Allan Clarke: “A friend stopped me on the street and said, ‘Did you know that Graham has a band together in the States?’ I confronted Graham and he said, ‘Yeah, I’m leaving.’” Graham confirmed his lack of tact: “I didn’t have the balls to tell Allan or the other guys.” On December 8, 1968, Graham flew to Los Angeles, leaving behind his home, his band, and his wife. Welcoming him was a California that he loved, a new band and support system, a new best friend in David Crosby, and a new love in Joni Mitchell.
Allan wasn’t totally straight-laced—he believed in UFOs—but it was hard for him to relate to Graham’s passion for the latest far-out music, and he didn’t quite understand Graham when he pontificated about ”the inner mind.” They drifted apart, and it was a huge blow to Allan to lose his best friend. The Hollies also lost a spokesman who felt more comfortable talking to the press and engaging the audience during concerts. Terry Sylvester, who had been a member of Liverpool bands The Escorts and The Swinging Blue Jeans, was a perfect replacement. He could approximate Graham’s tenor, and was a better guitarist. He rerecorded Graham’s vocals on three of the Dylan tracks and finished the album. “I didn’t even know what half the lyrics were about,” Allan revealed.
Once again, the group’s commercial instincts were right on the money. Hollies Sing Dylan (Words and Music by Bob Dylan in the US), released in May 1969, became the group’s bestselling (non-hits) album in the UK. Recollections to the contrary, the album was well reviewed when it was released. John Mendelsohn writing in Rolling Stone referred to it as “a flying gas,” while astutely realizing that it was “frequently insensitive to Dylan’s material.” Ken Barnes in Phonograph Record Magazine, Robert Christgau in the Village Voice, and I in the Daily Bruin all gave it, with similar reservations, good reviews.
The following month The Hollies recorded a song that Tony found at a publisher’s office. Bobby Scott and Bob Russell wrote “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” using a familiar phrase most associated with the slogan for Boys Town, a children’s home. The record is a tour de force. Clarke’s voice is magnificent, and the strings and harmonies tastefully complement the band’s playing. Allan contributes the sensitive harmonica, and session man Reg Dwight (better known as Elton John) the piano. The record became The Hollies’ biggest hit, a signature tune that rose to number three in the UK and returned the group to the Top 10 in America after a two-and-a-half-year absence. In 1988 The Hollies record was used in a Miller Lite beer commercial in Britain and reentered the Top 10, this time hitting number one for two weeks.
In fairness to The Hollies’ collective judgment, none of the songs Graham played them became big hits. “Marrakesh Express,” a favorite from Crosby, Stills & Nash, managed to get only to number seventeen in the UK and twenty-eight in the US when issued as a single.
When it came time for The Hollies to record their next album, Allan felt the band’s demeanor had changed: “It wasn’t about who had the best song, it was more like ‘I have a new song and it’s my turn.’” The band had gotten lazy, according to Terry Sylvester: “We’d copy the demos instead of working out more planned arrangements.” Allan wrote “Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress)” with Roger Cook (Cook’s partner Roger Greenaway is also credited) in the style of Creedence Clearwater Revival. When The Hollies recorded it in July 1971, it wasn’t earmarked to be a single. The song was sparingly produced by the group as their long-time producer Ron Richards was ill. There were no familiar Hollies’ harmonies, and Allan even contributed the prominent rhythm guitar.
Seeing the success that Graham was having with Crosby, Stills & Nash, and imagining his share of the money from the millions of albums that they were selling, Allan was getting restless. He wanted some of that. As the group had rejected a number of his songs for the new album, titled Distant Light, he wanted to record a solo album.
Here’s Bobby Elliott’s take: “Because the LP didn’t feature much in the way of strong harmonies, Allan took the spotlight. He was getting a big ego. People were taking him around, saying, ‘Allan, you are The Hollies!’ and he started to believe it. He saw Graham make his million and thought that if he went solo he’d make his as well. Although he might have stayed with the band, after he got his hit, he most assuredly would have left.”
When The Hollies wouldn’t let Allan record his solo album, he felt betrayed. “I really don’t understand what transpired,” he said. “Graham Nash and I originally started The Hollies, and the others were subordinate to us.” Allan left in October 1971. “I didn’t want to leave, I had no idea if I would be successful, but I decided to take a chance. I titled the album My Real Name Is ’arold because I was stripping myself bare of the past.”
Epic Records smelled a hit and released “Long Cool Woman” in May 1972. It became The Hollies’ biggest record in America, hitting number two and going gold. Similarly, Distant Light became their biggest selling (non-hits) LP. The problem for The Hollies was that Allan was no longer in the band to sing their hit live. The problem for Allan was that he was immersed in recording his second solo album when his first hadn’t sold well and hadn’t yet been released in the States. With obvious disappointment, Allan said, “I was not in a position to tour America as part of The Hollies, or to get the recognition for writing and singing the hit.” And, somewhat petulantly, he qualified it as, “It’s not a Hollies song, it’s my song.”
When I met Allan the first time, in mid-September, “Long Cool Woman” was still in Billboard’s Top 10. “I’m a friendly person. I try to get along with everybody,” he reasoned. “It’s weird, but all my connections with The Hollies have been severed. It’s as though they never existed, especially with ‘Long Cool Woman’ giving The Hollies a new lease on life in the States when it was done a year and a half ago. I said, ‘You’ve gotta release that as a single.’ They didn’t initially because I was leaving.”
The Hollies had been impressed with a Swedish band, Bamboo, they had toured with in Sweden. Tony even produced a few sides with them. They enticed the lead singer, Mikael Rickfors, to replace Clarke. Rickfors was an excellent singer, but Allan was a tenor and Mikael was more of a baritone and the revised sound deviated from that of The Hollies. “All through my career with The Hollies, I thought of retaining The Hollies sound because it was magic,” Allan said. “I thought they should find a singer to imitate me.”
Romany, The Hollies’ album with Rickfors, released in September, had some good tracks, but with no hit single it didn’t sell well. With two unsuccessful solo albums, Allan was motivated to return to the fold. He rejoined the band in July 1973. Rickfors went back to Sweden. In November The Hollies recorded a song that Roger Cook’s secretary had recommended to Allan. “The Air That I Breathe,” written by Albert Hammond and Mike Hazelwood, had been on Phil Everly’s first solo album. The Hollies’ most magnificent record, it was to be their last (newly recorded) big hit, charting in the Top 10 in the UK and US. They continued to issue albums throughout the seventies, recording the occasional track—like a cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Sandy”—that sounded like a hit to me. They even reconciled with Graham Nash, who rejoined the band for an album and tour in 1983, but by then the magic was long gone. In 2010 The Hollies were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
I interviewed The Hollies on November 21, 1972, for an article that Rolling Stone published the following January. I met them and their publicist, Toby Mamis, at the Beverly Comstock Hotel, just west of Beverly Hills. Although Tony Hicks, Terry Sylvester, and Bernie Calvert were all there and chipped in with comments, Bobby Elliott did most of the talking. I got to meet Mikael Rickfors the next night, when I joined the group at the E Club, Rodney Bingenheimer’s first attempt at an English disco. The more I got to know Toby, the more I liked him. He was smart, knowledgeable in the music business, and we shared similar musical interests: the British Invasion and glam rock. Our friendship developed when Toby relocated to Los Angeles in June 1974. Although he doesn’
t live here anymore and I don’t see him as much as I’d like to, he’s still one of my best friends.
Manfred Mann
Brimming With Talent
Chapter One
If I asked which of the significant British Invasion bands you regarded as the most proficient musically, would you say The Beatles? The Rolling Stones? The Yardbirds? The Who? My answer: Manfred Mann, a band that should be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Known in America primarily for “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” and “The Mighty Quinn,” and maybe for lesser hits “Pretty Flamingo” and “Sha La La,” in England the group was big: thirteen Top 10 hits and three Top 10 albums.
Although lumped with other R&B and blues-influenced rock combos of the era, initially they were the odd men out: disheveled, bewildered 1950s jazz cats masquerading as rock stars and pulling it off because they were so good. Manfred, with his plastic-rimmed glasses, had the audacity to be the first rock star with a beard, a neatly trimmed, beatnik-like affair that recalled a 1950s hipster. The rest of the members looked like they’d just been awakened from a night sleeping on the floor. Manfred Mann weren’t bad boys like The Rolling Stones, charismatic like The Beatles (except for singer Paul Jones), or flashy showmen like The Who. As a result, their renown has receded.
It all started with Manfred Lubowitz. He grew up in Johannesburg, South Africa, and was taught piano by an instructor from Julliard. At twenty he migrated to England because he was opposed to the South African government’s apartheid (segregation) laws. Intent on working as a jazz musician, he felt he needed a pseudonym when writing for Jazz News, and adopted the surname of jazz drummer Shelly Manne, later dropping the “e.” (He’s listed this way in the September 26, 1962 issue of Jazz News as a tutor, right next to an ad for “The Rollin’ Stones’” Saturday residency at the Ealing Club.)
With influences such as Charles Mingus and Ray Charles, Mann and multi-instrumentalist Mike Hugg formed the Mann-Hugg Blues Band in 1962. That ensemble evolved into Manfred Mann, the lineup solidifying around the time the group’s third single was released in January 1964. Manfred switched from piano to organ to make up for recently departed horn players. The group also included Hugg, drums; Mike Vickers, guitar; Tom McGuinness—who looked just like Manfred, except for the beard—bass; Paul Jones, lead vocals, harmonica. They were less than two years apart in age.
Paul Jones (born Paul Pond) was, like others of the time, inspired by the blues and R&B: “When I was fifteen, I used to like Big Bill Broonzy and T-Bone Walker. R&B had the strongest beat I’d ever heard in my life, and I decided that was the style of music I wanted to be involved in. I picked up on Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf, who influenced my vocal delivery. I was also interested in The Exciters and The Miracles. It got to a point where all I wanted to do was sing the blues, and I neglected my studies and got kicked out of Oxford.” Paul had studied for just over a year at Jesus College of the University of Oxford. Alumni included T. E. Lawrence and Prime Minister Harold Wilson.
Paul and Brian Jones made a tape with sidemen and presented it to Alexis Korner, hoping to play between Blues Incorporated’s sets at the Ealing Jazz Club. The tape was “lousy,” according to Paul, and they weren’t accepted. Sometime later Brian asked Paul if he’d like to form a band with him and Keith Richards. Paul declined, saying, “Nobody anywhere is gonna wanna listen to R&B.” In 1963, Paul was the vocalist in a short-lived combo, The Roosters, whose guitarists were Eric Clapton and Tom McGuinness.
Back then the lead singer was a band’s focal point. Musicianship and aesthetics were overshadowed by a sweet smile and glistening eyes. Onstage or off, Paul Jones was the consummate pop idol. He mugged while singing: smiling wide, rolling his eyes, pointing at girls in the audience. Handsome, with a strong jaw, he was photogenic. The effect of acne on his complexion only made him look rugged. Physically he looked like a male model: tall, thin legs, broad shoulders. His physical attributes notwithstanding, he may well have been the best lead vocalist on the scene, and he played excellent harmonica. He was effective at singing blues, with a gritty, urgent delivery, and could perform pop songs like a seasoned crooner.
The producers of the English pop music TV show Ready Steady Go! wanted an original theme to replace The Surfaris’ “Wipe Out,” and Manfred Mann got the commission. Jones, Hugg, and Mann delivered with “5-4-3-2-1,” scoring a top five hit for the band from the exposure.
Unlike just about any rock group at that time, they included jazz covers in their repertoire: “Watermelon Man” (Herbie Hancock), “Sack O’ Woe” (Cannonball Adderly), “Brother Jack” (Jack McDuff). Jazz elements were seamlessly incorporated into the band’s rock songs. Take for example “I’m Your King Pin,” a driving 1964 album track. Paul Jones sings and plays harmonica throughout. The instrumental breaks spotlight first Hugg’s vibraphone, then Vickers’ alto sax, and last Mann’s piano. The group vocally answers Jones with the kind of call-and-response heard in jazz bands.
In addition to the members’ fondness for blues and jazz, Mike Vickers was a student of classical music. It’s a wonder, noting Vickers’ and Mann’s exposure to classical, that more of this form didn’t creep into their music. Vickers’ alto sax solos during the breaks were identifiable as jazz, as were his occasional flute solos. One would later hear echoes of his solo on “Without You” in the playing of Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson. As the group couldn’t find a guitarist, Vickers supplied that too. Although he was adequate, this was the group’s weakest point—his wind solos were more impressive. Overdubbing on the record, he performed sax duets with himself.
When I met Manfred and Mike Hugg in April 1970, when they were in Los Angeles appearing at the Whisky a Go-Go in their new band Chapter III, I was surprised that Manfred didn’t consider the earlier lineup’s musicianship exceptional. I thought they cohered well and their arrangements were incredibly good, better than anyone else’s.
A good example is the band’s summer 1964 single, “Do Wah Diddy Diddy,” brought to them by producer John Burgess, who was also having hits with Peter and Gordon and Freddie and The Dreamers. Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich had written (with Phil Spector) “Da Doo Ron Ron,” a big hit for The Crystals. They composed “Do Wah Diddy Diddy”—also nonsense words—angling for the next single, but Spector declined. The Exciters released it in January 1964 hoping for a follow-up to “Tell Him,” their hit from a year previously, but it stiffed. The Exciters’ was a typical girl group record. Manfred Mann’s cover was much more thought-out, a dynamic recording structured with bursts and accented with tympani-like rolls on the drums. Paul’s powerful lead vocals alternated with the band singing the catchy chorus in unison. The record topped the charts on both sides of the Atlantic.
In December 1964 the group toured the States for three weeks with Peter and Gordon and taped a Shindig! TV show. “We didn’t enjoy the US tour and we made no money,” Manfred said. Instead he decided that they should focus on the rest of the world, which probably limited their chart success in America. Manfred Mann became the first British rock band to perform behind the iron curtain, in Czechoslovakia.
Manfred, a pragmatist, concluded that the band had to release commercial singles to maintain its popularity as a live act. In his words, “It was jazz men trying to make a living.” Bob Dylan has gone on record to say that he thought Manfred Mann was the best interpreter of his music. Manfred looked upon Dylan’s songs as raw material for hit records, but the group’s first cover had nothing to do with that ambition. Prior to rock groups covering Dylan being in vogue, the group, in January 1965, recorded a dramatic and effective “With God On Our Side,” even though it was little more than a piano and vocal recital. Mann’s approach to covering Dylan’s songs necessitated cutting verses “in trying to make it work for us” rather than being faithful to the original song. Of course, most pop artists who covered the verbose Dylan did the same thing. In June, Mann and McGuinness were at their respective homes viewing Bob Dylan’s live-in-the
-studio BBC TV show. They were both impressed with “If You Gotta Go, Go Now”—Dylan singing accompanied only by his guitar—and had the band work up a full arrangement. Recorded three weeks after the TV show aired, Manfred Mann scored a number two hit in the UK.
Having seven big hits wasn’t enough to prevent Mike Vickers from leaving in October 1965. Being in a pop group was a detour for him. He always wanted to compose and arrange for an orchestra. He later conducted the orchestra that accompanied The Beatles when they performed “All You Need Is Love” live on the Our World telecast, and he programmed the Moog synthesizer for them during the recording of Abbey Road. Stateside, the long-running This Week in Baseball used one of his pieces as its theme.
Rather than getting another guitarist, Tom McGuinness reverted to his natural instrument. In December Jack Bruce stepped in on bass, leaving John Mayall’s Blues Breakers for more money in the Manfreds. Jack complemented the musicians well: he contributed cello on one song and brought to the band “Driva Man” by jazz percussionist Max Roach. Because Mann missed the brass contribution from the band’s earlier incarnation, he hired Henry Lowther on trumpet and Lyn Dobson on tenor sax, but they lasted only four months. Of this lineup Paul said, “I most enjoyed playing ‘Black Betty,’ an old Lead Belly number that featured Jack Bruce and me singing and blowing harmonicas together. It was a real rave-up, something like the early Yardbirds.”
Away from the screaming girls in concert, Manfred noticed that his newfound stardom made people interested in what he had to say, seemingly for the first time. But fame also intruded in unexpected situations. Early one morning the band was returning home from a gig in the east of England when their car ploughed into a parked car. Most of the members weren’t harmed. Paul had a broken collarbone and bleeding lip. Manfred had difficulty breathing and was in pain, with bruised ribs. Manfred remembers men racing over from a small hut where they had been eating: “What do I hear from these men as they rush over to assist? ‘Is everyone alive?’ or ‘They seem to be OK but this one is unconscious.’ Or perhaps ‘Frank, call an ambulance, these guys need immediate help!’ No, what I hear is ‘Fucking hell, it’s Manfred Mann, can I have an autograph?’”
My British Invasion Page 11