THE TRUE STORY OF CLOUDS - THE GREATEST BAND YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF

THE TRUE STORY OF CLOUDS

THE GREATEST BAND YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF

By

Will

Dedicated to the unsung heroes

ARCHIE COLQUHOUN

PAUL HUGHES

IAN ‘PEPE’ BIRCH

Scarlet notes

That chime on the sea

To dance their dance

And die

From Days of Dancing

By

Clouds

Introduction

’The Playroom is still now,

For time grows tired of toys,

But in the drowning night

I see him stumbling on the dark stairs

With no-one to lead him to the light.’

It was back then, in those same days, when Billy wrote those words. It was supposed to be biographical details for the Record Company, favourite colour, hobbies, things like that. Looking at the words now, I can’t help but smile. We all thought he was crazy at the time. Nobody expected him to come out with that stuff, but we should have known, it was typical Billy. He was an awkward customer, always thumbing his nose, anything to be contrary, he couldn’t help himself. Maybe he wasn’t a genius as some claimed, but he sure had some kind of madness in him all right.

I suppose that all the band - Billy, Ian Harry - had something like that. Even Archie, their self-titled Personal Manager was something to behold, certainly not your run-of-the-mill kind of person. Though they all seemed ordinary at first sight, once you got to know them you realised there was maybe just a twist of something in their makeup, something that made them different. Looking back, I don’t even think they were a great band. They were highly original, and at their best, they were unbeatable live, but they were also inconsistent and had no idea of image or the recording business. Nevertheless, they were something special as people. OK, I admit I’m biased, but as far as I’m concerned, with all their flaws, they were the most interesting human beings I’ve ever encountered on this planet in this lifetime. Me? I’m Paul, but that’s not important. I followed their journey all the way, and though for a while I was their general dogsbody and Road Manager rolled into one, I don’t have any real part in the story. I was just lucky enough to be there and see the whole thing from the side-lines.

Is it fact or fiction? Now, all these years later, scratching my head in the morning I sometimes wonder myself. To me though, it’s like something I once dreamed of, but that doesn’t make it hurt any the less.

1

Take a look in my Scrapbook and see

See my life as it used to be

From Scrapbook

By

Clouds

They turned up at my door in the summer of ’65, just kids really, all wide-eyed and innocent, heads full of dreams. I was only a boy myself then, but at the time I felt wise and experienced, being a few years older. Although we were all from the same part of the Country, born under a cold Northern sky, we had never met before that day. Through a mutual friend, I had vaguely heard of the band - their band, the one which they hoped would ‘make it’, and in their minds, the only place to make it was London. So they ended up on my doorstep, simply because I was the only person they knew of who actually lived in the City of dreams.

There were five of them in those days, six if you counted Archie, their self-styled ‘personal manager’ who couldn’t play an instrument but had plenty of mouth to make up for it. They shuffled down the hall, obviously feeling uneasy, but trying not to show it as best they could. Eventually when they had settled down, they sprawled around the room, making themselves at home, drinking coffee, as I took a harder look at them.

The chubby one - Harry - seemed the most self-assured of the bunch, though he hadn’t too much to say for himself. He had a look of patient resignation on his face, as if he was ready for whatever life might throw, including me and my air of experience. Ian - the other one who stood out somehow - was anxiously making frantic over-friendly conversation while his black eyes fixed me like a rattler’s. He did look like a pop star, albeit a down-market version, with his fake leather waistcoat and coloured ‘Granddad’ T-shirt, and he was handsome then, as a young man. With his Cherokee cheekbones, straight dark hair, and beaming smile, he looked a lot like ‘Chip’ Hawkes, the bass player from The Tremolos, a popular pin-up of those times.

Harry wasn’t much to look at in pin-up terms, more of a chubby choirboy perhaps, but he had an air of dignity and quiet reserve unusual in such a young man. His fair hair was largely hidden beneath a silly hat, which seemed the opposite of his personality.

Unlike these two, the other musicians – Shammy, Derek, and Lawrence - seemed modest unassuming human beings, and at first I wondered how they could be so readily carried along on this ride by the wild rhetoric swirling around them, but as the days went on, I soon realised that I too was being drawn in by Ian, Harry, and most of all Archie’s infectious enthusiasm, it sounded a lot more exciting than my dull life, and I found myself becoming interested in them, their hopes, their ambitions.

Despite being a non-musician, Archie was in many ways the most interesting of the bunch. The subsequent years have seen him all but written out of the Clouds story, but if anyone in the circle of the band was a genuine genius, it was definitely Archie. He had an instinctive and brilliant grasp of words, with a devastating turn of phrase that could kill at a thousand paces, and he wasn’t shy or slow about using it. Everyone in the room including myself felt the rough edge of his tongue, but he was also very very funny, even though the humour was always somehow black and vicious. He was a weedy insignificant little man, but you underestimated him at your peril, as many would find out during the travelling of these pages.

And of course, he was wildly enthusiastic about the band - The Premiers was their name, and according to Archie they were “the best semi-pro outfit in the Country (so he repeatedly said - if repetition created reality, they would have ‘made it’ there and then). He also trumpeted loudly about Cyril Stapleton, the famous big-band leader who had been scouring Britain looking for talent and had ‘found’ The Premiers. “Instead?” I added, as a humorous afterthought, only to be told by Archie that “If you had fifty per cent more brains, you’d be a half-wit”. Having dismissed me to his satisfaction, Archie went on to say haughtily that the band was down in London for the recording test at Radio Luxembourg studios, and “anything was possible”. Despite their obvious lack of perspective, I remained curious, so when Archie somewhat regally invited me to witness the big moment, I accepted with enthusiasm, albeit mixed with healthy scepticism and some incredulity.

Given the build-up of bullshit I got from Archie, I’m afraid the recording was even more of a shambles than I had expected. Seeing them in action was interesting, but even though I had wanted them to prove me wrong, I have to say that they exceeded my wildest expectations in terms of mediocrity. Ian didn’t seem to sing particularly well, and his voice had an unusual nasal sound, as if he needed a good sinus repair. The others - well, the bass player Lawrence was solid, and dependable, the guitarists, Shammy and Derek, did their job confidently, but something was missing, music for one thing. On the plus side, Harry on the drums was good in terms of his technique, but unfortunately he seemed oblivious to the music going on around him, concentrating instead on his own personal performance, like a drum clinic tutor playing games with a tape machine. However, he did in occasional brief bursts completely confound his quiet personality with a thunderous display of speed and dazzling brilliance that left you gasping for air. Perhaps that was part of the trouble, even in those moments, the whole thing was out of balance, a drum solo with intervening noises. As well as that, the material was poor. Covers of R & B tracks, soul hits, and obscure pop songs was the norm for the time, but it was still galling to hear my new friends let themselves down with this pile of garbage. However, when they asked me what I thought, I mumbled weak platitudes in the best mealy-mouthed traditions of group followers the world over.

I can’t say I was surprised when nothing further came of that session, though the band seemed to be bewildered and broken-hearted. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for them, even Archie was for once quiet, so when they pulled me into their analysis, the best compromise I could make with my integrity was to say that there was something missing in their sound. The room went suddenly quiet, and all eyes turned to Archie who savoured the pregnant pause, drawing deeply on his cigarette before uttering the immortal words “You bastard Paul, what you know about music could be written on the back of a postage stamp”. I realised that they hadn’t really wanted the truth, even the diluted version was too much for their fragile egos. Ian glared at me, and Harry affected a hurt resignation every time he looked my way, as if a beloved brother had let him down. The others looked like they had doubted the whole thing from day one - sensible people don’t make Rock stars. I thanked my cowardly inner self for saving me from worse, and smoothed the ripples on their troubled brows by leading them into a deep conversation about the merits and demerits of various band line-ups.

My comments must have had some effect, for when they calmed down, the general consensus seemed to be that they needed a keyboard player to give them the missing ingredient, so they thought, though in my opinion at the time, what they needed was a series of brain transplants, or possibly grafts. To me they had as much chance of making it as that Australian twit Rolf Harris recording a Led Zeppelin track. Still, stranger things had happened, and their bare-faced cheek and ridiculous arrogance - particularly Archie’s - amused me, so I found myself wrapped up in their story right from the off.

2

And when I look for you,

You are nowhere to be found

From Seeds

By

Clouds

The search for a keyboard player, or organist as it was called then, went about as well their recording session. All the physical answers to those silly Melody Maker ads turned out to be as silly as the ads themselves, long on rhetoric, short, to the point of the curlies, in music. One night in particular comes to mind, when, after a mind-crushing display of musical ineptitude, the guilty party involved requested that we help him transport the instrument of torture, a Hammond organ into his van outside. After much gasping from this bunch of lager-filled louts, totally unused to anything remotely resembling work, the said coffin was duly delivered into the ancient relic of metalwork this clown called his van. Hardly had we turned to bid our fond farewells when a wail of anguish came from within the travelling dustbin - in perfect symbolism, the battery of the vandalised van had given up the ghost, managing only a pathetic phut in response to the pleading key. As veterans of many a motorway breakdown, these modern tramps of the road knew the drill - out came the tow rope, looking like an Egyptian Mummy’s cast-off. With great gusto, Ian leapt into the superior wreck of the two, which passed as The Premiers roadmobile and tore up the road with the crusted relic trundling gamely along in equal, if not actually umbilical pursuit. There was an almighty Clang! as the front bumper of the vanquished van and The Premiers roadmobile parted company. Oblivious to all this, Ian and the Premiers roadmobile continued on its merry way, but the offending article came grinding to a halt, clinging grimly to the back bumper of the roadmobile, like a beached shark still hanging onto its prey. Not wishing to appear fazed by this turn of events, without further ceremony Ian hitched the crustacean to his front bumper and swiftly proceeded reversing up the road every bit as frantically as before. Unfortunately, as I could have told him, the front bumper was not built on any better principles than the rear, and another scalp was taken, leaving the roadmobile looking like a knickerless Maiden - but more of that later.

Suffice it to say that the organ-grinder was subsequently left to his own devices. Hopefully he was arrested for the musical murder, and subsequently given the electric chair. Thankfully, history could not record adequately the burst of invective and sheer frustrated spite that Archie poured on this poor sap’s head as we prepared to sail off into the sunset in self-righteous indignation.

Gathering up our bumpers, we retired exhausted to the first pub we could find for urgent need of anaesthetic and rehabilitative treatment. Appropriately enough for these brigands, this den of iniquity was called The Rising Sun. There in suitable regal splendour the natives of this land, mainly Irish, Scottish, and Nigerian yobs, with a few English louts thrown in (and out) for good measure, fought and lurched their way through a fine evening’s entertainment, which in this case consisted of a bunch of numbskulls dressed like civil servants on their day off, playing a string of faceless tunes with as much enthusiasm and fire as Shirley Temple in The Good Ship Lollipop.

Naturally, our experts felt smugly superior, Archie in particular opined that we should send for the RSPCA to “put the bastards down”, and this smug gratification became all the more increased by the procession of would-be singers, drummers, guitarists, and organists who graced the podium with their presence, squawking, clattering, shrieking, as the case may be, in their efforts to join the elite band of blue bloods on stage, as fine a case for an indictment of the class system as you could ever come across.

We smirked to ourselves as the latest recruit took his place at the organ. He was a scruffy bastard, skinny and long-haired, taking his time, acting as if he was Beethoven, God’s gift to the masses, and, noting our amusement, he had the bare-faced cheek to sneer back at us. He pointed a finger threateningly, then pointed back at the keyboard as if indicating he was about to play a masterpiece instead of another trashy lump of pop culture. The band lurched into House of the Rising Sun, obviously their theme tune. We smiled knowingly at each other, especially when the organ player hadn’t even sat down to play yet. Suddenly, the hall erupted with the blasting sound of the Hammond organ, completely obliterating the band on stage with a barrage of notes and crashing rhythms, urgent and dynamic. Our jaws must have dropped, even Archie muttered “Fucking Hell!” open-mouthed, and that bastard on stage had the affront to smirk in satisfaction as he blitzed his way through the song, absolutely dominating the band who looked shattered as they tried to hold on to this ride on the Waltzer. It slowly dawned on us that this specimen had no intention of sitting down to play the sideboard, which was usual for the time. That would have been too much of a sideshow for him, he obviously wanted the spotlight. The poor guitarist could hardly play a note that counted, this guy was blazing him off the stage without so much as a by-your-leave, there was no shame in this fellow either, he sabotaged all the solos for himself and used as much volume as he could get his hands on. We were stunned, even more so when at the end of the number, this joker played a violent stream of screaming notes while holding the organ up and forward by pushing his thigh underneath the keyboard, obviously so that the audience could see what his hands were doing - flash bastard! Then suddenly, as the drummer smashed the cymbals to end the song, the guy on the organ gave a heave with his knee and tipped the organ over with a CRASH! The reverb unit sounded like a horde of exploding bombs as the organ hit the deck! We all shit ourselves, I nearly drowned myself in beer, the place erupted - the punters know sod-all about music, but they always appreciate somebody doing their nut on stage.

Meanwhile, the organ player strolled off the stage like King Kong with the girl, oblivious to the band organist nearly in tears over his vanquished instrument.

That was how we met Billy.

3

Some days

I could believe in your World

Were it not for my bad dreams

From The Bleak Sun will soon be here

By

Clouds

The minute you met him, you knew he was trouble. Not in the punch-you-in-the-gob sense, just.........well, dangerous. He made you uneasy, unless you were dense enough to believe the smooth diplomatic charm he could pour over you sometimes, though plenty did fall for it. He was charismatic, overwhelming, you had the feeling he could swallow the whole room with one gulp of his mind. He seemed to think so too, maybe he had believed his own image of himself as a sort of musical Rasputin for so long that the real person had long since vanished from the competition. He didn’t have any hesitation in throwing in his lot with us, he could see that Ian and Harry were as smitten as him when it came to ambition, blind, deaf, and dumb, in this case. Then of course, there was Archie. Straight away, Billy and Archie were trying to outflank and generally talk each other down, both aware that here was a worthy adversary. Archie was the natural protagonist, making sarcastic biting remarks without pause or favour, but Billy could give as good as he got, and dish out afters as well.

It was usually Archie who started it of course. One day as we travelled in the van, Archie as per norm was giving his version of The Dimbleby Lecture on Rock music when he noticed Billy’s sceptical gaze. Turning on Billy with venom, Archie spat out “What the fuck are you looking at you brainless bastard!”

“I don’t know, the label’s fell off” said Billy. “If you had brains, you’d be dangerous” replied Archie, his voice full of indignant contempt. “Of course, you’re the font of all knowledge, I don’t think!” said Billy, just as dismissively. “You said it Pal - you DON’T think!” was Archie’s response. “There speaks the brain of Britain” said Billy, adding with a more than a touch of venom, “You obviously think you’re Bernard Shaw - well, I’m here to tell you you’re more like Sandi Shaw”. Archie puffed up with indignation and spat back just as spitefully “You skinny bastard! If brains came in boxes, yours would arrive in a letter!”. “Of course.........” said Billy, but his reply was drowned out by everyone else howling for the two of them to shut up, otherwise it would have gone on and on without either giving quarter. Henceforth, Billy’s standard opening phrase ‘Of course.....’ Then became a kind of metaphor to all of us as well, whenever a response to an insult was called for. Sometimes one of us only had to say “Of course.......” to set everyone rolling up, and it generally always diffused any tension that had been building up. It didn’t always work however, and it was unusual to see Archie face true competition in the mouth stakes, but he rose to the challenge, and it was almost grisly to see the two of them tearing verbal lumps out of each other. The result was that they became uneasy friends, amused by each other, though wary and distrustful at the same time. There were striking similarities between the two in temperament. Beneath all the noise and blustering, both were very insecure and like all disillusioned Romantics, they had turned to a withering cynicism as a kind of shield against their own shattered dreams.

I think honestly that one of the reasons Billy joined was his meeting with Archie, a meeting of minds that instinctively understood each other, yet it was a real love-hate relationship, always with the potential to boil over into heated invective. The truth is, they had never crossed swords with an equal before, and they were both unsure whether to be pleased or angry, but they were definitely fascinated with each other’s ability to be awful. Archie recognised too that Billy was an essential ingredient for the band’s ambitions, and that also helped him accept the challenge of Billy head on.

I’ll never forget that first rehearsal. We got to the Church hall, and as we set up we listened to the record we were covering that day, a David Bowie number I’d heard on the radio. David, though destined to become a true Superstar, was totally unknown at this point in time, but I wasn’t completely dim, I knew talent when I heard it and I was keen for the band to do something different. Billy, our new recruit, was guzzling a can of beer even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning, and he seemed more interested in the beer than the music. Having finished setting up, the other guys waited as Derek sat down to work out the music from the record as he usually did at rehearsals. As Derek put the record on to listen again, Billy suddenly slung his empty can into a corner of the room, making everybody jump. Then he wiped his hands on his shirt and proceeded to play the whole bloody thing straight off without so much as a pause. We all looked at one another; Archie raised his eyebrows and gave a low almost unwilling whistle. Billy pretended he didn’t notice our reaction, but he didn’t fool me, he knew damn well what was going on; when he was reasonably sober he missed nothing, though he was often as inscrutable as Charlie Chan.

I think that’s really what did for Derek, the loss of his prestige, his special role. He was a good semi-pro guitarist, organised musically, and in his personal life. Being a public Schoolboy, middle class, respectable, he couldn’t handle the thought of this scruffy working class yob outdoing him so effortlessly. Only days after the rehearsal, Derek lit out for home, and the safety of anonymity.

The blow to morale hit Ian and Harry the worst, Archie, though quiet, seemed sanguine. Shammy and Lawrence were gloomy, but the other two were suicidal, visions of failure haunted them, they had no other eggs in their life basket, what now? Looking at Billy, he merely seemed disinterested, saying nothing, showing no reaction, he and Archie looking at each other in silent understanding.

A few days after Derek, Shammy and Lawrence followed. Lawrence had been offered a steady job with good prospects, and very sensibly took it; Shammy was simply missing his Wife, Mary, and just as sensibly, put that as first priority. That left our three heroes with half a band.

They sat in the bedsit in Highgate, contemplating the scabby wallpaper and cracked ceiling. Harry was trying to be positive, stubborn as ever, refusing to give up easily. “We’ll advertise for a guitarist in Melody Maker” he said. “A bass player shouldn’t be so hard to find, and we can do without a second guitarist, can’t we?” Ian seemed cheered by the thought. “Yeah, true” he said, “But how are we gonna find a guitarist - the right guitarist - quick enough? It ain’t gonna be easy” (Ian always affected a self-conscious pseudo-American accent).

I, of course, said the wrong thing - “The problem is, why should any guitarist of any real talent throw his lot in with us?” As soon as I said it, I realised my folly. There was a painful moment of silence, heads turning towards Archie for a response. Surprisingly, on this occasion, he contented himself with saying “Paul, it’s an effort for you wipe your arse, never mind comment on our music”. This relatively mild rebuke was no doubt tempered by Archie’s conviction that next to him I was a mental pygmy, hence the patronising tone of the dismissal. Still, honour had been satisfied, and the moment passed.

Looks were still being exchanged between Billy and Archie, and Archie nodded silent agreement. Suddenly Billy stood up, eyes blazing “We don’t fucking need a guitarist anyway!” he said. “We don’t need anybody!” Then just as quickly he sat down, docile again. It was the first time he had spoken about the enforced changes to The Premier’s World. We waited for more, but he had gone back to guzzling his beer, leaving us to work out the ramifications of what he had said. Having waited the usual pregnant pause, Archie stepped in and said it was a great idea - Ian could play bass, the lead parts would be handled by the organ. Ian seemed doubtful. “But Archie, I’ve never even touched a bass before; I only play a bit of guitar, rhythm guitar at that!” Archie, hating any idea of defeatism except from himself, said to Ian “Well maybe you’re not as talented as I thought you were”, sounding almost like a

disappointed schoolteacher talking down to a miscreant pupil. Before Ian had a chance to take all that in, we all boosted his morale by pointing out that he definitely had the ability to do it. I said I thought it was a great idea too, and I think my contribution more than anyone else’s helped convince Ian that he could do it. For all the contempt Archie poured over me, the others knew that my musical criticisms were usually proved right, even if they went down like lead balloons at first - hadn’t I been right about an organist? For another thing, I was older than them, and though that often made me a target for their pranks and worse, at times of crisis they looked upon my relative maturity with more open minds and respect, apart from Archie, that is, who was always insecure about anyone or anything that looked like taking control from him.

I wasn’t just saying it was a good idea for the sake of it. It seemed to me that the new suggested line-up might especially suit Harry with his great need of musical space. It would suit Billy too, I thought. Organs/keyboards were usually regarded as an optional extra to a Rock band, giving a layer of sound that could add colour to the background rather than the foreground. That however, wasn’t Billy at all. He always commanded the foreground, and in conjunction with Harry’s playing, there would be enough happening to support a full sound without further instrumentation other than the solid ground of a bass guitar. It would even be an advantage, I thought, that Ian was relatively inexperienced, for it would ensure that someone was holding down or marking the place of the musical structure rather than playing around with it, as the other two were certain to do. I hadn’t thought of it before, but it seemed to me an ideal solution, and as a prospect, very exciting too.

Nowadays such a thought wouldn’t be so revolutionary. Rock organ/keyboard trios raise no eyebrows these days, but the first time it happened was back there in bedsit land where most of the best creativity of the sixties was born.

So it began, the true birth of the band; the first rehearsals were a total joy, in some ways, the best days of the band’s chequered history; in one of those beautiful accidents, the sound all came together - Ian on bass and vocals, learning bass so fast it was amazing; Harry responding to the urgent thrust of Billy’s playing by surpassing himself, not just in short bursts now, but taking the front stage as the undoubted musical star of the band, eclipsing even Billy at least in the eyes of the audience. Billy was the catalyst, filling the gaps, creating the textures; he was the one who had to make formal sense of the musical cacophony swirling around himself and Harry; forced to cover all the middle sound by himself, Billy took the responsibility and laid some of his enormous ego to one side for the sake of the band. The chemistry between Billy and Harry was immediate and incredible; intangible, yet undeniably there, they competed, challenged, and goaded each other to new heights; but the real heart of the band was in the radical arrangements of the songs. That was Billy’s real contribution, for all his stage dynamics, the best magic was unseen, behind the curtain. His skill and imagination came to fruition as an arranger and director of the music; he virtually re-wrote the unoriginal material and created a new source of music that would be tapped and exploited by countless others in the years ahead.

4

From Season to Season

Land to Land,

I follow the Gypsy caravan

Wherever it goes

From Shadows

By

Clouds

Now it was time for 1-2-3 to take to the road; Archie thought of the name, and it was an unusual name for a band, but then, it was an unusual band. The audience thought so too - they hated it. The changing song tempi and awkward one and a half beat stops were not what the young dancers wanted to hear. When the chromatic and quarter-tone vocal harmonies rang out without music or rhythm behind them, there was often a howl of frustrated rage from the dance floor. The material, consisting mainly of blues and distorted pop songs was totally unfamiliar to an audience fed on Knock on Wood and The Beatles. Nevertheless, in front of the stage each night would be a small crowd of gob-smacked followers. These were mainly members of other bands, or the more musically-aware punters who had never seen anything like this before. Harry came in for special attention, threshing like a combined harvester, a mixture of incredible technique and limitless energy.

Billy was now eclipsed in stage terms, but if it bothered him, he never showed it. He knew that the whole thing emanated from him, he was the driving force, even if the audience were blind to the subtleties of the chemistry. Ian was the anchor that kept the music in touch with the land of the living, his solid undecorated playing giving unity to the syncopations of the other two. His vocals were much improved, sharp, bluesy, confident, and Billy’s harmonies combined with Ian so well, the unusual intervals giving the strength and width of more than two voices.

No studio recordings of this phase of the band’s life exist, yet this was one of the blueprints for the whole musical scene of the late sixties; they never did get the credit for that, though they themselves travelled much further and higher in the years to come.

It wasn’t all mythic sweetness however. There was the life on the road, for one thing. There was Billy, for another. It started as soon as they hit the circuit. The first time the new band played together, you could see the whole scenario. We picked him up at midday from his squalid bedsit - he lived like a pig, with no obvious interest in his surroundings. He staggered out to the van clutching a bottle of Drambuie liquor, two thirds of the contents already in him. I didn’t help matters by commenting and tutting with moral disapproval as he burped and lurched towards the van. “Look at him!” I said. “What a bloody state to get in at eleven o’clock in the morning!” For once no-one criticised or disagreed with me, the others were grimly silent, reassessing the future as their new comrade - obviously a musical tramp and wino - tried to focus his bleary eyes on the general direction of the van door.

To make matters worse, he was having an argument with some girl, whether she was a pick-up, or someone more important, it was hard to tell, he kept buttoned up about that stuff (though he was good at talking smut when it suited him). The girl was obviously angry and upset, and kept on at him as he made his precarious way into the van. Finally, something snapped, his eyes blazed, and he turned round and whacked the girl in the face, right in front of us. Well, none of us were delicate flowers, but we didn’t like that very much, so when he got into the van, I told him he was out of order. To my surprise, he didn’t directly agree or disagree, but contented himself by saying “Fuck it! The only time your hand should be off their face is when you’re swinging it back to hit them again”. Then with a boozy burp he settled back to his bottle, saying nothing else. Archie laughed out loud, two cynical sods perfectly in tune.

Sixty miles up the M1, we had a blow-out on a tyre. With great difficulty, I managed to control the swerving van, and we pulled into the hard shoulder without further mishap. Afterwards, we were all outside the van surveying the shattered tyre, when Archie said “Look at that fucking idiot!” pointing at Billy, who was strolling across the motorway through the speeding cars as if they weren’t there. “Jesus Christ!” said Ian, “He’s a dead duck!” I sat with my mouth open as screeches of brakes and expletive howls of protest floated through the air, and quickly died away. It was lucky for Billy that the infuriated drivers couldn’t stop, or I think they would have willingly killed him by hand, even if their cars had only just failed to do so. Oblivious to all this, Billy reached the central reservation and proceeded to take a piss.

Matters didn’t improve much when we got to the gig. We hauled the gear into the hall where we were due to play and set up, ready for a sound check. Ian and Harry were blasting away at their instruments, but there was no sign of Billy. “Where the fuck is he?” asked Ian in exasperation. “He’s gone to the pub” I said, guessing more than anything, though I knew I was right. This was to be the routine in all the time the band was together; you could never get Billy to strike a note other than when he actually did the gig, or at rehearsals, which he enjoyed more than any other playing. The truth was, he hated the audience, strange as it seems. He needed the applause, wanted their approval and respect, but despised their assumptions and perceptions, which he thought of as pathetic. He was caught in a dilemma of his own making. He also hated the disorganised chaos of jamming, the musical activity which most musicians enjoy as a way of life; to Billy, there was no sense to it, he liked things to be defined, clear, undoubtedly some deep insecurity manifested itself in this regard; partly it was also just pure contrariness on his part, that was certainly one of his obvious characteristics.

Till we got used to him, it drove us mad, wondering if he would come back at all, then when he finally did arrive, he would smell like a brewery, leaving us to speculate on whether he would be able to play anything sensible when he staggered on to the stage.

He always did manage to play, often brilliant, sparkling bravura performances. Unfortunately, just as often, the performances would be lethargic, uninspired, the solos dull, meandering and repetitive. He did have a tendency, in any case, to play rather boring solos, concentrating too much on being flash and fast, to the detriment of the lyrical content. It was always musically correct, but there was no soul, just impact and sheer violence, substituting for passion. This didn’t matter so much on a live performance, but it left some of the recordings exposed to criticism.

Luckily, on this first gig together, it was the stunning version which emerged, otherwise I think the others would have kicked him out there and then, they were so fed up with his antics. As it was, the band was tremendous that night, it was a great boost to all of us who were involved, to see all the possibilities and potential exposed to light. Archie was more animated than I’d ever seen him, his mouth and his bragging reaching shocking heights - “Bring on the Beatles, when we’ve finished squashing them, they’ll be called the Cockroaches!” was one of his more ridiculous chants - but none of us cared, laughing hysterically and happily, our dreams realised, if only for that one night.

Harry’s powerful drumming was the star of the show; his incredible technique was visually and audibly thrilling, a torrent of action and rhythm. Now that there were only two other instruments in the band, Harry no longer sounded claustrophobic and over-busy. His main faults as a player, his dodgy tempos and inconsistent choice of rhythms were not noticeable live, being simply overwhelmed by a powerhouse display of flawless technique and ruthless energy.

Ian, on the other hand, was Mr Cool, bringing calm to the fire of the other two. His icy vocals, tinged with blues, gave authority to the statements which seemed dispassionate, observant. His bass was the simple counterpoint, underlining solidly the more brash statements of his musical partners. More than the sum total of the three constituents, the band produced something of its own, the ghost in the machine, taking the music and experience of the audience into new realms. This is how they were at their best.

Unfortunately, by the very nature of its creation, it was just as often a non-experience. On those occasions, nothing gelled. Harry would be erratic and inconsistent, though still creating attention on a visual basis alone; Ian’s usual dispassionate observations would seem more like disinterest, the bass often uncertain, hesitant. Billy, the most unpredictable of the three was always capable of a dull performance in the wrong mood. On those occasions, he would deliberately not act as the catalyst, refusing to emphasise Harry’s punctuations as he usually did, ignoring the need for a high or low inversion on the keyboards to set the correct blend. Partly it was often pique at not getting the credit for the hard work he did to set the stage for Harry; he would never say so, but it annoyed him to be second best in the eyes of the audience, even though musicians of any calibre who were watching could see the real value of what he did - but that wasn’t enough for him, he wanted it all.

Quiet as he was, Harry was more similar to Billy than anyone realised; he too wanted it all, refusing Billy the credit that was his due, simply by not acknowledging it to anyone, by affecting a modest pose to hide his enormous ego. He was gratified to find that the audience preferred him to Billy; it repaid him for the humiliating rehearsals, where Billy was the essential ingredient and pacemaker. When it was an off-night, in the parts of the music which were supposed to give prominence to Billy, Harry did all he could to take that prominence away, obliterating if possible, even the smallest moment of keyboard ascendency.

Billy of course was aware of all this, but simply absorbed it, saying nothing. He figured that if Harry could claim those spaces, then he had gained his due, survival of the fittest. The resentment and frustration only spilled over into spite on those occasions when Billy was not fully compos mentis. Most of the time, he would, amazingly for such a selfish bastard, patiently plug the musical gaps and complete the canvas, as only he could do, as only he was aware of. Part of the explanation for this uncharacteristic display of humility was Billy’s obsessive need to create a kind of wholeness, to see the picture complete. When he put the band before himself, the opaque became clear, and the hidden depths of the music emerged into sunlight. This was the real key to the best moments, and this possibility, tantalising and intangible, kept us going through the many dark days that lay blindly ahead.

This then was the vehicle we pinned our hopes on; it obviously could go either way, take us down either road, but as life is often a triumph of hope over experience, these thoughts did not occupy too much of our time, for the future was waiting, and we were beginning to sense that we were ready for it. Archie took it upon himself to phone up every radio station extolling the virtues of 1-2-3. Of course, no-one took any notice, for some reason disbelieving Archie’s claim that the band was ‘the best in Britain!’

Nevertheless, there was a wild enthusiasm emanating from us all, and we set our sights firmly on our future which seemed at that time full of great hopes.

5

And when I arrived

the door was locked

and no-one there

From No Sound Remembered

By

Clouds

Those first performances of 1-2-3 are something I could never forget. It’s true that the audience were less than impressed most of the time, but it was worth it just for the looks on the faces of those that did understand. Shock, excitement, and sheer disbelief were the order of the day. Among the mixed reactions there were a few nights of pure magic, not just the music itself, but the reaction of the crowd too.

One such night was the semi-finals of a ‘Beat’ competition. Actually 1-2-3 shouldn’t have been there at all, it had been The Premiers who had fought their way through to the semi-finals, but that was academic as far as 1-2-3 were concerned. The competition was being sponsored by one of the ‘Pirate’ radio ships who were having their heyday at that time, and the first prize was a recording contract, a jewel to any aspiring Rock star indeed.

On the night in question, the audience were ‘up for it’, high as a kite, madly cheering their favourite bands as they took the stage, a typical assortment of everyday fare, semi-pro standard, albeit sometimes at its best. Finally 1-2-3 took the stage. As they began to play, the audience became eerily quiet; unsure of what to do or how to act, but at least recognising that something unusual was happening here.

Sitting in the balcony, feet dangling over the edge was Stewart Henry, the famous Scottish DJ, there to represent the Radio Company. Just the week before, Archie had spoken to Stewart, giving him a ‘hard sell’ on 1-2-3 to no avail. Now, as the music began, Stewart jumped so suddenly he almost toppled over the balcony, burning himself with his cigar in the process. Suddenly animated, he rushed downstairs to get a closer look and listen.

Meantime, by the stage, as 1-2-3 finished their set, the local musicians and other musical friends of the band who were hearing them for the first time came running in a virtual stampede, their eyes wild and alight, their voices raised with excitement. One poor fellow - an organist from a local band - was actually in tears, saying to Billy over and over “How could you? How could you?” - I take it he was overcome by the occasion and the music. Billy just smiled inscrutably, big-headed as always, the reaction not coming as a surprise to him - he thought it was his due.

Stewart arrived, trying without success to look cool. When he said how good he thought it was, and how unexpected it was to hear such a band in such an unlikely setting, Archie butted in and said “You numbskull! - didn’t I tell you so last week?” Luckily, Archie’s timing was as impeccable as ever, and Henry took it in good part, admitting generously that he hadn’t believed a word till now, but adding that “Seeing is believing”. “Hearing, you mean, don’t you?” enquired Archie in mock innocence, having to have the last word as usual.

A radio show was set with Henry for the following month. The band would be interviewed after playing a short ‘live’ set. It was a major boost to their prospects, and you could see their egos visibly grow. Ian in particular seemed to suddenly develop his ‘American’ accent from vaguely mid-Atlantic to genuine West Coast, all in the time it took to meet Stewart Henry.

Ian was in some ways the hardest to fathom. On the surface he was friendly, smiling, amiable, but if you looked in his eyes, you could feel the Arctic ocean. He made all the right noises, but I don’t think he really cared for anyone, not even himself. As a child, he’d been orphaned and put in a home, maybe this was the reason for his emotional detachment, maybe it just started him off. Whatever reason, there was a part of him that no-one could reach, not even his brothers, Billy and Harry.

For they were like brothers, in time they lived each other’s lives through themselves, like old soldiers in a trench. They accepted each other’s frailties with understanding and respect. Harry and Ian looked on Billy as a beloved brother who had occasional seizures, not as someone who could be, and often was, a source of trouble to them all. Billy, on the other hand, though he teased Harry about his conventional approach, would defend him to the death against anyone else. They were the clichéd chalk and cheese those two, fierce competitors, but drawn to each other, like moths to a flame.

Harry and Ian had a more directly friendly relationship. Ian seldom criticised Harry in any form, they had a strong bond, but Harry secretly looked down on Ian, thinking of him as dumb, somehow missing Ian’s missing depths, but still he loved him and loathed him, as brothers do.

Between Billy and Ian there was a special kind of brotherly love, a subconscious awareness of sharing a deep silent hurt. I think that this was as close as Ian ever got to any kind of love. The funny thing was, of the three, he had the greatest need for affection. When he was with a woman (as they all often were!), he would kiss and cuddle and court, while the other two had already said “Wham Bam thank you Ma’am!”

I remember one time on the road, when they picked up a girl after a gig. She was a pretty little thing, all curls and innocence, and Billy was all over her like a bull in a china shop - he never did have much finesse when it came to sex. Before she knew what had happened, she’d been poked and discarded, lying in the back of the van with her legs still open. She didn’t get the chance to complain when Harry climbed on, he was in before she knew it, and he obviously wanted to keep up with Billy, even in that way.

It was some time later when Harry relinquished his position - he always did like a long wriggle in the saddle - plenty of stamina, but short on invention. Egged on by the others, Ian somewhat reluctantly took third place, ignoring Archie’s comment that there would only be a “Dried-out husk” waiting for him. As Ian began kissing and stroking the girl tenderly, the others groaned and began to berate him for his lack of machismo. “Why can’t you just fuck her and be done with it?” roared Archie, in typical fashion. “Get on your horse! - Geronimo!” yelled Harry, getting into the spirit of things. Eventually, the others became bored at the lack of action and turned away to leave Ian to his own devices.

Sometime later, when Ian was still kissing and caressing, Archie decided to take things into his own hands. He sneaked behind Ian and the girl, who were lying on their sides, and entered the girl from behind. When Ian finally reached for his lover’s crotch, he recoiled in fright as his hands found a pair of hairy balls covering the sacred entrance to the cave of delights. Howls of derision and laughter came from the front of the van, as poor Ian wilted in more ways than one.

“You should all be ashamed of yourselves!” I said, embarrassed and indignant that I was somehow one of a crowd of such selfish badly-behaved childish cretins, but they all just laughed and mocked my ‘square’ attitude, taking the piss out of my ‘Victorian’ morals, according to them. But then, why should I have thought that they would listen to me? They wouldn’t listen to anybody who was outside their charmed triangle of brotherhood, except perhaps Archie, who was the unspoken ‘fourth’ member, probably because he was every bit as bad as them. Like all misguided children, they would have to learn the hard way, by themselves.

6

I’m a man

Who doesn’t paint a pretty picture

From Imagine me

By

Clouds

Life had always been a serious business for Ian. Orphaned as a boy, he had then drifted into trouble with the law, stealing motorbikes, robbing Post Offices, gradually graduating to more and more desperate acts, either for attention, or for identity. Finally, while stealing a motorbike, he was spotted by the Police and pursued at speeds up to 100mph through streets that were too narrow for such dangerous manoeuvres. He crashed the bike, and ended up in Hospital with broken bones and concussion. His companion behind him on the pillion seat was not so lucky; she died instantly when the bike hit a brick wall.

Ian spent the next year in prison, and came out a bitter and twisted young man, looking for a fight, and usually finding one. Always the one most ready to use physical violence, Ian was nevertheless something of an enigma. On the surface he was all smiles and friendliness, the coldness hidden from a casual glance. He was often the one who would look for a pragmatic solution to any given problem, of the three brothers; he was also the best hustler, chasing up possible ways of forwarding the band’s career. The band and music in general was Ian’s saviour. He needed the focus and direction which music gave him, and he had a definite musical talent, which though perhaps not as obvious as the other two, was considerable in terms of its scope, if not its depth.

The band was Ian’s only option in life, and he therefore took it more seriously than the other two, who always had their own agenda.

As good a hustler as Ian was though, it was Archie who was the real driving force in realising the band’s ambitions. Although Billy would have had most people’s votes as the mad genius of the band, Archie was undoubtedly the most complicated of the four Musketeers, and in reality had a streak of genuine genius that easily matched Billy’s in any sense other than the musical. As much as these two jousted and argued, they definitely recognised and respected each other for that kindred spirit of an understanding above the ordinary.

Archie in particular was special. He had no fear or respect for those in authority or power, a great advantage when tossed into those crucial moments that make or break life’s opportunities. As I write this, a smile comes to my face as I recall the band arriving at the Flamingo club for a rehearsal, only to find Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames already on stage running through a number. Georgie was a hot item at that moment, a chart-topping star who also sang the theme song to a famous gangster film of that time - total street cred with the masses as well as the musos, because of his cool jazzy organ style. We looked at one another, disappointed that our rehearsal was not to be - how could we argue or even approach such a star? “That’s it then” said Harry, turning to go. “That’ll be right!” said Archie, in stubborn and sparky indignation, without hesitation marching up and onto the stage while the band played on, oblivious to this intrusion.

Archie stood behind Georgie as he banged away at the organ, unaware of his visitor. Taking a deep draw on his cigarette, studiously casual, Archie tapped Georgie on the shoulder. Georgie looked round, studied Archie contemptuously, then turned back to his instrument, playing on regardless. Archie’s face was a picture - outraged indignation soured his already ugly face. This time he dug Georgie hard on the shoulders. Finally, piece by piece the music fell apart as one by one the musicians in the band ground to a halt. All eyes were fastened on Georgie as he turned to face this unwarranted nuisance. For that moment, there was complete silence, a truly pregnant pause. Archie being Archie, he milked it to the nth degree, drawing heavily on his cigarette before pointing it at Georgie with his other fingers pointed in the air at an obtuse angle like a modern-day Mr MaCawber, “Look Georgie - I don’t mind you and the lads getting a bit of rehearsal in, but my boys are waiting to get on stage - it’s time for you to hop it”.

We all cringed and turned a thousand colours, but Georgie took it well, saying in mock earnestness as his band creased up, “Well OK, but can we just finish the run-through on this number first? Will that be all right with you?” Luckily for all concerned, Georgie had a sense of humour about his fame and fortune, his band laughed in relief as much as anything, and the moment was defused, the 1-2-3 rehearsal went ahead as planned. That was Archie all right, there was no keeping him down.

Thus it was inevitably Archie who made the first contacts that mattered. After a string of bottom of the barrel bookings and periods with no bookings at all, Archie hungrily wandered into the Marquee club. It was the winter of 1966. The Marquee at that time was the most influential Rock music venue in the Country; to get even a support spot to the main act appearing on any given night was a jewel to any unknown band, far less a bunch of tow-rags like 1-2-3. Nevertheless, Archie was persuasive enough to convince John Gee, the Marquee club Manager to give the band an audition. Although John seemed rather old-fashioned and dapper, he was no musical fool. He cultivated a manner akin to Noel Coward, but his tastes and knowledge ranged far and wide. When he heard the band, he was not one to miss the significance of what was going on. Being well-steeped in Jazz and Classics as well as Pop and Rock, he could hear the references which the audiences were not yet ready for. John was something of a visionary, he sponsored many of the names who later became famous, and here, before his eyes, the future unfolded itself in the unlikely shape of three anonymous scruffs complete with all the rough edges of callow youth.

Trying to suppress his excitement, John summoned the boys to his office. They piled in, breathless with anticipation and fear; hanging on to John’s every word like eager school children. “What a ridiculous band!” said John. Ian leapt to his feet angrily, pushing forward, only to be stopped by Archie who whispered gruffly “He means that it’s good, you silly bastard!” though rather shaken by this petulant display, John generously proceeded to allocate a month of headlining dates for the band at the Marquee, naming them in the famous Marquee programme as “A great new group’ who were ‘fantastic’.

It’s a pity that the audience didn’t share his vision; the first performances were a mixture of disgruntled punters, howling for blood, and in contrast, shell-shocked musicians from other bands, who don’t buy records, don’t applaud, and merely copy the best bits for themselves without any intention of giving credit where it’s due, especially if they can claim it for themselves. The support group were often better received than 1-2-3, whose very appearance seemed to inflame the audience into perverse reactions, resulting in slanging matches between those with opposing views about the band; it was an anarchic atmosphere, more akin to the later punk era than to the dreamy days of the mid-sixties.

The members of those first support groups at the Marquee read today like a Who’s Who of Rock - Jon Anderson, with his group Warrior, who later joined forces with Peter Banks, Tony Kaye, and Chris Squires from the group Syn to form the seventies Supergroup Yes, who would become famous initially for their striking arrangements of non-original material, the blueprint for the nuts and bolts, if not the heart and soul, coming from those frantic nights at the Marquee; Keith Emerson, who would make such a name for himself as the Prince of Organists with The Nice and Emerson, Lake, and Palmer by jumping on the keyboard as he played, sometimes stabbing the keys with a knife; all this coming from the concept of Rock organ he witnessed on those turbulent nights - I vividly remember with amusement Keith button-holing Billy in the club, asking over and over again in exasperation, “Yes - but tell me - what’s the point of standing while you play? Doesn’t it just make things difficult for no good reason?”. “Surely the angle’s wrong?” Only months later, Keith was jumping across the organ like the Phantom of the Opera.

No musician who had their eyes opened by this vision of the future was ever quite the same again; and so, the sound of the Progressive era was born. Meanwhile, across Town, at the UFO club, another pioneering performance was taking shape in the capable hands of Pink Floyd, whose psychedelic sounds and the mad guitar and songs of Syd Barrett did not receive their proper due till decades had passed, and it was then far too late for Syd to enjoy the fruits of his success - the explorers are often eaten by the lions.

Things got so bad with the crowd that John himself had to come to the microphone to defend the band against the uncomprehending audience. So the residency at the Marquee was hardly a qualified success, only the support of John and his assistant Jack Barry kept the band there at all. Finally, even John had to admit defeat, his job after all was putting bums on seats and 1-2-3 were creating a bum’s rush back through the door, so he had to let the band go. He felt unhappy about this, sure as he was that this band was special, so he decided to phone an old friend to ask his opinion.

Brian Epstein was the famous Manager of the Beatles, the most successful Rock group of all time. Brian always paid attention when John spoke about music - he knew that John was no fool, and had often given him reliable information about unlikely contenders on the circuit, so when John told him about 1-2-3, Brian was immediately intrigued, and decided to pay a rare visit to the Marquee to hear for himself what the fuss was about.

Luckily for the band, the Marquee that night had an unusually knowledgeable audience, many of whom were musicians themselves, turning up out of curiosity spread by word of mouth about this ‘strange’ band. For once, the audience had an open mind, and they were treated to one of the classic 1-2-3 performances, full of fire and invention, as well as the stunning arrangements and unusual material. The atmosphere and overwhelming energy fed itself, the band got better and better, and the normally blasé, not to say grudging fellow-musicians in the audience were caught up in the heat and excitement of the moment, applauding wildly, shouting their heads off despite themselves.

It was into this cauldron that Brian Epstein, along with his new associate, Robert Stigwood, walked that night - he didn’t stand a chance. The sheer force of the reaction and the impact of the band were too much for anyone who was there to see it. He shook hands on a deal there and then in the club that night. So from there, it was a mere formality for Brian Epstein, the Manager of The Beatles, to also become the manager of 1-2-3. The next week, all the National newspapers carried a photograph and story - Three unknown lads head for stardom’- not quite accurate, but it seemed a good enough omen for the future.

7

You were born to make the crops grow

To complete the endless circle

From Harvest

By

Clouds

I suppose that was the real start of the merry-go-round. The band started to play all the major venues and began to run into all the other would-be stars along the way, stopping at The Blue Boar on the M1, or clubbing it in Town with the guys who would later form the backbone of British Rock, all unknown scruffs together at that stage in the proceedings.

These contacts could be bad as well as good. On a motorway slip road, they ran into Free, a blues trio, who asked if they had any “Shit”, whereupon Archie vanished and subsequently returned brandishing the genuine article wrapped up in a newspaper, causing Paul Rogers, the Free vocalist to denounce them as “straights”. Maybe he was right at that.

It was certainly true that 1-2-3 were unsaveable. Harry’s particular preoccupation was women - big, small, pretty, pretty ugly - anything that moved, he was in there, ferreting around for truffles. On the tour of Ireland with Rory Gallagher and his band The Taste, Rory was in mid-solo, blazing away on his guitar when he was startled by the sight of Harry’s bare arse moving rapidly up and down at the side of the stage. What made it worse, Archie had also noted the event and commandeered the use of a spotlight, which brought Harry’s arse fame and much applause.

Luckily, Robbie’s Manager Eddie Kennedy had a good sense of humour, and the incident caused no disruption of the planned gigs, despite the gruesome sight of Harry’s meat and veg to all and sundry in what was still a very religiously-dominated society.

Back home, at the Nottingham Boat club, when the club Manager mounted the stage to complain about the music, Ian bopped him on the bonce, knocking him back off again in sprawling indignation.

They just had no finesse this lot, no idea of diplomacy or conformity as a way of opening doors and gaining access to the corridors of power - they simply thought they could grab the key and enter on their own terms.

In the case of both Archie and Billy, the main problem was their big mouths. At a club in Ilford appropriately enough named The Grotto, Billy was annoyed with the crowd and began calling them “Spastics”, and saying “If you don’t want to clap, just rattle your callipers”. The Manager of the club, worried that his touchy patrons would knock the block off this cheeky upstart approached the band in their break time and asked Archie to “Tell the organist to stop making remarks about spastics, as there are quite a few in here and it will cause offence”. Archie, unusually, quietly agreed to “have a word”. When told of this storm in a tea-cup, Billy said nothing, but when he went back on stage, the first thing he said was “I’ve been asked not to make remarks about spastics, as I understand there are quite a few in here - well, you could have fooled me, I thought you fuckin’ all were”. That was too much for the crowd and they surged forward, murder in their hearts. Luckily for the band they had a couple of friends - Scots John and Big Dave - who were professional bouncers, and between them, Scots John and Big Dave hauled these puny heroes to safety with only a punch, a kick, and a bite or two between them - it could have been much worse.

The difference between Archie and Billy was that Archie had an impeccable sense of timing - he knew exactly when to say the worst things, and equally when not to. When he did speak though, it was often to devastating effect. Following a gig out of Town, the gang were all sitting in the van with a couple of girls they had managed to persuade to join them. Archie began tentatively, talking to one of the girls, a well-built and rather hefty blonde with a haughty expression permanently fixed on her podgy face.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked innocently, trying to establish contact. “I’m a Go-Go dancer”, the girl unexpectedly announced. Archie immediately went into convulsions of laughter, his gaping mouth showing his missing teeth. “What’s so funny about that?” asked the girl. “I’ve seen a pint of milk move faster” said Archie. “You’re ignorant!” exclaimed the girl indignantly. “I don’t give a monkey’s fuck!” said Archie, realising he would make no headway here. “A monkey wouldn’t fuck you” said the girl gamely. Archie’s reply was a rapier thrust to the heart of the matter. “Why do you think I’m talking to you?” he said, to howls of mirth from the gallery.

This then was the general behaviour of these miscreants, boys who had no wish to grow up, preferring the exclusive nature of their private club to the real World where people simply had to get on with their jobs and look after their families without moaning about it. Like most would-be Rock stars and actors, the lads had a great need for escapism from grey day-to-day events, but little did they realise that for every day they spent chasing dreams, a price would be exacted from them.

Even I with my so-called ‘sensible’ outlook on things (which was such a source of mirth to the rest of the band) couldn’t see all this at the time; I too was caught up in the whirl of excitement as we strove higher and higher towards a destination that seemed to contain all the thrills and promises of the unknown. We were all unaware that the only chance of a fulfilled life was to ‘make it’, but unlike the myths, talent was never going to be enough, luck and fate would as always play the bigger part, leaving the odds only marginally better than the National Lottery.

Still, for the time being, they were with the biggest music agency in Britain, sharing a stable with The Beatles, the most important band in the history of Rock, so anything seemed possible to these dreamers.

Meanwhile, there was still the question of the final of the talent competition - should they go ahead and risk humiliation for no good reason other than ego? After all, first prize was a recording contract - something 1-2-3 had in their grasp as a formality, given the prestige of their Management Company, but needless to say, being the people they were, ego carried the day, and they set their sights on being the heroes of the hour, always an attractive proposition as far as they were concerned.

The gig itself went well - the band were well received and even treated with awe by both public and fellow-artistes, though to be fair, the other musicians were merely hard-working semi-pro bands, at a stage in their careers where the Premiers had once been at best. There was no way they could compete with 1-2-3 as a band or a concept, and the gap in class showed clearly. So confident was Archie that as the results were being announced in reverse order, he said to me “I’ll just stroll down the hall, and I’ll time it to arrive at the stage just as the first prize is called”. I chuckled at his pure arrogance and confidence; it was a typical piece of Archie ‘showing off’. Unfortunately, fairness does not always play a part in such rituals - the judges in their wisdom had decided that giving first prize to 1-2-3 was a waste of a perfectly good prize, one that the band themselves had no use for, as everyone knew, so the consensus was that 1-2-3 should have second prize, not first, even though the music and performance had easily claimed that trophy.

As 1-2-3 was announced in second place, pandemonium broke out in the hall. The punters didn’t exactly like the sound the band made, but they knew a fiddle when they saw one, and made their feelings known in no uncertain terms. As for poor Archie, in his own words he was only halfway down the hall when the announcement was made and “ I had to fucking sprint the rest of the way!” he said in a mixture of disappointment and rage. Archie took the defeat perhaps the worst of all the band, and magnanimity not being his strong point, when the winning band - Sweet Thoughts - actually came over to 1-2-3 - to apologise for winning! - Archie said ungenerously “Sure, but you were fucking rubbish!” As usual, I was left to apologise and soothe things with Sweet Thoughts, who had after all, shown an unusual honesty and generosity very rarely seen in the cut-throat world of popular music.

This incident left a sour taste that stayed for many a long year, yet the band would have done well to note this negative though unfair reaction, as life would have many more such brickbats to throw their way. What a kindness it is not to see the future - on the other hand, we could all have saved ourselves an awful lot of trouble and heartache, but such is hindsight, such is life.

Fortunately for our heroes, they were soon comforted by the usual distractions, but the trouble was, the scrapes they got into were bad enough in the small venues, but as the crowds and the halls grew larger, the chaos surrounding the band grew in equal proportion.

In Edinburgh, Harry was energetically screwing a girl up against a wall, and it seemed to be going well, apart from the fact that the girl was wearing a calliper - probably an attraction to Harry after Billy’s earlier remarks at The Grotto. The calliper was rattling noisily on the wall, attracting attention from passers-by. Suddenly the girl, panicking at the growing crowd of on-lookers, disengaged and ran off, screaming loudly that she had been raped, causing an outraged mob of would-be saviours to come hurtling down the dark streets after Harry’s blood and manhood. Only the speed of the others in rescuing Harry by scooping him up in the already-moving van saved his bacon and much more besides. “Get in quick, you daft bugger!” I shouted as I tried to manoeuvre the van with its door open in the direction of the half-naked Harry. It was like a scene from Tam O’Shanter, as the hordes of dervishes screamed and yelled insults with their frantic talons only inches away from Harry’s retreating derriere.

At West Bromwich it was Ian, kicking a fan in the head as he tried to get on stage, wild with enthusiasm. Never one to take chances, Ian hit first and thought later. Only trouble was the fan had several hundred friends who swiftly sought revenge, and the band had to run a gauntlet of bricks and bottles, watched in silence by indifferent Cops, as the band scrambled together their equipment and fled in disarray and disgrace.

Then, at the Pheasantry club in Chelsea, the band were playing when Paul McCartney walked in; he had come to collect his girlfriend Maggie McGivern who was a waitress at the club. The club DJ John Anthony (who was later a producer for Genesis) noted Paul’s arrival and said jokingly over the microphone “Tough luck Mate! You’ve just missed the best band in Britain!” Paul had heard it all before and said, not unreasonably, “Wot -again?” sarcastically, also blissfully unaware that he and the band shared the same Managers.

Later that night, as the band packed up their equipment, Paul and Maggie, having failed to hail a cab, asked the band to give them a lift home. “You can fucking fly home on your Gold records” said Billy -He never did take criticism well.

Criticism was something they had to get used to. They played a concert at the Savile Theatre, as support act for the most sensational guitarist in Rock n’Roll - Jimi Hendrix and his band The Experience were big news, and they were also a three-piece band like 1-2-3. Although the concert itself was a relative success for 1-2-3, the music media gave them a poor review, especially the Record Mirror, which said they should take a leaf out of Jimi’s book if they wanted to succeed as a three-piece band. This review was partly motivated by spite, as the writer himself had run into Billy at a party in Chelsea the week before, and had made the fatal mistake of trying to steal Billy’s drink - it was like taking a Jew’s gold tooth - Billy humiliated the reckless hack in front of everybody, finally pouring a bottle of Scotch down the poor man’s trousers. Obviously the review was sweet revenge. Luckily for the band, through their performances at the Marquee, they had by now become friends with David Bowie, who although not yet the huge star he would become, was a person of some note as far as the music press were concerned. David loved the band and the unusual version of his song; as well as that, he and Billy liked each other, something that not many people could say with regard to Billy.

When David read the review, he was spurred into action, and his subsequent letter, defending the band, was published by all the papers, thereby creating some welcome good publicity for the band, and most of all for David himself.

According to David, the band had played ’a brand of unique pop music which, because of its intolerance of mediocrity, floated as would a Hogarth cartoon in Beano’. Even Jimi generously praised the band for their originality, but it was something of a humiliating experience to have to be defended by your peers.

Still, for the time being a little momentum was building, but as has been said, the band was unsaveable. Changing their habits would have been an almost impossible task for anyone, even an experienced Manager like Brian Epstein. Also, there was the problem of Archie, and in particular, his gambling habit. Brian made the fatal mistake of giving Archie the money for the band’s studio session which had been booked to record their first single, a Bee Gees number called Jingle Jangle, which for the record, 1-2-3 unanimously hated. The session itself was chaos, none of the band was in the least interested in the song, and much as the engineer and producer tried to get them to get involved, the band, especially Billy, acted as if they wished they were somewhere else.

Worse still, Billy got hopelessly drunk, and fell into the console, smashing the desk and the delicate controls, delaying the session for many hours, extending the cost too, of course, to Brian’s fury.

The demos for this session sound today like a semi-pro band struggling on their first recording attempt. Robert was not amused, especially as the session was never paid for, the money landing on a horse that never came home.

Shortly afterwards, Brian entered his office to find Harry humping his secretary, a voluptuous brunette called Andy over the desk, too engrossed in his task to even stop when Brian entered the room. Finally Harry had pulled out and ran for it, leaving Andy with her legs askew leaking profusely over Brian’s important documents.

It was shortly after this incident that Brian Epstein tragically died, leaving the whole Nation stunned, and 1-2-3 in the hands of Brian’s associate, Robert Stigwood.

Stigwood had recently had a bad spell of luck, going bankrupt and in the doldrums. But the acquisition of Cream and joining NEMS had boosted his fortunes, and the signing of a young band from Australia, called The Bee Gees wouldn’t do him any harm either. Unfortunately for 1-2-3, Robert was so enamoured with The Bee Gees, and Barry in particular, that he had no time or interest in 1-2-3.

There was now a feeling of decay about the band’s relationship with NEMS, and Robert in particular, especially when all the venues they played seemed to be somehow wrong for them. Often they would find themselves fitted in between a fire-eating act and a magician, and they faced a crowd even more perplexed than the audiences they were used to. Robert simply didn’t know what to do with them, the music was not easily categorised, it fell somehow between two stools, and Robert chose neither.

But it was for Archie of course to provide the final straw. Robert had commissioned a new roadmobile for the band, a superior vehicle with built in bunks, which theoretically was to save staying in hotels as they travelled over the Country. Archie talked the office accountant into giving him the money for the roadmobile, and then merely gambled the money. Robert went apoplectic, and sacked the band there and then.

8

Why am I waiting for Summers

that never seem to come

From A Day of Rain

By

Clouds

The fall-out with Robert led to a massive fall from grace. Coinciding as it did with the end of the Marquee sessions, at least as far as headlining was concerned; the guys found themselves playing at best a series of pubs and grotty clubs, scrabbling for pennies to keep themselves alive. It was depressing, and especially for Archie, who was now the leper of the band. Frantically, to make up for his disgrace, Archie trawled the music agencies, using all his powers to try and convince influential agents to come and see the band. Unfortunately, despite Archie’s superior patter, all of these agents had heard these boasts backwards and no-one wanted to even listen.

Now the band was relegated into playing pubs, grotty working men’s clubs, and in fact, anywhere that would have them. Fortunately for the basic needs of life, they were given a residency in a ‘spit-and-sawdust’ pub called The Duke of Cambridge in West Green Road, Tottenham. This came about because The Landlord, a man named Reg, happened to be an organ enthusiast, and plonked on his stage was his pride and joy, a massive thing with knobs and lights flashing all over the place. Like all music punters, Reg had been sold a ‘pig in a poke’ - punters never really know the first thing about music or instruments, and the people who sell musical instruments know this, and provide the wide-eyed punter with something that looks like it should do a lot, but which in fact, does nothing but blow the musical equivalent of hot air. To be fair to the music shop business, if they tried to sell the Reg’s of this world a genuine instrument, it would look so unimpressive to him that he would go elsewhere and look for his flashing lights, whistles, and bells with knobs on.

Unfortunately for Reg, but fortunately for us, he had never been able to find anyone who could make the organ do something, anything!

That same day, Ian had called on every pub in the area, and stupidity not being one of his characteristics, when his eyes lit on that massive organ sitting redundantly on Reg’s stage, Ian instantly got the picture. After a few preliminaries about looking for work for his band, with little warmth or reaction from a cautious Reg, Ian asked him innocently “Is that yours?” Reg immediately warmed up, and his chest visibly swelled up with pride. “Yes” said Reg, “It is - not bad, is it?” “I’ve never seen one like that before” said the cunning Ian, cultivating Reg like mad. “Would you like to have a look at it?” said Reg, suddenly forgetting the unwashed glasses that lay in front of him. “Can I really?” said Ian “Gee, thanks!”

Smirking inwardly as Reg demonstrated what the various buttons did, Ian cooed and hummed and gasped at the right moments, waiting patiently for what he knew Reg would say next.

“Only trouble is, I don’t know anyone who can play it” said Reg. “Can you, by any chance?” “No” said Ian, “I can’t, but the organist in my band is the best in the Country”. Reg didn’t necessarily believe that, but his appetite was whetted, and a gig was set for the next weekend, Friday, Saturday, Sunday Lunch, Sunday Night - four sessions which could mean almost life and death for the band. The wages were very small - Reg wasn’t that generous - but it was money, a commodity conspicuous by its absence for us at that moment.

When Ian came back with the news, we were all elated, except of course for Archie. “Oh that’s just great!” he said sarcastically. “From the Savile Theatre to The Duke of Cambridge and you’re all celebrating it? What a load of ballocks!” he mouthed bitterly, as he stalked off with maximum petulance. He was as desperate as the rest of us, but needless to say he was miffed that Ian had saved the day and not him. He desperately needed to regain some credibility with the band, as his stock was very low, for obvious reasons. So no-one took much notice of Archie’s contempt, in fact it wouldn’t have taken a lot for them to have slung him out there and then, but they were on a relative ‘high’. However small a victory, it was the first cheering news we’d had in quite some time.

Better still, that weekend when Reg heard Billy grind his organ (and his teeth!) for the first time, Reg was in ecstasy. Now he did believe Ian’s claim about Billy being the best in the Country, but to put it in context, Reg would have thought anyone who could play I do like to be beside the seaside on his organ was wonderful, never mind somebody as accomplished as Billy.

Despite being something of a skinflint by nature, Reg was so overjoyed to hear his ‘baby’ played, he gave the band a residency every weekend at The Duke for the foreseeable future. It might not have been a prestigious place, and the band were mainly forced to play hits of the day, or more like it, hits of yesterday, along with backing some truly dreadful singers, but it represented a steady income if nothing else. Poor Billy suffered the worst. Not only did he have to play this dreadful monstrosity of a thing, because of his musical ear, he also had to carry the brunt of backing the awful singers. You could see him physically wince as the notes and keys they struck plumbed ever-more outrageous depths of bad taste and a downright cacophony in out-of-tune singing.

There were some perks, however. Some of the locals, particularly a loveable old couple called Rose and Bert, ‘adopted’ the band, and extended untold hospitality towards them. Rose in particular mothered them, taking them back to her council house just up the road from The Duke, and feeding them relentlessly, trying to ‘fatten them up’ as she put it, looking particularly at Ian and Billy as she said it. The lads thought she was great, but that didn’t stop them taking advantage of her lovely daughter, a buxom redhead called Angela. It was her first real experience of men, and it taught her a lot, but unfortunately, it also showed her the worst side of sexual chauvinism and domination. She was led to do things with them that she would never in her mature womanhood contemplate doing with anyone who truly loved her, and it left her emotionally damaged. More than anything, she had been seduced by older more experienced men who had no scruples whatsoever when it came to a woman’s honour. The culprits themselves excused such disgraceful behaviour by saying “It was just Rock n’Roll”. Some years later, when asked about the band, Angela was understandably very bitter, having realised by then how she had been thoroughly taken advantage of, her womanhood spoiled for no good reason other than pure male selfishness. They had a dual morality, these louts. They really were fond of Rose and Bert and their family, but they could switch off that morality when a possible bunk-up was in prospect. In hindsight, Reg and all the patrons deserved better treatment all round, for they all were proud of the band and their talents, and they welcomed them openly as people. The nights at The Duke were colourful and hectic, a real chaotic laugh, but hardly the stuff that Rock Stars are made of, and the band quietly awaited another opportunity to move on and upwards.

However bad the residency was in terms of musical taste, it left the band free to pursue a route back to the genuine music business, and Ian and Archie set about this with a relish, trailing the rest of us with them as witnesses, or props, more like the truth. To Archie’s silent - or reasonably silent - fury, Ian was yet again the one who made the next step up, albeit another small one. Ted Lemon was an agent for bands who mainly played pubs in East and South London, but as well as that, Ted managed Judge Dread, whose success with a form of reggae music had pushed Ted into a hitherto-unthinkable bracket. Ted himself was a jovial cockney, rather tubby of stature, with a good-natured approach to the many musicians who were always seeking work from him. When Ian walked into his office and said bluntly “Can you get us any work?” Ted said just as bluntly and to the point “Are you any good, or are you crap?” “We’re the best, and you’d better believe it” said Ian with conviction if nothing else. Ted laughed good-naturedly and told Ian to sit down, pouring him a generous Scotch. Actually, Ted had heard of 1-2-3, and to add to his interest, he struck up a good rapport with Ian, treating him as a slightly-naive younger brother, pulling his leg and chiding him for what Ted called ‘his big ideas’, but always in a fond sort of way. Ted was very likeable, basically a very nice man, unusually so for someone in his somewhat desperate business. Ian was quite cunningly good at this game, and played it for all it was worth, persuading Ted to book the band into the most prestigious pubs, such as The Two Puddings in Stratford. Now these were not exactly centres of excellence for music, they were more like a second division to the music business itself, but the money was a lot better than Reg could or would pay, and there was more scope too for 1-2-3 to play their own music, not all the time, but at least intermingled with the demands of the situation. Not that the band could afford to ditch Reg and The Duke just yet, they would do that once they felt secure in the knowledge that Ted could book them regularly at pubs such as The Two Puddings and The Mitre.

Within a short time though, their faith in Ted was solid enough for them to leave Reg behind. Reg took it badly, feeling betrayed. “I took you in when no-one else would” he complained bitterly. “Yes” said Archie, “And you paid us less than anyone else would as well, you tight-fisted bastard!” Once again, bedlam followed, with Reg, who was crying with frustration trying to ‘half-inch’ Archie, but the slippery Archie had vacated the premises, leaving the rest of the gang to face the music, or the lack of it in this case. Even Billy was moved to having the final word as he and the rest of us were thrown out into the street, bloodied and bedraggled. “Reg, your organ is crap, and so are you!” he said, bringing yet more screams of frustration to the lunging Landlord. Personally, I was appalled, it was all so unnecessary. With a little more patience and etiquette, Reg and The Duke could have been saved as a fall-back position, but there was no stopping this lot. Once you gave them an inch, they took a mile, and not only that, they took this new movement to mean that the summit was beckoning again.

Ian had already proved that some success could be achieved by sheer hard work lobbying the agents, but his achievements so far were limited to the strictly small-time operations. For a while though, the band tried to believe that Ted could take them all the way; he was such an ebullient and cheerful face to have around. But Ted tended to give long monologues on the reasonably-famous contacts he had, laced in with discussions about other up-and-coming bands and worse still, tapes of them which Ted had got hold off, and which he insisted on playing endlessly to the band, much to the evident displeasure of all, especially Archie, who would inevitably pour scorn and spiteful invective on everything that Ted had to say or play. “Isn’t that great?” Ted would say enthusiastically. “Fucking crap!” Archie would say uncompromisingly, but Ted would just laugh and counter with the obvious - “Play me your records then, Superstar!”, as he poured a soothing Scotch to calm Archie down. Archie liked Ted, despite his irritating and even patronising ways, but as Archie continually pointed out, even someone with a few contacts and some limited success in the charts such as Ted could not make the breakthrough for the band. Archie sensed it needed someone like himself with his gifted big mouth and lack of fear or favour with the great as well as the small to break the deadlock. He needed a result too, for his standing in the band had been drastically curtailed following his fall from grace.

Yet even Archie had found it difficult to make anyone listen, for it was a time when bands galore were treading the boards, all seeking the big break, and every successful agent had heard it all before. They were bored, not even listening to the boasts and claims that were daily landing on their doorstep.

Luckily for the band, and for Archie in particular, there was one exception. Terry Ellis and his partner Chris Wright had a small music agency in Regent Street. Terry and Chris had been Social Secretaries at Northern Universities, and had joined forces to book bands into the expanding University circuit that thrived in the late sixties. Now Terry and Chris wanted more, they wanted to manage bands that could produce success for the agency as well as themselves. Chris already had one jewel in his pocket; he managed the up-and-coming success story of a band called Ten Years After with their outstanding lead guitarist Alvin Lee. Terry, not one to take being left behind lying down, was desperate for a band of his own.

So when Archie walked into the Regent Street offices of the Ellis-Wright agency, Terry was ready to listen, in fact, he was listening to everybody, even though the end results were proving to be frustrating. Archie, he sensed, was different. For one thing, he could see that this scruffy and peculiar-looking little urchin had no sense of being intimidated, far from it; his confidence seemed to be sky high. Terry was amused by this display of superiority when Archie was supposed to be the one asking the favours. “Pardon me for saying so” said Terry, “But for a so-called representative of a struggling group, you don’t display much modesty - why should I pay any attention to you?” Archie swept his hand around in an exaggerated gesture, indicating the room where they sat. “By the looks of your organisation, you need a hand up, and my boys are just the ones to do it!” Everyone in the room laughed, and one of the bookers, a wag called Dave, said almost in admiration “You’ve got some cheek coming in here cold and saying that!”

“If I’d wanted a parrot, I would have gone to a pet shop” said Archie. Then, milking the moment as everyone creased up, he added “I want to talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey, so pack it in!” Even Dave was in stitches at this bare-faced cheek from this outrageous intruder.

When Archie gave him the familiar patter about the band, Terry had heard it all before, but he had also heard of 1-2-3, and was intrigued. He thought anyone as cocky as Archie must be in league with something decent, and Terry decided that it was at least worth a look.

It was a Saturday night in a small club in Forest Gate, London, a booking courtesy of Ted Lemon. As Terry walked in, 1-2-3 was playing. As luck would have it, they were playing I’m lost without you, a 1-2-3 classic. Billy was at his best in this number, pulling out all the stops, tilting the organ dangerously over as he piled on the musical pressure, to which Harry responded magnificently as always. It was an impressive sight if you had the sensitivity to appreciate it. The audience in Forest Gate didn’t, but Terry did, and number after number followed in which the band excelled themselves, playing a form of music that would in fact never become common currency, despite the theft of ideas that would flow from what it contained. To cement the meeting even more in Terry’s mind, when he met Billy, he took Billy’s unusual mixture of artistic intelligence and sensitivity combined with his cruel sarcasm and fierce arrogance as the stuff of genius. For all his formidable business acumen, Terry had a streak of Romantic illusions about him, and this fascinating cocktail of innocence and wickedness was just too much for him to overcome his good sense.

Billy’s opening words to Terry were “Ah, Svengali I presume!” “Hello!” said Terry, smiling and suitably charmed.

So, in a grubby bedsit in Shepherds Bush, Terry finally signed his first band, saying that he had only one condition to impose. The name 1-2-3 was too obscure, too amateur - it had to go.

From now on, the band would be called Clouds.