by Will Birch
Gene Vincent’s death shook Ian. Sensitive about his fast-approaching thirtieth birthday, he was beginning to think he was too old for rock ’n’ roll, but his idol’s demise was the pivotal moment, a call to action. It would one day inspire his rocking lament ‘Sweet Gene Vincent’, but for now the tragedy of the Virginian’s wretched end gave Ian the motivation to consolidate his own group while there was still time. ‘I really rated Gene Vincent,’ said Ian. ‘The visual aspects of him as much as the sound of it, but I loved that as well. This was before Jack Good got hold of him, 1956 and ’57. The Girl Can’t Help It, he’s in that for about nineteen seconds. I had no idea that he had a bad leg until after he was dead, that was a sort of coincidence. I ended up looking a little bit like Gene for five minutes in the early seventies. There was no thought in my mind of copying him, but I did know all his tunes. When he died, he was only the same age as Van Gogh. I remember thinking I’d get a band together. I knew a lot of jazz musicians, so I gathered all my mates together. I had the name “Kilburn and the High Roads”; I thought it was very funny.’
The southern end of Kilburn High Road in London is literally a stone’s throw from his parents’ first marital home in Belsize Road. It is also one of the main arteries into the capital from Ian’s Middlesex birthplace and the route that Bill and Peggy, then pregnant with her first, soon to be stillborn, child, must surely have taken when they carted their meagre chattels to Weald Rise in 1939. This area of north-west London is also home to a large Irish community and an eclectic mix of cultures . . . did the enchanted thoroughfare hold some special appeal for Ian, perchance? ‘Nothing personal,’ he replied, when I posed the question. ‘I’ve driven through it. Nothing to do with being Irish but it’s very cosmopolitan. Indian shops, Caribbean. It existed in my imagination for about three years, since 1969 probably, when I was teaching at Luton.’
Russell Hardy often chauffeured Ian around the area and remembers being the ‘getaway driver’ when Ian and Joe Snowden stopped off to score dope at the El Rio club in the Harrow Road. ‘I had to sit in the car with the engine running,’ recalls Russell. ‘We would often see signs directing us to “Kilburn High Road”. I think it was a factor.’ Seeking advice on how best to launch his new group – at this point more of a concept than a musical unit – Ian turned to the one famous rock musician in his address book, Charlie Watts, then a tax exile in the South of France. Russell Hardy agreed to drive Ian from Wingrave to the Watts residence near Arles in Provence. It was an arduous trip in the Austin A35, ‘broken only by stops for coffee, cognacs and not much else,’ admits Russell. ‘Ian was seeking advice and possibly money from Charlie. Ian was a bit mercenary in some respects.’
‘I was asking more for his ideas than his fivers,’ Ian told me, referring to the supposedly wealthy Stones drummer. ‘I said I wanted to start this band and he replied, “What you wanna do that for? You’re a fucking good painter. It’s all been done before . . . Chuck Berry . . .” I told him, “I fancy it. I think I’d be quite good at it,” to which Charlie replied, “If I help you and you get off, it’s because I helped you. If I don’t help you and you don’t get off, I’m a cunt.” I said, “OK,” and he didn’t help.’
The line-up of Kilburn and the High Roads would fluctuate wildly over the next four years, but Ian’s confidence as inspirational leader was never in doubt. From the small pool of potential ‘Kilburns’ who populated the early line-ups, the most promising gravitated towards their leader, underscoring a broad consensus that humour and style were at least as relevant as musical ability. Those who ‘got it’ – that is to say, were on Ian’s wavelength – would thrive. Those who failed to endorse his vision would be dropped. There was no room for an obstinate musician who refused to change. Even Humphrey Ocean, who was totally attuned to Ian’s artistic vision and possessed a high style quotient, would be sacrificed at the opportune moment. ‘It was “The Ian Show”,’ says Humphrey. ‘In fact, throughout, it was “The Ian Show”.’
In late 1971, the Kilburns consisted of Ian’s jazz-inclined sidekick Russell Hardy (piano); law student Ian Smith, who also worked in a Canterbury health food restaurant (bass), and three Canterbury art students ‘who said they liked Chuck Berry and the Rolling Stones’. These were guitarist Keith Lucas, who resembled a young Anthony Perkins, the long-haired Chris Lucas (no relation) on drums and the lofty, softly spoken Humphrey Ocean (on unamplified electric guitar). Occasional members included student Paul Tonkin (on ‘out-of-tune violin’) and fellow tutor Geoff Rigden (blues harmonica). Ian Smith and the Lucas duo lived at 114 Northgate in Canterbury, a typical student lodging house that became the Kilburns’ first HQ and a crash pad for Ian.
They were all poor and bought most of their clothes from charity shops, resulting in the wide array of previously enjoyed overcoats that shaped the group’s early image. Ian amusingly described this as ‘Oxfam Chic’. ‘Yeah, we got into a lot of gear that was old, because it was nicely made,’ said Ian. ‘When Humphrey joined the band it was because it was extremely unusual looking. It was loose in those days. It was always important to us that it was funny not that we pushed it. I was Humphrey’s tutor and Keith’s tutor as well in the year above Humphrey who added his styles and ideas, but they were already buzzing through the group.’
Like Ian, drummer Chris Lucas had contracted polio as a child. This brought about ‘a kind of polio bond’, but created tension; Chris had more run-ins with Ian than the others because of their common experience. ‘He was more disabled than I was,’ remembers Chris, ‘but I used to wonder how he managed to get people running around doing things for him. He was the best personal manipulator I’ve ever met, big on cuddles and telling us everything was all right. He would dispense advice on women and how to handle certain situations. I’ve come around to the idea that, although he was controlling, it wasn’t without understanding. He got Terry Day to come along and coach me on the drums. He was trying to help me become a better drummer. He always tried to support us despite being a tyrannical band leader.’
Guitarist Keith Lucas was a little more experienced, having played since his teens in groups such as Pentagon, Frosty Jodhpur and C-Stream, the latter being a name that particularly appealed to Ian. Keith remembers that Ian came along to the early Kilburns practice sessions with his ‘traps set’ – a box with wood blocks, skulls and tambourines that he played with sticks. Humphrey Ocean: ‘If Ian could walk into that Canterbury studio and change the room in a small way, or somehow colonize that room, the shift towards going on stage in front of hundreds of people was a small step. He once said to me, “You want to be ready for when the thing comes along, so you don’t miss it. You’re already there and you make the thing happen.” He talked about the Kilburns and said, “We’re famous already.” We weren’t, but with Ian’s self-assurance we’d walk in as if we were Muhammad Ali.’
In November, at the onset of the party season, the Kilburns secured not one, but three live engagements, all at art colleges. The group’s all-important debut was set to occur at Canterbury on 9 December 1971, with the Magic Rock Band and head-liners Skin Alley, but this was preceded by an eleventh-hour booking at Croydon School of Art on 3 December, opening for Thunderclap Newman. Medway College of Art and Design in Rochester would follow in the New Year. At Canterbury, Ian persuaded art student and social secretary Allan Upwood to give them the date. ‘Do you want a good result in your assessment at the end of the year?’ Ian asked Upwood. ‘You do a college dance, don’t you? Put us on the bill.’ Upwood agreed and offered a fee of £40. ‘That’s more than I got for another three years after that,’ said Ian. ‘I gave him excellent marks as well. Three art school gigs in one week, there was a reason to rehearse, to work towards. We started taking it a bit more seriously.’
With the Canterbury gig in the bag, it was Genevieve Dolan, sister of Canterbury student Germaine, who arranged the Croydon date. Ian asked the Dolan sisters to augment the group as dancers and christened them ‘the Roadettes’, from his latest l
yric ‘The Roadette Song’. ‘It was actually Kilburn and the High Roads and the Neasden Roadettes,’ says Germaine. ‘My dad lived in Neasden, and Ian came there a few times with Russell. We did energetic dancing and rehearsed our routines at the group’s practice sessions.’
Ian told the Roadettes what to wear and asked graphics student Mick Hill to design ‘Roadettes’ lettering that would be sewn across their T-shirts. ‘Ian fancied both of them,’ says Chris Lucas. ‘He was fantastic at seducing people, men or women, and used that charm. If he wanted you to love him, he could make it happen. It’s what he did with everyone for ever. If he wanted people on board, he would go out of his way to convince them into thinking it was a good idea. With Germaine and Genevieve, it was: “we need a couple of pretty girls to dance”, and sure enough they did it.’
Ian still had a crush on Germaine, and enrolling her as an auxiliary Kilburn guaranteed proximity. ‘Ian told me that he started all those bands for Russell Hardy,’ says Germaine, ‘because Russell was really shy. It was as if Ian was trying to rehabilitate lost souls, but I think that really he was trying to make himself seem nice for my benefit. Ian even asked me to make him a pair of trousers. He sent me off to a factory in Epping to buy tarpaulin because his calliper used to wear his trousers out, so he needed a really strong pair. I got the material and made them and then I thought, “God, how did he get me to do that?” He knew all about tarpaulin; he’d checked it out. He did everything in great detail. Ian turned being scruffy and tatty into a new kind of glamour. He dressed carefully and would deliberately wear a sweater that ended up being totally ragged, like the “Dennis the Menace” sweater, a black-and-rust striped jersey with holes in the elbows. All that scruffiness was very calculated. Ian wanted to wear it. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford one without holes.’
Of the Kilburns’ first gig, Humphrey Ocean says, ‘It was bad, but just good enough. At Canterbury, we were on home ground, and our clique loved us, mainly because we had the temerity to get up on stage. Something happened. We couldn’t go back to what we were doing before, painting.’ Student Mick Hill, who was roped in as roadie, recalls Ian’s first brush with stardom at Rochester. ‘At half time, Ian said, “Right, let’s go and pick up some birds.” He sat next to this girl, and she shrieked and ran away.’
While Ian paraded the Kilburns around the college circuit, Betty was at Wingrave, heavily pregnant. On 18 December the group returned to the vicarage for a rehearsal, during which time Betty, assisted by her midwife, gave birth within earshot of the Kilburns at full volume. During a break, Ian nipped upstairs to see his new-born son, quickly returning to the session exclaiming: ‘It’s a boy – right, let’s play some rock ’n’ roll!’ An hour later, Betty stuck her head round the door and pleaded: ‘Do you think I can have a bit of peace please?’ The Kilburns shrivelled up.
Ian hung around Wingrave over the Christmas holidays, doting over his new-born son, who would be christened Baxter. He was also giving serious thought to the Kilburns’ rhythm section. Already a pattern was emerging – Ian needed to be at ease with his musicians, so whenever he felt he was losing control it was time for a shake-up. Following January’s Rochester date and an appearance at the Royal College of Art supporting artist Bruce McLean’s conceptual ‘pose band’, Nice Style, Kilburns bassist Ian Smith was fired because, according to Mick Hill, ‘he was an incessant geezer, just like Ian’.
Chris Lucas, who had ‘missed a crucial practice session’, would also have to go. ‘I met some floozy in London and didn’t turn up at Wingrave,’ recalls Chris. ‘It was an opportunity for Ian to dispense with me, but when I was elbowed I was pissed off because it wasn’t done to my face. It was a message conveyed to me by other band members.’ Despite his ejection from the Kilburns, Chris has mainly warm memories of Ian at that time. ‘He was going to be our passport to a rock ’n’ roll nirvana. He had a few years on us and was streetwise. He knew people and had credibility. He was mesmerizing and charismatic from the beginning, and we believed in him.’
Ian’s ‘first reserves’ Charlie Hart and Terry Day, both of whom had been part of the 1970 Covent Garden rehearsal group, were recalled to replace Ian Smith and Chris Lucas respectively. ‘There was this constant playing-us-off-against-each-other thing, between the poor Canterbury students and the London professionals,’ says Charlie Hart, who had been a classically trained child prodigy. ‘We’d get disillusioned with Ian, and he would threaten to get these other guys in. He was quite good at always having these art students breathing down our necks. “I’ve got your replacement sorted out,” he would imply. But he was very persuasive and brilliant at pushing people.’
‘Early ’72 we started digging in deep, and I got Terry back in on the drums,’ recalled Ian. ‘He brought Charlie Hart and Davey Payne. Davey came to the first gig we did at Rochester. I said, “You brought your saxophone with you? Why don’t you come and join us, it’s only twelve-bars.” When he joined us he said he didn’t know what a “bar” was! He was free-form, a serious player. Charlie Hart, Terry Day, Davey Payne, which was, in fact, the People Band. A few gigs we did you’d have three jazzers on, the People Band, then they’d say “Kilburn and the High Roads”, and three more geezers would wander out and join them. Wacky.’
Davey Payne, two years younger than Ian, hailed from north London, but grew up in the seaside town of Clacton in Essex. As a teenager he learned woodwind instruments and took an interest in jazz, eventually joining the People Band in 1969. ‘I didn’t know what Ian meant by “twelve-bars”,’ confesses Payne, ‘but I remember Ian walking around smoking a big Havana cigar, wearing a home-made glitter jacket. I was a free-form jazz musician, into John Cage and Stockhausen. I went home and practised [playing twelve-bar blues] in the main keys. I went up to Wingrave and, when I played my solo – the twelve-bar blues I’d been practising with some free-form jazz thrown in – Keith said, “Wow! Great man! Ian Underwood, Frank Zappa, brilliant!” Ian was going, “Yeah!” That’s how I joined the Kilburns.’
When the group made its second appearance at Canterbury College of Art, in February 1972, the performance was captured on a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The recordings survive and provide evidence of a well-drilled rock ’n’ roll group, its repertoire comprising a dozen standards and a smattering of original compositions. Despite the criticism that had been levelled at Ian’s voice, he is heard to sing confidently on rockers such as ‘Johnny B Goode’ and ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. Unintentionally or otherwise, a number of the songs have a ‘walking’ theme, for example, Fats Domino’s ‘I’m Walking’, Jimmy McCracklin’s ‘The Walk’, and ‘Twenty Flight Rock’, Eddie Cochran’s paean to the girlfriend ‘who lives on the twentieth floor up town, but the elevator’s broken down’, so he has to ‘walk one, two flight, three flight, four . . .’
As Easter 1972 approached, Charlie Hart departed for Holland with the People Band, leaving a vacancy in the Kilburns for a bass player. Guitarist Humphrey Ocean, who had recently been sacked from the group, received a phone call. ‘It was Ian,’ recalls Humphrey, ‘saying to me, “Charlie Hart’s gone to Holland. I don’t think he really likes being in the Kilburns. You can play guitar.” What Ian really meant was, “I don’t think I can control Charlie, do you fancy playing the bass?” I was up at Wingrave, and Ian and I were very close. The next thing I knew, I was at an address in Lordship Lane, Wood Green, interviewing a very nice Fender jazz bass guitar I’d found in Melody Maker.’
Ian recalled that Humphrey’s new bass guitar had been ‘doing a summer season in the Canary Islands on fluorescent cushions with two camp geezers’. He acknowledged that Humphrey ‘could play a bit’ and looked the part on stage. Humphrey said, ‘We started playing “Tea For Two” cha-cha, with Ian on the drums, then free jazz. I found I had a feel for it. Charlie Hart came back from Holland. He walked in and saw my bass, and we both went bright red. Charlie knew he was the bass player – it was his life – whereas I was just a painter. I was a guitarist who had bought a bass.’
Charlie Hart skulked off and, for now, Humphrey remained the Kilburns’ bass player, during which time a demo tape was made with the assistance of People Band guitarist and future Hollywood film director Mike Figgis. Noting that the People Band obtained regular work in Holland, Humphrey and Davey organized a trip in search of gigs and dragged Ian and Russell along too. Arriving in Amsterdam in Humphrey’s Morris Traveller, armed only with a Grundig tape recorder and the name of a Dutch booking agency, the ragged quartet would proclaim: ‘We’re the Kilburns; we’re a dance band!’ When they attempted to play their tape to the Dutch agent, however, the local voltage differential caused the machine to run at half speed, emitting lifeless music. Unable to find work, the luckless Kilburns spent three days in an Amsterdam squat before returning home. To make matters worse, Humphrey contracted viral meningitis.
‘It was a slightly serious moment,’ says Humphrey, ‘and Ian took it as a sign that I was out of my depth. As I was getting better and improving on the bass, playing along to Blonde on Blonde, I received a letter from Ian, telling me I was out of the group. I was very moved by it but I remember thinking, “You bastard,” and – this is a tactic of mine – I went up to Wingrave with a cake I’d made, arriving as if nothing had happened. I was in serious denial. I knew that I was out, but I was determined to show that I wasn’t in tears. Ian liked that. His letter was fantastic. It was the only letter he ever wrote me and it contained the reasons why I should carry on at art school and not be in the group. He told me I had allies at Canterbury. What he was doing was being my responsible tutor and not taking me out before I got my diploma.’