‘Too Much Monkey Business’ we used crazy foam and cornflakes, and also played our B sides, including ‘Mozart v the Rest’, which we’d later record on Les Reed’s Chapter One label.
And then, at the Casino du Lisbon, I met for the very first time a name from my past: Mr Raymond Nash. We were well into our set, and I was resplendent in my Mississippi gambler’s outfit – black frock coat, bootlace tie, Paisley waistcoat, striped pants and black boots – when this very nice party of diners who’d been buying us drinks all evening were suddenly removed from their table in front of the stage. It was incredible how it happened: there was no fuss, no argument, just that about ten of them were asked to go somewhere else by a group of very large people in ill-fitting suits. As quickly as this had been done, the table was re-laid with fresh ashtrays, flowers and so forth and, soon after, a dapper man came and sat down, while four or five cronies formed a semicircle around him. After he’d watched the show for a few minutes, and eyed me in particular, a note was passed up which I read while singing. It said, ‘Mr Nash wishes you to join him at his table when you take a break.’ Mr Nash was, of course, the owner of the Establishment in London, so it was hard to know if I was singing the right words, before I did as he asked.
After a long pause, Mr Nash said, ‘Tell me, Ian, what really did happen to Dennis?’
After what seemed an eternity, I looked at him and said, ‘Mr Nash, I don’t know. I just don’t know.’ I remember babbling on about how Jean and I got back to the flat at King’s Cross, but he suddenly changed the subject, and was as nice as pie.
Courtesy of his expense account, the band drank themselves silly, and even went back to his fantastic home for more hospitality. I admit to coming over extremely unwell, and not being able to join them. In fact, I spent some time thereafter being fairly low-key, and improving my writing skills in the blistering heat.
I am a cloud, I am a cloud
Not just any cloud, but a big black thunder cloud
And I am really proud of my capabilities
I have a loud roar and like to frighten poor people
With my flashing fury
They run helter skelter for shelter
Still l am bored and I will retreat and take a back seat
I am a cloud.
Little things come to mind when I look back on a trip such as the Beirut visit, things you’d never really think of in the normal course of events. For instance, it quickly became evident to us that the showbiz fraternity out there, other than speciality acts or rock bands, were gay – a situation Charlie Henchis explained as deliberate policy for contracts other than very short-term ones.
Relationships – business and personal – were more reliable that way, because pregnancies were removed from being an inconvenient issue, or, if they were, then a contract could be ended before it became a management problem. Anyway, I found an English girlfriend for much of the time we were there. And it was with her that I experienced one of many strange and troublesome incidents that were typical of that region at the time.
We were stretched out on the beach one day, just quietly enjoying each other’s company, in relative isolation. The sand stretched out for ever, with only the odd shack breaking the view – not an ice-cream van to be seen for miles! It happened that a recent storm, one of the worst the area had seen for years, had caused incredible damage to the few shanty-type buildings around, and one such was just a few yards behind us. Suddenly, a load of sand was thrown over me, and when I looked up there was this guy standing in what was left of a window frame in the derelict structure. The roof had gone, the top floor was mostly missing and the whole situation was utterly bizarre. So I told him (in French) to bugger off, which I think is the same as in English, but he just grinned and did the same again.
I repeated my demand in much more forceful French, but it happened again, only this time he started throwing stones. So I picked up a nearby rock, threw it very hard, and it caught him smack in the face, before he disappeared from sight. My first thought was, Great shot, Gillan! But then I wondered if I might have gone a bit over the top, and went to the wall to check on him.
What I saw worried me, because his face looked badly damaged, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Without thinking about any consequences, I told my girlfriend to find her way back to the accommodation, while I left to look for a police station. Some people at a petrol station directed me further down the road, and I eventually arrived at the building in question, exhausted and with nerves tingling.
I saw the policeman the moment I burst in. He was sat at the far end of the room, and appeared to be taking a coffee break, while a cursory look around confirmed there was nobody else present. I gave it a few more moments, but, since he seemed oblivious to my presence, and made no effort to turn around, I approached him, unsure whether to smile or look sombre. Well, it wouldn’t have made any difference, because he sat there, clearly on another planet, as I detected some movement under the chintz tablecloth. No question about it: the law-enforcement officer was jerking off, and was clearly somewhere near the ‘vinegar strokes’!
Not wanting to spoil his fun, I quietly took my leave and headed for the apartments, where I found some local people with whom we’d become friendly. When I told them the story, they went mad, shouting at me, ‘You crazy, you crazy, you never go to the police with thing like that!’
I gave it an hour or two for my nerves to settle, and then went back to the scene of the incident, where, to my astonishment, there was no body. There was plenty of blood, but no drips to suggest he’d managed to struggle away. Maybe he’d just been removed…
Beirut was a brutal place to be in, as we discovered on many occasions. We came across a European once who looked as if he’d been hit by a truck, as he dragged his broken body along a ditch, which also served as the local sewer. It was an appalling sight to witness, but made a lot worse when the poor man tried feebly to signal for help, and our driver just put his foot down, and refused to get involved. It was later explained to us that, if you report an accident, the automatic assumption is that you caused it. We’d subsequently learn that the poor fella’s body had been recovered from the stinking hole about three days later.
To get in and out of Beirut on the ‘American Highway’, you had to pass over the ‘Yellow River’, which was a euphemism for the open sewer that served the city. And down below, in that stinking morass, lived a community of Palestinian refugees, whose only source of fresh water was the sprinklers that came on at dusk, to freshen up the ornamental shrubs in the central reservation of the highway. Unsurprisingly, the sprinklers were also a source of drinking water for the refugees, but the children tasked with collecting it had to ‘play chicken’ to succeed, and some would be hit by a vehicle as they crossed the road with their little rusty tins to collect the precious water. I’ve often wondered how much dignity can be stripped from human beings before death becomes more attractive than such an existence; whilst on that same subject, I’ve similarly wondered if the builders of the road actually intended it to be such an insult.
On to lighter things, and the night Angel Manchenio tried to kill me in Maameltein. Angel was a flamboyant dancer of Spanish Gypsy decent, and he was a regular on Charlie’s bills at the casino. He was quite short – about five foot six, I’d guess, but possessed of great strength. One of the highlights of his show was to climb up to the balcony about fifteen feet above stage level, and throw himself off, flying through the air, to land on his knees on stage, then to rise and strut his stuff! Often as not, Manchenio would simply turn up at the venue unannounced, kick bottles off the table and perform this very dramatic dance routine that involved much clicking of heels, snapping of fingers and macho posing. The performance could go on for hours, we’d all get drunk, and it was great! The man demonstrated truly fantastic showmanship, and we spent many a happy time with him and his large, red-haired English girlfriend, or wife, and they would sometimes party with us at the apartments, a feature of which was the plumbing, or lack of it. I mention this particular problem because it explains why we used to go outside to ‘water’ the rocks, and for you to then know that from this vantage point there were amazing panoramic views of the village, railway line and the Mediterranean.
So the evening and moment came when I needed to go outside to answer the call of nature, and, while ‘doing the business’, I saw Manchenio creeping round the building until he got to the corner, where I had my ground-floor apartment. It was very strange, because he was tiptoeing along, bent double, until he arrived at my bedroom window, at which moment I had cause to be even more puzzled, until it emerged that his girlfriend was ‘having it away’ with some fella in my room. Well, I’ve never seen anybody lift themselves by their own hair, but that was exactly what Manchenio did, as he paced around like a crazed animal in total silence. At the time, I didn’t, of course, know what was going on in there, so all I could do was watch this ninja-like creature skulking and raging around in the dark, until I decided to do something about it, and came from out of the shadows.
‘Hey, Manchenio, what’s up?’
On seeing me, his eyes lit up like torches and, reaching down, he produced this very big knife. Well Manchenio always wore knee-length boots, but it was only now that I realised he used them to also conceal this nasty weapon.
‘I keel you. You, you fucka my wife – I keel you! I thought you my friend – I keel you!’
So now I’m backing up a bit, saying, ‘Hang on, Manchenio. What are you talking about?’ But he just repeated, ‘I keel you. You fucka my wife!’
I said, ‘Look where I’m standing. I’m taking a piss, you dickhead. How can I “fucka” your wife from here?’
He froze briefly, the cogs in his head started turning, and then he said, ‘My God, Ian! My God! I’m sorry! I keela myself now. Goodbye!’
I tried to reason with him, saying, ‘Listen, first you want to kill me, and now you want to kill yourself.’
‘No, no, Ian, I insult you. There is only one thing a Gypsy with honour can do: I have to take my own life!’
I then said, ‘Look, Manchenio, there must be some way out of this,’ to which he carefully said, ‘Well, there eeesa one way.’
Well, it’s funny how some ‘exchanges’ can cause warning lights to flash, as I said equally carefully, ‘Is it dangerous?’ When he replied, ‘No, eesa no dangerous,’ of course I put my arm around him, as one does in moments of great relief!
His solution for getting us out of the unfortunate mess was for us to share blood, and this we did in the grand tradition of the movies. He wiped his knife clean on his clothing, made a cut in the heel of our hands, then took out a filthy neckerchief, which he used to bind our wounds together. Finally we embraced passionately, exchanged words of love and respect and went back into the lounge, where he totally ignored his wife! He simply got back to drinking with us, before dancing again.
My gypsy brother
Tried to take my life
Thought I’d stolen your lover
Faced me with a knife
Life in Beirut wasn’t all about problems and stress, and we often experienced generous hospitality, including, on one occasion, when we were invited to a Christmas party by some sailors in the US Navy. I guess this would have been in 1968, and the fact we spoke English and were musicians made their day, so they took us on board, where everybody in sight, from top to bottom, was already drunk! After shaking a few hands, occasionally saluting and accepting a drink, we were taken through ‘Top Secret’ and ‘No Admittance’ areas to see the missiles and flight deck, before continuing on to ‘inspect’ their helicopters, which one guy said were radio-controlled, meaning that they needed no pilot. As for the cameras we had on us, well they let us take as many pictures as we wanted!
Although we ended with a delicious meal in their mess, we couldn’t go the whole hog, since we were on stage that night. However, despite this wonderful distraction, we couldn’t hide the fact that the music side of our lives was not progressing, and relationships were becoming very strained. The few press cuttings copied from England continued to read well, but also disguised many troubles. Harvey and I certainly went through a bad time, so when the fans back home were reading things like, ‘Sheila turned up late, clearly exercising her prerogative as the female in the group,’ it must have sounded fine to them, but in reality it was a turnoff, and a mask for what was really going on – or not, as the case happened to be.
Harvey seemed to be suffering the most, and his lack of interest shone through some of our performances. In fact, I threatened to throw him over the castle battlements on one occasion, if he didn’t get his act together, and he finally quit the band, when he fell for a Greek belly dancer called Natasha.
His successor was John Kerrison, who turned out to be a character and a half! I mean, how else do you describe a drummer who, when pissed off with our leader, Graham, sets up his kit at the far end of the hall! It was all so eccentric, but still depressing, because we knew that, far away in London, the music business was so vibrant and full of creative juices. After all our labours, why were we stuck out in the sand dunes and dust, while the Moody Blues, the Who and all the rest of them were riding the waves of success back home? It wasn’t fun, it didn’t seem fair, and I found myself asking many questions, particularly as to whether my writing had progressed or regressed in the Middle East heat.
Decide which way to turn
Or fall, dispirited
Against the wall
Without an aim, a whim or will
And lie there
It was the end of a good effort, as we left Beirut for England, where, unlike with the Beatles, only our mums and dads were there to meet us. Bless them! The end was also approaching for the band, although Mick Underwood replaced John Kerrison, who later had a horrific accident, and now bravely ‘travels on wheels’. Still, Mick came to us with plenty of experience, having worked with Ritchie Blackmore in the Outlaws, as well as being in the early line-up of the Herd, while his connection with Ritchie would of course change my life a year or so down the line. In the meantime, and with Episode Six, suffice that he definitely brought a wonderful spark to the dying embers.
Back in familiar home territory, we were still looked after by Gloria, whose ambition and enthusiasm remained undiminished. We joined the MGM label, where we made ‘Little One’ and ‘Wide Smiles’ (May 1968), and along the way got involved in another Bristow promotion, par excellence.
We went along to this club, and there were Gloria and its honorary secretary, who looked like the dead girl from the movie Goldfinger. Both ‘ladies’ looked very sexy, the party was fantastic, and later on in the proceedings, we were ushered outside, to where this Mini Moke was parked up. As some – perhaps many – will remember, the Moke was a tiny buggy-type car that was very fashionable at the time, as well as being very ventilated and very cheap! But the surprise wasn’t just that, because, to our amazement, there sat our Sheila in the vehicle, wearing her very short miniskirt, while sitting alongside her were two lion cubs, representing the MGM corporate image!
A similar stunt was ‘pulled’ (i. e. cancelled) at Bristol Zoo, but at least the occasion put the band on television, before we parted company with the label – correction: before they told us to leave – and we moved to Les Reed’s Chapter One Label, where we put out ‘Mozart v the Rest’, ‘Lucky Sunday’ and ‘Les Bicyclettes de Belsize’. With these new people, we also started to earn reasonable money, sometimes £200 a night, but then I met HEC – or should I say Deep Purple?