Andy Warhol's PORK – The View From The Penthouse

“The maestro of the monotonous . . . The czar of somnabulism” Penthouse (v.6/n.8, 1971) covers Pork during it’s London run at the Roundhouse in August 1971. The esteemed journal of the arts was unimpressed:

With its unique blend of excremental obsession and blatant nudity, it transmogrifies the wholesome, exciting process of sexual stimulation into a degrading version of amateur night at the sewage works drama society. Warhol, if he’s demonstrated anything, has shown that even by going the whole hog, he can’t produce anything more appetizing than a pig’s dinner

Text was by Roger Finborough and photographs by Amnon Bar-Tur, who would become a regular contributor to Club International

L to R: Dana Gillespie, Tony Defries and David Bowie at The Roundhouse for a night of Pork. A good number of the cast and backstage hands would end up working for MainMan’s New York offices.

Collect the Set . . . Rock 'n' Roll Stars Vol. 1–4 (Joy Records 1972)

These four volumes of reprocessed stereo cuts from Vee Jay’s catalogue have intrigued me for years as I chanced upon bits of the covers’ Teddy Boy. Finally found the complete set in Ramsgate’s Vinyl Head. Compiled in 1969 by Joe Fields and Richard Robinson (Groovies and Lou Reed’s producer?) with sleeve notes by John Gabtree who wrote The World of Rock, a 1968 paperback history. You have to hope the book had a better copy editor than his sleeve notes which places Sun Studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. . . .

The Teddy Boy figure was obviously a substitute design for the UK edition, the American version had been released earlier on the Buddah label in an anonymous jacket. The 1972 British edition was very much of its moment, as was the album’s theme – ‘First Generation: Rock/Blues/Early Soul’ – when the notion of a ‘third generation’ was being cast around by the likes of Alice Cooper and Nick Kent. Things were moving fast . . .

Gabree began his story at a Filmore East gig, headlined by Three Dog Night and Sha Na Na, with a showing of the Chubby Checker movie Twist Around the Clock (1961). In 1969 the Rock ‘n’ Roll Revivial is revving up so some history is needed: Elvis, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, etc. are the first generation then come the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, he wrote. But as yet no third generation is nominated, just the first murmurs of the resurrection shuffle.

Camilla Aisa – Review of 'A Band With Built-In Hate'

Camilla Aisa

Review of ‘A Band With Built-In Hate: The Who From Pop Art To Punk’

Popular Music History, published March 24, 2022

https://journal.equinoxpub.com/PMH/article/download/21897/24797

Cook’s Ferry Inn, Edmonton – learning to lead by following

To anybody who might feel like letting out a sigh and following it with ‘what else is there to say?’ as they face ‘The Who’ in big and bright lettering on the cover of a new book—you have this writer’s sympathy, completely. However, I have some good news for you. Peter Stanfield’s A Band with Built-in Hate is far from being yet another book on The Who. It is much more than that. And Stanfield’s investigation of the band is so consistently wider than simple Who-centred narratives that the book ends up achieving quite a few rare goals (more on this below).

screen grab from Pete Walker’s The Big Switch (1968)

Whilst historiographers and fact-boasting fans might expect the book’s journey to start from Shepherd’s Bush or Acton, it is (rather tellingly) Soho that Stanfield chooses as a starting (and most recurring) location. We’re invited to travel to Whitechapel—where pop music makes its UK ‘debut’ in 1956 at the Independent Group-curated This Is Tomorrow exhibition—before arriving in West London’s well-known (W)holy Land. That’s the thing with Stanfield’s book: from the very first pages he makes it clear that he has no interest in the uninspired retelling of the kind of trivia a quick visit to Wikipedia can take good care of. A Professor of Film at the University of Kent, Stanfield considers The Who—as well as their peers who surrounded the band in their early stages—through a multidisciplinary, dexterous perspective. Crowded Soho is conjured (dirt included) through the posters that populated it, promoting B-movies or upcoming gigs in local clubs.

Portsmouth’s Birdcage Club . . . ‘the pop-art, guitar smashing epic’ and a target to boot.

The very relevance of cinema and visual arts in The Who’s early life is an often-overlooked aspect that Stanfield brilliantly reconsiders. It is thanks to forgotten flicks with nouvelle vague pretensions (and, of course, thanks to Who managers Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp’s foresight) that we have some of the band’s earliest footage. And thanks to keen attention to contemporary graphic art and its potential, in the mid 1960s The Who were able to offer a palatable preview of both the punch-in-the-gut quality of their live performances and their bespoke take on pop’s developing self-realization: ‘I found Townshend compelling and touching in both his cynicism and self-awareness, but couldn’t help wondering if pop music which, with all its faults, had started as a spontaneous and committed movement, could survive such candour’, George Melly noted in Revolt into Style (1989: 116).

Keith Moon . . . Bridget Riley’s best canvas

The book’s originality in narrating The Who isn’t limited to time (those decisive early steps of UK pop, before the band even came into existence) and place (Soho’s youthful buzz). It also concerns people, or, as one might feel inclined to say reading printed pages, characters. It is clear from the introduction that we’re invited to take our journey hand-in-hand with a few keen observers. Not the band itself, as it might prove either too obvious or short-sighted. Our guides are larger-than-life writers, critics, astute chroniclers, real-life dandies. We meet George Melly (music, television and film critic) right away. And, most importantly, we meet Nik Cohn (considered by some to be the father of rock writing). Perhaps even more than the band themselves, Cohn is the book’s most constant presence.

Bridget Riley ‘Blaze Study’ 1962

Sunn amplifers advert

Revisiting times and places with their most insightful early champions and commentators, it turns out, is more effective than the usual sequence of ubiquitous footage. When it comes to pop creatures as gargantuan as The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, or in this case The Who, adopting an outside perspective can be revelatory.

Tour programme USA, 1967

Looking at The Who from an angle that is extraneous to what we might call a rock documentary-like mythologizing approach, A Band with Built-in Hate opens itself to two intriguing prospects. First, it treats its subjects as captivating provocation. The Who’s, and in particular Pete Townshend’s, volatility in embracing the attitude, vocabulary and signifiers of mod or pop art is thoroughly examined. ‘What the Mods taught us was how to lead by following’, Townshend candidly reveals at one point (37). We watch his band enthusiastically identify as mod early on, then dismiss the scene altogether, then proudly reintroduce themselves as pop practitioners: ‘from valueless objects—a guitar, a microphone, a hackneyed pop tune, we extract a new value. We take objects with one function and give them another’, Townshend theorizes in 1966 (76). Now, where exactly does artistic evolution end and well-timed appropriation begin? Stanfield’s book is too discerning to make a point of asking that. Rather, it makes sure that the matter is left open to discussion. Neither apologetic nor accusatory, it gives the reader enough material to thought-fully consider both positions.

The other welcome consequence of Stanfield’s multifaceted approach is that the book proves an absorbing read for avid fans and casual listeners alike. Much like this writer, you don’t need to be a fan of The Who to eagerly devour these pages and their stimulating arguments. At the same time, there is more than enough to consider and explore for completists who have already seemingly read every publication on the band. Also, and importantly, the book sits evenly between the scholarly and the deftly flowing page-turner: a most appropriate middle way, when you remember Nik Cohn praising Who songs for being an ‘obvious reaction against the fashionable psychedelphic [sic] solemnity, against the idea of pop as capital-letter Art [...]. It is all mainline pop, bright and funny and blatantly commercial’ (1967: 13).

As for equally pleasing fans and not-necessarily-fans, here’s where Stanfield’s secret might lie. Often looking from the outside, far from the front row, he treats the non-musical, un-obvious material as much more than mere pretext to explain The Who better. As a result, the reader is more likely to understand the band and their music—as well as the constantly evolving pop culture around them—better.

Where A Band with Built-in Hate’s journey ends is a brilliant insight in itself. ‘My personal motivation on stage is simple’, Townshend told the London Sunday Citizen in 1965 (as quoted in Gary Herman’s The Who, the first publication on the band):


It consists of a hate of every kind of pop music and a hate of everything our group
has done. You are getting higher and higher but chopping away at your own legs.
I prefer to be in this position. It’s very exciting. I don’t see any career ahead. That’s
why I like it—it makes you feel young, feeding insecurity. If you are insecure you
are secure in your insecurity. I still don’t know what I’m going to do (1971: 94).


It is fitting, then, that a book about ‘the new forms of cultural crimes The Who carried out’ would wave its subject goodbye around Quadrophenia. Which is to say, when The Who had indisputably morphed into classic rock and secured a career. When compilation albums and concept albums had become the norm, when stage moves had long been codified and (most dangerously) well accepted. When, arguably, wealth had replaced style. The degeneration of ‘My Generation’, we might call it. It didn’t come without irony or consciousness: ‘I’m desperately trying to sleep off the results of the last leg of the Who tour with a little meditative Mercedes buying’, Townshend would quip after up-and-coming Eddie and the Hot Rods convinced their label to get in touch with him and seek a possible collaboration (229).

Would the Mod Who or the Pop Who hate what The Who had become? And how inevitable was that? It might feel tragic, but that’s not the point. Being a brilliant writer and an acute observer, champion of pop Nik Cohn couldn’t write an obituary. The book leaves us with some words of his that were printed on a promo picture for the band’s 1967–1974 back catalogue: ‘from Shepherd’s Bush Mods to time machine mystic travellers. The Who played longer, harder and straighter, for the people, than anyone else’. What that dash between 1967 and 1974 signified, mattered most to him. Stanfield agrees: ‘The Who made the simple things complicated and the complicated simple; they put pop and art together in a set of couplings which rode the lines between authenticity and artifice, self-determination and co-option, the low and high, the intolerant and the permissive’ (240). When it comes to The Who, duality is key. Thanks also to its own above-mentioned dualities, A Band with Built-in Hate handles this dichotomy in a unique way.

Camilia Aisa blogs at https://psychedelicsidetrips.wordpress.com/

 

 

Fats Domino plays the Club International – David Parkinson was there

Fats Domino’s sell-out Hammersmith Odeon appearance in April 1973 was covered by Waxie Maxie in the July ‘73 issue of Club International (volume 2, number 7). As per his self-given remit, his lead into the story managed a sex scenario that featured rock n roll records and a little ultra violence between the day’s youth cults . . . Perfect Max in fact. Fats bought his own band, which must have disappointed the Allstars, but none of that matters much because we’re not here to celebrate Teddy Boy Rock ‘n’ Roll, Mr. Domino or even Mr. Needham. My purpose here is to give your peepers the chance to glance over David Parkinson’s photographs. The one above being all you will ever need to see in order to understand the appeal of rock ‘n’ roll in 1972–73.

I can’t let this post go by without also noting that this is all in the same issue that David Parkinson ran a spread on Malcolm McLaren’s Let It Rock clobber that ran for seven pages. Style and attitude never better displayed . . . visit Paul Gorman’s webpages for a fuller account of Parkinson, Mclaren and Club International, be warned you will get lost in there: https://www.paulgormanis.com/

For anyone looking to track down a copy of this issue of Club International here’s the cover, which features Iggy Pop on stage at the King Sound July 1972 gig, as photographed by Mick Rock

Any Wild Yahoo British Group – The Rock 'n' Roll AllStars

I was not very generous toward The Rock ‘n’ Roll Allstars in Pin-Ups 1972, in all fairness to them my issue was as much to do with Max ‘Waxie Maxie’ Needham using his porn connections to drag them into the degrading (for everyone involved) scenario in Curious magazine’s Pillow Book as it was for their insipid cover version of T. Rex’s ‘Get It On’. Small amends then, but here’s some extra observations, a few images and cuttings.

The band’s recorded output was pretty meagre, one LP, one single, one EP, and appearances on two compilations all put out by budget label B&C where they were joined by The Wild Angels and fellow Curious magazine freaks, Arnold Corns. The label was an off-shoot of Trojan. The initials stood for ‘Beat” and ‘Commerical’, which is naming things as they are I reckon.

Their debut 45 is a fair effort at pitching themselves as both true to the Teddy Boy Rock ‘n’ Roll ethos and to the novelty pop market (Philips in Germany released it in a neat picture sleeve). ‘Baby Can You Feel It’ nicely foreshadows the hits of Showaddywaddy, but completely lacks Mike Hurst’s production ability (and budget). The Fats Domino cover ‘It Keeps Raining’ was their real statement of intent. In a Beat Instrumental feature from November 1971 they explained that they had ‘gone for the New Orleans type of rock and roll’. Lots of saxs ‘is the sound we have and I feel we could confidently back Little Richard or Fats Domino if they ever came over here. Our sound is what these men are used to’. Not the Gene Vincent sound that drummer Billy Williams’ previous band The Houseshakers trade in then. Regardless of these fine points of distinction between the bands on the circuit, ‘The Allstars are not just a bunch of fellows jumping on a rock and roll revival bandwagon, or a band aiming at sending it up. They are truly dedicated Teddy boys with a great deal of experience in the R&R field.’

Needham, who was the band’s manager, made sure they got maximum coverage in his Record Mirror column ‘Waxie’s World’. The thing with Max, however, was he had trouble remembering whether he was writing for the Soho skin trade or the pop press.

I can forgive him his peccadilloes when the link is this crazy: ‘Shelia was twenty-nine years of age, married with three children all skinheads’. Caught by her husband in bed with Jailhose Jim Bennett, she’s now staying at her mum’s where she can play the best of the wild Yahoo British groups as she rubs up against Jailhouse Jim.

His readers held a debate about the merits of Waxie’s approach. Here’s their verdict (below the great pic of the Sunsets)

Both the Curious and Beat Instrumental pieces were promoting their Party EP, which is 14 minutes of standard covers with crowd noises and, I think, Waxie doing the cheerleading. It is just about the worst thing that came out under the Rock ‘n’ Roll Revival of 1969–73, and there is plenty of competition for that accalade. It’s not just that their versions are no better than a budget TOTPs album, and ‘Get It On’ is an absolute travesty, it is the fact it is all done without any style and zero attitude, not even the frisson of a sexual fumble in the dark. Cut on the cheap, the EP didn’t even come with a picture sleeve FFS! Most of the tracks are scattered across the Rock ‘n’ Roll Party compilation, the louder mastering doesn’t help much.

Someone must have liked the crowd noises between the songs on the EP because they are back on their sole album Red China Rocks, which does have one of the period’s great sleeves as compensation. . . Chairman Mao in drape and creepers . . . and, as my mate Eddie says, a Clash bootleg sleeve before the fact. Rather than develop the New Orleans side of things the album retreats back to Houseshakers’ territory. The world did not need another cover of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ but, that said, it is all a significant improvement on the Party EP and with Perkins’ ‘Dixie Fried’ and, what must be one of the first British covers of a Charlie Feather’s number, ‘One Hand Loose’, I do believe I can hear Crazy Cavan coming down the line. . . . cut loose!!!

Bush Hollyhead’s illustration for a 1972 Club International special on Fifties revivalism goes places the Rock n Roll Allstars led by Waxie Maxie were never going to get

Peter Watts on Pin-Ups 1972 – a review

A terrific review of Pin-Ups 1972 by Peter Watts (Uncut, Time Out etc) from his Great Wen blog [link here]. How could I not reproduce it . . .?

Third Generation Rock ‘n’ Roll

That headline is not a phrase you hear much of – or in fact at all – these days, but in 1972 it was a much-discussed concept that attempted to define the music and performance of the early 70s as demonstrated by the likes of David Bowie, Alice Cooper, Roxy Music, New York Dolls and T-Rex. As author Peter Stanfield explains in his fabulous new book Pin-Ups 1972 about the London music scene in 1972, this went by other names too – Fag Rock and Poof Rock being just two of them – which is a reminder of how insensitive even the progressive rock papers of the time could be.

That distance between then and now is the focus of Stanfield’s book. So much has been said and written about the 1970s that it’s easy to believe we all lived through them and already understand everything there is to know, but by going back to the journalism of the time, Stanfield demonstrates how writers were attempting to comprehend the music of the time without benefit of hindsight or obscured by four decades of received wisdom. Stanfield has devoured the journalism of 1972 – underground, national press, music weeklies, colour monthlies, even soft porn titles – to examine the music through a detailed reading of the writing of Nick Kent, Nik Cohn, Richard Williams, Michael Watts, Simon Frith, Mick Farren, Chrissie Hynde and many more – not just their greatest hits, but deep cuts that even they will have forgotten writing.

We see these writers in real time try to get to grips with the ambiguities and contradictions of third generation rock and Stanfield writes in an approximation of these pioneers, dropping theories, connections and cultural references with intoxicating verve, daring the reader to keep up and learn something. Look it up or go with the flow, your call.

What is third generation rock? By this reading, the first generation were the original ’56 rockers – Elvis, Chuck Berry, Little Richard – and the second generation were those that grew from R&B – the Beatles, Stones, Who, Kinks, Floyd, Zeppelin and you know the rest. Third generation were those that followed, essentially the ones who had more time to understand the grammar, scriptures, cliches and language of rock and roll and then tried to do something different with it – even if many of them, Bowie, Bolan, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop for starters, had been making music for almost as long as the second generation.

It’s a slippery concept (whither Hawkwind and the Pink Fairies?), as such genre-defining often is, but that isn’t really the point. What compels is the approach of exploring the acts through the media of the time. We see hippie journalists struggle to accept the sudden elevation of Marc Bolan from underground hero to teenage fantasy, haphazardly chronicle the New York Dolls’ ill-fated trip to London in 72, or write in awe of the arrival of the semi-mythical Iggy Pop and Lou Reed when the pair come and live in London (Lou Reed settling down in Wimbledon of all places). How do you make sense of Bowie and Roxy Music, when they are happening right in front of your eyes and you have no real frame of reference? The latter explains why for much of their first year, Roxy are likened to Sha Na Na: when something genuinely revolutionary happens, critics are left grasping for comparisons – only later are they able to go back and make it all fit together. But watching that struggle, and the sheer intellectual effort demonstrated by so many writers of the time, is fascinating and a little humbling. The through-line to punk and indie is clear to us but obviously was unknown at the time, and despite walk-on roles for Malcolm McLaren and Glen Matlock, Stanfield wisely leaves that largely unsaid, helping to seal 1972 into its own time capsule.

That makes this very much a book for those who enjoy historiography and media studies almost as much as they love rock and roll. What you don’t get is recycled anecdotes, biography or even too much in the way of music criticism – although the reappraisal of Bowie’s Pin-Ups is magnificent. Stanfield is more interested in the wider culture, with rock being as much about performance and publicity and fandom as it is about chords and melodies. Which for the writers and musicians of 1972, it almost certainly was.

Twenty-Five Times Around the World with Marc Bolan

Three Marc Bolan related things recently encountered and that I think are worth sharing:

First is from November 1971 Beat Instrumental mag with Bolan as the cover star.

Second is from Simon Reynolds’ Shock and Awe Blog (link here)

Third is an interview with Tony Visconti from the April 2022 edition of Record Collector

‘Marc Bolan – Hot Rods and Hot Love’ . . . A title primed for the time, not a hint of the mystical, instead shiny hard chromium heat and flash. Mirrored shades reflecting back trashy American automobiles customised to go go go . . . Steve Turner’s piece promised to get inside Bolan’s fixation on car imagery, but it hardly starts the quarter mile. I’d hoped for a little more on the car/sex conflation but pickings are meager. You’d do better to head off to YouTube and watch Kenneth Anger’s Kustom Kar Kommandos once more (link here) and switch ‘Dream Lover’ with ‘Hot Love’ . . . What you do get, however, is a splended kiss-off line: ‘I’ve been round the world 25 times faster than anyone else.’ Pure Bolan that. . .

The cover image of Bolan staring back at the camera is the counterpoint to the photographs Simon Reynolds looks at, each belong to that moment where Bolan thought of himself as occuppying the middleground between Led Zeppelin and Eddie Cochran . . .

When self-absorption mixed with cocaine and champagne at the Chateau. . . but before that you could go around the world with T. Rex 25 times faster than with anyone else . . .

Aces: the girl group sound in 1972

Photo by Bruce Davidson, Brooklyn Gang (1959)

On Friday nights Evie would go with her friend Sue to the ice rink, it was the place to see other teenage girls and talk about boys. In an elaborate ritual, she curled her straight hair and held it in place with clouds of hairspray. The fix rarely lasted the first part of the evening. Evie’s ritual eventually abandoned when Aces showed up at school. Aces shunned Julie, the most popular girl, and hung out with Evie. She now lets her hair stay straight, Aces preferred it that way.

His given name was Rhett, but he had had a tattoo of aces done while in Liverpool touring Britain with his father, an actor, so Aces was what he was now called. Before Evie met him he’d been expelled from his previous schools, at Le Conte he stayed away from the in-crowd, he followed his own path and took Evie on a date in a stolen car

Photo by Bruce Davidson, Brooklyn Gang (1959)

It wasn't just the way his yellow eyes stripped the plaster off the walls that threw the school open for grabs. And it wasn't his black hair that fell to his chin in the front in criminal defiance. It was that the girls went along with him at once, all the whole school did.

Who could resist the way he threw back his head and slapped his thigh in unheard-of abandon, in our starved colony? He dressed in black, black motorcycle jacket, black shirts, black Levi’s and black boots with his black eyelashes framing his acetylene eyes that flickered out in pure hate at the concepts of anything being "for your own good" or anyone "who knew best”.

His report card noted his high IQ but also his ‘poor attitude’. Eve and Aces’ chaste love affair ended after the ride in the stolen car, and then he vanished. A little while later Eve learnt from Aces’ only friend, Louie, that he had been busted. ‘Grand Theft Auto?’ she asked. ‘No’, replied Louie, ‘Grand Theft Yacht’. He’d stolen the boat in Balboa and was heading for Tahiti when the coast guard stopped him.

Evie learns that ‘power was the quality of knowing what you liked’ and she now knew she’d much rather head for Tahiti than go to the school dance.

Eve’s Hollywood by Eve Babitz, from which this story is taken, was published in 1972. That year and in the next few years to follow American music, like its British counterpart, was obsessed with the 1950s and early 1960s, especially with the girl groups, The Ronettes, The Shangri-las, The Crystals. Their sound was echoed and refracted by the New York Dolls for sure, but it was even more present in Bette Midler’s debut, with its cover versions of ‘The Leader of the Pack’ and The Dixie Cups’ ‘Chapel of Love’. The album opens with the invitation Bobby Freeman made in 1958, ‘Do You Wanna Dance’? This was not pastiche but a tribute to her roots, Greil Marcus wrote. Laura Nyro’s Gonna Take A Miracle, backed by Labelle, was also a heartfelt homage, it included ‘the great R&B hits that Laura once wailed where the echo was best: in a New York subway station’, ran the tag-line in the record company’s advertisement for the album. She covered the songs she felt Smokey Robinson, Phil Spector, Curtis Mayfield and Marvin Gaye had written especially for her.

In Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow: Girl Groups from the 50s on . . . Charlotte Greig wrote about how those ephemeral, disposable, records produced by Shadow Morton, Leiber and Stoller and Phil Spector worked their magic on an audience of teenage girls and just why someone, like Nyro, might think those songs spoke directly to her and about her experiences. It is a brilliant book, one of the best written on pop music.

If young women like Babitz, Midler and Nyro were looking back at the figure of the bad boy, who features in these songs and in their teen dreams, others looked to exploit that nostalgia. Before punk was ‘punk’ it was a bad boy with a DA and an attitude

‘OK Punks . . .’ Sha Na Na and Brownsville Station set the pace for the Ramones and the rest of the New York mid-seventies scene . . .

All this and so much much more is in Pin-Ups 1972: Third Generation Rock ‘n’ Roll and, yes, Nik Cohn too

All Warholed Up with Suicide and the New York Dolls

Suicide: the life and soul of the party

Club International v.1 #4 (October 1972) Photographs by Dave Grey and Pete Miles

One of the more pleasing discoveries made while trawling through bound copies of Club International in the British Library reading room was the story told by Englishman Dick Masters of his first trip to Manhattan. He was there to take in ‘The Flowering of Freakiness and Finery, New York’s finest aggregation of freaks, fashions and friends ever assembled under one roof’. The 1972 ‘Everything is Everything Costume Ball’, organised by Tony and Laurita Cosmo, was being held in the Grand Ballroom of the Hilton Hotel . . . and everyone who was anyone was present. Musical entertainment was provided by Suicide and the New York Dolls. The latter, unfortunately not pictured, but Alan Vega was front and centre surrounded by partygoers, Warhol superstars and the City’s most beautiful.

Suicide were given top billing by Masters:

[They] created the most evil, menacing atmosphere I’ve ever felt at any sort of performance. He [singer Alan Vega] could only be for real . . .His moans and screams grew frantic as he lashed himself with the bicycle chain. Everyone watched in silence as he pulled out a knife and stabbed himself in the face and chest. . . he smashed the microphone into his teeth and leapt into the audience, lashing out at everyone who couldn’t move fast enough.

The shock effect of witnessing Vega in full attack mode was echoed that year by Roy Hollingworth in his report in Melody Maker (October 21, 1972) of Suicide at the Mercer Arts Centre:

It is a heady stark trip. The starkest trip I’ve ever seen . . . It was fascinating. How two people could create such a thick wall of sound and atmosphere was an unbelievable achievement. It roared, and groaned, and the singer smacked himself on the head with the mike a couple of times, and then fell in a heap in a corner –  and whimpered. Was this the end of music as we know it? Oooh it was creepy.

 

Who was Dick Masters? Is that a pseudonym? Was he the gay porn star you encounter when you search for him on-line? Or is that someone else? Did he write elsewhere about his New York adventures or on anything else for that matter? Questions . . .

More on the Dolls appearance in Pin-Ups 1972

Test Pressing – Iggy and the Stooges 'Raw Power'

In May 2020 a test pressing of Raw Power went up for auction on eBay, the price eventually going beyond the few shillings I had saved, but I kept the images that were posted

Dated December 8, 1972, three months before its US release in March, 1973. it should be in a museum or even better in my collection, it’s a one-off (or one of a very few). It would be the jewel in any collector’s crown. – a fetish item for the ages. But, you know, it is just a white label pressing of a stock copy, I’ve got a couple of those and, having not won the auction, I’ve still got the coin in my pocket.

But take a closer look. The timings suggest side one and two were flipped, which adds to the uniqueness. Then look again, side 1 has five tracks, not the four on the release version, and side 2 has only three.

So what was the running order? Dave Marsh’s hyper-enthusiastic review in Creem’s March 1973 edition gives a couple of clues.

He lists the title track as the second band on the top side, so my guess is it still kicks off with ‘Search & Destroy’, but which mix I wonder? Iggy’s? Or Bowie’s as found uniquely on the original UK release? Whatever, ‘Gimme Danger’ is the third track. After that no more clues from DM.

Working with the timings given on the white labels, and some some addition and subtraction on my part, Side 2 must be:

Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell

I Need Somebody

Death Trip

Side 1 then would look something like this:

Search and Destroy

Raw Power

Gimme Danger

Shake Appeal

Penetration

How’s that play in your head? While you’re pondering over this sequence and whether it rolls better this way than it does following Tony Defries’ edict that the songs needed to go fast one, slow one, fast one , as was eventually released, Dave Marsh wrote that their are ‘nine songs’ on the album, not the eight we have and love, perhaps he was shit at counting or adding up . . . or he had a different review copy. Think on that dear collector.

For those Raw Power devotees out there, here’s Mick Rock’s little known review of the album in the UK skin mag Club International (July 1973). More of this kinda thing is buried deep in Pin-Ups 1972: Third Generation Rock ‘n’ Roll. Available to preorder or in the shops early next month . . . Get Some!

London Rock: Birth of an Edwardian

A chance encounter in a local record shop, the jacket so grubby it might almost have been a revenant from 1959. But what a great sleeve it is, a superb design that looks like the cover of some titillating true crime or confidential magazine pushed out by some back street Soho publisher.

The price asked for the beat up copy was too high so I skipped on it and went home and checked on-line. A tenner for the mint copy you see here.

I thought at first this white label boot on Velvet Touch Records might have been something that slipped out from behind the counter at Rock On around the same time as Ace and Charly were putting out all those rockabilly 10 inch discs, but this all feels a little too arch and artful for the early 1980s.

All, apart from the Bern Elliott and Tom Jones unknown to me, and those two tracks I’d always thought of as more Beat Merchant material than Rock n’ Roll even if they make perfect sense in the present company.

Most first generation British Rock ‘n’ Roll comes across as if it was conceived as a novelty recording backed by jobbing big band jazzers. That’s not hidden here, especially with the inclusion of The Basil Kirchin Band, who have that swing thing down, and Clay Morton’s ‘Tombstone No. 9’ which is delivered in an execrable cockney accent, or Tommy Bruce who is so burnt up by his girlfriend he has to call for a fire engine. Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman telephoned in that composition.

Adam Faith’s reworking of ‘Great Balls of Fire’ as ‘I Vibrate’ has some fire in its groin and Dean Shannon’s ‘Ubangi Stomp’ drives the cool cats wild, but it still sounds like it was recorded in Teddington upon Thames and not anywhere near Memphis.

This is all clearly neither here nor there because the disc as a whole is a solid ‘Whoop Up’ as Johnny Keating and the Z-Men demonstrate. Brilliantly curated from the opening introduction from some Pathé newsreel warning of the latest folk devils to the last cut on side two.

I’d love to know who put this together and when, but if I live the rest of my life in ignorance I don’t much care as the sleeve is the real thing, pure 100% rock ‘n’ roll

Matched Pairs in Monochrome: MC5 and J. Geils Band 1970

A love letter to Zip-Gun Teenage Punk Thunder from The Garage Band Appreciation Society, Maidenhead, May 1976

Just 18 catalogue entries separate the MC5’s Back in the USA and The J. Geils Band’s debut on Atlantic, released in March and December 1970 respectively. The matched pair share the same sleeve photographer, Stephen Paley, stripped back aesthetic and belief in full-throttle rock ‘n’ roll that spins out of the garage greased up, burning alcohol and smoking its own exhaust fumes.

The two albums were reviewed in Rolling Stone, in May ‘70 Greil Marcus covered the MC5; he thought Back in the USA a valid but flawed effort: 

Phil Spector once talked about the difference between ‘records’ and ‘ideas’ – ‘The man who can make a disc that’s a record and an idea will rule the world’, he said in his typically moderate fashion. The MC5 album for the most part, remains an idea, because in the end it sounds like a set-up. ‘Teenage Lust’ and ‘American Ruse’ and ‘Human Being Lawnmower’ break through, and they belong on singles, and on the charts. All the way up the charts.

Bostonian, journalist and the MC5’s producer, Jon Landau reviewed The J. Geils Band’s debut in January ‘71. He loved it all:

The best album I’ve heard in sometime . . . It is a goodtime, modern piece of rock and roll; it is also totally devoid of the self-consciousness and pretentions that usually mar this kind of thing.

Where Back in the USA was all edgy, dry and hard-wired, the J. Geils album pulled in the oppositie direction with keys and harp filling out the middle and the upper reaches. The J. Geils Band’s choice of producers were Atlantic in-house Muscle Shoals and Critierion studio tyros Dave Crawford and Brad Shapiro, producers who brought the funk with them. Landau’s neophyte production of the MC5 careens into the corners and then skitters down the lanes. Crawford and Shapiro play for a less immediate impact. It is a more comfortable ride, but equally thrilling when they pile-in and threaten to spill out of control. Landau took what he heard here and used it to help shape the E. Street Band.

On the otherside of the Atlantic ocean, the matched pair's impact was most keenly felt in Essex, in its suburbs and in Southend and Canvey Island. Wilko Johnson was an admirer of the MC5 after witnessing their performance at Wembley in 1972. He was there backing Heinz, (you can catch him in the movie of the gig if you keep your wits about you. His hair is long, so be warned) and one of the few who wasn’t throwing cans at Rob Tyner. In April 1976, Eddie and the Hot Rods told the NME’s Max Bell that they were ‘bored to tears with long songs. We play short and punchy . . . We don’t want to be a heavy albums band. We come on with high energy . . to get the MC5 feel from Back in the USA, bang, two minutes, over and carry on.’ J. Geil’s ‘Hard Drivin’ Man ‘was a keynote cover version in their live set and in Lew Lewis they had, at least for a while, their own Magic Dick and his lickin’ stick.

The Feelgoods and Hot Rods never exactly hid their debt to either band, it’s written all over their lp sleeves.

The J. Geils Band’s ‘Wait’ was a Lew Lewis Reformer showstopper. Like J. Geils, the Feelgoods covered Otis Rush’s ‘Homework’ (on Stupidity), but the influence of the Beantown band on Canvey’s finest doesn’t really show through until Gypie Mayo gets on board. ‘Milk and Alcohol’ had copped its lyrical imagery from John Lee Hooker’s ‘It’ll Serve You Right to Suffer’ – “Your doctor put you on milk, cream and alcohol” – but they (and co-writer Nick Lowe) most likely nicked it from the J. Geils Band, who on their debut had taken the song uptown, downtown and all around. The whole of Be Seeing You, Otis Clay’s ‘Baby Jane most evidently, is cut from the same cloth .

Eddie and the Hot Rods finally got around to releasing ‘Hard Drivin’ Man’ on their second EP, about the same time as they backed Rob Tyner on his solo 45. Their keen pursuit of amphetamine psychosis meant they never really acquired the funk n’ grease of the J. Geils Band but that attack strategy did help them align with the MC5’s razor-edged rock ’n’ roll, even if it was more a shared attitude than aptitude that took them up and down Shakin’ Street. Whatever their merits, and there are many, I got to the MC5 and J. Geils Band by riding in the slipstream left behind as the Feelgoods, followed by the Hot Rods, pelted along the A127

Letters page, The Garage Band Appreciation Society, Maidenhead, Sounds (May 8, 1976) no doubt Hot Rods’ manager Ed Hollis’s concoction but mark me down for membership

Rockabilly Psychosis Redux

Teds, Rebels, Hepcats and Psychos: The Story of British Rockabilly 1966-1988 (Rockin’ 4 Life Publications 2021)

Running close to 750 pages (and no footnotes or index to pump up the count), Paul Wragg’s self-published volume on British Rockabilly (the only sort that counts) starts in 1966 when the first record collector heads to the States to bring back a casket of pirate treasure, colonial plunder, and ends in 1998 when Charlie Feathers slipped away. 32 years of listening, playing and dancing to the rockabilly beat. Wragg presents his long history of the music’s style and attitude through a series of step-changing fads and trends told in first-hand accounts that makes this monumental volume something akin to McNeil and McCain’s Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk (1996), only better.

I doubt many will read the book from start to finish, but whatever draws you to it you’ll not be disappointed. For myself, I wanted to know more about the collectors, fanzine writers, curators and reissue labels that first pulled the term ‘rockabilly’ out of the trash bin of history and invested it with the identity we know today, or think we know. So finding out more about Bill Millar, Martin Hawkins, Colin Escott and the like was my aim. I also wanted to know more about the Teddy Boy scene, the rock ‘n’ roll revivalists who had their moment in the sun at Wembley in the summer of 1972, and how they fed and then lost out to the rockabilly rebels who followed. I wasn’t disappointed.

You wanna know the story behind the 1970s bootlegs of rockabilly discs which are all but indistinguishable from the originals? Then you also need to know about Dan and Faye Coffey, who sold 45s bought back from trips to America and essentially created the market Henry Mariano and his exacto-repros then developed. And you absolutely have to know about the Bill Millar curated series of rockabilly compilations, each focusing on a label’s output, which are as seminal as Nuggets and any of the sets of sixties garage punk LPs that followed.  The importance of Millar’s series in the scheme of things is nailed when Tim ‘Polecat’ Worman explains that the Stray Cats initially got their look from Levi Dexter and the Rockats and their set list from Imperial Rockabilly Volume 1, but then what rockabilly band didn’t mine that vein? The story of collectors providing the material on which three generations of young musicians will find their stimulus and inspiration is vividly captured by Wragg.

While Crazy Cavan is the ship’s figure head, loved by most, respected by all, for Wragg the core of the tale he really wants to tell begins as the great man’s strength starts to fail. Without selling any trend short, Wragg is most interested, I think, in the late-1970s and early 1980s when rockabilly became a significant element among Britain’s teenage tribes and momentarily goes mainstream with chart toppers and TOTPs exposure. While the bands that helped form and rode this wave are all given a generous amount of space to tell their part in things, the real story belongs to the adherents and scene makers, those who danced to the records and supported the bands, the young kids who took the music, style and attitude to heart and remade the world in their own image.

If I started to lose interest with all the rockin’ weekenders in Caister and Hemsby it doesn’t much matter because by then my pockets were already loaded with gold and others will find that final part as fascinating as I found the first half and a bit.

Because these tales have rarely had an audience outside of the social groups Wagg documents, the stories are as fresh as the day they were first told, presented without guile or perfidy. Given the scope of the project, Teds, Rebels, Hepcats and Psychos is an extraordinary achievement, a luminous oral history, superbly compiled, organised and edited by the author. If this book had been supported by an established publisher it would still have been an heroic achievement, to have done it independently is a true testament to the spirit of rockabilly that Wragg sets out to celebrate. You need this book, your friends and family deserve their own copies too.

 

£15 paperback and £25 hardback plus shipping. Contact: paulwragg68@btinternet.com

 

 

Glamour is a Dream Machine Says Nik Cohn

‘Private and Public Glamour, Nik Cohn Sifts the Stardust’ Harpers & Queen (February 1973)

The bookends:

Once, in Las Vegas, I was sitting in the lobby of the International Hotel, browsing through a magazine, when I was suddenly afflicted by a buzzing in the back of my skull. I turned my head: there was nothing to look at but a stretch of bare wall and a corner. I stared at the wall for perhaps thirty seconds, feeling most foolish but unable to do otherwise. The buzzing trapped me; I knew that something enormous would happen.

It did. Suddenly Elvis Presley appeared round the corner, flanked by half a dozen body guards. I will not describe him; he was God. Shimmering, he swept away across the lobby and was gone. After a moment the buzzing subsided and I went back to my magazine.

 

Yet again, as so often when it comes to matters of weight, I return to P. J. Proby. I remember him once at a concert in Leicester, halfway through a riot, grovelling and shrieking on his knees, when suddenly he stopped dead, stared out into the darkness and, in that curious mock-prophetic style of his, spake with tongues. ‘It seems that I must be the greatest thing on earth’, he declaimed. ‘Why, look at you all – screaming and yelling and fighting, loving me, hating me, dying to touch me, dreaming of breaking my neck. You run behind me like lapdogs and shucks, I don’t even exist . . .’

 

In between, a disquisition on glamour. What is it? What isn’t it? Who has it? Who doesn’t have it?. He asks everyone, except Bobby Dylan, The Beatles and Timothy Leary. ‘New Generation’ artist Patrick Procktor told him glamour is ‘the essence of irresistible allurement, overwhelming all aesthetic judgements’, which works for me and part explains Cohn’s devotion to Proby.

Glamour changes down the decades marked by how the object of enthralment shifts: the fifties was about a sexual physicality, sixties a counter-reaction with aura replacing a sex-glam syndrome – ‘A triumphant return to freakishness, decadence, insanity; lots of violence, swilled down with a dash of perversity; early and melodramatic death where possible, or at least a glut of suffering.’  

Andrew Loog Oldham had the ‘flair’ that defined glamour in the sixties and Cohn extols his virtues and vices in his profile of Marianne Faithful for Nova (April 1971), who, after the Stones, was Oldham’s greatest invention. When Cohn meets her she has moved away from the pop limelight, living with her child and mother in a timbered cottage in the Berkshire downs. He describes her as overweight and seemingly ‘exhausted and muffled by inertia’.

After the flair of the Sixties, the seventies had nowhere else to go but to turn to nostalgia, glamour as pastiche of lost dreams.

One of his chosen throwbacks, reincarnations, is David Bowie who Cohn had met and interviewed six months previously. Bowie wants to be a star:

Not a Superstar or a Rock star or any kind of star in particular; just a star, period.

And what was a star? He didn’t know, he couldn’t define it, but he could recognise it by instinct. Then he paused, looked coy; ‘a star is me,’ he said, fluttering his lashes, and suddenly it was. 

Harpers & Queen (September 1972)

Rock Dreams, Peellaert and Cohn. Pop’s three generations

As if to make sense of all of this, Cohn returned to his own creation, Arfur the Teenage Pinball Queen. It was a postscript on the media mirage, the ways in which ‘Pop phenomena may be created absolutely out of nothing . . . ‘shucks’ said Proby, ‘I don’t even exist’.

Harpers & Queen (January 1973)

 

More on Arfur over the page, here

Rock 'n' Roll's Evolutionary Tree: James Taylor v Groin Thunder

In March 1971 Time put James Taylor on its cover and inside explained that his popularity was the result of the ‘fading out of ear-numbing, mind-blowing acid rock’ and ‘the softening of the youth revolution’. What was being listened to on campuses across the nation was a’ kind of Americana rock’, which celebrates such things as

country comfort, Carolina sunshine, morning frost in the Berkshires. What all of them seem to want most is an intimate mixture of lyricism and personal expression—the often exquisitely melodic reflections of a private ‘I’

Which was why James Taylor was ‘marked for death’ by Lester Bangs who thought the future lay in the past. Pop was evolving into the new chamber music and what he wanted was more groin thunder . . .

The Troggs don’t feature in the magazine’s family tree of rock, Reg Presley never evolved into a balladier like Van Morrison, he never tapped his inner well of melancholy. Such desperate times called for a Manifesto for Third Generation Rock ‘n’ Roll . . . 1972 would right so many wrongs.

'Two-Lane Blacktop' – The Jukebox is Playing

Casting two musicians with zero acting experience (and without much ability in that field) in the leading roles and then not catering to their fan base by exploiting the very thing they are actually good at, is just perverse. But such obstinacy is also entirely in keeping with Monte Hellman’s intent to shut down any ‘detrimental empathy’ such musical moments might generate. In Two-Lane Blacktop James Taylor doesn’t get to sing and Dennis Wilson doesn’t sit behind him on drums or provide harmonising vocals because in the film one drives a car and the other keeps it on the road. That’s it.

The important thing was the characters Taylor and Wilson were playing, Driver and Mechanic respectively. Having them sing would have diminished their parts, helping to undermine an audience’s willingness to suspend disbelief and forge an identification with the protagonists. Taylor performing ‘Sweet Baby James’ would have been a distraction. Besides, Two-Lane Blacktop was a film that worked assiduously against cliché and convention. This was a movie about a race that never gets going and so is never concluded; it’s a road movie that goes nowhere. It’s also a love story between two men and a woman that might evoke Jules et Jim or Bande á part but generates so little frisson between the three leads that it is, in contrast, a despondent and loveless affair.

Excluding any music that doesn’t have an identifiable source, especially that for which the actors are known for, was therefore non-negotiable for Hellman. Following Easy Rider, a soundtrack filled with contemporary recordings must have been part of the film’s financiers’ expectations along with the anticipation of seeing it replicate the box office appeal of Hopper and Fonda’s little picture.

In the Spring of 1971 Esquire put an image of the Girl, played by Laurie Bird, hitchhiking on its cover and gave over thirteen of its pages to the film’s screenplay, an unprecedented bit of promotion for any movie:

 ‘Read it first! Our nomination for the movie of the year: Two-Lane Blacktop – Where the road is and where it is going: the first movie worth reading.’

The hype crashed on the film’s release and Esquire turned on it:

‘the film is vapid: the photography arch and tricky and naturally, therefore, poorly lit and unfocused; the acting (only one part is played by a professional) amateurish, disingenuous and wooden; the direction inverted to the degree that fundamental relationships become incidental to the film’s purpose. The script has become the victim of the auteur principle’.

The film is remarkably faithful to the published screenplay, there are around half-a-dozen small scenes that didn’t make the cut, including a couple of sex scenes and some nudity, but those differences would not be why the magazine considered the screenplay a success and the film to be a bore. Hellman said he took out the skinny dipping scene because it held up the action, but what action? One thing the screenplay does that the film hides and obscures is to give the reader the sense that pop music, of various sorts, accompanies and comments on what’s being shown on the screen, giving it the same level of heightened interaction that was experienced when watching Fonda and Hopper scoot down the highway as Jimi Hendrix or Steppenwolf played over the cinema’s sound system.

The portrait of Taylor that sold him to Hellman as the man for the part of Driver, Sweet Baby James

Taylor never saw the film and never acted again, but he did like Richard Avedon’s publicity photographs enough to use a couple on his 1974 album Walking Man

Four Rolling Stones recordings are mentioned in the screenplay, ‘Satisfaction’, ‘I’m Free’, ‘Time is on My Side’ and ‘Honky Tonk Woman’, each one would work as a meta-commentary on the action, just as Ray Charles’ ‘Hit the Road Jack’ or Chuck Berry’s ‘Maybelline’ and ‘No Money Down’ run in parallel, supporting or satirically pricking what is being seen. The Doors’ ‘Break on Through’ and Ike and Tina Turner’s ‘You Got What You Wanted’ are others that fitted, in this manner, directly into the scheme of things.

Two-page spread from Show magazine that puts the emphasis on Laurie Bird, naked if she wants to (stills from a scene cut from movie)

Cassettes are popped into GTO’s deck throughout the screenplay, bluegrass at one point, which would have evoked Bonnie and Clyde’s mad dashes down country roads. Hank Snow plays on the radio, like the bluegrass emphasising the not-so-merry band’s movement through rural communities. The Girl, who can’t hold a tune to save her life, sings old blues stanzas in the back of the Chevy, including a few lines from ‘Easy Rider’ giving a knowing nod to the movie’s predecessor. Cumulatively, the song references make for a potentially great soundtrack and imply a set of personal, finger-snapping connections, moments of familiarity with a shared cultural locus that had the potential to cement a relationship between the viewer and the film in the same manner as Mean Streets. But what you get is something else.

Under the noises of revving engines and chatter the Doors’ ‘Moonlight Drive’ plays on

Here’s the song list as used in the film (it’s from  IMDB with a couple of amendments):

  • ‘Moonlight Drive’ – The Doors

  • ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ – Kris Kristofferson

  • ‘Maybelline’ / ‘No Money Down’ –John Hammond Jr.

  • ‘Stealin'’– Arlo Guthrie (and Laurie Bird)

  • ‘Hit the Road Jack’ – Jerry Lee Lewis

  • ‘Satisfaction’ – Laurie Bird

  • ‘Taylor Made’ (Instrumental) – Hal Mooney

  • ‘Song in Gee’ – Lisa Gilkyson

  • ‘Early Cocktail’ – Ole Georg aka Henrik Nielsen

  •  ‘Peace in the Valley’ – anonymous

  • ‘Cattle Call’ – Eddy Arnold

  • ‘Girl of My Dreams’ – James Kenelm Clarke

  • ‘John Henry’ – Kentucky Colonels with Clarence White

The cost of licensing the Stones precluded their inclusion, though Laurie Bird sings an off-key version of ‘Satisfaction’ as she gravitates toward a pinball machine in a diner. One contemporary account reported that she also attempted to sing The Doors’ ‘When You’re Strange’, but that’s not included, and ‘Break on Through’, referenced in the screenplay, is replaced by ‘Moonlight Drive’. The latter is buried deep within the mix beneath revving engines and squealing tyres. Chuck’s songs are present but sung by John Hammond, Jerry Lee Lewis deputises for Ray Charles and, instead of Hank Snow, we get Eddy Arnold. Ike and Tina don’t make the grade in any form, faded out alongside the ambition the filmmakers once held for the role of commercially available recordings.

Laurie Bird in Elvis shirt, not featured in the film and neither was the horse

The one song that does get a platform in the film is Kris Kristofferson’s ‘Me and Bobby McGee’. Cover versions had been hits on the Country and Pop charts for Roger Miller, Gordon Lightfoot, Charley Pride and was a posthumous number one for Janis Joplin. Even Jerry Lee Lewis took it into Billboard’s Hot 100 before the end of 1971. The song is not listed in any of the published screenplays. Much of this interest in it took place in the latter stages of the film’s post-production, which meant the song had a contemporaneity and an immediacy that would have connected with the film’s original audience. On the other hand, ‘Bobby McGee’ is the very thing Hellman had elsewhere avoided, cliché. But there it is, all but asking the audience to make a connection with its romantic sentiments – detrimental empathy – even as the film elsewhere refused to be drawn in that direction. Besides, ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ was also featured that year in Dennis Hopper’s The Last Movie.

Writing for Show magazine, Shelley Benoit spent a week on location with crew and actors in Tucumcari, New Mexico. One of those days was spent filming in a diner: ‘The jukebox in this forlorn spot affords one Beatles, no Stones and a whole lot of Merle Haggard’. Two-Lane Blacktop seemed to have become stuck with that selection. Such a fact probably hurt the film at the box office and with its critics, but 50-years on from its release Monte Hellman called it right. Have no doubt.

 

The Coolest Place In England – Richmond Upon Thames

Andrew Humphreys, Raving Upon Thames: An Untold Story of Sixties London (London: Paradise Road 2021)

Counter to the prevailing idea that culture is disseminated from a hip centre by an irrepressible centrifugal force, in truth the worthwhile things take form first at the margins and then are dragged toward a hub, Soho say. Andrew Humphreys’ wholly enjoyable and needle-sharp history of the bands and venues, entrepreneurs and audiences in and around Richmond in the sixties is a testament to the fact that the real stories, the one’s that matter, belong first to the suburbs.

From 1960, but could have been from anytime from then until the end of the 1980s. The title page from a Weekend exposé of the Eel Pie Island scene. Reproduced in Raving

The availability of venues – The Station Hotel, Richmond Athletic Ground and Eel Pie Island – can partly explain why Richmond became the centre for the early activities of the Stones, who were closely followed by the Yardbirds and all those bands that thought they could read their own names in the contrails left in the wake of Mick Jagger. But more importantly, it was the art schools, teacher training colleges and further and higher education institutions, in and around the area, that meant there was a big enough demographic of young people who wanted to make a culture of their own, which in turn created the scene. The Stones and the ‘Birds found that audience as much as the audience found them.

Humphrey’s book gives a small cameo to The Others who produced one of the finest RnB pounders of the era and then vanished into utter obscurity

1964: The Others from the same management stable as The Pretty Things and The Fairies and with the same poise, attitude and style

My parents met in the ’50s at St. Mary’s teacher training college, opposite Richmond Lock. I doubt they went to Eel Pie Island to dance to the jazz and I know they never looked as wonderfully bohemian as their peers pictured here. My dad’s second wife did, however, see the Stones at the Station Hotel. She lived in Gunnersbury about two and a half miles from the venue, after one of the gigs Brian Jones had given her the bus fare she needed to get home. She missed her bus or chose to walk, either way she kept his gift. When I got to know her in the early Seventies she still had that pile of pennies, which she kept on the mantelpiece.

Inside the dance hall Eel Pie Island

That brief moment before a band moves from being entertainment for the in-crowd to becoming revered is the story told in Raving Upon Thames. The Stones and the Yardbirds have a ready familiarity but that is more than compensated for by Humphreys’ fine-eye for contextual detail and the way he so effectively musters a myriad walk-on parts for those who may have left only the faintest trace of having passed that way. With the eye of a detective he shows how their trails, when pulled together, make up a map of the times more revealing than any star’s biography.

One such trace was the pen letter a 16 year-old, Andrea Hiorns, wrote to her American friend, it is a perfect encapsulation of why Humphreys’ history is so much more than just about the local.

Wednesdays are good days. I go to my Island. I must tell you all about it, it is an important part of my life. It’s in the River Thames. You cross a steep bridge over the river and pay a toll of 4d to an old lady called Rose. Then walk along a winding road with bungalows on either side. There’s lots of trees and its dark and mysterious. You turn a bend and see a large decrepit hotel and a crumbling façade. You hear loud blues music. Walk through the gates and you are in another world. All material cares disappear and we are the only people who exist.

There’s a large converted barn, you go down some steps after conning your way in with 6d – it’s usually 3/6d – your wrist is stamped and you go down. It’s very dark with just red and green lights. Long John Baldry is singing with his band at one end of the hall. The walls are white flaking and full of cobwebs, with cartoons, murals and names printed over them. People dance there crazily. Next door is the pub, where we and the musicians all congregate, we con drinks and play the jukebox and talk to everyone. I often go there on my own but always end up meeting someone I know to dance with.

Outside there is a long strip of grass down to the river with large stone nuts and bolts lying around and convenient bushes where couples make love and smoke hash. It’s the coolest place in England, there’s nowhere else like it.