by Will Birch
Also by Will Birch
No Sleep Till Canvey Island:
The Great Pub Rock Revolution
First published 2010 by Sidgwick & Jackson
This electronic edition published 2010 by Sidgwick & Jackson
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For my old man
Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Part One – TRAGEDY
1. It’s a Boy, Mrs Walker, It’s a Boy
2. Cruel Summer
3. The Magnificent Severn
4. Nude Books and Aunties
Part Two – ASCENT
5. Swinging London
6. The Death of Gene Vincent
7. The Sacking of Charlie Hart
8. No Hand Signals
Part Three – ACCLAIM
9. Rough Kids
10. England’s Glory
11. A Mouth What Never Closes
12. Oi Oi!
Part Four – REVENGE
13. Up Like a Rocket
14. Reasons to Be Cheerful (Part 1)
15. Oh Lonesome Me
16. ‘Phil, You Don’t Know What It Involves’
17. I Want You to Hurt Like I Do
Part Five – REDEMPTION
18. Equity
19. ‘Ian Wrecks Bash in Rhythm Stick Row’
20. The Passing Show
21. A Tricky Operation
22. Sweetness and Light
23. The Diamond Geezer
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
Family Tree
Selected Discography
Radio, TV and Film Appearances
Permissions Acknowledgements
Index
‘Ian Dury always seemed to me to be an exceptionally witty and concise singer-poet, with an especially admirable talent for making contemporary references and language feel a part of the long tradition of lyric writing and balladeering.’
Andrew Motion, Poet Laureate, October 2008
‘I’m a well-known softie.
You know that, an old pudding.
It’s a pack of lies what they say about me.’
Ian Dury, May 1998
Introduction
This is the story of a great man who battled severe physical setbacks to become a cultural icon of the late twentieth century He inspired, loved and motivated nearly everyone with whom he came into contact in his various roles as husband, lover, father, artist, teacher, photographer, drummer, songwriter, pop star, stage and film actor, voice-over artist, television presenter, charity fundraiser, goodwill ambassador for UNICEF and perennial Teddy Boy.
He never really grew up. He never really had to. His sense of awe and wonder was frozen in time from the moment that the joy of childhood was stolen from him in a tragic twist of fate. Following the early trauma of polio, he became a warm and compassionate mentor to many and retained an almost childlike enthusiasm for the marvels of art and music. He raved about the paintings of Vermeer, the flamenco guitar of Segovia, the jazz saxophone of Ornette Coleman and the wild, rebel yell of Gene Vincent and the Bluecaps. He obsessed over the creative detail, wanting everyone to know about the images and sounds that rocked his world.
But genius is pain. And throughout his life he was a tightly wound ball of complex emotions, as his closest friends and relatives will attest in the story that follows. It is not the purpose of this book to describe a sometimes unpleasant man. Although he ‘had his moments’, he was somebody who most people felt they were glad to have known and who enriched their lives. As his former manager, Charlie Gillett, says, ‘He had a fantastic smile, as if he was sharing an unspoken joke. And he was friendly, with a genuine look of affection.’
To his many fans he will always be ‘the diamond geezer’, a worthy subject for that vacant plinth in Trafalgar Square, but the scale of his celebrity was not unlocked until he died from cancer in March 2000. We may be some years away from a blue plaque outside one of the dozen or so addresses he called home at various times and from the full recognition his work undoubtedly deserves, but right now Ian Dury is the working-class hero, a household name whose drug- and booze-fuelled career, Bohemian lifestyle and deft ‘wordsmithery’ inspire admiration, fascination and fear.
The posthumous respect has been building for some time. In 2003, comedienne Linda Smith nominated Ian Dury for inclusion in the BBC Radio 4 series Great Lives, in which he swaggered in the unlikely company of Lord Nelson and Tchaikovsky. The following year, London mayoral candidate Simon Hughes chose ‘Reasons to Be Cheerful’ as his campaign song. The Internet is awash with celebrity tributes. Try this from Clive James: ‘Ian Dury was a magic messenger straight out of Prospero’s island.’ Shortly after Ian’s death, the Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion, described him as ‘a remarkable English poet’.
Since his death, his work has grown in stature. Hardly a week passes without his name appearing in the media. As well as two previous biographies, numerous magazine articles and CD reissues, there has been a stage play, Hit Me: The Life and Rhymes of Ian Dury, written and directed by Jeff Merrifield, and London’s Graeae (pronounced grey-eye) theatre company, its cast drawn from physically disabled actors, is planning a musical. A full-length feature film, entitled Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll, starring Andy Serkis in the lead role, written by Paul Viragh and directed by Mat Whitecross, is promised for 2010.
At the end of his life, Ian was said to be a ‘national treasure’. He would have hated this somewhat patronizing term, often used to describe a lovable artiste of a certain vintage. But to many, Ian was a treasure. The differently abled community whose causes he enthusiastically supported, adopted him as their poster boy, and when the BBC’s ‘Ouch’ website conducted a poll of ‘Great Disabled Britons’, Ian was placed second with a credible 28.6 per cent of the vote (behind Professor Stephen Hawking, but some way ahead of Sir Winston Churchill!).
As probably the most famous victim of England’s post-war poliomyelitis epidemic, his full-on life was a multi-faceted journey through a wild and colourful landscape. But did his unfortunate condition become ‘the catalyst that sparked the revolution’? Did polio give him a psychological and emotional resilience that drove him ruthlessly towards stardom? This was the conundrum that compelled me to research Ian’s life and write his biography.
We met on a number of occasions when I was researching No Sleep Ti
ll Canvey Island – The Great Pub Rock Revolution, primarily to talk about that era. I was apprehensive about our first interview session because I had once experienced the sharp end of his tongue. It happened in 1973, when Kilburn and the High Roads played the Zero 6 in Southend-on-Sea, and I foolishly wandered ‘backstage’ after the show. When I became a touring musician myself I found out how irksome it can be when fans insist on gatecrashing the dressing room within seconds of the encore, thus interrupting the inevitable post-show inquest and the privacy a musician requires when changing his trousers. Anyway, Ian was in a state of undress, dripping with sweat, and he told me to ‘fuck off!’ just like he would tell Chaz Jankel to fuck off some years later and, no doubt, many others since.
We bumped into each other from time to time. The Kilburns appeared on bills with my own group, the Kursaal Flyers, and I would occasionally see him in Dingwalls or up at Stiff Records and found him a little abrasive, but when we met in the 1990s, Ian gave me his full cooperation, and I am grateful to him for his generosity at a time when he was contending with serious illness. The interviews took place at his home in Hampstead. The living room was a picture of Bohemian chic, with large paintings, some of which were early Dury works, adorning the walls. On the dining table stood an unopened bottle of white wine amid a surreal array of bric-à-brac. At the back of the flat, overlooking the garden, was Ian’s workspace. The small, narrow room housed a high-level desktop scattered with large sheets of layout paper. These contained meticulous handwritten notes, some of which would show up in future songs.
After one lengthy interview session, Ian summoned me back for more, saying he felt he had ‘left it half unsaid . . . or something’, so I returned for further riveting yarns. I’ve never kidded myself that the tales he treated me to were exclusive or indeed completely true; his anecdotes were finely honed, oft-repeated and told with dramatic purpose. But now that I was equipped with some 30,000 of his hugely entertaining words and a first-hand account of key periods in his life, I felt I had the basis for a biography of the man I regarded as an extraordinary entertainer and England’s foremost lyricist, or ‘wordsmith’ to use Ian’s preferred term.
My overriding impression from listening to Ian was how proud he was of his time at the Royal College of Art and his family’s lineage. ‘I met Betty, my late first wife, at the Royal College,’ Ian told me. ‘She was at Newport College of Art. Her dad went to the Royal College in the thirties. My girlfriend’s [Sophy, later to become Ian’s wife] old man, Joe Tilson, went there. We’ve got a little baby now [Bill] who’s a third-generation Tilson. His dad and his granddad and his mum went to the Royal College of Art. All my three children’s parents went to the Royal College of Art. If they go the other way and grow up to be vicars, I shall be gutted.’
When discussing his songs, Ian was able to recite every word and nuance of his earliest, unrecorded efforts, as if the distant couplets were meticulously archived in some huge mental filing cabinet. He also had perfect recall of seemingly trivial events, dates and places. He savoured the detail and, as he reminisced, I could sense him mining his impressive memory vaults to summon up the minutiae. If ever I was in doubt about a certain biographical detail, it was Ian’s version of events, where available, that I relied upon.
The detail that peppered his stories would have informed a great autobiography, had he chosen to write one. ‘I did once speak to Robert [McCrum] at Faber,’ he told me. ‘To me, a title’s important. I had “It’s All Lies” or “On My Life” – it implies it’s true, but it ain’t. But my kids might read it, so I could only put half of it in, and then it would be a very boring book. Then I thought of getting all my mates round and have a few bevvies and take notes. Then I thought I’d like to do a book of anecdotes, like the David Niven books, with about 800 stories, but I don’t really want to get into the forty-five-year plod. Does the world need another book? It’s a lot of work.’
So it has been left to others to reconstruct Ian’s life and decide what to include and what to omit. Ian seemed concerned about his family ‘reading the truth’. He also didn’t wish to appear ungrateful to his ‘Aunt Moll’, who augmented his mother’s efforts and often came to the rescue when times were tough. ‘My mum always wanted the best for me when I was a kid,’ said Ian. ‘Chailey was a fine place to be. Those four years made me strong enough to get out in the world again. But if I wrote my side of a certain scenario, my family might see that in the wrong light. I didn’t enjoy High Wycombe, but I couldn’t put that in the book because my auntie would read it and she helped me to go there. I’ll wait ’til I’m about sixty before I write about that.’
Tragically, Ian was not to live to see sixty, or even fifty-eight, and it seems we will have to get by without his memoirs. Does the world need a new book about Ian Dury? It’s a question I have often asked myself, but whenever I got a little disillusioned during my ten-year ‘plod’, a new batch of research material materialized! I’m sure there is more out there, and I’d love to hear from anyone who might wish to contribute to a possible future revision, or correct any factual errors. From Sydney to Tel Aviv, the stories are endless, and it pains me to think I may not have heard them all! Can there be another popular entertainer to match Ian for disgraceful, yet often hilarious, behaviour in public? Oliver Reed or Keith Moon spring to mind, but it seems you can only ever scratch the surface of Ian’s vast catalogue of misdemeanours.
But hey! This was the man who wrote:
Skinny white sailor the chances were slender the beauties were brief,
Shall I mourn your decline with some Thunderbird wine and a black handkerchief?
I miss your sad Virginia whisper, I miss the voice that called my heart,
Sweet Gene Vincent, young and old and gone . . .
For this and other lyrical gems, all of the memorable shows and his stoic ‘triumph over tragedy’, there are reasons to be thankful indeed. And if it hadn’t been for his chance encounter with the polio virus, we may not have enjoyed ‘Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll’ or had ‘Reasons to Be Cheerful’ – two of Ian’s phrases that appear in various dictionaries of quotations and still constantly feature in newspaper headlines.
His life was one of extremes, from the euphoria of the hit parade to daily, debilitating physical pain. It was no wonder he craved adoration, recognition and approval, the key drivers in his pursuit of fame. As his former minder, Fred Rowe, says, ‘Ian simply wanted to be loved.’ When he became a success, he was adored by his public, but when the hits dried up, mass adulation was swiftly followed by bitter rejection, all against the backdrop of severe disability. And throughout his wild years, there were voices in the back of his head, reminding him of his genteel family background and his mother’s and aunts’ efforts to educate and equip him for great things. His life was both tragic and charmed in equal measure, frequently eventful, always intense. If we’re talking about the ‘emotional roller coaster’, Ian’s seat was reserved at birth. This is the true story of Ian Dury and his life-long struggle for acceptance.
Prologue
Hammersmith Odeon, London, 1979. Through a door ajar we see the star, meticulously applying mascara to a pantomime visage with razor-blade earring and a head full of jet-black curls. Like the boss of a travelling circus, he is often miles away from home, distanced from reality and once again preparing to ‘give’ for his people. There are two men in the room. ‘Come on, you tart,’ says the bald one. ‘You can’t hurry art,’ replies the star, leaning into the mirror to position a beauty spot on his left cheekbone. ‘Ready are we?’ asks the bald one. ‘Ready,’ says the star as he completes his nightly routine, although no two nights are ever the same.
Another ritual is taking place in an ante-room, where the musicians are tuning up and hurriedly discussing the fine detail of chords, keys, tempos and sound effects. As the dying echo of the opening act swirls around the backstage corridors, the star emerges from his dressing room on the arm of his minder. He shuffles past the band, oblivious to their
technical discussions. ‘Awright Davey?’ he grunts self-consciously, making minimal eye contact with the wiry saxophonist. The troupe commences its long walk towards the stage, the pace of which is dictated by the star’s painful gait.
A gangly youth in gorblimey trousers makes his announcement. ‘Here they are, all the way from the Goldhawk Road, Ian Dury and the Blockheads!’ The band settles into a familiar groove, and the star reaches for the arm of the bald one, gesturing towards the stage with his walking cane. He purposefully limps into position and croons his saucy opening line: ‘I come awake, with a gift for womankind . . .’
It’s show time, and all the comic-strip characters are on parade: ‘Billericay Dickie’ (who is not ‘a blinking thicky’); the terminally uncertain ‘Clevor Trever’ and ‘Sweet Gene Vincent’, he of the ‘lazy skin and ashtray eyes’, a tragic role model for the artiste now in the spotlight. For seventy-five minutes he entertains with unexpected gestures, off-the-wall introductions and a carrier bag full of novelty items including a magic walking stick on an invisible wire. His best prop of all is the rubber-band-powered paper parrot that he will wind up mid-set and release from his good arm.
Some nights, the toy bird flaps its wings and soars high into the gods, guaranteeing a round of applause. Other nights, it misbehaves and hits the wall. Tonight, however, will be special. Standing at the edge of the stage and carefully judging the trajectory, the star releases the parrot with great care. It glides upwards and gracefully circles the auditorium. Then, sensationally, it returns like a boomerang and comes to rest in the star’s outstretched hand. Magic! Thunderous applause, then a loud and immediate ‘Rhythm Stick’! The audience is enthralled, showering their hero with love.
1
It’s a Boy, Mrs Walker, It’s a Boy
Belsize Park, London, 1937. Cigarette smoke fogged up the bar of the Adelaide Club where thirty-one-year-old Bill Dury was presiding over a game of dominoes. The voice of Bing Crosby – ‘the new American singing sensation’ – wafted from the Bakelite radio. In Germany Adolf Hitler was tinkering with a map of Europe, but Bill paid little attention to politics. Under the dull illumination of a 40-watt light bulb, he lit another Craven A and amused his friends with a sly conjuring trick. When he looked up, he noticed that three ladies had entered the room. They were neatly attired in tweed and laughed amongst themselves as they ordered soft drinks, but Bill couldn’t take his eyes off them. They came from another world.