Seize the Day

by Mike Read

  Some summer holidays or odd gap months in the school or college holidays, I’d attempt to earn some cash as most kids do. One of my most exhilarating weeks in a school holiday was spent at the old Cheeseborough Pond cosmetics factory in Victoria Road, Acton which had stood on the site since 1923, although the Cheeseborough chaps didn’t take over the Pond people until 1956. The remit was to spend the morning collecting every faulty bottle in the factory and in the afternoon smash them to pieces against a wall in the yard. Had I been an avant garde painter, I could have sold that wall five times over. A schoolboy’s dream. I also used to escape to Lancashire and spend some time with my maternal grandparents. On one occasion I saw an advertisement in the Manchester Evening News for a group wanting a rhythm guitarist/vocalist. The Impact were based in Stockport, the other side of Manchester, but who cared about distance? If I needed to take four buses I would. I auditioned at the house of their leader, Graham, with their outgoing rhythm guitarist present, and yes, I had the gig if I wanted it. Indeed I did. We had a kind of uniform; I seem to recall matching shirts at least. The most prestigious venue we played was the Oasis, a very cool Manchester club where all the top groups from the Beatles down had appeared. The highlight of the Oasis night for me was playing The Temptations’ ‘Since I Lost My Baby’, which I’d bought in Bognor, the day after hearing the Action do it live on stage at the Shoreline Club.

  One night the Impact didn’t collect me for a gig. There were no mobiles then, so I stood in the street for an hour waiting for a van that never arrived. I received a call later saying the van had broken down. I was disappointed, but these things happen. Well, they do, but not twice. I didn’t realise that I was on the way out. Now I’d be on it like a flash. I’d sense something wasn’t right. Their old guitarist had decided that he had made a mistake in leaving and wanted to return to the fold. It was a no-win situation for me; they were mates and had history. The third time the van ‘broke down’, I actually did that trip involving four buses and made the gig. They clearly weren’t expecting me to turn up, but again, in my naivety, I failed to pick up on the half-whispered comments and merrily joined them on stage. I played with them one more time and only then did they have the courage to tell me, on dropping me off, that they were going to revert to the original line-up. I was devastated. Didn’t I fit in? Wasn’t I good enough? Did I look too different? Did I not have the right geographical credentials as a lad from Surrey? I didn’t know. Years later there would have been a shrug of the shoulders and I’d have moved on. My grandmother was livid and telephoned the new-old guitarist’s mother. Not one to hold back, she had a real go at her about her son’s attitude, how they’d let me down and why this was not the correct way to treat someone who’d been so dedicated. Looking back, I’m not sure that I put enough into it. I was possibly enjoying the kudos without paying attention to the musicianship. But it certainly knocked my confidence at a time when it needed boosting.

  Probably the first half-decent records I made were with Amber, a name I liked from reading Kathleen Winsor’s Forever Amber at school. Having drafted a trio of very good musicians that I vaguely knew from the Bognor Regis area, Martin Bury, Dave Gibb and Alan Smith, we recorded three songs at RG Jones studio in Morden, near Wimbledon, ‘Time and Tide’, ‘Yellow and Red’ and ‘Shirley’. They still sound as if we meant it, especially ‘Yellow and Red’. In 1999 it appeared on the compilation album The Story of Oak Records, alongside songs by groups such as the Mike Stuart Span, the Game, the Thyrds and the Bo Street Runners. The sleeve notes rather embarrassingly record, ‘“Yellow and Red” is chiefly notable for Read’s excellent guitar work … any resemblance to “Astronomy Domine” is entirely intentional…’ I played it entirely with an art deco perfume bottle. As one does. The vinyl album From There to Uncertainty was released on the Tenth Planet label at about the same time, and contained many of my very early songs including those recorded as Mic Read and Just Plain Smith as well as Amber.

  Trying to push the group meant spending some time in London away from the tennis courts and parties of Surrey. Dave Gibb’s girlfriend allowed us to stay in her bedsitter in Notting Hill. As kids we thought little of there being five people in one room. Dave and his girlfriend had the bed, obviously, and we had the floor, awkwardly. Did we notice the discomfort, the cold, the aroma of socks, and the lack of food? Of course not, we were young. It didn’t matter. Food did arrive, but in an unusual manner. When the communal phone in the hall rang it was never for any of us Amber lads, it was always for Angie in flat three. We’d knock on the door and let the occupant know that she was wanted on the phone. The odd thing is that Angie was never in. We heard this mantra several times a day from a voice that we presumed belonged to her flat-mate. One night we gave voice to our thoughts.

  ‘How come the calls are all for Angie and not her flat-mate?’

  ‘You’re right. She’s the more popular of the two, but she’s never there.’

  ‘What’s the other one called?’

  Gallic shrugs all round.

  ‘Anyone seen her?’

  Several heads shook in unison.

  ‘Why doesn’t the other one get calls?’

  ‘Even weirder, why doesn’t the flat-mate ever take a message?’

  Days later I fleetingly bumped into one of them on the stairs and mentioned our bemusement en passant. Clearly in a rush, she shouted over her shoulder, ‘If you answer the phone again, could you just ask them to call back later?’ And she was gone. Which one it was, I was still unclear.

  It was after the fleeting meeting over the bannister that the bags of food were discovered hanging from the handle of our door. We ate and asked no questions. Pre-occupied with life, we failed to link the food with the countless phone calls. I then encountered the same woman in more relaxed mood.

  ‘Is the food OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s from you. We wondered where it was coming from.’

  ‘Well, you’re answering the phone, aren’t you?’

  ‘When it rings, yes.’ Always the ready wit.

  ‘It’s payment for answering the phone.’

  I had to ask. ‘We’re slightly perplexed as to why all the phone calls are for your flat-mate, who’s never there, and never for you, who’s always there.’

  She smiled as an ancient guru looking upon an unworldly innocent would smile. Or at least how I imagined an ancient guru would smile in the circumstances. ‘I don’t share with anybody, Angie’s my professional name.’

  I still didn’t get it. ‘So if you’re working you’re too busy to come to the phone?’

  She thought I’d got it.

  I hadn’t. ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘Well, I’m with a client. I can’t very well answer the phone, can I?’

  My naivety marched on unabated. ‘Couldn’t you just leave the meeting for a minute?’

  ‘My “meetings” are in bed, luvvie … you know … with men.’

  I got it. It took me a while, but I got it. When I passed the information on, we wondered whether we should take any more phone calls or any more food.

  The Mad Bongo Player of Powis Terrace was another character associated with the house. He would arrive at any time of day or night, come in, drink tea, tap his bongos and disappear off into the cauldron of Notting Hill. We never knew his name, his purpose or anything about him. We knew even less about the transvestite that tripped down the stairs in size twelve slingbacks and make-up that looked as though he’d fallen into a basket of overripe fruit. These folk simply didn’t exist in Weybridge.

  Fed up with the cramped conditions, I often slept in the basement of a West Indian café called the Surfari Tent. Nights there, though, were often disturbed by the local steel band deciding on an impromptu session in the wee hours of the morning. Complain? Not me, I’m easy going and laid back, especially if the musicians were four or five mean-looking dudes from the Caribbean. ‘Rehearse away, boys,’ I’d say, ‘Sleep is nothing to a seasoned muso like me.’ It was safe
r operating from the stockbroker belt.

  I said I owed a debt of gratitude to Barbara Andrews and I do. As well as the encouragement when I was a ‘tiny’, she now let me and the group live in her house, and rehearse in the ballroom. She even gave us much-needed singing lessons! Also it was her art deco perfume bottle that I used to achieve the ‘Syd Barrett–Pink Floyd psychedelic guitar sound’ on ‘Yellow and Red’, strangely raved about by record reviewers on assorted CD sleeves (see above). A very keen potential manager called Joe Nemeth appeared at the Old Meuse (for that was the name of the Andrews’ house) one afternoon, offering us the moon. Instead he took us to the local shop and urged us fill our baskets with food. We needed little urging. This guy was hot stuff. Back at the house he outlined his plans; pacing, expounding and postulating, he gave a speech to put Churchill to shame. Now a real player knows exactly when to quit. You’ve built up to your peak, hammered home the salient points and captivated your audience. At that point you depart like morning mist, leaving everyone open mouthed and bewitched. Joe Nemeth timed it to perfection. He turned on his heel, opened the door and walked straight into the larder. He emerged with his face the colour of a beetroot, found the right door and departed, with our explosive laughter ringing in his ears. We never heard from him again.

  Barbara was also indirectly responsible for my first single being released, ‘February’s Child’. I’m not giving any state secrets away when I reveal that my mother, Barbara and their friend Molly Edge liked a glass or two and when the mood took them (which it did quite often) they had a wee dram. From one of these sessions, which occasionally got a tad maudlin, the idea of introducing Molly’s daughter to Beryl’s son emerged. I have to say at this point that my mother wasn’t Beryl Reid the comedienne, she was Beryl Read, a comedienne, and coincidentally happened to be a passenger in a car with the other one when they had a minor road accident. My father wasn’t Les Reed the songwriter, but was the Les Read who played golf with Les Reed the songwriter. And of course, I was never in EastEnders claiming ‘Pat’ll be livid’, nor presenting Runaround and shouting such meaningful lines as ‘Wallop!’ Mike Reid and I did, however, appear together in one episode of Through the Keyhole, as some wag, possibly Ian Bolt, thought it would be jolly humorous to have Mike Read/Mike Reid as the answers to both parts of the show. Anyway, Barbara introduced me to Valerie Edge and we became boyfriend and girlfriend, although part of the deal appeared to involve Barbara playing teenage love songs to us on her piano in the ballroom and getting deliciously weepy while we sat there with suitably reflective expressions. From this was to come my first single release.

  Local musicians tend to gravitate towards each other and drift in and out of various groups like butterflies trying to find their favourite buddleia bush. At one point we drafted in Ric Parnell from the nearby village of Claygate, reasoning that as his father was one of the country’s top drummers and bandleaders then Rick should be able to at least hold a pair of Premier E sticks. Hold them? Led Zeppelin’s ‘Communications Breakdown’ with its unusual nine-beat intro, straight in, no messing. He played on one or two of my demos, including a powerful re-working of ‘What the Dickens’, where he and Virgin Sleep guitarist Keith Purnell really let rip. Keith also played with the seasoned rocker and highly respected singer Jackie Lynton, who popped his nose into one session and ended up kicking some life into a rather lacklustre song of mine we were recording, ‘January, February, March’. Even attempting to rhyme ‘March’ with ‘much’ was lyrical madness. Ric Parnell was rising faster than the rest of us, moving on to Rod Roach’s new band, Horse, and playing on their debut (and only) album, and then touring the States with Engelbert Humperdinck at the insistence of Parnell senior.

  It was during the recording of the Horse album at Olympic Studios that I met Mick Jagger. We walked in together one day. ‘Hello, Mick,’ I said.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mick.

  You could tell we clicked. I haven’t seen him since.

  On Ric Parnell’s return to the UK, he immediately gave me his immaculately tailored midnight blue DJ, which had been made for him. He hated it. I loved it. He joined Atomic Rooster and acquired a much more appropriate snakeskin suit and snakeskin boots, which he wore until they fell apart and took on a life of their own in the corner of his bedroom. I swear I heard that suit hissing. I shared two flats with Ric. When there was no work on he’d stay in bed all day. That’s just passable in itself as a part of a rock & roll lifestyle, but his culinary habits were the stuff of legend. Under his bed lived a white Mother’s Pride loaf, a jar of peanut butter, a knife and a rolled-up pair of socks that existed in a world devoid of launderettes and washing powder. Following yet another slice of dry bread coated with crunchy peanut butter, the fastidious Parnell would gently place the knife, thick with spread, on the rolled-up socks to avoid getting it dirty on the floor. I swear each sandwich contained more sock fluff than peanut butter. I also swear that it was this natural rock & roll behaviour pattern that led to him becoming the drummer in Spinal Tap. He was a shoe-in. God made the rock & roll lifestyle especially for Parnell.

  The key to success in those days was to release a single. You couldn’t simply cut your own records back in the day. Now, anybody can do it. You set up the technology in your bedroom, record it, mix it, upload it, make a cheap video, stick it on YouTube and even cut CDs where necessary, print your own labels and your own liner notes and design the cover, all from the room that you were once sent to for being naughty. But then, to feel the thrill of holding a piece of vinyl in your hand meant that someone other than yourself, in the all-powerful record industry, believed in your talent as a performer or a writer. It was proof to friends and family that there was a chance you’d make it. I had several songs at the time that might have been considered commercial (which seemed to be the all-important byword), including a song about a Florence Nightingale-type character, ‘Lady of the Lamp, I Won’t Look Back’, which included references to ‘double-breasted businessmen’ and a former Uppingham scholar who lost his life in World War One, and ‘Pictures on My Wall’. The latter song, as with a few of my demos, had the delightful addition of my friend Tricia Walker on her family’s great Canadian harmonium, with lyrics extolling the virtues of pictures scattered around at home. The lyric took in Chatsworth Hall, Sybil Thorndike, Katmandu and the cartoon character Toby Twirl! Heady stuff. As it turned out, the first single release that I could wave in front of my parents was ‘February’s Child’, a song inspired by Valerie. Valerie’s mother, Molly, caught us kissing in the music room (nothing really serious, but enough to put a mother’s nose out of joint) and banned me from the house. Limited to riding past on my bike and waving I simply had to vent my spleen in a song. Not surprisingly, the spleen-venting was done in a very Home Counties way, via a twee little ditty featuring harpsichord and flute. Sure, it might have been released on a small classical label, whose previous single had been ‘Esmeralda Fufluns’, a children’s song about a dragon, but at least there would be a piece of vinyl and that was what mattered. Our group, Just Plain Smith, comprised two friends from Uppingham School, Bill Heath and Chris Hatt, and their schoolmate Jake, Colin Standring from Surrey University, who’d been in the Jimmy Brown Sound and Horse, and Dick, like Bill a budding law student. Chris literally dreamed up the name, while Bill coined the song’s media strapline, ‘On a scene of its own’. Quite.

  Our backing vocalist on this exploratory disc was Tim Rice, credited on the label as playing the ‘mitsago’. At the time, and occasionally since, people have stolen stealthily up to me and whispered in a covert voice that they had no idea that people still played the mitsago, in a classic case of emperor’s new clothes. The erroneous assumption that it was maybe related to an ancient instrument such as the sackbut or the hautboy was heavily wide of the mark, as, with the scintillating humour of youth that only youth considers to be scintillatingly humorous, I simply reversed Tim to get ‘mit’ and added ‘sago’ instead of Rice. For his sins, and the thrill of music
al camaraderie, Tim joined the band at the odd gig and, as top record producer Norrie Paramor’s former right-hand man, was closer to the hub of the business than we were. For some obscure reason he became unavailable the following year, after Jesus Christ Superstar shot to number one in the USA. There’s gratitude. Where was the publicist who could have given us such possible newspaper headlines as ‘Just Plain Smith backing vocalist tops US chart’? To date T. M. B. Rice is the only Just Plain Smith backing vocalist to have been knighted. A version of the group appears sporadically to this day, but even Tim’s global glory hasn’t added much to their fee or their set list over the years.

  Mention must be made of the Hatt–Heath B-side, ‘Don’t Open Your Mind’, on which we really let rip and stopped trying to be commercial. Gentle and pretty it wasn’t, but it should probably have been the A-side, being described over twenty years later in Record Collector as ‘a dynamic piece of freakbeat akin to “Arthur Green” by John’s Children’. ‘February’s Child’ was described as a ‘beautifully crafted slice of late ’60s pop in a similar mould to the Kinks’. In the ’90s the single was listed at number twenty-seven in the Record Collector chart. No mean feat two decades on. It’s now listed as a having a value of around £150 a copy. It didn’t cost that to make the record!

  Orlake, the pressing plant, was way out at the end of the tube line in Upminster, but there was no way I was waiting for our copies of the record to arrive by post and I hurtled up there on the appointed day. I got there early and had to wait some three hours. Would I like to come back later? No I wouldn’t, thank you. I’d like to wait. You can’t trust the music industry: go for a cup of tea and the factory closes and that’s it. Eventually, they gave me a box containing the first six copies. I hardly noticed the long trip home as I examined each one over and over again; first the A-sides then the B-sides, then the letters scratched onto the section where the groove runs out, then the grooves themselves and then I started again on the A-sides. We got a few reviews; I think it was the Melody Maker who declared that we were like Skip Bifferty. We were thrilled as they were a serious musical force, but it turned out that the only likeness they were referring to was that both groups were living in a house in the country. Having the same real estate values as a genuinely talented and respected group was surely no bad thing.