Ain't Bad for a Pink

by Sandra Gibson

  Axe wasn’t really a family band!

  Bubonic Monk

  You don’t often see someone wearing evening dress and sandals. When I saw a bloke wearing evening dress and sandals whilst riding a bike I was intrigued. I liked his style. I later discovered that I also liked his music. Pete Whittingham – Whitty – was to become my most important musical collaborator and friend.

  A daft little trio: Bubonic Monk, that also pre-dated my time at university and ran parallel to my solo work at various folk clubs, consisted of me, Pete Whittingham and John Billington. We all had pseudonyms: I was Rabid Wank’ard, Whitty was Foam Leg and John was Sir Bubon the Bongo, because he talked as if he had a plum in his mouth. It lasted about a year and during that time the band experimented with various types of instrument. As well as the basic guitar (Pete Whittingham) and slide guitar (me) there would be sitar, mandolin, banjo – a very rare four stringed banjo that Whitty eventually incorporated into the Skunk Band – and bongos (John Billington) all adding to the variety of sound textures. Whitty was far more folkie than me but not into that feeble crap that some people liked to listen to. He was more influenced by the Gaelic folk songs he had learnt in Ireland and also did a bit of contemporary stuff like Dylan and Neil Young. He had a fabulous voice; it sort of floated and the Irish Celtic flavours would come through, but he was also a great Stones and Pete Townsend fan so he incorporated this tremendous drive into his playing as well. He had less finesse than me but he was a fantastic singer-songwriter. We would also do a sort of acoustic psychedelic music with Pink Floyd songs from Atom Heart Mother. We took it in turns to take the lead in singing, depending on whether it was a hard, harsh song or a gentle melodic song, harmonising naturally and this also carried on into our later band: two different voices and two different guitars. The harmonies were instinctive; we never had to work anything out.

  Brahms And Lissed

  I’ve subsequently done duos with Des Parton and enjoyed it but it’s professional hard work. With Whitty and the music and a bottle of cider it was a party. We had this musicians’ chemistry – we just sang like brothers having a bit of fun and the musical performance was almost a casual thing. Whitty and I started performing together in local pubs – the first acoustic evening being at the Chetwode Arms on Hightown, Crewe. Other places we appeared at included The Albion in Mill Street and the smallest pub in Crewe, on Wistaston Road. No payment was involved; it was just an extension of our social life but we soon built up a band of followers. Whitty would come to our house in Sandbach to put our set together and we eventually called our musical duo Brahms and Lissed, combining blues from my side and Gaelic and pop from his side. He had written some songs and I arranged them. We never had rehearsals because we rehearsed all the time, in effect.

  Fellow Performers

  Pubs weren’t the only venues. The existing folk clubs were established before the folk boom and I had performed on my own in clubs such as the one held on Sunday nights at The Brunswick on Nantwich Road, Crewe and various blues venues. If I appeared at a folk club it would be as a floor singer; if I appeared at a blues club I would be a support act. I would have been about seventeen or eighteen at the time. How sniffy the folk aficionados were about music other than folk! I had to learn some folk songs in order to be tolerated. Yet modern folk music was allowed and I think Paul Simon once performed there in his “ Homeward Bound” days. There are whole chat rooms debating which grim northern station his song is based on. Interviewed in 1990 (14) Simon said he wrote it at Liverpool. But that didn’t stop them putting up a plaque at Widnes.

  Anybody from Crewe just knows it had to be Crewe station.

  Bert Jansch also appeared at The Brunswick – I really enjoyed his songs, though I was more impressed by John Renbourn as a player. I performed with both of them and with Davey Graham. Jansch’s first album, released in 1965, sold 150,000 copies. He later went on to form Pentangle with Renbourn, Jacqui McShee, Danny Thompson and Terry Cox, performing an eclectic programme of music referred to as “folk baroque”, each musician bringing their own influence: traditional, jazz, early music, blues and contemporary. Davey Graham was also an eclectic musician who incorporated folk, jazz, blues, Eastern European and North African music into his work. He was far ahead of his time; the early Sixties albums now acknowledged as folk-blues classics were described in the recent Guardian (15) obituary as “delayed time-bombs; their initial impact may not have been enormous but the long-term effect was remarkable”. The band I formed in the early Seventies drew music from many influences and was part of this vibrant, influential and transformative movement.

  Wizz Jones also played at The Brunswick and Brian Golby – with whom Wizz went on to specialise in country music – was another performer from those days. Wizz was a great blues lover at the top of his profession, influenced by Broonzy, Alexis Corner, Davey Graham and Ewan MacColl, and influencing Clapton and Renbourn in their early days. As was customary, he had done the European busk and had travelled to North Africa. He stayed with me a couple of times at the house in Wistaston Avenue where I lived with my father. I first met Wizz Jones at a gig in Stoke and the second time I met him I played with him, also in Stoke. I found some notes pertaining to a performance by (probably) Wizz Jones at (probably) the Stoke Guitar Club. I had written down how to play the different parts whilst closely watching and listening. There was no other way of finding out.

  It’s reminiscent of me getting the early bus to school so I could talk to Keith Haines – no longer at school and a skilled musician – about playing chords. Keith played with a successful band: Gary B. Goode and the Hot Rods on the same bill as The Beatles. He graduated from skiffle to rock ‘n’ roll and eventually to jazz.

  Bands

  As well as solo performances, I was supporting some quite high profile bands such as Trader Horne, The Incredible String Band and Pentangle. Other performers included Dave Swarbrick: a virtuoso fiddle player who was to become a member of Fairport Convention, Son House and Peter Green from the early incarnation of Fleetwood Mac. This was a time when folk became folk rock and I’d be helping with lists of performers for gigs. I always put myself down to support; it was cheap and easy. I needed no equipment to move onto stage – just me and two microphones. In an electric band everyone needs an amplifier. I wasn’t competing with these bands because I’m doing blues and they’re doing folk rock. There’s also variety for the audience. Sometimes I’d do an extra solo slot in a room off – there were lots of different rooms in the university buildings and many possibilities after the bands had finished. I was also playing with Stefan Grossman at Manchester University, at Keele and other big folk clubs as a support act during the late Sixties and early Seventies. He had a thorough grounding in the country blues, having studied with the Reverend Gary Davis for eight years and then with Mississippi John Hurt, Son House, Skip James and Fred McDowell. Stefan Grossman and I both did solo acoustic blues. He was technically much better, certainly in the Sixties; I’d caught up a bit by the Seventies.

  Martin Carthy was another musician at the top of his prowess I met and played with. He was a solo performer before he joined Steeleye Span. It felt good to be accepted by players of this calibre. You always expected them to be miles better than you were but it was not always the case. So it gave you confidence. I also supported Ian Campbell at the Brunswick.

  But my allegiance to the blues was paramount and I did find some of the folkies precious and pretentious, I must say. I was once representing The Brunswick playing my Dobro in the Best of the North West: a competition for folk singers. I looked around and saw a lot of pullovers. “You put your fingers in your ears and I’ll sing. I’m from Crewe – we do things differently there.”

  Musical Networking

  As a pedestrian or cyclist when I was very young, I attended youth clubs in the west end of town as well as the south end of town. As soon as I was old enough I had a scooter and a motorbike. I could be a mod or a rocker depending on my mood! At seventeen I got
a sports car which allowed me to extend my territory and from then on I made an effort to play clubs as far away as possible: Poynton, Leek, Macclesfield, Whitmore, Chester, Manchester, Bolton, Sheffield, Barnard Castle, London, Cornwall… performing two or three nights a week. The moment you perform you’ve made contact with everyone present and indirectly with the people they know. That’s how people get to know about you and that’s how you get to know about other potential venues. There were territories not strictly associated with musical circles. I’d been halfway round the country with Ralph, at a very early age: climbing and caving in Bristol, the Mendips, Derbyshire, Lancashire, Yorkshire, North Wales and Snowdonia, so this extended my circuit as well. Flying with Phil Brightman meant I could play gigs at the Flying Club at Sleep in Shropshire.

  I remember one Moss Side, Manchester, club in particular: a pub in Denmark Street that might have been called The Denmark – the local of predominantly black drinkers. I would receive £10-£15 a night and a hat would also be passed round, some of the punters showing their appreciation by putting drugs into it. In those days I was not interested in drugs so a friend of mine would sell them and we’d share the cash.

  The Cornish Connection

  Pilgrimages to Cornwall started six weeks after my seventeenth birthday when I passed my test. The folk scene there was thriving in the mid Sixties and I did gigs at Mevagissey and The Folk Cottage in Mitchell near Newquay and became quite well known in the area. The Folk Cottage was a derelict house with a pit to piss in. It was during one of these gigs that I met Clive Palmer: Billy Connolly’s banjo hero and one of the founder members of the psychedelic folk group, the Incredible String Band, formed in 1965. Their first album, recorded in 1966 had been Melody Maker’s Folk Album of the Year and one of its tracks: “October Song” had been praised by Dylan. At that time – about 1969 – Clive had a four man band called – perversely – The Stockroom Five, specialising in jug band music and white blues. He eventually went on to do traditional acoustic music. Four decades later he came into the shop with Fluff (Claire Smith) who was playing with ISB in its most recent incarnation. He looked at me and said: “Dobro – voice – Mitchell – Cornwall.” I think that about covered it.

  Images From A Darkling Plain

  I was once asked to leave a folk club because I fell off my stool: they thought I was drunk. I wasn’t drunk: I had fallen asleep from boredom. I loathed folk music and bottom of the pile was the sea shanty. From the age of fifteen I visited many, many folk clubs with Pete and although a lot of the music was folk, I was also able to enjoy slide guitar which was Pete’s passion. We went to see Ry Cooder and that really knocked me out. I liked music that was on the jazz/blues part of the spectrum. I listened to Leadbelly, Charlie Parker and Oscar Peterson.

  An enduring memory of those times was riding pillion and holding Pete’s precious guitar propped between him and me, travelling to live gigs anywhere and everywhere. Later, when we became joint owners of a Turner Climax I still had to hold the guitar because there was nowhere to put it. When we reached our destination – often Cornwall – we would look for local musical venues. It was on a visit to Cornwall that we met The Stockroom Five performing upstairs in a barn. I was very, very tired but afraid of falling asleep because of the spiders! I’d sat through various acts but Stockroom Five were electrifying. They brought me out of it.

  At the end of gigs musicians used to do a bit of jamming, swapping addresses and songs and we were the last to go – at between 12.30 and 1.00. It was a strange night; there was a mist rising high enough to conceal the car. We fumbled about until we found it, then once inside I stood up like Boadicea to guide Pete out of the parking area. Anyone seeing this would think I was a strange apparition with only head and shoulders showing, moving slowly through the mist.

  But everything was about Pete and his guitar. I remember key images rather than the whole thing: moments like Mevagissey town hall where they had miked up Pete’s guitar. The moment he strummed the first note a hand reached out to whip the mic away because it was so powerful, the whole room vibrated.

  Linda Johnson. (16)

  Meeting Slade

  The Cornish connection enabled me to meet Slade in 1971. We went down there to do a sound system for Strife, their support band. We put the PA system we had built into a JU 250 van and got as far as Cheltenham before it blew up. The van, that is. We had to transfer this massive PA to a rented van then we set off again, eventually arriving at the venue near St Ives. Noddy Holder was there but it was his guitarist Dave who looked at our equipment and uttered those immortal lines, “You can’t put that there.” After a bit of consternation and discussion the reason for this was revealed: “Because we’re having a party and you’re invited!” Strife were welcome – and this was the essence of our time with Slade – to use the PA Slade were using. So the gig became part of the party and the party became part of the gig. We were in familiar territory.

  Then it was time to drive back to Cheltenham and tow the other van back to Crewe. It’s amazing how we took long journeys, mishaps, changes of plan, impromptu parties and lack of sleep all in our stride. But when you’re young these are adventures. Driving on the motorway with me in the hired van and Plum in the exploded JU 250 van, I became aware that the van I was towing was swaying across three lanes and dragging the vehicle I was driving with it. Plum had gone to sleep! In those days there was far less traffic on the roads. At Keele Bank things slowed down and I was able to stop. Fortunately.

  When we eventually got back to Crewe we found that the hire van was as knackered as the JU 250 through carrying so much weight. Absolutely knackered: the brakes were fading with the exertion of the journey. I took the van to the Crewe branch of the national van hire firm, told them it was not fit to drive back to Cheltenham and got my money back. Plum had also disconnected the speedo so we only had to pay the mileage from Cheltenham to Crewe. I felt I could justify some dishonesty with big companies.

  The Wayfarer: A Little Piano Player

  This early period of intense musicianship had another strand. I was asked to run a blues night – my own blues night with acts to support me – by the proprietors of The Wayfarer, the night club in Nantwich which later became Gregory’s. I’ve played gigs at this venue in all its manifestations; when I played at The Wayfarer I did solo performances but also played with the bands. As a slide player you could guest with anyone in those days. If, on my musical travels, I came across someone talented, I would book them. Other artists would be booked by the management, who knew somebody in Jimmy Powell’s band. My support acts included Long John Baldry, Jimmy Powell – a man with a gun belt full of harmonicas – Elton John and Rod Stewart. On one occasion I was being supported by Jimmy Powell and the Five Dimensions when, as often happened, Long John Baldry was the guest singer and Reg Dwight – soon to be known as Elton John – was playing the piano. He was just a little piano player then. This seems strange now but it is less surprising when you realise that this particular ensemble was based on harmonica, guitar and two high-profile singers. The Elton John charisma could hardly develop in those circumstances but things would soon change for him.

  I’ve met many musicians destined for fame – an autograph book of mine would have been like a bible – but I’ve usually found the famous fairly human and ordinary; besides, with important exceptions, I didn’t usually rate their ability higher than my own. I had come across David Bowie and Marc Bolan when I played a folk club in London in the days before I went to university. It’s strange to think of these mega stars as young teenagers negotiating – as I did – the lonely road of the floor singer. David Bowie is a good singer-songwriter who had concepts that were ahead of his time, combining theatricality with pop music, creating stage personae and extending the range of what was permissible. It’s taken until now for young men to use guyliner! He was at the forefront of the space age with songs like “Major Tom”, which had a futuristic feel of 2001 about it. His songs were cleverly written and original. He
was the Dylan of pop music.

  The Hot Rods

  In 1970 when I was 21 I played with the Hot Rods (not the same band that had played at The Majestic) who had a residency at The Wayfarer. Roy Tatler – a great whisky lover who eventually settled in the Scilly Isles – was on rhythm guitar and vocals; I played bass guitar and Gary Burgess – alias Spadge, alias Gary B. Goode – was the singer and excellent frontman. Jonty Ellwood was on lead guitar and there were a variety of drummers including Reg Banks. Reg was to manage my Hanley shop and has had a subsequent career in retail, now dealing in vintage instruments. I was with the Hot Rods for about a year. Before then I’d played with Jonty Ellwood in daft duos at private parties for people who seemed to be millionaires. That’s how it seemed to a working class lad.

  Versatility

  Pete Johnson played bass – he’d never played bass in his life! He used to wear a long morning coat, a T-shirt and a dickie bow. But the thing you noticed most were these silver wellies. It made sense when you realised he kept a bottle of beer in each one.

  Jonty Ellwood. (17)