The next day we ate lunch at a mediocre Chinese restaurant, and then went shopping at the nearby Soho Open Air Market. We each bought leather jackets, which were considerably cheaper than those sold at Sex. From another vendor, I bought an embroidered, velvet Indian tunic. We ran into Huey Lewis, and showed him our purchases.
That evening we went to the Speakeasy and saw another band newly emerged from the pub scene, The Count Bishops. Their tightly arranged, hard rock sound was influenced by American blues rockers like Howlin’ Wolf and Chuck Berry. They even took an American name, that of a New York street gang. Similar to Eddie and the Hot Rods, they performed covers of sixties rock bands: Them’s “Don’t Start Cryin’ Now” and The Yardbirds’ “I’m Not Talkin’.” They were the first band signed to the local Chiswick label headed by Ted Carroll and Roger Armstrong of the Rock On record store in Camden Town.
We saw Stonehenge on Thursday. It wasn’t easy to get to. We took a train from Waterloo Station to Salisbury, and then a twenty-five-minute bus ride to the formation. There weren’t many people there, and we were able to walk among the large stones. When we learned that the arrangement was over four thousand years old, it was quite moving. We were appalled to see graffiti etched into the stones. On the way back, we stopped for a meal in Salisbury. Todd was baffled that they didn’t have Salisbury steak on the menu.
That evening before going out, we watched Top of the Pops on TV. I was familiar with the show, but it was my first opportunity to see it. I would have enjoyed it more if the contemporary artists lip-synching their records had been more to my liking.
I was looking forward to seeing Kursaal Flyers, who were playing in the grubby, smoked-filled basement at the Hope and Anchor pub in Islington. Where most clubs located the stage at the long end of a room, here the audience was squeezed into an elongated, shallow area in front of the stage. The Kursaals were a pub band that incorporated humor into their melodic repertoire. I was disappointed that the band delivered a set of largely country and western material rather than the clever rock songs more familiar to their fans.
London’s West End theatre had premiered a number of rock-themed musicals, such as The Rocky Horror Show and John, Paul, George, Ringo…and Bert. We took in this year’s entry, Leave Him to Heaven at the New London Theatre, which was little more than a spirited, Sha Na Na–like review of fifties/early-sixties hits. The leading actor, Brian Protheroe, sang well, as did the other soloists. Although lacking in substance, it was still enjoyable, especially the two Shangri-Las–like, tough-girls-in-leather numbers, and Stan Freeberg’s “The Old Payola Roll Blues” performed by a pimply rock star in a squeaky voice singing about high school.
On Saturday we went to Camden Town. We didn’t spend much time at Rock On. They sold mostly collectors’ records, and they were expensive. Much more rewarding was Compendium Books, on Camden High Street, near Camden Lock on the Regent’s Canal. Although the store had a plethora of political books and small press publications—mostly leftist—I was more impressed by the mind-blowing selection of music books. I bought two volumes of Charlie Gillette’s Rock File, David Dalton’s The Rolling Stones, and ZigZag magazine’s The Road to Rock.
With nothing else better to do, and with no other enticing theatrical productions, we went to St. Martin’s Theatre to see what The Mousetrap was all about. An Agatha Christie murder mystery, it was London’s longest running play, with continuous performances going back to 1952. With that longevity, how could it not be good? It wasn’t. We both thought it was mediocre.
On Sunday the twelfth, our last full day in town, we went to the Petticoat Lane Market in the East End. Not intended for tourists, it catered to locals who could better understand the colorful characters hawking merchandise in Cockney accents. There were a large number of poor American knockoffs, like football jerseys with inappropriate team names on them, such as the “76ers,” which is a basketball team. We saw a “Los Angeles Dodgers” basketball shirt—the Dodgers are a baseball team—various uses of the “Los Angeles Police Department” on shirt backs or pockets, and university sweatshirts with wrong colors and insignias. By far the most in-vogue were Boy Scout– and Girl Scout–styled shirts with random phrases on the pockets, and meaningless numbers on the sleeves.
That evening we saw Ted Nugent fronting his band in concert at the Hammersmith Odeon. The set was almost the same as the one we had seen that April at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Ted’s heavy metal was appealingly over-the-top, intense, but prone to excess. Some guitar players stood in one place, their face grimacing in emotional pain. With an excess of energy, Ted ran all over the stage and even climbed atop his amplifiers. We went to the after-show party at the Speakeasy. Ted drank what appeared to be ale directly out of a punch bowl. When we exited, it was late, and we couldn’t find an available cab so we made the long walk back to our hotel.
Unlike the exciting music I heard on my previous trips, the Top 20 was composed of the same hits by major artists popular in the States: Rod Stewart, Wings, and ABBA, and disco artists The Stylistics and The Ritchie Family. Still, I was able to come home with a number of records: Eddie and the Hot Rods’ Live at the Marquee EP, the Count Bishop’s “Train Train,” and Flamin’ Groovies’ “Don’t Lie to Me.” I found a used copy of Herbie Flowers’ Plant Life album. Andrew Lauder gave me a copy of Mersey Beat ’62 / ’64, a double album he’d compiled of the earliest beat groups, Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters, and Dr. Feelgood’s first two LPs, Down By the Jetty and Malpractice. I couldn’t have imagined a better trip.
Mike Chapman
Clang! Clang! Clang! Mike Chapman banged the ceramic ashtray with his cigarette holder. The keys from his leased Mercedes-Benz jumped on the console. “Chris, step back a cunt hair,” he commanded into the control room’s microphone, getting the attention of the singers through the large glass window.
The singers grouped around the microphone in the adjacent studio were members of an English band named Smokie—originally Smokey, until Smokey Robinson, the lead singer of the Motown vocal group The Miracles, threatened to sue. Chapman and his partner Nicky Chinn had signed the band to their production company. Chapman produced them in the studio, and the pair had written two Top 10 hits for the group in England. In this summer of 1975, the band was recording their third album at Whitney Studios in Glendale, California.
The first I heard of Mike Chapman was in the summer of 1973, when Sweet’s eponymous debut LP was released in America. Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman were credited with writing the group’s “Little Willie” hit as well as the album’s four best songs. Chinn and Chapman (who were often referred to as Chinnichap, the name of their company) were an extremely successful songwriting team during England’s glitter rock trend in the 1970s.
Glitter rock, also referred to as glam rock, was a return to the simple, melodic elements in a rock ’n’ roll arrangement. The trend was a reaction to a period during which rock had developed pretensions to “heaviness,” had demanded to be perceived as serious art and had overindulged in psychedelic, heavy metal, and progressive (jazz and classical) influences. Glitter contained catchy riffs, 1950s rock ’n’ roll influences, and a fun spirit.
The term was initiated in 1971 after T. Rex’s Marc Bolan had silver glitter dabbed under his eyes to match his satin jacket for a performance on Top of the Pops. Singer Paul Gadd adopted the name Gary Glitter, had hits, and further popularized the trend. The glam description was short for the glamour in dress, as worn by female Hollywood stars from decades past. The look included satin jackets, feather boas, and women’s clothes purchased at thrift stores—all worn by cross-dressing men, who were the hit artists of the period. Campy behavior and a suggestion of androgyny—most effectively carried off by David Bowie—were par for the course. Platform shoes that came in vogue for women in the 1930s manifested themselves in exaggerated platform boots worn by members of Slade, David Bowie’s band, and others.
Even art
ists whose music had nothing to do with glitter appropriated the fashion. When The Rolling Stones toured to promote their Exile On Main Street album in 1972, Mick Jagger and Mick Taylor sported facial glitter and eye shadow as well as satin jackets. Suzi Quatro, the biggest female star, despite her feminine good looks, felt more comfortable dressing like a guy, in jeans and leather jacket.
Glitter was big in England and throughout much of Europe. I wanted to write an overview for Rolling Stone, but because the style was slow to catch on in America, my request was turned down. I felt that the magazine should be in the vanguard covering music trends, but that component was diminished as the publisher redirected the magazine to appeal to supermarket shoppers.
Ultimately, the style’s impact in the US was slight. The biggest artist, T. Rex, had ten Top 10 hits in the UK, but only one in the US. Gary Glitter had eleven in the UK, but only one, “Rock ’n’ Roll, Part II,” in the US. Everyone who attends stateside-sporting events recognizes the song, but few know the title or the artist. It’s the instrumental that contains a chorus of “hey!” that’s been played for decades. Mud, Showaddywaddy, Cockney Rebel, Slade, and Wizzard combined for forty-three Top 10 hits in England, but had none in America.
David Bowie was the one star to have emerged from this scene who became big in America, but during this period none of his seven glitter-era Top 10s hit in the US. Sweet had the best ratio of three US Top 10s to nine in Britain.
I first met Nicky Chinn in the summer of 1974. As Nicky was associated with London’s trendy rock scene, I was surprised to meet a rich kid staying in a rich man’s hotel. He was tanned, had permed hair, and spoke in a cultured clip. He was sporting tennis whites and had a gold medallion around his neck. There was nothing about him that was rock ’n’ roll as he swirled an early afternoon scotch and Coke in his room at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Even though he was only twenty-nine, he reminded me more of a veteran movie actor, like David Niven. In the previous three years, Chinn and Chapman had seventeen Top 10 hits in England as songwriters, but only one, “Little Willy” by Sweet, in America.
Chinn’s family was affluent, Jewish, and owned a number of service stations and car dealerships in England, in one of which Nicky had been employed. As a rich kid, he frequented the members-only, posh nightclub Tramp, where he became friendly with one of the few waiters who wasn’t Italian, Australian Mike Chapman.
Chapman had aspirations of being an actor, and had exercised his vocal chops at an early age. In 1969, he joined London band Tangerine Peel, which recorded for RCA. During one performance, when Mike was groveling on his back as he sang, he was set upon by growling skinheads. As a result, in 1970 he retired his rock ’n’ roll microphone and leopard skin pants in favor of the more sedate (and safe) world behind the scene. Mike and Nicky discovered a mutual interest in songwriting, and started writing on a daily basis.
They had a hit with only the fourth song they had written. Sweet’s “Funny Funny” entered the charts in March 1971, nine months after they started writing together. “I knew Sweet would be stars,” Nicky said. “They were performing a directionless set of The Who and Tamla-Motown covers, and a lot of Deep Purple. We took them into the studio to record ‘Funny Funny’ [produced by Phil Wainman], and made a deal with RCA.”
Mickie Most, the successful English producer, nurtured the duo, recorded their songs with acts on his own RAK Records, and gave Mike opportunities in the studio producing Suzi Quatro and Mud.
Rather than being repelled by Chinn’s rich kid, non-rock-n-roll manner, I was drawn to his warmth and engaging demeanor. He gave me copies of their recent hits in England, two singles by Mud and one by Suzi Quatro. On that summer day, although exuding the confidence that only a string of hits can provide, Nicky was flummoxed as to why British rock wasn’t popular in America, too.
Most people who listened to radio stations that played contemporary hits thought that a record became a hit because fans bought the record, or requested it on the station’s phone line. Payola was rampant in the seventies and eighties. It was a practice that started in the 1950s, whereby radio programmers and DJs were illegally paid to play records on their stations. In many cases a program director kept a good record off the playlist if the money, or other favors, was not forthcoming from the label or its designated independent promotion man. Most of Chinnichap’s records that were proven hits in England, Germany, and other countries were neglected by radio in the States.
Toby Mamis called me and told me that Mike Chapman had moved to town, and was recording a new group, Smokie, that he thought I would like. He invited me to the studio to meet Mike and the group.
Similar to Sweet and Mud, Smokie—then called Kindness—were playing a lot of Top 40, “Bee Gees and Leo Sayer covers” as Nicky recalled. So Chinn and Chapman felt they had a blank canvas to work with. Chapman was all too aware of how popular the soft-rock style was in the States, and fashioned them in the mode of The Eagles and Crosby, Stills & Nash. To complement this country direction, Chinn had them photographed in front of a barn. Chris Norman was an excellent lead singer, the group’s harmonies were tight, and the ensemble playing was solid. I liked the group, and I liked Mike. He invited me to subsequent sessions with them, as well as other acts he was producing.
Whitney Studios was an odd place for Mike to use as a base. Located on Glenoaks Boulevard in Glendale, it was not convenient to his Beverly Hills home. With a large pipe organ in a studio that could accommodate a sizeable choir, it was used primarily for religious recording. It was also the preferred studio for Barry White and his Love Unlimited Orchestra. Mike worked mostly in the smaller Studio B. I often closed the Rhino store around 6:30 p.m., grabbed a sandwich at Olympus Burger, and then drove the twenty-three miles to the studio.
With a cigarette holder cocked at the side of his mouth, wearing tinted glasses, Mike Chapman looked like the commander on the bridge of a ship as he sat behind the expansive control room console. He guided the members of Smokie through multi-tracking their vocal harmonies (thickening the sound as they sang along with their previously recorded take). Mike was exacting. Even when the group was recording an instrumental backing for a song, he made sure that the performance was tight, or it was recorded again. Some producers and artists look for a musical feel or groove, and are more tolerant of the occasional mistake. Mike strived for perfection.
Mike was focused, worked well with the musicians, and progressed in a timely manner. But he also saw the value of having fun. He could drop his nice-guy facade for the cloak of super-ham: clutching his heart, waving his arms, and dropping to his knees during final playbacks.
On more than one Smokie session I attended, after the vocal harmonies were finished, he encouraged the group to release the tension by getting silly, announcing it was time for the members to do “the Bill Hurley.” As the music played, they exaggerated their manager’s dancing technique by flopping around as though on quaaludes. To celebrate a well-executed recording, he encouraged the artist to redo the lead vocals, substituting lewd lyrics. The tapes to such an example as Sweet’s “Dirty Big Tits” (from “Ballroom Blitz”) are in Mike’s tape vault.
Mike had been a big fan of The Easybeats, who were thought of as Australia’s Beatles. The ex-lead singer, Stevie Wright, had released a solo album produced by his former bandmates, Harry Vanda and George Young—who also produced AC/DC. Even though Hard Road had been out a few years, Mike wasn’t familiar with it, so I grabbed a copy from the store’s bargain bin and headed over to his house. Rod Stewart had recorded the title track on his Smiler album, but I wanted to turn Mike onto “Evie.”
During our discussion Mike revealed that the guitar intro to Sweet’s “Hellraiser” was appropriated from The Easybeats’ “She’s So Fine.” Mike couldn’t play me the example because he didn’t have a copy of “Hellraiser.” Mike made good records. I was surprised he didn’t have copies of all of them. I then realized how much he was focused on his cu
rrent projects.
The artistic philosophy was strong on immediate, dispensable hits; danceable records with teen lyrics that satisfied only until the artist’s next hit arrived. “I need to keep a finger in the pop pie.” Mike explained at the time. “Teenagers matter to us all, and in a sense, I feel like I’m eighteen all over again. I’ve got to keep a pulse there because it’s so volatile.”
In writing together, Mike and Nicky started with a title, like “Hellraiser,” “Daytona Demon,” or “Teenage Rampage.” The melody came next, and then the words. The song was a mere frame for a production that added musical hooks, sound effects, and enthusiastic vocals more suitable to a theatrical play. They admitted that Sweet’s “Blockbuster” was copped from The Yardbirds’ “I’m a Man,” that “Funny Funny” was inspired by “Sugar Sugar” (one of Mike’s favorite songs), and “Wig Wam Bam” a copy of their own “Little Willy.”
Mike and Nicky’s first big US hit, “Little Willie” by Sweet, was written around the seven-note musical riff commonly referred to as Shave and a Haircut—Two Bits. “I just thought of it while walking down the street,” Mike said. “It’s a riff everyone knows so they won’t forget it: ‘Little Willie Willy won’t, go home.’ It was funny, slightly suggestive and sold three million worldwide.” In Britain “willie” is slang for penis.
Often the initial idea came from another song before the composition evolved its own identity. The guitar pattern in “Little Willie” was similar to what Pete Townshend played on The Who’s “I Can’t Explain.” For Exile’s “Kiss You All Over,” Mike recreated the feel and atmosphere of Barry White’s “Ecstasy.” Smokie’s “Living Next Door to Alice” clambered to number twenty-five in the US in 1977 and sold four hundred thousand copies, according to Mike. The song’s models were, more obviously, Dr. Hook’s “Sylvia’s Mother” and Billy Joe Royal’s “Down in the Boondocks.”
My British Invasion Page 26