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We enjoyed our weekend partnership for some three months, during which time he even gave me records from Stax, Motown, Atlantic, and King and then he told me at one Friday night gig that he was leaving the air force and I was devastated. He had been the first real guitarist who actively nurtured my ability. He had turned me around and the advice he gave me formed the bedrock of the way I played from then on, the way I would write songs and, most of all, it ensured I would never do anything other than play the guitar for a living. He was a game-changer. He even joked that I would become famous one day because of his help. Well, what can I say? Thank you, Bobby. Wherever you may be.
I made a return to the Cream gig venue, but this time it was to be me on the stage. When the Clockwork Mousetrap played the Assembly Rooms in Aylesbury, I made sure that I stood as close to the spot where ‘God’ played and I went into my own zone. I still do that today at certain gigs – nothing really changes. On the stage in white paint in capital letters was a warning: ‘NO AMPLIFIERS IN FRONT OF THIS LINE’. I smiled to myself that night. I was sure that Clapton’s Marshall amps went well over that line.
About half an hour before the show Dougie had produced some grey, flared trousers and horrendous pink, polo-neck acrylic sweaters for each member of the band. I looked at him in disbelief and refused point-blank. The other members of the band began to get dressed and Dougie looked at me. What none of them understood was that I didn’t really care. If I wasn’t in that band I would surely be in another. I won the showdown, of course. What could he do? To fire me would mean cancelling the next few weeks’ gigs. My outfit stayed in its plastic bag although, with the others dutifully kitted out, the Clockwork Mousetrap looked like a very bad acid trip under the questionable stage lights. I would always have a problem with stage clothes. I have never really been interested in image, perhaps to my detriment but all I ever wanted was my next pair of Levi’s, a T-shirt or maybe a denim shirt and a leather Levi’s jacket. Rory Gallagher was always going to be my sartorial role model.
I was stonewalled by the band on the way home but the power of the lead guitarist had been established, and I used that little trick for some time, if not for long with the Clockwork Mousetrap. We parted company shortly after the ‘pink sweater affair’, but Dougie, Mac, Tony and, especially, Alan should be credited: they moved me forward a lot. I think they knew the time had come: I was on a totally different wavelength, with a whole new musical world emerging.
It was a guitar player from Seattle, America, who provided the real reason for me deciding to leave the band. I suspect Jimi Hendrix broke up many other bands as well. I saw the unknown guitarist on Top of the Pops performing ‘Hey Joe’. I had never seen anything like him – I suppose Presley accomplished the same thing for the previous generation. Jimi did outrageous things with the guitar, such as playing with his teeth. I was mesmerised – what a sound he created. No pink sweaters on this boy.
I knew I had to form a three-piece: guitar, bass and drums. Everyone I knew was reacting to the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Cream. I was getting tired of being ‘the kid’ and I wanted to be respected as a guitarist. This was a big dream for a 16-year-old from rural Buckingham. I formed the James Watt Compassion (I have no idea why I called it that), with Paul Sandman on bass and Charlie Hill on drums. We settled on tracks by the Bluesbreakers, Cream, and Hendrix, playing them exactly the same as the records – or so we thought. As the other two were both from Bletchley and none of us had a vehicle, we rehearsed over the phone, which was not great preparation for shows. We believed we were the business, but we were just about average, and it was the material that carried us through. We lasted less than six months but I knew it wasn’t working and the others agreed. At the final show Paul’s girlfriend chinned me for encouraging him to leave his previous band. Good girl.
The audience that night also included two members of the best young group in the area, the Hydra Bronx B Band from Brackley. They were there to offer me a new job, not knowing that I was just out of a band. Ian Dysyllas and Ray Knott said I could have the use of a Marshall 50 amp and speaker. A bribe, yes, and I took it with both hands. They even had their own rehearsal room at Ian’s house in nearby Turweston, packed with amps, guitars, microphones and a drum kit. They also had a coffee machine, which was all new to me.
They were more of a soul than a blues band and they did play some great stuff: ‘Hold On I’m Coming’ and ‘Soothe Me’ by Sam and Dave, ‘Sweet Soul Music’ by Arthur Conley and the brilliant ‘Soul Finger’ by Bar-Kays. The crowds loved their Motown.
Ian ‘Dizzy’ Dysyllas played drums and Ray Knott was on organ. Then there was Tom Kemp on bass, Ian Smart and Cyril Southam on saxophones and the dynamic Chris Adams on vocals. I replaced Graham Smart as guitarist. The band wondered if fans would still come out in force with the change but we won them over from the start. Ian and Ray could hardly stop smiling after the first show. We went back to Turweston and got pretty drunk on cheap Justina wine. For the first time I was playing the music I wanted to. The discipline in the band was very good for me, and Dizzy was organised in running rehearsals and making proper musical arrangements. It highlighted my rapidly improving playing.
The band slimmed down to Ray, Dizzy, Chris and me, playing proper rhythm and blues. There were more changes. I suggested to Ray, ‘Why don’t you play bass guitar? You are so rubbish on that organ.’ Tact has never been my strong point. We drove to London the following weekend and swapped the Vox organ for a vintage Fender Precision bass. Ray still plays bass today. Now going under the name the Skinny Cat Blues Band – I was a fan of Black Cat Bones with Paul Kossoff and Simon Kirke so I think that’s were the cat came in – we set about building on the Hydra Bronx crowd. I was really enjoying myself. The Daystroms had never had a musical direction, but Skinny Cat did.
I thrived on watching other talented people play. I always tried to emulate them even if I often failed. The Skinny Cat guys picked up on this almost immediately and I gained their respect. Guitarists who were years older than me started to come to Skinny Cat gigs, while we would open for other local bands and promptly steal all their fans. That is how it was in those days.
Banbury will always hold a place in my heart, as it was the first area away from home to adopt me, as a musician, openly taking to my talent. I had gone to a new blues club there and asked to play a song during the interval, as I thought I was better than the featured band’s guitarist. Unbelievably, they agreed and the player in question, Ron Prew, even had the decency to loan me his treasured Gretsch guitar. The promoter somewhat reluctantly introduced me, I sat on a stool with this alien guitar, and played Eric Clapton’s version of the Robert Johnson song ‘Rambling on My Mind’. The audience, players and fans alike, knew the track backwards. Most only dreamed of playing the solo, but I could – note for bluesy note. For good measure I threw in a couple of extra lead breaks of my own. I was rewarded with an edgy silence and so, wincing mentally, simply said, ‘Thank you for listening.’ The place erupted with applause. A few days later Skinny Cat was booked into the venue which more usually featured pro bands such as Chicken Shack, Jellybread, Duster Bennett, and the Aynsley Dunbar Retaliation. We were in good company.
We continued to play the venue with our following increasing all the time, although Chris Adams left the band as Ray, Ian, and myself were so tight. Yours truly became the singer, but then ‘Dizzy’ left to get married. The Skinny Cat line-up of eight was now down to bassist Ray Knott and me. Mick Bullard, the drummer with another local band, was given the job. He was used to learning songs from records but we were having none of that. Ray and I wanted to jam and find our own groove, to see where it would lead us. Mick agreed to join us even though we had no money coming in and he had to leave a band whose wages contributed toward his young family. The three of us cut the name down to just Skinny Cat to avoid being pigeonholed by the ‘Blues’ and in September 1969 I went into the studio, with the group, to record for the first time.
We booked a Saturday afternoon at Shield Studio in Kettering, at something like £5 an hour. It was a lot of money for us. The engineer, Derek Tompkins, was from another era – a total boffin with sound but about as musical as a candle. Roger Taylor, later of Queen, recorded his first band’s demos there as well.
I had my much-anticipated Fender Stratocaster by then. I acquired it in 1968 through a Melody Maker ad. It was a straight swap for a Grimshaw guitar. When I met the swapper and took my guitar out of the case, a pick-up dropped out and my heart fell out with it, but luckily the guy loved the guitar and while Ray Knott shook his head in disbelief I had a 1961 three-tone sunburst Fender Stratocaster. Dreams do come true if you wait. One of the best guitar deals I ever did.
I arrived at the recording session feeling a little panicked, having been writing rather average songs for about six months. I wasn’t ever that bothered about lyrics for my songs and tended to have a solid chorus with verses made up as I went along, which was difficult in the studio. I asked the others in the band to write lyrics, but they were not remotely interested.
Feeling insecure – maybe my songs were rubbish after all – I decided to record one of our stage favourites, ‘When You Say You’re Sorry’, by American band Rhinoceros, also recorded by Rod Stewart. The B-side was a very standard twelve-bar blues, along the lines of, ‘I left my baby this morning …’ you get the picture? A very rare 45-rpm disc indeed, I still have the one and only copy! The photos from this session are better than the record.
We returned to the studio about ten months later, now driving a brand-new white Ford Transit. These later sessions produced a much better tape of four original songs, and the band was tighter and eager to record. Mr Tompkins’s input was actually invaluable. The songs were a little better and this time I actually had written out lyrics beforehand. I heard the four-track acetate again in 2016. There is a diabolical version of ‘We Can Work it Out’ by the Beatles that I had erased from my memory. Nonetheless, I remember our local fans all loved the demos.
I took the tape to London visiting agencies and record companies. At Blue Horizon Records I saw Fleetwood Mac producer Mike Vernon. I was excited to be so close to Peter Green. Mike said he liked my voice and that the guitar was very good and, credit to him, he did come to see us live: many wouldn’t have done so. He wrote that he had enjoyed the playing but the material was ‘not strong enough’. I still have the letter somewhere. Not strong at all, Mike, you were very kind!
I had no luck anywhere else. I went to the label run by Dick James, the Beatles publisher, in New Oxford Street. I had been waiting in reception all morning when I recognised Elton John coming in. He was dressed in denim with fabric badges sewed all over his jacket and jeans. He looked pretty flamboyant, even at that early stage in his career! He had a great record out at the time called ‘Lady Samantha’. He seemed pleasantly surprised that I recognised him and asked if I’d like to join him for a coffee – probably the first real cup I ever had. He was a very nice guy and with a grin insisted he paid for the coffee, as he’d get the money back from expenses. We returned to the office and there was still no sign of the man I wanted to see. I had other appointments and Elton John said he would get the tape copied and leave it for my contact. What a lovely gesture and although I never heard from the label about the Skinny Cat tape, I’m not surprised, thinking back. The songs were not exactly John and Taupin. I had missed my chance – it could have been Bernie Marsden, not Bernie Taupin! Dream on, BM.
The main feedback I got from my visits was to concentrate on the guitar – meaning forget my band. It was the right thing. The truth was I was trying to run uphill all the time. Skinny Cat were a great live band, but the material was nowhere near good enough. As much as I wished we could go as a group, I knew that I would have to make the move to London on my own and I began to look for audition adverts in the music press. Mick Bullard had small kids to bring up, and Ray was always meant to take over the family car business in Brackley. For the time being, I continued to enjoy myself with Skinny Cat. We remained semi-pro, determined to be the best in our field, and that we were. I have some great live recordings with a fantastic level of energy.
We all particularly enjoyed the summer ball gigs organised by our management for the colleges in Oxford. We called them ‘penguin balls’ as we’d never seen people dress up in white ties and tails. We opened for bands such as Trapeze, Osibisa, and Dada, featuring wonderful singers Elkie Brooks and Robert Palmer. They evolved into Vinegar Joe and we opened for them many times. I talked to Robert Palmer a lot – he was so cool in those days but always very approachable and chatty. We lost him too soon in 2003, but he left us some fantastic music. Elkie Brooks was simply stunning. The first time I watched her perform I was completely mesmerised by her outrageous clothes, cowboy boots, stage manner and incredible voice. She sang like a dream and there was the bonus of the pairing of her voice with Robert Palmer.
Vinegar Joe guitarist Pete Gage took me under his wing. He played a Gold Top Les Paul, wore a cowboy hat, and was married to Elkie Brooks – I was green with envy. I later had the extreme pleasure of playing guitar for Elkie. I received a phone call from her asking me to cover for Geoff Whitehorn for a few gigs in 2005 and, well, a few gigs turned into about six months. After all those years I spent worshipping her and her voice as a young man, she was now singing better than ever and with me playing guitar by her side.
5.
To the City (#litres_trial_promo)
Alan Upward was one of Skinny Cat’s roadies and he lived in Oxford. He was quite a character. It was Alan who introduced me to a commune near Buckingham at the end of 1969.
Some people he knew had moved into Chetwode Manor, a very large rambling mansion, close to dereliction, but the crazy thing was that the electricity and water were still available. A group of Oxford hippies had discovered it, and Alan knew them well. I became a weekend hippie, the band rehearsed and played there, and it was fun. I wanted Skinny Cat to move in. Ray said that he had to go to work, but I did move in as I was between jobs (I still took washing home for my mum to do).
One evening a girlfriend of one of the other guys who lived there returned from work at an Oxford teaching hospital and passed around some pills. I have never been much of a drug-taker. I’ve never smoked cigarettes or indulged with weed very much. I was a little sceptical but I swallowed one of the pills. I had watched the others’ reactions on a previous weekend and they seemed to be fine. I waited for about two hours. Alan had also dropped a tab and we both looked at each other and shrugged. Nothing was happening.
When somebody else said they were going into Buckingham Alan and I jumped in the Land Rover. That’s when things started to happen in my head, things that I didn’t really understand, and our driver gave us very strange looks as we arrived in the town centre. Cars floated around me in a stream – no longer a street. We tried to walk towards the market but the sand was too deep, and we didn’t mind. I tried to talk to Alan but my voice was a loud gun going off in my head. We reached the market, and a group of people came to talk to me. Alan pleaded with me to be cool. Cool? What was that? We were close to a pub and people were asking me about Skinny Cat. Their speech slowed down until their mutterings became one extremely long word.
What on earth was wrong with them? I thought.
The sand shifted beneath my feet.
I looked up and everyone had the head of a fluorescent, brightly coloured animal: a rabbit, a cat, a dog, another rabbit, a cascade of colour and noise. They were all speaking, all shouting, all at once. I was terrified. I stood in that wet sand while everybody else went absolutely mad. I knew I was the sane one. Frantically, we tried to get back to the Land Rover, and one of the locals grabbed my arm and asked if I was OK, with genuine concern. Me? I was obviously fine. He had the problems.
I never took LSD again.
Skinny Cat opened for Fleetwood Mac, thanks to a booker we had met at the Oxford Polytechnic. I’m sure this is a fact very few people know. The gig was in Headington in Oxford. Although there was no Peter Green, I did talk with Danny Kirwan and John McVie. Mick Fleetwood was around but I didn’t get a chance to speak to him. Kirwan played brilliant guitar on his black, three pick-up Les Paul Custom – the very guitar he would smash to pieces before leaving Fleetwood Mac only a year later. I took some old photos with me that night. They were from an early Fleetwood Mac gig in Windsor. John McVie looked at them with great fondness, especially the two single shots of Peter Green. I remember his face and exactly what he said: ‘It’ll never be like that again.’
I didn’t really take his words in at the time, but I do now. He was reflecting upon the loss of Peter Green in the band and couldn’t imagine they’d ever be the mammoth success they became and still are today without him. I will always remember John’s face as he looked at those old photographs. At the time, mainly because Peter Green wasn’t there with Mac, I didn’t really realise the momentous thing it was for Skinny Cat to open for them. I hugely respected the others in the band, but Peter Green was my idol. It’s only really writing this all down now makes me realise how big a deal it was to open for the one and only Fleetwood Mac, with Peter Green or without.
Towards the end of that year, 1970, Skinny Cat gigged all the major venues in London, including the Temple at the Flamingo Club, the Marquee with Audience, the Acid Palace in Uxbridge with Blonde on Blonde, the 1860 Club in Windsor with Argent and Eel Pie Island with Hawkwind and Stray.
In October we opened for the brilliant Irish guitarist Gary Moore with his first band Skid Row at the Haverstock Hill Country Club, near Hampstead. Skid Row were sound-checking when we walked in. Within seconds, my mouth was wide open, not only because of the utterly astonishing guitar playing of Gary, but the sheer power of the band: Brush Shiels on bass and Noel Bridgeman on drums. The frenetic style of the music and the sheer speed at which they could play really brought home the differences between the pros and semi-pros. Gary had a woollen bobble hat, drainpipe jeans, a tank top, and the trace of a beard. He played a red Les Paul with P90 pickups. He was sitting on the drum stool, playing ‘Rambling on my Mind’ on guitar, bass drum and hi-hat – a one-man band. This was the very same song I had played back in Banbury; needless to say I didn’t play it that night!
Gary and I got along very well. He admired my newly acquired Gibson SG Les Paul, the same guitar I loaned him many years later. We were almost the same age, but I could see how much I needed to improve. Gary Moore at that time would have been a real eye-opener for any guitar player. I liked him best when he played slower and bluesier things. He soon became a treasured friend, and he played at my wedding in 1980.
The venue had one poky little dressing room but Skid Row insisted we share it. I took note of their attitude. DJ Bob Harris introduced the bands that night and we are friends to this day. He is an extremely well-read person in music, and his knowledge of country is fantastic. He still remembers those brilliant days at the Country Club.
We also opened in London for performance art collective Principal Edwards Magic Theatre and prog band Van Der Graaf Generator, who were both more than snobby backstage. Slade, by contrast, had that whole skinhead thing, and really did look very intimidating. They were actually quite scary with their very loud Midland accents. They put on quite the most foul-mouthed act I had ever witnessed. I was quite disgusted, even at 19. But any negative first impressions dissolved after we chatted and found they were actually really decent blokes. Noddy Holder told me that all the effing and blinding was part of the show and the crowd loved them.
Seeing the different sides of genuine people in bands as I did with Skid Row and Slade made me think about my future. It had dawned on me that the music business was a very broad church and could accommodate both Gary Moore’s obvious genius and the basic honesty of Dave Hill’s guitar playing. It was a real eye-opener for me, as were some of the dirty tricks played by headliners to make their support acts look bad.
One of these was Stray, who had a record deal. We were pleased to be on the bill with them. We thought we would be able to use the in-house PA system, but Stray didn’t allow it. We had to bring in our little Marshall PA system, and then Stray’s road manager didn’t like the space it was taking up on the stage. It was an unpleasant feeling to be treated so shabbily, and I made a mental note to myself that if I were ever in that position, I would know how to act. We played the gig and went down fairly well, but I never forgot their antics.
As Lowell George sang with Little Feat’s ‘On Your Way Down’, you might meet again with those you misused on your way up. That was true for Stray, I’m afraid. They never really made it, and what went around did indeed come around. Just a few years after that night in London with Skinny Cat, Stray were the opening act for the chart-topping Cozy Powell’s Hammer in the splendid Blackpool Opera House. It was 1974, and I was the guitarist in Hammer.
There were problems fitting Stray’s gear on the stage because Cozy’s kit was very large, and Hammer had a lot of backline. Was this time for my revenge? No, because I didn’t want to stoop to Stray’s level, but I was quietly pleased when our drum tech got in a heated discussion with Stray drummer Richie Cole. He looked at me sheepishly. He knew who I was and he knew we had met before but couldn’t quite remember where. I asked the tech to move Cozy’s legendary red Ludwig kit so the Stray lads could get their stuff on for their gig. Those Stray boys taught me that the stage belongs to all musicians.
Skinny Cat were not going to make it either, that much was clear. We continued to gig, but for me the goal remained getting myself a pro gig and moving to the city. While I enjoyed playing in such a strong regional band, I was also on the lookout for promising auditions. There was a newspaper kiosk at the end of Charing Cross Road and Tottenham Court Road in London that had the first London issues of Melody Maker by Wednesday lunchtime. Musicians gathered to see the ‘wanted’ ads a day before the rest of the country. The ads would promise a record deal and would give a number. You rang, and rang, and rang, and then finally got through to someone on the other end of the phone who gave you a day the following week to go to a rehearsal studio somewhere in London. You’d turn up, usually not having a bloody clue what band you were auditioning for.
But I did spot a Melody Maker ad for the Bluesbreakers, still the gig of gigs for any aspiring or established pro player. I called Miller Anderson, the guitarist of the Keef Hartley band, who helped me out after Skinny Cat had opened for the band; a good guy. Miller knew Mick Taylor who, it was rumoured, was leaving the Bluesbreakers. I was confident enough to think I might audition. It sounds a little crazy with hindsight but it shows you just how confident I must have been. Miller called Mick Taylor to see if I could skip some of the audition scenario. There would have been scores of guitarists looking for this gig with John Mayall. Miller arranged for me to meet Mick in London and also asked him to put in a word for me with John Mayall himself. Thinking about it, it made total sense. Mick Taylor had only been 17 when he joined the Mayall band himself and he would understand.
Mick lived in a flat in Porchester Road, Paddington. I rang the bell feeling nervous: Mick was a huge name, alongside Eric Clapton and Peter Green, but he was a quiet, studious kind of person and made me feel at ease, although I couldn’t help but wonder to myself where his guitars were stored in the flat. We had a conversation over coffee, and he soon enough shared some devastating information. While Mayall’s management had run the ad in Melody Maker, John had decided he wouldn’t be taking on another electric guitarist. I think Mick felt a little awkward, but I was not at all put out. I was thankful for information that had, after all, come from John Mayall himself.
I headed home, admittedly feeling a little deflated. Mick was not much older, but he had so much more experience and was already a tremendous blues guitar player. Of course, he also knew at the time that he would be joining the Rolling Stones in the near future. He didn’t tell me then, but when the news was announced I was excited – I knew a Rolling Stone! The holy trinity of Clapton, Green and Taylor – was it ever better than that? What a time to be playing the guitar.
I finally got to play on stage with Mick Taylor in October 2016 at a Jack Bruce memorial gig in Shepherd’s Bush. We stayed at the same hotel and I told him about the time we first met. He didn’t remember any of it, why should he? I had been the kid from nowhere back then. At last we finally got to perform together and he played some truly beautiful stuff. It may take years but music always brings you together.
Another disappointment followed my first encounter with Mick Taylor. This time it was with Alan Clarke of the Hollies. He drank in the same Hampstead pub as my dear uncle, Ken Gotts, and said that he was putting a band together. He had left the Hollies, and Ken duly mentioned his talented nephew. There was a lot of excitement at home when Ken called my mum to say he had arranged an audition. Dad drove me to Watford and gave me the money for the train. At the hall near Belsize Park I waited in the hallway for my call, my guitar case clutched tightly, excitement and nerves building. Alan shook my hand as I introduced myself as Ken’s nephew. Then, disaster. The sight of my guitar emerging from the case was met with awkward coughing from the others.
Alan was auditioning for a bass player.
I didn’t blame my uncle Ken. Not only was he always a bit deaf, but he probably wouldn’t have realised there was any difference in putting the ‘bass’ before guitarist. I made my apologies for wasting their time and got ready to go. Alan Clarke told me not to worry. He passed me a bass and I had my audition after all. How nice was that? I hung out with him and the band for the day, making tea and coffee. Alan gave me a huge injection of confidence when he told me I could go all the way with the guitar, and I thank him for that.
I had another non-starter, at least first time around in April 1972, with UFO, a band who didn’t mean that much to audiences in the UK. I had never heard of them before I auditioned but they had enjoyed success in Japan and Europe. They were certainly a bigger band than Skinny Cat. A hippy girl with pink hair answered the door at what I thought was the audition. ‘Name?’ she said. No greeting. ‘Wait here.’ A few lads, presumably guitarists, were waiting in a small room. There were guitar cases everywhere. The pink-haired girl ushered me into a small office to meet manager Mark Hanau, who was in a yoga pose, wearing a thin woollen sweater, and sporting cropped, spiky hair and a good layer of makeup. He looked at me without saying a word. I was almost 21, had long, thick, curly hair and was wearing a denim shirt, jeans, and desert boots. I wasn’t exactly Ziggy Stardust. ‘Bernie Marsden?’ he said, looking at his list, not me. I just wanted to know where I should set up and play.
Calling me ‘my dear’ a good few times, Mark said that UFO was his vision and I would by no means fit that vision. I could be the best guitarist in the world, but I had turned up to an interview rather than an audition. I was straight out. What a twat. I thought that was the end of that.
Late in the autumn a green envelope arrived emblazoned with the logo of a fairly new company, Chrysalis Records. Wilf Wright was UFO’s new manager and he was inviting me to an audition – yes, a proper audition, in a rehearsal room, with a Marshall rig. I was working at that time for a Buckingham builder, and took the day off work. It was a case of second time lucky. I got the gig. Time to be a rock star.
Skinny Cat had built up a very good following but I knew the band would never scale the heights. Mick Bullard and Ray Knott were very supportive and said they had known I would be gone at some point. I only have fond memories of my Skinny Cat days. My folks were pleased for me but, understandably, a little apprehensive. They had read about bands and musicians in the press: womanising, hard drinking, drugs, overdosing. I did my best to reassure them that I would be OK.
My girlfriend, Frances Plummer, was a fashion buyer at Harrods and we got a tiny bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush. This was it – the life in London that I had dreamt of and that we were now living together. We didn’t earn much, but we got into a wonderful London routine: jumping on buses, hailing black taxi cabs, taking the tube, exploring markets with spicy foods and foreign ingredients, and visiting Greek, Chinese and Indian restaurants. Fran’s career advanced rapidly and I would go away a hell of a lot on tour but she understood. She knew that me being a pro guitarist wouldn’t be easy but she too had her work. I was extremely lucky to have her by my side.
I soon realised that, by coincidence, the guitarist from Hawkwind lived on the top floor of our house while Mott the Hoople guitarist Mick Ralphs and his wife Nina rented the large basement flat. Mott were veterans of multiple US tours, despite Mick being a notoriously bad flyer. I watched the tour manager and band members carry him from the flat to the car for the airport on many occasions, full of sleeping tablets for anxiety.
It was while we were having one of our regular tea breaks in their flat, Mick fiddling with a newly acquired Gibson 335, that he passed me a cassette to play. A fan of Mott had sent the band a demo of a song he had written. It was called ‘All the Young Dudes’ and the fan was David Bowie. Mick really rated the song and thought it would be Mott’s last shot at the real big time. It was, indeed, the breakthrough at last, followed by ‘All the Way from Memphis’ and ‘Honaloochie Boogie’. I was lucky to get to hear these as rough mixes. Suddenly Mott was a hit. Fran and I watched Mick on Top of the Pops on our new tiny colour TV in the bedsit. I felt happy for my neighbour, it was a massive deal and a dream of mine. I thought one day maybe it could happen for me.
The UFO manager, Hull-born Wilf Wright, was good to me from day one. He may have felt a little sorry for me, because he knew there was a slight tension from the off between the rest of the UFO boys (Phil Mogg, Andy Parker, and Pete Way) and me. Partly this was because the others were all from north London, and I was the lone country boy. They let me hire one roadie and so I was always grateful to have Chelsea Dunn from Skinny Cat with me. It really did help in those early days to have him around: he was my only ally. The band only ever seemed to play one-chord boogies; there was nothing particularly challenging about the music. Still, it was good to be playing in a headlining act – I was now in the first division.
My first pro gig was at the Marquee Club on 3 November 1972. Other bill-topping acts that week were Chicken Shack, Patto, Beggar’s Opera, Stackridge, and Nazareth – even Screaming Lord Sutch. Fans were queuing to get in along the street and past the Ship – this was the Wardour Street pub to be seen in, if you were a musician. Once I used to be in those lines myself and now others were waiting to see UFO.
I injected a few bluesy things into the setlist, ‘Move Over’ by Janis Joplin and ‘Back In The USA’ by Chuck Berry, but that was the extent of my musical input at this early time. Andy Parker was a powerful and very loud player, although he could not play a straight drum roll. Pete Way, in my opinion, wasn’t the most naturally gifted bass player I’d ever worked with. He wasn’t that fussed about technique or sound, and rarely locked in with Andy – which is vital for drums and bass: the rhythm section always needs to be together. He was always more concerned with his stage clothes than his playing.
A pattern emerged very quickly. Phil Mogg had a tendency to ‘Baby, baby’ after almost every line he sung and it irritated me intensely. The first line of ‘Move Over’ is, ‘You know that it’s over, baby’, and even that was followed by ‘Baby, baby’. I found myself stifling an irritated grin every night. Phil and I were on a collision course from day one, really. He never passed up the chance to exert his position as number one, not that I ever wanted it, but I did ask more questions about running a band in that first month than Andy or Pete ever had. I wanted to learn about this business of being pro, and fast.
I soon gathered a following, much to Phil’s acute annoyance: we played about five shows a week and I received £15, increasing to £20 when we were in Europe. Doing a gig almost every day of the week undoubtedly hardened my character. I was becoming very resilient. It wasn’t long before I realised the job was much more than playing the guitar.
My first trip abroad – my first-ever flight – was on a Lufthansa plane to Frankfurt, Germany. We played the Zoom club, the Frankfurt equivalent of London’s Marquee. I was amazed when the audience really took to me. Everything made sense that night – my decision to join had been vindicated. Here was a whole new audience for me to conquer: goodbye north Bucks, hello northern Europe. I never underestimated all the hard work UFO had done in Germany, which helped me to build my own name. We were headlining for audiences of up to a thousand a night and thousands more at festivals. It was a far cry from the couple of hundred fans I might have seen before. I appreciated that, still do today.
We got to play alongside If, with Geoff Whitehorn on guitar, a great player; the Scorpions, Klaus Doldinger, Hackensack, Supertramp, Climax Chicago, Can, and Atlantis. It was wonderful to meet so many great musicians from different countries. I did a lot of reminiscing about Skinny Cat – it seemed a very long time ago, particularly when I was experiencing avant-garde bands such as Can. I liked their guitarist, Michael Karoli, as a person and, as a musician, well, I thought he was a quiet genius. He was the David Gilmour of Germany, playing a white Stratocaster and using an Echoplex tape-echo machine with loads of distortion pedals. Everything I never had. I’d watch him as he stood right in the middle of the stage for about fifteen minutes just playing a single chord with effects pouring from his army of pedals. I was totally fascinated by his approach. I had never been exposed to music like theirs. I realised that being a pro guitarist was a long-distance race rather than a sprint.
The other UFO boys were totally incredulous. Phil Mogg thought it was demeaning for the headliners to watch the support. Sod that! I watched everybody I could. Posters began to appear in Germany that promised, ‘UFO featuring Bernie Marsden’. I’m quite confident it would be a good thing for most people, but not UFO. Phil Mogg ended up screaming at the promoter. I just couldn’t understand what the problem was – wasn’t I in UFO? The others resented my growing fan club and I couldn’t help but wonder if the same thing had happened to my predecessors Mick Bolton and Larry Wallis. Sometimes I had to fight back both verbally and physically. Chelsea had to pull Mogg and me apart. We laughed it off, but there was an undeniably negative vibe.
The beginning of the end of my relationship with UFO was a double-headliner with Supertramp at the London College of Printing in 1973. UFO opened and Supertramp guitarist and writer Roger Hodgson watched in the wings. I didn’t have a guitar tech and when one of my guitar strings broke I quickly put down my Firebird and switched to my spare Les Paul Junior. I felt something hit me in the side of my face. The lights were in my eyes and I presumed somebody had thrown something, until I saw Pete Way laughing. My suspicions were aroused.
Mogg looked at me with a grin on his face, ‘Try to be more professional, country boy.’ He had indeed just slapped me on the face onstage. I lost it, big time.
I flew across the stage as Phil caressed his mic stand and hit him squarely across the back with the very solid 1956 Gibson Les Paul Junior. He staggered forward still holding the microphone stand and managed to carry on singing.
Cue pandemonium.
Phil charged with the mic stand swinging in my direction. I parried with the guitar, Pete Way soon joined in, and Chelsea came on stage, trying to break it all up. Drummer Andy Parker just kept playing, blissfully unaware that anything unusual was happening. The crowd thought it was part of the show.
Roger Hodgson was still in the wings, open-mouthed. He later asked if that was a regular occurrence. I said it wasn’t usually so violent.
I saw Supertramp a lot in those early days. They were a very good live band and all really nice people – unlike UFO. I began to get familiar with some of the new songs Supertramp were playing, most of them not yet recorded. I liked them a lot. I heard ‘Dreamer’ and ‘Bloody Well Right’ in very early versions. The entire world now knows those songs and I feel lucky to have heard them in development. They released Crime of the Century in 1974 and became a worldwide success, selling millions. I smile every time I hear the harmonica intro of ‘Crime’ on the radio or ‘Dreamer’. I always feel a connection with Supertramp. Good days.
As for UFO, Wilf Wright had practically vanished and this was a major factor in what was a looming break-up. It was a shame: I had enjoyed recording demos at Rockfield Studios in Monmouth with Dave Edmunds. He was a kindred spirit, a fellow blues-orientated guitarist. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the others instantly hated him because he was a), Welsh and b) very famous. Some of the basic tracks later appeared on Phenomenon: ‘Rock and Roll Car’, ‘16’, ‘Oh My’ (songs that I had written with Skinny Cat) and an early working of ‘Doctor Doctor’.
I got to meet the Schenker brothers, the guitarists in the Scorpions, through gigging with UFO, and I was immediately impressed with Michael’s playing. I thought he was everything UFO could do with. I told Phil to check him out. He, of course, refused. Back in England, band relations worsened and I soon realised I wasn’t happy at all. My dream of turning pro wasn’t quite living up to my high expectations. I hadn’t imagined I would be considering quitting my first pro gig, but I was dreading my shows.
I called Wilf and told him I couldn’t face another tour in Europe. I don’t think he knew how serious I was. The guys left the UK and I didn’t follow. For years the official story was that I missed the ferry because I lost my passport, which was utter rubbish. I didn’t want to go and it was the only time in my entire career that I have missed gigs. Michael Schenker took over on guitar while Wilf and Chelsea persuaded me, rightly, to finish off the tour. I eventually arrived to find I was not the most popular person in the dressing room. I was petulant, unprofessional and ego-ridden, but I had been the odd one out for too long.
Those final gigs were filled with tension, which only eased towards the very end. We made a deal – an extremely strange deal. We just didn’t like each other and so I denied ever having been in UFO and they denied that I had been in UFO with them, despite the fact thousands of fans had seen me playing with them on stage between November 1972 and July the following year. This crazy ‘secret’ lasted until the Whitesnake days.
I knew that Michael would be approached to have the gig on a permanent basis, which was exactly what I had suggested without any response a few weeks before. In no time Michael became a bona-fide guitar hero, and that still makes me proud. The moment I saw him, I knew he was bloody good and he only got better and better over time.
I now realise that those gigs with UFO across Europe made me the musician I am today. I still think the music I inherited from the former guitar players was crap and that UFO improved in leaps and bounds with Michael Schenker. But the experience for me on a personal level was invaluable. I took the baton with both hands and I’m still running with it today. Phil, Andy, and Pete, I wish you well.
6.
Dance on the Water (#litres_trial_promo)
I met Gary Pickford-Hopkins, the excellent lead singer with Wild Turkey, in Berlin, when I was still with UFO. Doug D’Arcy of Chrysalis managed the band which had been formed by bassist Glenn Cornick after he left Jethro Tull.
Gary told me that their guitarist, Tweke Lewis, was leaving to join Man and to speak to Glenn. Where could I find him? Gary pointed up to the sky. Glenn was in a lighting tower 40 ft above us. I climbed up to make a pitch for the job.
‘Yes, that all seems fine. I’ll see you next week, old chap, rehearsals in Richmond, ask Gazzy for details.’ And that was it. I was the new guitarist in Wild Turkey.
The band played bluesy, hard, melodic rock, and their songs had clever chord progressions. They had a strong UK and European following and were growing in the USA, mainly because of Jethro Tull. It’s hard to put it into words but I felt that I belonged in Wild Turkey, a feeling I never had with UFO. The music was so much more to my own taste, and working with Mick Dyche on guitar was a joy. It was the first time I’d worked professionally with another guitarist which, on reflection, totally prepared me for Whitesnake.
The guys in Wild Turkey were all very good players and interested in their own musical development. Glenn Cornick had been a big influence on Jethro Tull’s music – listen to the bass parts of ‘Living in the Past’ and you’ll see why. Wild Turkey had recorded two albums for Chrysalis Records by the time I joined and I was thrust into heavy touring.
We went off with two roadies, a three-ton truck, and six musicians on the payroll. We covered some ground, that’s for sure. At the 76 Club in Burton Upon Trent, the dressing room was in the next-door chip shop and we had to get changed for the gig in the window that looked out onto the high street. Nobody cared, it was part of it all and the gigs were always a joy to play. Chrysalis had us out almost seven nights a week. The gigs were endless, usually followed by a curry or fish and chips in the car on the way back to London. We saved money by staying out of hotels when possible.
This was the turbulent time of the three-day week: power cuts, strikes and heavy petrol restrictions had been imposed on British industry to conserve power supplies due to the miners’ strike. Oil had quadrupled in price, there were new speed limits to curb fuel use, and petrol was rationed to £5 per person. This was awful for everyone, but it was hopeless for bands. We had a very thirsty Chevy and would plead with the petrol station owners in hope they’d let each of the six of us have a fiver’s worth. Thirty pounds of gas was a lot in 1974. The queues were huge, but we never missed a gig.
When we did stay overnight it was usually in some of the worst places you can imagine. There were damp beds and walls and landladies literally pulled us out of bed at 7.30 a.m. in the morning for some breakfast (a dirty mug with a hint of tea). But staying in anything better, such as a proper hotel, was still a bit of a thrill for me – waking up in a strange room as a pro guitarist was a good feeling. We encountered some magnificently busted ladies in their forties and fifties who’d create the biggest breakfast on Earth as they told us how Arthur Askey, Norman Wisdom or the Troggs had stayed with them. They were rough and ready, but they were very motherly towards us wretched-looking lads.
Glenn Cornick would fire up the Chevy each day and he never stopped mid-trip unless we absolutely begged. He once drove from London to Madrid only stopping for petrol. His taste in clothes is also worth mentioning. Glenn used to go to fabric shops to find material for suits that would depict the tales of Robin Hood, the Lone Ranger, or the Battle of Britain. He also had magnificent thick, black hair down to his waist with a matching headband, a Zapata moustache, and red cowboy boots. You get the picture.
The rest of the band were talented guys – apart from Mick Dyche there was Steve Gurl on piano, Gary Pickford with vocals, and Jeff Jones on drums, who lived for his brilliant solos. I felt encouraged to write. All this was new territory, and I loved it.
Chrysalis booked a double headline gig in Germany with UFO, which I knew was bound to be interesting. Chelsea told me that Phil Mogg was determined that UFO would blow Wild Turkey off the stage and had even specially rehearsed John Lennon’s ‘Cold Turkey’. As it turned out, the only thing UFO blew away that night was their reputation. We went on first and Glenn played a fantastic bass solo while Gary sang his heart out. It was one of those special nights. I was astonished by how much I enjoyed being with this band.
Phil Mogg tried every trick he knew to upstage Wild Turkey and it all failed. Michael Schenker grinned at me from the stage as I watched from the side. He came up laughing afterwards to say Mogg was going completely crazy in their dressing room.
We had a friendlier experience with Yes, who asked Wild Turkey to open for a short tour of Germany in April – a truly mystifying package, but it worked. I had garnered a good following in Germany and Glenn Cornick was very pleased to hear the roar when Gary announced my name. After a gig near Stuttgart we ended up in a very crowded steam room in a Holiday Inn. Steve Gurl, Yes bass player Chris Squire and members of the Turkey and Yes crew were drinking beers with a host of very pretty and naked German female fans. It was all pretty innocent really, the men wearing small towels.
Gary Pickford arrived in a pretty drunken state, his customary plastic bag of fresh fruit and nuts to hand. He would always have an apple and then light up a Marlboro. ‘These things won’t hurt ya,’ he’d say. When he lit up in the sauna there was uproar. The girls ran out coughing and spluttering and jumped into the swimming pool. Gazzy looked very confused, Chris Squire was very amused and a watching Rick Wakeman cracked up.
Rick was very down-to-earth and hung out with the support band although he was a big star. I can confirm the legend that he really did order and eat curries during the gigs – washed down with a nice bottle of wine. His band were always pleasant and I realise that I was fortunate to be on the road with them.
Wild Turkey found life in General Franco’s Spain was a lot less easy-going. Driving from Zaragoza to Madrid we were unknowingly trailed by police and the military. The dictatorship viewed us as the worst kind of influence on the youth of Spain. I didn’t know the history then but the very fact that a British rock band was on tour in the country still amazes me.
As usual, Glen didn’t want to stop but it got so hot that we had to beg. We pulled into a roadside taverna and six of us piled out, dodgy-looking and long-haired. Mid-drink, soldiers appeared, shouting at us in Spanish. A younger soldier explained in English that we could be in trouble for drinking on the roadside. We were sobering up fast until a local policeman saw Glenn and shouted, ‘Living in the past!’ A Spanish dictatorship Jethro Tull fan. We were free to go and were given a high-speed escort. To this day whenever I gig in Spain, someone will talk about that Wild Turkey ’74 tour. I always enjoy that.
The band split on our return. We had no management and Chrysalis had not signed a new album. Endless gigs were the future and none of us wanted that. With them, I’d had my first sessions at BBC radio, Maida Vale and we had been the last touring band to play the original Cavern Club in Liverpool. I still remember the smell – old beer, body odour, cigarettes and Dettol. It sounds disgusting, but it was fabulous. Gary Pickford and Glenn Cornick passed away in 2013 and 2014. They were both wonderfully talented and good-natured individuals. Both very much respected and missed.
