Ain't Bad for a Pink

by Sandra Gibson

  Snakey and Pete even performed at Sandbach folk club more than once, though they were certainly not folkies, and that was the last time I saw Snakey play with Pete Witt, a great player who I’m sure Snakey has missed over the years.

  In 1987, having often rented equipment off Pete, the Captain and I invited Snakey to Leeds for an evening, and to our delight he agreed, as long as we could lift his unassuming-looking 2x15 cabinet. Now the Captain is not a small person, and I thought this was no problem, but the cab in question contained speakers of such improbable mass that it nearly put both our backs out! However, a real one-off night of rare axe-wielding joy ensued at the Duck and Drake.

  Snakey guested with us once more, at Crewe Oakley Centre in summer of ’87, and the video recording of the evening remains notable for the way the sound breaks up entirely whenever the camera is pointed in Snakey’s direction, giving the viewer something of the sense of being in one of those Maxell wind-tunnel ads.

  Apparently he was in the US playing the Atlanta Blues Festival in 2000, and he doesn’t play out very often. If you get a chance to see him, take it. A website, snakeyjake.com is also in the offing, I hear. Though there is apparently a commandment somewhere that all jakes must necessarily be snaky to at least a certain extent, this man is the real thing. Adrian Peever, 27th June 2001.

  Just Seventeen

  The shyest and most introverted of my girlfriends is associated with this period. She had a sultry earthy beauty: smouldering eyes and pre-Raphaelite hair. Public shots of her show a fresh-faced girl but more intimate photos show how good she looked and how comfortable she was in erotic clothes. She was affected by the photographer: the photos I took were more relaxed and more spontaneous than those taken by others. More trusting. In one photograph she is a cross between a biker chick and a hippie; another shows her in French mode with fishnets and a basque, no knickers, a snake armlet, a ribbon round her neck and a Hawaiian flower in her hair. There is a photograph of her wearing not much more than a Janis Joplin style woollen boa – clearly aware of the power of carefully placed accessories. For me the loveliest of the photographs belonging to this era shows both of us; it isn’t posed but it has artistic integrity – something to do with the way the limbs are positioned – that makes you think it is.

  When things went wrong with this relationship I became very wary of emotional involvement. One fun-loving girl I went out with combined directness with humour. She was very, very young and I had a mass of grey hair by then. When we arrived at Terry Butters gigs the band would be singing, “She was just seventeen” and we would dance. I knew not to get involved and hoped she would find a younger version of me but in the meantime we would have some uncomplicated fun. That was the theory, anyway. On one occasion Sweet Seventeen and I were visiting a classic car show and lying on the grass in the park having a drink. She was wearing a long dress and proceeded to tumble on top of me. “What will all these people think?” was my alarmed response. “Oh don’t worry! They’ll think I’m beating my dad up!”

  In spite of moving on from me, this agile ‘daughter’ kept in touch. It would be fair to say that she always took the initiative but I enjoyed her company. She dropped by one Tuesday; I was having a very difficult time with my present partner and was glad of some no-strings simplicity. We went to a pub in Rode Heath and then for a walk across the fields. A few days after this enjoyable encounter I heard that she was honeymooning in Yugoslavia! A fortnight later Miss Seventeen came again to the shop and again invited me to the pub in Rode Heath. I ended up at her house and thought I’d better mention the husband. “Oh – he was too boring,” was the response.

  But that didn’t stop her, in her mid twenties, marrying a heavy-drinking builder with an interest in guitars. I remember the two of them coming to the shop with photo albums of patios and garden walls, the whole thing seeming incongruous. Zoe, Andy Boote and I had attended their wretched wedding reception which teetered between disaster and farce: the bride had been drunk throughout the ceremony and there was no sign of anyone making a speech. Upset by this lapse in wedding etiquette I stood up and talked about the bride’s partying ways, referring to the time she had ‘dressed to thrill’ in order to cheer me up when I was depressed and assuring the new husband that he was a fortunate man. I meant this with all lubricated sincerity but the bride’s mother took exception and left the room. I think she had remembered the Winifred Atwell moment.

  Three Piece

  When Pete went to Australia the Skunk Band entered a fourth phase and had continued as a three piece band. I see that period as being fluid and more selective with regard to quality gigs. The fifth phase of the Skunk Band was less fluid and had a line-up of Moggsie, Melvyn, Andy Boote, myself and occasionally Des Parton.

  Moggsie

  Mark Bryan was thirteen when he first came in my shop and I took him on as the Saturday boy to clean things. He was a school contemporary of John Darlington and Andy Boote who used to send Moggsie into the shop to see what I had in; the others were obviously circumspect about my legendary grumpiness. Moggsie had been associated with the Nantwich Road shop, JD a little with the Nantwich Road shop and Andy only with Edleston Road, so Moggsie had some seniority over the other two. He had just lost his mother and paradoxically I became his surrogate father.

  After leaving school he became an apprentice crane driver in Crewe Works and was a bass player with the Skunk Band for quite a few years. I persuaded him to do a degree in Management Studies. One day he appeared in cap and gown with a bottle of champagne.

  Every band has someone who keeps an eye on forthcoming gigs and collects programmes and posters. Moggsie was a walking diarist. I could ask him what had happened on any given date; he would think for a while and then tell me. Not only that, he could do the same for everyone he knew! Moggsie also had an excellent social sense: he would see to arrangements, was endlessly resourceful and paid attention to small details. He would discreetly place a chair for you before you knew you wanted one. His creative sense of occasion gave rise to cheese and wine or Stilton and port parties or, on a slack afternoon he would devise a culinary version of Russian Roulette involving tortilla chips and Encona Hot Pepper Sauce to make things interesting.

  I remember Moggsie having two distinct lives that he ran quite harmoniously. He was always the gentleman but there was a bit of the rebel about him too. He had quite a high-powered wife and a circle of friends who went to posh restaurants but was equally at ease scumbagging it with the boys. He established the ritual of renouncing drink on January 1st every year and coming off the wagon with a flourish on April 7th – my birthday. Not that he was ever a heavy drinker, but it was one of his social occasions.

  In 1996 Moggsie died suddenly of heart failure. He was thirty-six years old.

  There is a video recording of Moggsie playing a charity gig with the Skunk Band at The Limelight, recorded in 1996: the year of his death. He is a cool, self-possessed man who just stands there and plays bass. Confidently. An excellent contrast to the more flamboyant styles of the other band members.

  John Darlington

  John Darlington comes from a musical family. His roots are Celtic: Welsh on his father’s side and Irish on his mother’s side and it’s there in his music. John started playing twenty-five years ago and has appeared with Jools Holland, New Model Army, Tina Turner, Lindisfarne and Fairport Convention. He toured with Tower Struck Down for many years, appearing at Glastonbury six consecutive years and touring in Ireland, the Czech Republic, Slovakia and Hungary. John and his brother Gareth are Chew The Roots: blues, country, boogie-woogie and Celtic rock.

  John Darlington is an accomplished, versatile musician who fully exploits the potential of his guitar, at times making it sound like a fiddle. There is a flicker of restless concern preventing him from entirely immersing himself in his music. He is the one taking the on-stage responsibility but his apprehension is needless. Friday night’s incarnation of Chew the Roots has three instruments: saxophone, guitar and fiddle
with a backing beat. Whatever music is being played: Pogues, country, rock, jazz-blues, whimsical-humorous, blues, Hendrix, River Dance, folk, Dire Straits, whatever music is played, the whole thing rocks and Gareth Darlington’s fiddle – infectious – universal, dances over the top, Gareth himself standing there, grounded, unconcerned, solid as a rock, not separate from his music and without any other issue whilst he plays and responds to John’s guitar. This sibling responsiveness is a potent force in music.

  Sandra Gibson. (16)

  At the moment John is based in Cognac, France.

  I played music in France with my brother Brendan for a while. He played acoustic guitar and I played electric guitar. He’s a fantastic singer and he’s written a couple of good songs. We did stuff by The Proclaimers, Thin Lizzie, Dire Straits, Irish stuff. We sang in harmony and had quite a cult following. He has this self-deprecating attitude sometimes. He said, “My brother is a guitarist who does joinery; I’m a joiner who does guitar playing.”

  But all my brothers are talented. Gareth is a world class fiddler and a fantastic guitarist; he’s good on the mandolin and never gets up in the daytime. The tour bus will be waiting outside for him to get out of bed. Damien has international acclaim with the Australian Pink Floyd Show. He lives the kind of life where everything is taken care of for you, where gigs are packaged and all you have to do is walk on the stage. He lives from his music and although I wouldn’t like to do his thing I respect him.

  John Darlington. (17)

  JD’s latest group is the Champagne Charlies – named after the ritual of drinking champagne comme aperitif before each gig and he has become the most consistent musician in the Charente – an area as big as Cheshire – allegedly the only one making a musical living throughout the year.

  John was an associate rather than a core member of the Skunk Band: the archetypal musician – into drink and drugs and sex! On one occasion, quite early on in my relationship with John, I received a phone call from his father: John was in hospital. Someone had spiked his Chinese food. Allegedly. Sceptical about this idea of John as the victim – more likely the instigator – I suspected magic mushrooms.

  The Famous Incident Of The Magic Mushrooms

  I was given the equivalent, in dried mushrooms, of ten good doses. I added the lot to my curry. On the way to a band rehearsal the mushrooms kicked in and, deciding I didn’t want to rehearse, I stepped out of the car.

  At 50 mph.

  I fell on my face, went through a hawthorn hedge and slid into a wet cow pat. Terry Dwyer picked me up and took me to Leighton hospital.

  John Darlington. (18)

  When John started using heroin, I tried to dissuade him but to no avail. He claimed he was on heroin for two years but I think it was longer than that. The early years were spent dabbling but the last two years were more problematic.

  Soup, Soap And Sun

  The worst thing I did was the Eric Clapton thing: heroin takes away your manhood, your pride and makes you a victim. It leeches the spirit. Why did I get into it? Banging my head on a brick wall and not getting anywhere. With heroin your world is self-sufficient – you only need the drug; you replace all your problems with this all-encompassing one that gets you up very early to go and find the money. Fortunately I could make enough money with my music so I didn’t need to turn to crime but it was a bit touch and go. I pawned my Stratocaster with Pete years ago. Owning a guitar was essential to my self-esteem and to my supply of heroin. On one occasion they were both in jeopardy; fortunately Pete was on hand with his quick mind.

  When I was living on Nantwich Road I met a fellow Welshman – a fellow junkie – and let him stay at my flat for the night. In the morning my guitar was missing; Taff was missing. I went to Pete Johnson’s shop to tell him the sorry story. He listened and then went behind the grand piano. “Is this what you want?” It was my guitar. Taff had taken it to the shop and tried to sell it to Pete, my best friend who, of course, had recognized it and wrestled it off him. And this is an example of why I love Pete.

  When you’re trying to get off heroin the biggest threat is people not wanting you to escape. My attitude is: you make it; you break it. So I went to France and stayed in a gite with my parents. My mother thought I needed fresh air and soup. But what helped me more than anything was World Cup 2002. They tell you to combat depression by getting up to watch a soap so I watched the football and I lay in the sun. My main pain was not the heroin withdrawal – it was being two weeks with my family in a gite!

  John Darlington. (19)

  As a musician John is very talented – a great player. If he hears a tune he can play it and when he puts himself into it, he’s on fire. He’s also very practical and a fully qualified electrician. He made Gareth’s fiddle out of a coffee table and he’s made guitars. When he needed an electric balalaika to play “Goulash” after a tour in Central Europe, he made one. He’s a great jammer with a fabulous ear.

  I met John when he was a very young teenager. The whole family became customers. At one point the family went to live in Dubai, where they ran a club called Snakey Jake and called their band by this name too. Back from the Middle East, they opened the Leisure Club in Edleston Road, Crewe and the Skunk Band played there on many occasions. One of Eugene’s wakes was held there and so was my Fortieth Birthday Party, for which Jo had made a snake cake which I proudly held aloft like a waiter. And this was at the end of the night!

  We had some amazing times. I remember after one of Eugene Van de Hoog’s wakes – the one when he was actually dead – Pete was going through a bad patch. He was pissed and he had had another row with his girlfriend so he couldn’t go back to her house. At that time I had the upstairs flat in the Edleston Road shop and I offered him hospitality. He declined and went to sleep behind the shop counter.

  I was suddenly woken by a massive banging noise, like an explosion. I ran downstairs and I was banging to get into the shop – I thought Pete must be dead – but then he appeared at the door, bleary-eyed. “What’s up?” Someone had only levered up a paving flag and chucked it through the window. Three guitars had been stolen. Pete hadn’t heard a thing. After that bars were installed on the windows.

  I believe Pete isn’t aware of – doesn’t know – the underbelly of crime and downright nastiness that exists; I think he’s uncorrupted by things.

  John Darlington. (20)

  Andy Boote

  Andy also came into the shop as a young teenager. He had a post-punk indie band which was quite successful and at first he and I had very little to say to one another, musically speaking. The idea that he and I could ever share the same stage was ridiculous. It was quite a while before common ground was established, partly because it seemed pointless to look for it. Neither of us did.

  Warts And Winnets

  Pete Johnson was quite a bit older than me. I had no way of knowing then that I would enter his boisterous world and end up playing in the Skunk Band, years later. I was well aware that Pete would dismiss my musical tastes as for “warts and winnets” but I remained a regular customer. One of the lads in my class – Moggsie – was a friend of Pete’s. They had things in common, such as the loss of their mothers so Moggsie had status within this threatening world and would sometimes be in the shop when I went. This was reassuring.

  My band The Train Set was signed to Playhard Records in Manchester set up by Dave Haslam, a well-known Manchester DJ and Nathan McGough, son of the poet Roger McGough. We played local venues such as The Cheshire Cat and The Oakley Centre and further afield in Manchester, Liverpool and London – we played London loads of times. This was the post-punk era and our minds were passionate and stimulated as well as restless and frustrated. We wanted to get out of here to the real music scene, if you like. We hated the sense of stagnation in the Crewe scene; we didn’t like people our age playing the same old pub rock…it’s anachronistic. The commercial strand of post-punk music was represented by Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet but we favoured bands such as The Smiths, Joy Di
vision, New Order and The Cure – the indie strand. It separated certain people into different camps. You were with the punks and this attitude or you weren’t. You had to wear what you were. It was political: I got into it and sold anti-Nazi League literature. It was a stimulating, vibrant movement – a seminal moment – a revolution – a feeling that things had got to change. The music was fresh – it was yours…for a time.

  The Train Set was a successful Eighties group, attaining Single of the Week in NME and number 10 in the National Independent Single Charts with “She’s Gone”(1988) and touring with The Happy Mondays and James.

  Andy Boote. (21)

  Andy was just one of the many youngsters who came timidly into the shop; what eventually linked us was his mate Dave Evans wanting to learn the blues and Andy’s growing interest in jazz. He realised that the line from jazz had origins in the blues and then we had something to talk about.

  Common Ground

  I continued as a customer for years; no particular recognition occurred until Pete met me in MFI and asked me how things were going with The Train Set. You can be sure Pete has never concealed his dislike for my music. I wasn’t that keen on some of his music, either. Our musical differences appeared to be completely irreconcilable nor was there any desire in either of us to remedy this.

  Common ground was to come through Dave Evans, another mate from school times whose musical tastes were more in line with Pete Johnson’s. Dave would be off with bikers; I’d be off with my punks. I started teaching Dave Evans to play guitar: Beatles stuff – busking. Then he said he wanted to get into the blues. Through visiting the shop regularly, I knew of Pete Johnson’s prowess as a blues player and admired his style unreservedly: I liked his finger picking style. I was impressed by his energetic party-style. Finger picking is usually associated with classical or folk. It’s nice. Just nice. But Pete Johnson can have a party with it. I came to realise how well he could play because I had matured musically myself, so I was in a better position to judge. The other thing I thought was: what a nerve he’s got! To sing so loud, outright in a shop to an audience of one! Potency. The experience of Pete singing to me stayed with me. He sounded like Leadbelly.