By April 1971 I was a seasoned man of the world
compared to the wide-eyed greenhorn who’d sneaked into Phase One, nicely
settled into a voyage of adolescent discovery at Aylesbury College,
growing the old barnet and carousing with females and other forbidden
delights, the notorious Dark Lantern acting as town centre base camp for
manouvres. But we still didn’t have a gig; Friars was sorely missed. Then
in March David, whose low-ceilinged abode on Castle Street I would often
visit, sometimes in a babysitting capacity, told me of Friars’ planned
relaunch at the Borough Assembly Hall on April 17 with guitarist Tony
McPhee’s psychedelic blues trio the Groundhogs.
The venerable old hall had already played host
to Friars, magical East Of Eden and Third Ear Band sets standing out now.
The venue’s history went back much further to when it was called the
Grosvenor, putting on 60s legends like Cream and Hendrix. Those boards had
been trod by some famous heels.
At the time I was playing bongos with John
Otway, after the short-lived quartet had lost two members. We’d played
pubs and scout huts but not really any big gigs. That would change when
David asked us to support on the opening night alongside a
singer-songwriter called Phillip Goodhand Tait.
We were on in the middle and allowed about 20
minutes. I know we played ‘The Alamo’ – during which John’s guitar-strap
attached to his old grey strides gave out meaning his trousers were
literally falling down for much of the set. It went down a storm,
finishing up with a ten minute version of that old school poem ‘The
Highwayman’ where I got to do a scream and a bongo solo which started the
popular legend that I had a razor-blade secreted on the bongos to add some
gory effects. My hands were a bloody pulp, Otway was all over the place
and we got a mighty cheer. My night was made when I walked off stage
straight into Groundhogs drummer Ken Pustelnik, then my favourite
percussionist, who said words to the effect of ‘Nice one’.
So the BAH was off and the next four years
would see a stream of highlights, the club becoming firmly established as
an essential on any band’s tour and held responsible for launching the
career of David Bowie, among many others. I rarely missed a night and
can’t possibly give a detailed account of every gig! Some are a blur, some
I can’t remember and some stand out as amazing. So I’ll try and run
through some of those….
1971
Fleetwood Mac in June, the pre-Stevie Nicks/Rumours
lineup with Bob Welch on guitar and a nice line in American rock. I
remember that stage door area, where I spent quite a lot of time. The
groups would come in then mount the stairs leading to the dressing rooms –
two small and one large up the end next to the single bog. There was a
bang, I opened it and there was six foot five or whatever of Mick
Fleetwood, eyeballs on stalks with a big pair of wooden balls swinging
from his belt. Nice bloke who severely impressed with his fluid, funky
drumming.
Genesis played the club next, still in that
magical Peter Gabriel incarnation which had seen them adopted by the Phase
One club. Now they were getting to be one of the biggest bands in the
country and blew the roof off with faves like ‘The Knife’. Peter Gabriel
was never less than polite and friendly, humble even. Phil Collins, on the
other hand, was never less than an arrogant, smart-ass muso tosser. I
think this was the night I was standing in front of the stage as the set
reached its climax and Peter came sailing over my head, only to land in a
heap, spraining his ankle and being carted off to the Royal Bucks
Hospital.
Former Dylan organist Al Kooper was stoned
immaculate and everyone was geared up for the Faces making their FA debut
on July 2. The group were on the rise, slaughtering festivals and hugely
popular thanks to the Long Player album and Rod’s solo stuff. But
when I turned up there was a blackboard outside the hall saying the Faces
wouldn’t be appearing because Rod had laryngitis. Lindisfarne played
instead to the handful who still came in. I’ve since found out that this
was another of those nights when the group couldn’t get out of the pub and
just tossed out an excuse. They admitted this themselves in a recent
magazine interview. Good job I’d seen them a few weeks earlier when Friars
put them on Watford Town Hall [Rod pissing himself onstage].
September saw two classics with Mott The Hoople
making their debut at the new venue and the now-legendary first appearance
by David Bowie.
I saw Mott twice on September 4. In the morning
a gang of us had gone to Hyde Park to catch one of the free concerts that
used to take place. Topping the bill were Steve Marriott’s Humble Pie, I
think, but Mott came on in the afternoon on storming form, though the
effect was obviously slightly diminished in broad daylight. This was
Mott’s dark, manic period leading up to their split the following March
and rescue by David Bowie. The current album was Brain Capers, a
proto-punk locomotive of chaos and drunkenness stoked by their berserk
producer Guy Stevens. The gig was raging, the crowd went mad and the band
were glad to be back.
September 25 stands as a Friars milestone, the
night a relatively-unknown folk singer who’d begged for a gig shuffled in
a lamb and strutted out a soon-to-be-superstar lion. David Bowie won over
the crowd who’d paid 50p to get in with a set which became increasingly
electric as it progressed, peaking with two Velvet Underground covers and
visibly relieved as the assembled went bonkers. I was sitting behind Mick
Ronson’s amp and could see the relief and confidence growing on Bowie’s
face. ‘When I come back I’m going to be completely different’, he
announced in the dressing room afterwards; the gig had given him the
confidence to transform himself into the starman Ziggy Stardust. He would
indeed be back. [Afterwards there was a party at John Otway’s which
stretched into the next day and at the time received more notoriety than
the gig!].
Talking of the Velvet Underground, it was very
exciting to have a group of that legend playing the club, even if drummer
Mo Tucker was the only original member. I still got a shiver up the spinal
column when they launched into ‘I’m Waiting For The Man’, even if it was
Doug Yule singing it instead of Lou Reed.
That year’s Friars Christmas party featured
Arthur Brown’s Kingdom Come. Me and Otway were supporting, in a kind of
electric incarnation and I did a lengthy impression of rugby league
commentator Eddie Waring as well as laying an egg after the chicken
impersonation. Arthur, the man who brought you ‘Fire’, ended up
encouraging onstage trouser-dropping, local space-cake Ginge rising to the
occasion.
1972
The first gig of the New Year was Osibisa and their
‘criss-cross rhythms that explode with happiness’. African music had not
really been seen in this country back then and this was powerfully
uplifting stuff.
On January 29, Bowie made his promised return,
the first time Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars had graced a
stage. Words still can’t describe the jawdropping impact of their entry
after the synthesized version of Beethoven’s Ninth from A Clockwork
Orange [Bowie interested to hear that the tramp-kicking scene in the
film had been filmed up the road in the station subway]. Starting with
‘Hang On To Yourself’ then ‘Ziggy stardust’, it was unlike anything else
at the time; alien, supercharged with taboos and drenched in killer songs
like ‘Suffragette City’ and spectacular versions of Cream’s ‘I Feel Free’
and Chuck Berry’s ‘Around And Around’. Afterwards in the dressing room
Bowie looked pleased as a dog with two knobs. ‘I told ya!’ he crowed as
the local ladies flocked at his feet and asked about his makeup. ‘Well, I
don’t want to go round looking like a daed bear’, he declared. On the way
out he planted a big smacker on my cheek. The rest is history but this was
the start of it. Lifechanging stuff.
Shortly after Bowie I was incapacitated for
several weeks after overdoing it so regrettably missed the MC5, to my
eternal regret. This was no half-assed lineup for an American legend but
the real deal, complete with Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith in his silver chicken
suit. And I missed it, having to put up with glowing reports [although
power cuts had rendered it one of those tricky nights, apparently]. I was
back in action for the special presentation of Jimi Plays Berkeley,
a movie of Hendrix playing an incendiary show in California, which was a
bit weird in the BAH but being a fan I didn’t care, lay back and enjoyed
it. Of all the flyers I did, this is probably my favourite, copied off a
photo of Jimi in full, magnificent flight.
That summer will forever stand out as truly
special. It started on July 15 with Bowie, this time returning as a bona
fide superstar as Ziggy-mania hit the country like a thunderbolt. The vibe
was totally different from the previous two visits. For a start, the
original fans were kept away from the dressing room, new bodyguard Stuey
growling at anyone who tried to get up the stage door stairs. This was at
the height of the Mainman period where manager Tony Defries kept his
charge in Elvis-like isolation, although even a few weeks before we’d sat
and chatted with Bowie after an incendiary Friars gig at Dunstable’s
Queensway Hall.
They’d flown over a bunch of American
journalists to start whipping up interest for Bowie’s upcoming US
offensive, who weren’t disappointed. As ever, Beethoven filled the hall
and incited the sell-out crowd to a frenzy as Bowie and the Spiders piled
into the Ziggy set, now like a well-oiled machine. Ah well, we’d done our
bit and he’d never return to the club which launched his rise [under his
own name, anyway].
It was around this time that Bowie rescued Mott
from throwing in the towel, writing them a song called ‘All The Young
Dudes’ and finally propelling them into the charts and a new lease of
life. The nearest they got to Aylesbury for now would be a gig on the
Dudes tour at Dunstable in September. Around then, having helped out with
Bowie’s fan club, I started the Mott The Hoople Seadivers [later counting
Morrissey and future Pakistan prime minister Benazir Bhutto as members].
Bowie had also sparked a successful solo career
for Lou Reed, the brilliant creative force behind the Velvet Underground,
producing the Transformer album and a hit with ‘Walk On The Wild
Side’. At the end of the month, Lou made one of his first solo appearances
at the club, backed by the Tots and their annoying bass-player. He played
his solo stuff and, heart-stoppingly for the Velvets diehards, some of the
old classics. It was great to see him and he was even friendly afterwards
[although later claiming not to remember a thing about it!].
A week later a new group called Roxy Music
appeared. They had been supporting Bowie and attracting great press with a
new strain of music which transcended glam rock with its arty lyrics,
futuristic synthesizer embellishments from the peacock-feathered Brian Eno,
managing to invade the charts with debut single ‘Virginia Plain’. They
would go on to become huge.
Genesis returned in September, Peter Gabriel now
sporting his shaved-head-and-batwings image. Starting with ‘Watchers Of
the Skies’, climaxing with ‘The Knife’, they were now massive too but
showed genuine humility at being back at the club where it first took off
[apart from that grotesque gnome behind the drums]. The same month saw
some unbridled whoopee when Roy Wood’s Wizzard staggered around the stage
in their costumes and 50s rock ‘n’ roll flavours livening up the hall no
end. ‘It’s a great gig!’ slurred the affable Wood afterwards. He still
remembered it [surprisingly!] when I saw him at last year’s MOJO awards.
1973
Mott The Hoople finally returned in February, back
in another phase of their roller-coaster career. We’d missed the Dudes
phase and now they were on to the next one as the Mainman relationship had
fizzled as Bowie’s star rose. He was supposed to produce their next album
but was simply too busy. Now the group were going to do it themselves,
recording live faves like ‘Hymn For the dudes’ and ‘Ballad Of Mott The
Hoople’ for the Mott album, which would be their biggest ever.
Meanwhile, Mott were greeted rapturously like homecoming heroes and
played a blinder having shed some of the glitter in return for their
irrepressible rock ‘n’ roll roots.
One of the all-time biggies for me was when
David asked me to do a flyer for Can, the legendary German experimental
outfit who were playing in February. I’d been into them since Peel started
playing their debut album Monster Movie in 1969 then the awesome
Tago Mago, quite rightly compared to a flying saucer landing in the
back garden. They proved immensely popular, one of the most inter-galactic
ensembles the club ever witnessed as they played for hours, seemingly
levitating the hall. Fronted by Japanese singer Damo Suzuki, who they’d
found busking on the streets, keyboards-player Irmin Schmidt, bassist
Holger Czuzuki, guitarist Michael Karoli and locomotive funky drummer Jaki
Liebeziht improvised around album tracks, including the the Ege Bamyasi
album, taking off on lengthy flights which could go on for half an hour.
Can returned several times, twice the following
year. Again, they turned out to be far from the fearsome image their sound
might have projected, Irmin particularly pleasant and quite shocked when I
correctly told him what seasons I thought the albums were recorded in [You
did that sort of thing back then!].
Apart from these highlights, Friars Phase 2 had
developed its own traditions and faves as groups like Stackridge, Jack The
Lad and String Driven Thing regularly appeared to much drunken jigging
about. A little gang of faithfuls headed by the Keinch brothers helped out
and cleaned up afterwards, calling themselves Standard Lamp and the
Shades. [Sadly Colin still thinks he’s there, if he’s still alive].
1974
Sometimes it was like Friars existed to break new
bands, checking them out after David had taken a chance then welcoming
them with wide open arms. This, in turn, stoked the artists to further
heights and several triumphant return visits which instantly sold out.
Such was the case with Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel, a strange-looking
bunch in uniforms boasting a violin and piano as main instruments. Friars
heard and cheered the songs from their Psychomodo album from first
unveiling to chart status as the group became bigger nationwide throughout
this year, returning several times [May, June and August – never has a
band been so concentrated in its appearances!]. Abiding memory: the whole
hall singing ‘Oh dear, look what they’ve done to the blues’ like it was a
football terrace’.
Steve Harley had a tough image but was always
exceedingly friendly. Maybe he identified with the fact that I now worked
for the local paper, the Bucks Advertiser, just like he’d started
in Essex. I liked his way with words and charismatic stage presence which
earned him the Friars trophy, presented by David one riotous night. There
was a coach trip to their big London gig, Magenta De Vine tried to start a
fan club and then they hit massively with ‘Make Me Smile’, although would
still come back.
Queen graduated from Mott support band to main
attraction in March [They’d been in the audience for the Bowie gig]. I was
more excited by a projected double bill of Velvet Underground chanteuse
Nico and French jazz-rock maniacs Magma but it got pulled.
1975
Sadly, Mott The Hoople had split in 1974, or rather
Hunter had left with new guitarist Mick Ronson while the others carried
on. The new Hunter-Ronson band played in March as Ian struck gold with
‘Once Bitten Twice Shy’ and was still showered in adoration. Otway and me
went back to the Bell hotel in Aston Clinton with him for some drinks then
walked back to Aylesbury. Pressures and unfortunate events had prompted
him to depart the band and he was more than willing to talk about it,
while still extolling his praise for the Friars faithful.
Another band to blow the roof off and provide a
glimpse of things to come were Dr Feelgood, all the way from Canvey
Island. Amidst all the whimsy and prog-rock indulgence then doing the
rounds, the Feelgoods stood out as raw, energized and unpretentious,
heralding the return to rock ‘n’ roll roots which would inspire punk.
Soiled and drunk, front-man Lee Brillieaux was sinisterly captivating,
rasping through classics by Bo Diddley and the group’s own live monsters
like ‘Roxette’. Guitarist Wilco Johnson was main visual focal point,
pinballing around the stage with a manic look in his eyes as each guitar
solo took him off on a robotic rampage. Friars embraced this great band
several times and they happily returned the favour [with a boozy scowl]
once their albums started hitting big.
August saw a grim taste of things to come when
Friars had to cease activites at the Borough Assembly Hall because the
site was being redeveloped, closing with Andy Fairweather Low of Amen
Corner and ‘Wide-Eyed And Legless’ renown. It got a whole page [written by
me] in the local paper.
This would be a familiar source of discontent
in Aylesbury as the years went by, reaching its current mindless peak
where the perfectly-fine Civic Centre is being demolished when it’s only
been in action for just over 30 years. But what do you expect from
authorities who can knock down The Ship Inn, one of the town’s most
well-loved pubs, without a second thought? The Borough Assembly Hall might
have seen better days but it had also seen music history and some classic
nights of the sort unlikely to be repeated in some characterless new
non-smoking theatre. Still, in the mid-70s, Phase Three was still to come… |