by Will Birch
Ian’s menacing behaviour towards Keith was one part theatrics, two parts desperation. His beloved Kilburns had crumbled, and he was in deep despair, burdened by guilt because his family were living in poverty and there was little he could do about it. He was broke too, having to spend ‘three days living on a quid’ and unable to afford the stamps to mail an advance copy of the Kilburns’ album to his New York muse.
10
England’s Glory
Puttenham, Buckinghamshire, 1975. Betty and the children were now destitute and had left the Wingrave vicarage to live in an isolated cottage in a muddy field at nearby Long Marston. Peggy would often step in to help, somewhat embarrassed by her son’s inability to contribute to the family. There would also be visits from Aunt Molly and the concerned wives and girlfriends of various ex-Kilburns. Angela Hardy recalls: ‘We went to see Betty when she and the two kids were living in that dead and alive hole with hardly any furniture. She had no money but insisted on making us tea and scraped together a tin of tuna and made sandwiches. She didn’t complain, but Ian left her with nothing. It really got to me.’
Jemima Dury was now six and attending primary school, a two-mile walk every day. She recalls ‘lots of arguments and screaming’ between her parents and felt obliged to apologize on their behalf to visitors. ‘Mum would occasionally smash a whole load of china, and I remember once she cut herself when she went crazy with the washing-up. It was the worst time for mum as a single parent. Somebody tried to attack her – a mad farmer maybe and there was an incident where a man cornered her in a room.’ Looking back on her childhood, it is Jemima’s belief that her mother ‘released Ian to his career’ when he left home in 1973. But it’s debatable whether Betty could have lived with a budding rock star any more than Ian could have played second fiddle to a potentially successful painter. Much like his parents’ break-up, it appeared to be a separation of convenience.
Funds permitting, Betty would make trips to the nearby cash and carry store to buy food in giant catering packs to save money. For eighteen months, she had been claiming social security payments for herself and the children on the basis that Ian had deserted them. As an absent father, he had been ordered to pay maintenance for his two children, but found it difficult to come up with the money. Although he would visit his family at the cottage and sometimes stay for a few days – on one occasion cutting three-year-old Baxter’s hair and perceiving him to be ‘male and rugged’ – Ian usually came and went under the cover of darkness. If it were discovered that he and Betty were in contact, Betty’s social security payments would have stopped, and Ian lived in fear of being prosecuted for fraud. ‘Betty can’t get welfare if I’m traceable,’ he wrote Roberta Bayley. ‘The authorities wish to put me away for non upkeep,’ he added, only slightly exaggerating the situation.
Back at Oval Mansions, Ian’s relationship with Denise was rocky, and from time to time she would return home to Blackpool. Ian admired her ‘spirit’ and the fact that she could ‘fight like a man’ and was not afraid to retaliate if he started dishing out the verbal, but behind the knockabout there were deeper emotions at work. Denise may have been ready for slightly more commitment from Ian, but the thought of a second marriage or fathering more children, especially in such straitened circumstances, were anathema to him. He was professionally and personally at his lowest ebb. He sold the Kilburns’ Bedford van for £850 but saw none of the cash himself as it was required to pay off group debts.
To his credit, Ian was not deterred by failure, frequently shoring up his confidence by recounting an incident that occurred when he was living in Upminster with his mum; Aunt Molly’s guru, Basanta Kumar Mallik, had foretold Ian’s life and predicted great fame and fortune. More recently, a horoscope had surfaced, obtained by Molly in Lucknow, India in 1950, while Ian was in Black Notley Hospital, his twisted torso en-cased in plaster. Its predictions were inconclusive, but Ian chose to believe success and happiness were imminent. ‘He set great store by that sort of thing if he trusted the source,’ says Humphrey Ocean. ‘Via his aunts, the guru was to be trusted. I remember after a very late Kilburns gig Ian met a German woman who mesmerized him with her Viennese intelligence and knowledge of Freud and Schoenberg. Or perhaps it was the size of her tits, who knows. But Ian told me, in genuine wonder and belief, that she too predicted he would be famous, and soon! Ian had a way of being right slightly more often than the national average.’
Following the departure of Tommy Roberts, a number of management types were hovering. Dave Robinson reappeared, suggesting that Ian and Rod Melvin ought to relocate to the USA, where they might emulate the recent success of pub rockers Ace. Malcolm McLaren, recently back from New York, was also making noises, but Ian was concerned he might end up little more than a clothes horse for Malcolm’s fancy threads. ‘There was a point where the subject of management may have passed both of our lips,’ says McLaren. ‘I was selling music and the look of music. I was interested in the sound of fashion, and at that time in London the sound of fashion was represented by Kilburn and the High Roads.’
Like many of Ian’s friends who found it hard to abandon him despite his erratic ways, Charlie Gillett kept in touch while continuing to plug the Kilburns’ music on Honky Tonk, but there was little prospect of Ian making any real money. He was still tied to his recording and publishing contracts, but his advances were heavily unrecouped, and he calculated that he needed to sell a quarter-of-a-million albums to start earning royalties. He was still writing songs with Rod Melvin, but Russell Hardy had reappeared on the scene, wishing to renew collaboration. Torn between two writing partners, Ian drew a fantasy sketch of an interior with three interconnecting rooms; Rod and Russell were in the east and west wings respectively, each with a grand piano. Ian occupied the middle room, in which he would write lyrics and distribute them to his two co-writers in equal shares. His tiny drawing serves to illustrate his analytical thought and sense of loyalty towards Melvin and Hardy at a low point in his career.
The Kilburns’ debut album, entitled Handsome, was eventually released in June 1975, but ironically the group had disbanded. Ian didn’t much care for the record but loved its packaging. The front cover featured Betty’s painting of ‘The Kilburns Near Tower Bridge’ and on the back was a photograph of former roadie Paul Tonkin, credited to Ian’s nom de camera ‘Poundcake’, with the amusing caption: ‘Paul Hangs Loose’. The picture had been taken at Wingrave two years earlier. ‘Ian was an excellent amateur photographer,’ says Tonkin. ‘He set up a tripod and lights, put a Chuck Berry record on and every so often said “Freeze!” Lo and behold it turned up on the album cover.’
Handsome received some good reviews from caring journalists who recognized Ian’s unique qualities, but the LP failed to sell. Having worked his arse off for five years, during which time the music press had proclaimed him ‘a genius’, why wasn’t it paying off? Perhaps Ian was trying too hard. In retrospect, one can see that his timing was abysmal. Beyond a small number of NME-reading devotees, the public were not ready for the musical eclecticism or outré appearance of the Kilburns, easily the most musically adventurous and stylish group on the pub rock scene, but for those seeking a sneak preview of the impending punk phenomenon, Kilburn and the High Roads were a revelation.
Although the Kilburns were no more, there was still some television work in the pipeline. On 25 June, a scratch line-up recorded ‘Upminster Kid’ and ‘Billy Bentley’ for ITV’s The London Weekend Show, hosted by Janet Street-Porter. Ian, Rod Melvin, Charlie Sinclair and Malcolm Mortimore were augmented by saxophonist George Khan and, on guitar, Oval Music protégé ‘Jimme Shelter’ (real name Jimmie O’Neill, later to form Fingerprintz). Ian looked sharp with a safety pin earring hanging from his left ear lobe, but his performance was restrained. He had a lot on his mind, balancing a television appearance with the need to maintain a low profile so that Betty would continue to receive social security payments.
On 8 October, the surrogate Kilburns pre-recorded the
ir second appearance for The London Weekend Show, performing ‘Vidiot’ and ‘Tell Your Daddy I’m Not a Baddie’. Bassist Charlie Sinclair was replaced by George Dionisiev, whom Ian christened ‘George Dinner Suit’. Ian’s hair was now greying around the edges, but in his herringbone suit and trilby he once again looked the business. Fred Rowe accompanied the group to the TV studios, giving them a ride in ‘the donkey’, his maroon van with ‘a piece of string on the throttle’, registration number UVF 917H (that week). Rowe had never stepped foot in a television studio before and was impressed by the sight of well-known TV newscasters strolling around the building. ‘They’re just like us,’ Ian assured Fred, as were the cameramen and lighting technicians with whom Ian enjoyed a laugh. Rod Melvin cracked up when he heard Ian warning a studio electrician to ‘mind those Finsburys [Finsbury Park(s) = arc (lights)], darling.’
Later that month Ian renewed contact with Dave Robinson, who was just six months away from co-founding the independent record label that would give Ian his big break. Ian always had a sneaking admiration for Robinson. ‘He was a hustler, and we liked him accordingly. His coat was still hanging in my wardrobe a year later, and he kipped on my floor more times than I’ve had hot dinners. I’ve seen him loading boxes in the back of a van and getting sweaty. For all of his verbal, he still gets down there on the concrete, rolls his sleeves up and gets stuck in. But I didn’t feel for one minute that I never saw him coming. I could see him coming a mile away.’
Dave Robinson suggested a revised billing to push Ian’s name to the fore and build his reputation as a performer. Ian had been thinking along similar lines, telling Roberta, ‘If the money arrives I’m going to give the road another go. The band will be me and Rod and four or five other people. I hope I get to like them, but if they play good I don’t care. I’ve been out of circulation long enough to either be written off or loudly welcomed. This one is the last try . . . if this fucks up I won’t have the lungs or guts for another go. If one person of wealth or control recognized my attempts and decided to remove the burden vis-à-vis wages and rehearsal place and equipment and allowed me thus to have full control over the qualitatives, I would cool right out and be happy to plough on . . . we’re an inch away from making some music of a kind I’ve always dreamed about.’
Ian also poured out his emotions to Roberta, reporting that he was sick of dossing in other peoples’ flats, during periods when he had fled Oval Mansions because of rising tension between himself and Denise, who would now disappear with regularity and one night left her keys on the pavement, to be later found by Fred Rowe. Ian described himself as looking ‘very thin and haggard, in need of sun and exersise [sic] and spelling lessons’. He also reported risking trips to Long Marston to see Betty and ‘the offspring’ in secret. Meanwhile, he continued to fantasize about Roberta coming over to the UK, ‘but at this juncture I cannot promise freedom from molestation’.
Towards the end of October 1975, Ian re-emerged with his new band and began playing the London pubs as ‘Ian Dury and The Kilburns’, mixing old favourites and new songs including ‘Back To Blighty’ and ‘Nervous Piss’, in which Ian sung of being caught short just as he was about to have ‘a little cuddle and a kiss’. Rod Melvin was retained from the previous line-up and old friend Ed Speight was recruited to play guitar. The group was completed by Malcolm Mortimore, George Dionisiev and saxophonist John ‘Irish’ Earle, who sported a distinctive Zapata moustache. Robinson agreed to manage the combo, exclaiming to Ian: ‘I’m a loser, you’re a loser, let’s get together.’
Spider Rowe was also on the firm. At the Newlands Tavern in Peckham he learnt that his job entailed a little more than driving. ‘When we got to the gig Ian said to me, “Right, you can put the drums up.” I carried them over and put them on the stage. The drummer said, “I want them set up.” He showed me and said, “That’s how I want it done every time.” I said, “What do you mean every time? I’m only here to deliver the gear.” But Rowe warmed to the idea of working with the Kilburns. Future Dury-aid Kosmo Vinyl remembers seeing Spider in Ian’s retinue during this period. ‘The first time I saw Fred, he was in the toilet at the Hope and Anchor, on his own, practising introducing the Kilburns! I also remember seeing Ian and Fred outside the Victoria Palace. I said, “Wotcha, Ian,” and Fred said, “Fuck off!” He had the vibe.’
Ian paid Fred ‘petrol money’ and hoped to deter him away from crime. ‘I’m busy trying to prevent a bank robbery,’ Ian cryptically told friends, adding, ‘Spider is a very pleasant fellow and, if you know his boiling point, most useful.’ Ian enjoyed having Fred around, but needed to get one thing straight. ‘Fred said he wanted to help out,’ said Ian, ‘but added, “I must tell you, Ian, I’ve been a very violent man.” I said, “Well, I don’t mind you being frightening, Fred, because in my game you do get a few nutters. Usually, in my case, they want to love me to death, but if you ever fucking hit anybody on my account, you’ll be defenestrating my bollocks. I can look after myself with the mind and the verbal, plus I’m not frightened, but if you ever hit anyone, we stop working together.” And we shook hands on that. He never hit anyone, but he did intimidate people.’
Spider’s notoriety was to become evident. A popular diversion for many of the groups on the pub rock circuit was to play a Sunday-afternoon concert for the inmates of Wandsworth Prison in South London, organized by promoter John Curd. The fee was a statutory £2, but for Ian the thrill of playing to a room full of jailbirds compensated for any financial shortcoming. On 7 December, when the new Kilburns paid a visit to the prison, Ian’s confidence was bolstered by Fred’s presence. He was absolutely sure he had the right man on his team the minute he heard one of the prison warders exclaim: ‘Spider Rowe! To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘I did “I Made Mary Cry” in Wandsworth,’ recalled Ian. ‘I felt real shy, looking at the floor. The second time I felt more brazen, fixing the inmates with a stare. They all looked away.’ Or, as Ian wrote to Roberta that December, ‘The prison gig was very rewarding, but I think the cons were a bit shattered even though I toned my outlaw shit down . . . I’ve been looking at audiences and give eyeball stick these days, but the prisoners (all ages and proclivities) seemed to be embarrassed at too intimate a relationship . . . [the warders] were quietly peeved at seeing Fred driving his van in and out of the main gates.’
Ian Dury and the Kilburns were musically more accomplished than the High Roads, but a new era was dawning in which image would become more important than musicianship for musicianship’s sake. This could be summed up by Kosmo Vinyl’s succinct theory: ‘You can look good and play good; you can look good and play crap, but you can’t play good and look crap!’ In order not to ‘look crap’, Ian would give his band haircuts and suggest various outfits, but sadly the new Kilburns were far less visual than their predecessors, even though Ian convinced himself that Ed and Irish were ‘pushing forward’ at a packed Dingwalls gig. ‘We got a really good buzz going,’ said Ian, ‘doing new stuff and old Kilburns gear. I had brilliant musicians, but they weren’t stylish like the original Kilburns, and I felt a bit sad because I knew we weren’t going to be stars. By that time I was looking at my watch, thinking I wouldn’t mind a little result now.’
In his frustration, Ian was becoming a less than satisfactory performer. Where his vocal once contained some relatively subtle inflections, it now ranted, and his all-important words were lost in a torrent of anger. ‘I Made Mary Cry’ had become a particularly gruesome spectacle, with Ian brandishing a Solingen Steel bone-handled switchblade, ‘with a spring so strong it nearly leaves the gloved hand’. Ian’s bitterness was starting to show. Reporting on a Hope and Anchor gig in the New Musical Express, journalist Chas de Whalley identified the problem:
Among certain circles, Ian Dury has gained the reputation as one of rock ’n’ roll’s losers. It’s not hard to see why . . . think back over the versions of Kilburn and the High Roads . . . the musical content has always been low . . . up until now Dury has consi
stently failed to locate musicians skilful and imaginative enough to breathe real life into his ideas . . . [but] the music is now potentially as sharp as the songs themselves are interesting. . . but then Dury isn’t the guy for a slick back-up band . . . which means ultimately, he can’t be groomed for stardom, and is destined to remain a cult. It must be sad to be a loser when you’re really that good.
On his nights off Ian would still visit London pubs and clubs in his ‘civvies’, both for social relaxation and in the hope of making a connection that would rescue his career. Spider was his constant companion. Freshly scrubbed and besuited, the odd duo paraded themselves all over town. Ian particularly enjoyed visiting some of Fred’s South London haunts such as Crusaders Steak House at the Elephant and Castle, or the Prince of Wales in Cleaver Square, Kennington, where small-time villains could be observed at close range. ‘Who you working with now, Freddy?’ asked a local burglar, as Ian basked in the possibility of being mistaken for Spider’s bag man.
However, it was at the familiar music venues in which Ian had cut his teeth that he and Fred were all too visible. Whereas Ian was once welcomed by his music biz acquaintances, he was now an outcast. ‘I used to see Ian out and about,’ recalls publicist Glen Colson. ‘After being his biggest fan, I started avoiding him because he looked like he was doomed, scowling around. I thought, “Nothing’s going to happen for this poor fellow.” You’d avoid him like the plague.’ At Dingwalls Dancehall in Camden Town, the patrons found Ian’s and Fred’s combined presence somewhat unnerving, as did eight-piece soul band Kokomo, who were so intimidated by Ian and Fred lurking menacingly in front of the stage that they suspended their set until security staff arrived to remove the pair.