Cowboy Song

by Graeme Thomson

  In the band’s under-appreciated, penny-pinched state, Ireland represented a land of golden promise. Simply being in London validated them back home, where they could earn up to £200 each night, at least ten times what they could demand in Britain and Europe. The influx of ready cash enabled them to clear some of the debt that had accrued since their last trip and to keep a modest amount of working capital in reserve, at the same time topping up their depleted sense of self-worth. Small wonder that regular Irish tours – two or three times a year – became a ritual.

  When Thin Lizzy returned home in the first fortnight of July 1972, the talk in Dublin’s bars, clubs and music press was of their next single being, according to the Evening Herald, ‘a shake-up of a traditional Irish ballad’. After the failure of Shades of a Blue Orphanage to gain any ground, band, management and record company were scratching their heads. Changes were afoot. Peter Bardon had already cut his ties. Busy back in Ireland, and tiring somewhat of having to keep dipping into his personal finances to keep the band afloat from week to week, Brian Tuite was also in the process of stepping down as manager. ‘All I did was pay the fucking bills,’ he says, not unkindly. ‘After six months they had turned over something like £5,600, of which £2,500 was owed to me. That was a lot of dough. I’d be sending money to them all the time.’

  Tuite eventually got what was owed him. He passed on the reins to Chris Morrison, who took over as co-manager with Ted Carroll. A young Scot, Morrison had been a junior partner at Acorn, a prominent booking agency based in Soho that had Status Quo, Manfred Mann and the Equals on its books before going bust. ‘I thought Thin Lizzy were fantastic,’ says Morrison, ‘But the finances were a nightmare. I had £1,000 savings and it had all gone by Christmas.’

  The pair’s first order of business was to secure Thin Lizzy a full release from their contract with Decca. ‘Chris and I went to see Frank Rodgers,’ says Carroll. ‘We said, “Look, neither of the albums have sold very well, Decca don’t seem very committed, why don’t you just let us out of the deal?” Frank said, “There’s another year to go, we’ve invested quite a bit.” So we agreed to do a single, and if it didn’t do anything then they would let us go.’

  The idea was to record a new Lynott song. ‘Black Boys on the Corner’ was his first concerted attempt to engage with his non-Irish roots. In part it was an expedient land grab for the fashionable Blaxploitation market. The rhythm of the song, established in the opening interplay between splashy cymbals and bongo drums, was influenced by Isaac Hayes’s 1971 hit ‘Theme from Shaft’. Lynott’s semi-parodic spoken intro – ‘Whatcha doin’, maaan?’ – and the depiction of black kids shooting pool and rolling dice owed more to the current trend for gritty low-budget movies set in inner-city America than anything Lynott had yet experienced on the mean streets of West Hampstead. Yet the chorus was undoubtedly personal, and pertinent.

  I’m a little black boy

  And I don’t know my place

  I’m a little black boy

  Recognise my face …

  I’m a little black boy

  And I just play my bass.

  Swaggering yet also vulnerable, it reads like a terse telegram from the confused child who landed, alien-like, in Crumlin, and was forced to make the best of it. The subtext states, I’m here and I’m different, what are you going to do about it? More importantly, what am I going to do about it?

  The music – dominated by Bell’s juddering, ragged-edged guitar riff – conveys the coiled tension and simmering threat of an antagonistic street encounter. ‘Black Boys on the Corner’ is the first clear glimpse of the Thin Lizzy to come. Possessed of a lean power and a very clear sense of its own purpose, in little more than three minutes the recording made almost everything the band had released previously seem rather whimsical by comparison.

  The song was, unsurprisingly, earmarked as Thin Lizzy’s first single since ‘The Farmer’. Taking a short break from touring, they rented an upstairs room at the Duke of York pub in King’s Cross to rehearse in the afternoons. During a lull, Eric Bell started reading Melody Maker and Brian Downey rested behind his drum-kit, idly leafing through a newspaper. Lynott, eternally restless, picked up a six-string Telecaster guitar and began messing around at the microphone. ‘He started singing all these stupid songs, just as a joke,’ says Bell. ‘We weren’t paying any attention to him. At one point he started singing Irish songs, and then he started singing “Whiskey in the Jar”. I was very bored, so I started playing guitar along with him. Then Brian started playing the drums.’

  Lynott had known ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ forever. ‘It was a song I used to do on the folk circuits,’ he told Sounds in 1976.3 A traditional Irish standard dating back to the seventeenth century, it was practically ingrained in the national consciousness. On any given night in the pubs clustered around Grafton Street and Baggot Street it would be hard to avoid. The Dubliners recorded it three times in the late 1960s, and more populist folk groups from around the world, among them Peter, Paul and Mary and the Seekers, had also reinterpreted it.

  As with many traditional songs, the words were subject to tweaks and revisions in differing versions. In its broad outline, ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ appealed to Lynott for its fatalistic account of a marauding highwayman roaming the mountains of southern Ireland. The imagery is big and bold. The grain of romantic nationalism and anti-establishment heroism that runs through much of his Celtic writing is present in the theme of a free-spirited outlaw robbing a military man, Captain Farrell, of his money. The twist comes later, when the highwayman’s lover, Molly, betrays him. The protagonist ends up shooting Farrell and is sent to prison, while the bold Molly makes off with the spoils.

  As Lynott and the band were toying with ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ in the Duke of York, Ted Carroll walked in, listened and uttered the immortal words: ‘That sounds like a hit.’ None of them were convinced. The song connected to a version of Ireland they respected and appreciated, but one with which they did not particularly want to be directly associated. Lynott was eager to write a new kind of Celtic folklore, not lean on an old one. ‘We were going to throw Ted out the window of the pub,’ says Bell. ‘One of the reasons we left Ireland was to get away from Paddy music. We couldn’t relate to anything he was talking about.’

  When the time came to record their new single, however, Lynott didn’t have anything to offer as a B-side, so they agreed to try ‘Whiskey in the Jar’, recording the basic track in three takes at Decca’s new Tollington Park Studios, in Islington. Lynott played around slightly with the melody and the tempo, in particular letting the chorus stretch and breathe. They used drums and two acoustic guitars, played by Lynott and Bell. No bass. No electric guitar, no solos. It harked back to the band’s earliest recordings at Trend Studios. It sounded like they were busking.

  Bell took away a cassette of the raw track and agonized for weeks. Eventually he came up with the atmospheric introduction, modelled on a pipe part he had heard on a tape of the Chieftains that Lynott had played in the car one night as they returned to London from a show in Wales. It had cast its spell during ‘the twilight zone’, that strange, disquieting period between two and four o’clock in the morning, when the world is lit by the orange glow of the motorway lights and the border between dreams and reality seems to dissolve. Later, he added the signature riff, the track’s prominent melodic hook. These additions were overdubbed shortly before the single was scheduled for release. Without them it’s doubtful whether Thin Lizzy’s version of the song would have made the same headway; with them, it burst out from a smoky snug bar and became accessible to a rock audience. In the end there was still no bass, and it still sounded like a demo.

  Despite the apparent serendipity of its creation, the recording of ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ may not have been quite as off-the-cuff as it appeared. As ever, Lynott had his ear to the ground. Just as he was aware of what was gaining currency in New York and London, he was plugged into what was happening in Ireland, where his friend Eamon C
arr was now enjoying great success as the drummer with his band, Horslips. Formed in 1970, Horslips had caused an almost immediate stir by fusing traditional Irish songs, air and jigs to an instrumental rock aesthetic, in the process essentially creating the template for Celtic rock. They released their debut single, ‘Johnny’s Wedding’, in March 1972, and their debut album, Happy to Meet – Sorry to Part, followed on CBS later in the year.

  Musically, Horslips were a more intricate affair than Thin Lizzy. Intellectually, they were more consciously conceptual, committed to uniting Irish history and tradition into a defined creative identity. But the general idea of using traditional music in a modern rock context may have suggested an alternative route for Lynott to explore. ‘We were enormous, biggest album of the year, and Philip was very conscious of that,’ says Eamon Carr. ‘He was well hip to what was going on in the folk scene in Dublin, he had absorbed it and he kept those links alive. He had a grasp of traditional music and folk music early on. He was on a parallel track to us, in a way, but “Whiskey in the Jar” was so different to the rest of what they were doing and what they were about.’

  When Decca boss Dick Rowe heard Thin Lizzy’s two new tracks, he made an instant decision about ‘Whiskey in the Jar’. ‘He said, “No way is this going to be a B-side, this is the A-side,”’ Brian Downey told me. ‘That was down to head office. We had no say in the matter.’

  Part of the procedure of turning ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ into a hit involved editing the song for radio, cutting it from 5:50 to 3:40 (although the physical single still featured the full length version). ‘We cut out one of the verses, because there were four verses in the five-minute version, and some of the solos,’ says Nick Tauber. ‘Philip was amazing. He didn’t mind doing things like that. He was very business-like. He knew we needed a three-and-a-half-minute song for the radio, they were never going to play five minutes.’

  The pragmatist in him thought back to Liverpool: How do we get off this fucking circuit? Bell – more of a purist – wasn’t so sanguine: partly because Lynott didn’t tell him that his solos were being cut, and partly because he bristled against what he regarded as a retrograde move away from original, blues-based rock. ‘Eric felt we were selling ourselves out by doing an Irish song,’ says Brian Tuite. Privately, Lynott had similar reservations, but he also realized it was a chance to sell himself in.

  ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ was released on 3 November 1972 to no great fanfare. It sold a total of eighteen copies in the first twenty-four hours. The same day, Thin Lizzy embarked on a month-long tour with Slade, at the time the biggest band in Britain. Slade had been stirring up a convincing approximation of Beatlemania on the back of three number-one singles over the preceding twelve months, their Droogy threads and roughhouse Black Country brio the 1970s equivalent of mop-tops and lovable Scouse wit. American glam-rocker Suzi Quatro was also on the bill. Like Thin Lizzy, she was a relative unknown, still several months away from her commercial breakthrough with ‘Can the Can’.

  After all the one-night stands and patchwork tours, this was an opportunity to play large theatres in front of crowds numbering several thousand each night. But it was a test, too – of material, of mettle, of presence.

  The tour opened at Newcastle City Hall. ‘There was about 3,000 people there, the balcony was stuffed,’ recalls Eric Bell. ‘It was like a football crowd, loud and pissed. People singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, scarves everywhere. All they were interested in were Slade, they didn’t give a shit about us.’

  The atmosphere was hostile, almost gladiatorial. As soon as Thin Lizzy shuffled on, Lynott was subjected to catcalls and racial abuse. Some of the crowd threw objects at him. The band started into ‘Slow Blues’, an as yet unreleased new song which was all touch, all feel. As an opening number it proved a catastrophic misjudgement. It quickly became apparent that it would take more than mellow mood music and eyes-tight-shut virtuosity to convert Slade’s wildly partisan audience. As the uproar from the crowd grew louder, Lynott shrunk into himself. He had no idea what to do or how to respond. From the wings Suzi Quatro watched a trio that had no discernible leader or clear point of focus. ‘Phil wasn’t even up front, they were just a three-piece band,’ she says. ‘He was shy and almost apologetic on stage. I got the sense he found it quite intimidating.’

  After only three songs Thin Lizzy retreated ignominiously to the dressing room, defeated and depressed. They were followed there by Chas Chandler, the manager of Slade, and former manager of Jimi Hendrix.

  ‘Chas Chandler walked in and went, “What the fuck was all that about?”’ says Eric Bell. ‘“You are here to wake the crowd up, not to put them to sleep. If you don’t pull your socks up you’re off the tour.” He was looking at Philip as he was saying this, and then he walked out and slammed the door. Philip was on the verge of tears. It was the first time I’d ever seen him really dejected. He was floored completely. His hero’s manager had just told him he was crap. Philip really, really took it to heart.’

  The following day, Thin Lizzy had a solo date booked before the next Slade concert in Oxford, and they used it to radically rearrange their set and their attitude. ‘Philip got everyone there early and rehearsed all their rockers,’ says Chris Morrison. ‘He learned lessons very quickly.’ The adjustment helped, but the tour remained a challenge. They got on well with Slade and Quatro, but the shows were tough. ‘The fans were very non-responsive,’ Quatro recalls. ‘Thin Lizzy had a hard time, they had to battle every night.’

  The tour was ‘a real turning point’ for Lynott, says Bell. ‘That’s when the change started. Philip started for the first time really looking at how very successful English bands handled the crowd. How to keep them interested and how to sell it.’

  Thin Lizzy had supported David Bowie earlier in the year at the Electric Village in Bristol, and they had played with the Faces more than once. Alongside Rod Stewart and Bowie, Slade’s ebullient leader Noddy Holder was another master at harnessing the energy of a crowd and using it as fuel for a genuine performance. Lynott watched all three from the crowd or the wings, studying their physical stage craft.

  ‘He realized that you had to put a little bit of showmanship in,’ says Eric Bell. ‘That’s what the people wanted, otherwise they might as well sit at home and listen to the music. They wanted visuals as well. Philip started slowly realizing this. Every now and again after that first night in Newcastle I’d look around and I’d see him throwing a shape that he’d never done before. He used comic book poses: the guy standing up on top of a rock in the sunset shaking his fist up to the heavens, shouting, “I swear I’ll do this” – that kind of thing. Or putting the bass between the legs, pointing out at the crowd. Then he’d realize what he was doing and he would go back to being shy Philip again. But he knew that that wasn’t going to be quite enough to do what he wanted to achieve.’

  It was a beginning. Lynott did not become the supreme performer of Live and Dangerous fame overnight, but an incremental process of transformation was underway. Years later, he told Sean O’Connor of Irish band the Lookalikes that he had practised for hours in front of a mirror with his guitar to get the poses right. ‘Phil became that showman figure,’ says Suzi Quatro. ‘He wasn’t [built] that way. Noddy and I are both in your face, and he looked at that and wanted to take that on, but I don’t think it came naturally to him. The rocker guy was not the Phil I knew.’

  He was looking for ways to connect, despite the restrictions of playing bass for the duration of every show. Holder wore a tall, wide-brimmed top hat adorned with mirrors, which reflected and fragmented the spotlight, sending it beaming back into the audience. At first Lynott experimented with a small circular mirror dangling from the machine head of the bass, then he refined the idea and came up with a chrome scratch-plate. Screwed onto the body of the guitar, the mirror enabled him to tilt the instrument to catch the lights and dazzle the crowd, pinpointing individuals out in the darkness. It was a long, silver thread binding the band to the audienc
e, and one of the most significant developments in Thin Lizzy building a rapport with their fans.

  He also made changes to his playing style. As a fellow singerbassist, during the Slade tour Suzi Quatro told Lynott ‘“you’re not a bass player, you’re a frustrated guitar player”. He didn’t argue with that. Even his stance was more like Hendrix. He was in a trio at that time, he had to fill in a lot of spaces.’ By the time Thin Lizzy recorded a promo clip for ‘The Rocker’ in 1973, Lynott was taking a different approach to his instrument. He adopted a more aggressive stance – crouching and prowling, legs apart – and raised his arm dramatically above him in the air between notes. He stopped using his fingers and started using a pick. His playing became more rhythmic and direct, grounding the songs and streamlining the sound of the band. ‘He never thought of himself as a great bass player, but if you listen to the records he was super,’ says Noel Bridgeman. ‘Phil was the rock everybody sat on. He never gave himself much credit for the fact that he didn’t play like Jaco Pastorius, that was his insecurity again, but Phil was a fabulous bass player and drove the whole thing along.’

  Each change was made as part of a concerted response to the realization that Thin Lizzy needed to develop a much sharper cutting edge if they were to have a fighting chance of winning over larger audiences. Before the tour began they sneered about Slade being a pop group who dressed in silly clothes. Up close, they were the loudest, most dynamic rock band they had ever heard. They didn’t mess around with moody intros, atmospheric spoken word pieces and extended jams. Lynott noticed that, too.