Tuesday, 28 September 2010

EC Tubb: Two Novels



Book Review of:
‘DEATH GOD’S DOOM’
(Cosmos Books – ISBN 0-9668968-0-7 – £6/$10)
& ‘THE RETURN:
DUMAREST SAGA no.32’
(Gryphon Books – ISBN 0-936071-83-4 – $20)
by E.C. TUBB

Tavern. Serving Wench. Enigmatic Mercenary with a mythic past. A Merchant ‘more bone than flesh’. Then a magical quest to find ‘Gualek The Golden, the City of Eternal Life lost in far ensorcelled Dashkit’. All predictable heroic fantasy ingredients at least since Robert E Howard first marketed the Conan franchise. Through Fritz Leiber’s mischievous ‘Ffahrd & Grey Mouser’. Until it explodes graphically into ‘2000AD’s Slaine, via Michael Moorcock’s doomed albino anti-hero Elric Of Melnibone. But those who know EC Tubb only through his long-distance ‘Earl Dumarest’ hyper-romps – or those who caught TV’s ‘Space 1999’ re-runs (he wrote some spin-offery for that too), might be unaware that in the 1950’s when Tubb’s domination of domestic pulp SF was virtually complete, it was he who first created a character called ‘Elric’. But this, he concedes generously, was probably just ‘a coincidence’. EC Tubb is now eighty, yet shows few signs of reducing his phenomenal creation of fictional worlds. Malkar’s fantasy medievalism was first glimpsed in Sam Moskowitz’s legendary ‘Weird Tales’ in a story editorially compared to the very finest of CL Moore. Now Malkar gets re-animated at (slim) novel-length, to battle the Elkite Pirates until ‘the deck ran red with blood that dripped into the sea where the creatures of the deep waited to feast on human flesh...’, and then penetrate a besieged city only to find himself trapped between dimensions by the satanic Lovecraftian demon-deity Phang. While the incidental death-toll multiplies at an absurdly horrific rate. Malkar’s entire company get monstrously-massacred – against the reader’s expectations, on two distinct occasions, and Malkar’s sole concession to human compassion reduces down to slaughtering the wounded to ‘end their suffering’. Death? ‘what matter when men are so plentiful?’ asks Seer logically. And although these escapades are eminently readable, Malkar never actually gets to reach his Lost City, it says so on the book-jacket so no plot-secrets are betrayed by so revealing. Tubb – it seems, is already saving Gualek for the soon-come sequel – ‘The Sleeping City’.

But as new hugely oaken gothic doors creak open for Malkar, they seem to be finally closing on Earl Dumarest. Since he first rose ‘through interminable strata of ebony chill to warmth, light and a growing awareness’ in ‘The Winds Of Gath’ (1967) the star-lost Dumarest’s quest to re-locate mythic Earth through galaxies of strangeness and Space Opera heroics was spun out on a two-books-a-year schedule throughout much of the 1970’s. Until the unpredictable vagaries of publishing, rather than the hideous machinations of his Cyclan cyber-adversaries brought the cycle to a premature end... if, indeed, thirty-one volumes later can be described as ‘premature’. Yet Tubb himself, and Dumarest-ophiles – who remain legion, continued to need the full closure that only Dumarest setting foot on Terra could provide. Hence ‘The Return’, rescued from a rare 1992 French-only edition, and wrapped in a new Ron Turner art-embellished English (and American-language!) format for the first time. So here is an older, meaner, more ruthless Dumarest, so close to journey’s-end that he’ll allow nothing to stop him. First escaping from what the computer-for-brains Cyclan calculate as a 99% probability of nuclear incineration, and using Raniang co-ordinates salvaged from the Cerevex Temple in ‘Dumarest 31: The Temple Of Truth’ – Dumarest planet-hops from fragrant Arpagus to the Space Scavenger’s world of Kaldar in the Lonagar Drift in the devious company of the beautiful but deadly Zaheva Postel. He kills Toibin in a knife-fight, to avenge the death of Dren Ford, thereby acquiring the Geniat, a Kaldar ship – and then it’s via stop-over journey-bites to encounter the lethal secret of ancient Fionnula – ‘redolent of decay’, to... well, Earth. But there’s time for a partial re-union with long-lost love Kalin of Solis (‘Dumarest 4’) and a final Cyclan face-off. So there’s some tying-off of loose strands. But not all. Tubb leaves questions dangling, and... without giving too much away – he never actually gets to land on Earth. So there’s still a potential ‘Dumarest 33’ lurking in there. Meanwhile, Tubb’s universe remains cruel, mean-spirited and unrelenting, as physically punishing as it is unforgiving. And there’s little in the way of cutting-edge high-tech hardware either – star-charts are listed Yellow Pages-style in printed almanacs, they still use radios, and its politics make Brute-Monetarism seem like a rest-cure, with just a slave-economy there for losers. His Raiders are strangely stylised pre-Mad Max curios who manifest villainy by singing raucous songs in taverns, and even gender roles are monochrome traditional. You suspect this is not deliberate retro, although it could be read as a kind of ironic post-modern 1950’s Steampunk-variant. Transistor-Punk perhaps, or SF-at-78rpm? You don’t come to Tubb expecting sophistication, but sometimes you get it anyway. You do come to Tubb for superlative story-telling skills. And that always comes as a given. At eighty years old, the man his biographer named ‘The Tall Adventurer’, can still be awesome.

In case of problems enquiries concerning Cosmos & Gryphon Books can be directed to Philip Harbottle, Cosmos Literary Agency, 32 Tynedale Avenue, Wallsend, Tyne & Wear NE28 9LS

Published in:-
‘ESSENTIAL SF no.4’ (UK -Feb 2000)
‘G.C. ROCKS no.9’ (UK - July 2000)

Interview With EC Tubb: Part Two




E. C. TUBB:
CONVERSATIONS WITH
THE TALL ADVENTURER
(Part two)

“There is a morbid streak in us which finds a
fascination in things of horror. Ghouls, ghosts, goblins,
things which lurk in darkness. Every circus has its freaks.
Every carnival its share of grotesque monstrosities…”
(E.C. Tubb, “The Return: Dumarest Saga no.32”)

To SF historian Mike Ashley, E.C. Tubb is ‘an inspired fiction machine’. His stories are constructed of prose with tentacles. They extend into every area of your life, tickling, irritating and provoking, while also leaving you with unforgettable impressions of what he terms ‘the numbing majesty’ of the universe. And I’ve travelled down here on the South London Grey Line to Forest Hill to seek him out. He answers the door himself. A tall, courteous host, with slicked-back silver hair. Now in his eighties, age has hardly loosened the sharp, aquiline features I recall from the book jackets and magazine profile pages. He leads the way down the entrance hall, into the front room and asks whether I want tea or coffee. In his fiction there was a lunar Tycho Base in 1995, the same year that the first colonising expedition lands on Mars ‘like two dreams and a nightmare’. Reality has proved incapable of bearing the weight of such dreams. ‘Mars! Even now it seemed a dream, the culmination of a lifetime of hope…’ (“Operation Mars” ‘Nebula no.11’ December 1954). Instead I’m here, not exactly checking out the contents of his fridge, but at least snooping through his bookshelves. He, it seems, has less examples of his own published work than I do! And I have plenty…

One thing that struck me about the interview you did with Charles Platt (published in ‘Who Writes Science Fiction?’, Savoy Books, 1980) is that – even having been published regularly since the 1950’s, you were still having to work a ‘day job’. Oh yes, yes. It wasn’t until fairly late that writing became a full-time thing. I think I quit full-time work in 1968. As I told you, before that – around the time I got my house, the bottom dropped out of the pulp market, and I had to go back to work, working for a printing-machine firm called Adana. Later I worked part-time there because things were getting better, and I got an agreement with the Guv’nor to work when he needed me. It suited him ‘cos he was saving money too. Then they made me manager. I said I’d never been a manager before and I was the worst man they could’ve picked. It was a Mickey Mouse firm anyway. I didn’t want to do it, but I was a manager for a while. I was there. And it was regular money. But in 1968 we finally parted company, and I went writing full-time. Then – after a while, I suppose if you want to get a bit philosophical about it – as I was saying at a recent Pulp Convention, you pay a lot, in a way, because you’re not living. You’re writing about living. And it’s a phoney life. And oddly enough – this is the room, this is where you spend your time, day after day, sitting at the typewriter. You get tense. You get strained, because you don’t want to do it. You get this adaptation-syndrome coming on. Your back aches, and your mind aches. And it’s a load of crap you’re doing. (Graham Greene writes about the same syndrome as a ‘melancholy which falls inexorably round the novelist when he has lived for too many months in his private world’). So, I began demonstrating, ‘cos – you see, you desperately had to do something else, otherwise it would drive you mad, just sat in this room, you didn’t know what to do. And by this time I’m slowing down, that’s the snag. This time it’s getting harder and harder to write. So I went demonstrating, which is nice. I liked that. Then that dried up, inflation was to blame. By the time I’d paid expenses there was nothing left. I was actually paying to go to work! Then I got the last job, as a Traffic Warden. I was only doing it for six months when I got punched in the mouth. I’d put a ticket on his car, so he came up and punched me in the bloody mouth. Got a cut lip. I was the only Traffic Warden on that particular patch to be physically assaulted. Forget how much compensation I got. Then I had a run-in with somebody else and I thought ‘I’m not going through this again’. The abuse you get in that business. I just couldn’t stand it. So I quit. And since then I haven’t worked.

Doing a ‘day-job’ seems to have been a not-uncommon experience among your generation of writers. Philip E. High was a bus-driver. E.R. James was a postman. The money wasn’t in there you see, that was the trouble. In our day-and-age, the money wasn’t there. But in the Platt interview – and from what you’ve just told me, you also seem to imply that working a day-job can be an advantage in that it also stimulates your creativity, throwing up situations and incidents. It’s wrong to stay in-doors, that’s true. Because you’re bound to restrict yourself. But coincidentally this all started when I stopped smoking, believe or not. I was alright until I stopped smoking. Or smoking stopped me – it gave me up!

You put in a story once, that humans were the only species in the universe with the irrational compulsion to smoke. Yes, because, I mean – nicotine is a brain-stimulant you see? And when I stopped doing this in 1972 – no, 1975, that was it, I remember the date, because I was on this demonstration job, the last demonstration job I did, I’d been to a party, I came back from this spell down in Brighton – not smoking any. Got back, lit up – and I’d never felt so ill… I was terrible, as if I’d never smoked in my life. And I’ve never smoked since. But of course, it made life very hard for two reasons – when you’re smoking and you’re writing, you stop writing to light the cigarette and have a puff, and it gives you a pause to think out the next line. But when you’re like this – AAAGH, bloody crap, and you look at it, it’s not crap at all, it’s just you who don’t know where to go next, you’re stuck on a line. So the writing really slowed right down. As an illustration of what I’m saying, I used to write with a minimum of waste. Then it got so that I was wasting three sheets to every one finished. I can tell that because I’m starting off with two reams of paper – fifty sheets of finished product. It got stupid. That’s when I almost clipped off – and stopped writing. But getting back to talking about this concept of writing – being isolated, with a super-active imagination, you are god, writing about people and ordering their lives. Then you enter the real world, and you find it very very hard to communicate ordinarily with people. I did. I couldn’t talk to people. I could talk at them. I could do that on a demonstration wonderfully. But talking to them, I always found that very difficult. Because we don’t seem to think alike. I mean – you’ve got a different sense of humour. Or you’ve got a grass-hopper brain. You might say ‘ah, we couldn’t do this on the moon’. ‘Eh? – funny sod this, keeps talking about the moon’. Or Einstein. Or Darwin… so your conversation begins to get a little bit odd.

Philip E. High would say that as he was driving his bus, or as E.R. James was delivering his letters, they would be working on ‘automatic pilot’ while their minds were elsewhere, on different imaginary journeys. That’s right. You do that driving a lorry. I used to say to people ‘if you were to ask me ‘what did you see?’ while you were driving that lorry, I couldn’t tell them. I could tell you what didn’t happen. I didn’t have an accident. I didn’t kill anyone. But I couldn’t tell you what happened. Because your mind switches into overdrive while your body operates on an automatic level.

You bought several Philip E. High stories for ‘Authentic SF’. He told me he was very pleased with the cover-art you commissioned for one of them. No, I didn’t do the covers, that was the trouble. I had nothing to do with covers. Covers and magazines were two different things. I don’t know how it works now, but then you never even saw the artist. We were never up in that editorial bracket. No – Christ, you didn’t know what the hell they were doing when they were illustrating your stories. Usually, what they’d do, they’d have a cover or two put by, and they’d think ‘well, this one would do it!’ So we’d get into the ridiculous situation where – was it with ‘Authentic SF’? No – it was ‘Scion Books’, where we had identical covers used for two entirely different stories. One was called ‘City Of No Return’, and the other was called ‘Hell Planet’. Phil (Harbottle) will confirm this. That they both have the same cover. It’s just – ‘we’ll use this one again’. It didn’t matter. The artists used to suffer quite a bit in those days, too. All in all they had a hard time. As bad as the authors. It got to the point where one artist went in there, he’d had a gut-full of them, he was going to punch the publisher out. Not only were they not paying him but they were ripping him off by re-selling his stuff and re-using it. Now – of course, they are highly respected individuals, they retain control of their covers and all this business. They didn’t in those days. ‘Do a cover with a spaceship on it’, and they’d bring it in, and they just sold whatever it was, for £10, £20 each. Very rarely did they even get to see the stories in those days. Although sometimes the author would be given a cover to write a story about, to justify it being there. And you could usually tell when that was the case, because you always found a very concise description of the cover-scene in the story. A dead give-away really. That happened quite often on all the magazines. The pulps as well.

Yet there were some very fine artists working for the SF field at that time, people like Alan Hunter, Brian Lewis, Ron Turner, Harry Turner. There were a lot of good illustrators. I always thought they were undervalued. And under-paid. I saw some examples recently at a Pulp Convention (by James Rattigan?), and the detail is incredible. I envy artists. I wish I could do that – speak with a brush! This, to me, is really good. And another work-of-art was the blurbs that were used on the old ‘Pocket Books’. Which the author was supposed to write. Some of them were more fiction than what was found within the covers. (‘Through the street of Staren he passed, an ever-young golden figure. Kalgan was immortal, but for this there was a bitter price to pay. And when the mighty Tharg also wanted immortality, Kalgan was prepared to give it to him, providing…’ – “Kalgan The Golden” in ‘The British Space Fiction Magazine Vol.2 no.3’ August 1955)

I always enjoyed Science Fiction that restricted itself to a Solar System setting. Known worlds with mythologies built up by a succession of writers. I know. Science shot us down, didn’t it? We had a Mars, it was ideal. We had a Venus too – all swamp, with dinosaurs running around. We had asteroids out there. It was perfectly nice. And they go and ruin it. They’ve even made a mess of the Moon now.

Setting stories within the bounds of the Solar System must have forced you to write within a kind of discipline. Even though many of the ‘facts’ you adhered to have subsequently been proved wrong. It did. It was a help really because you were operating against a ‘known’ background. Which meant you were writing near to reality. Again, the only difference was that you hadn’t actually been there. You could have your characters on Mars. And you did know… I mean, when you think about it really, if you wanted to be really cynical you could’ve put them in any desert, in the middle of the Sahara, and the story would’ve been exactly the same. Freezing at night. No air. No food. No nothing. They’re really stories of conflict among people set against themselves in a small community. But then, most Science Fiction was like that. Your monsters weren’t just giant ants or slugs, your monsters could just as easily be the locusts eating the crops from under you here on Earth, or all that kind of thing. So really – getting back to the original question, there are only a certain amount of situations, as there are only a certain amount of plots, as there are only a certain amount of character-types. And they’re just interchangeable, one against the other. And so, it’s hard – I should think, now, to come out with a completely new and novel idea, one that is not just retrieved or refashioned in the usual way. I mean, Arthur Clarke made his things very very big, and so did Larry Niven in his ‘Ringworld’ series. All the descriptions are in miles. It was so big that the mind couldn’t comprehend it. But really, it didn’t mean anything, did it? Just ‘cos something’s so bloody big – a five-mile-long spaceship, it’s in no way really different to a half-mile-long spaceship. It doesn’t make it necessarily any more awe-inspiring. It just makes it larger.

You did a novel called ‘Hell Planet’ set on the traditional-SF idea of a Mercury with one side hot and the other side cold – as astronomers of the time believed. It still is that way so far as I’m concerned! I suppose you were limited. So you had to try and – sort of, be a bit different. Invent different civilisations. Getting back to that. On the Moon, it’s obvious what you have to be because you have an environment which determines you’ve got to live like a bee in a hive or something like that. But that’s no excuse for doing exactly that sort of thing. And then, after you’ve done that, you move outside the Solar System, because you can’t do that anymore. Because that whole painstakingly-constructed consensus mythology about the Solar System has been steadily broken down by probes and better science. It has. That’s the trouble. Years and years ago I used to pose this kind of question – ‘what’s going to happen when Science Fiction comes real?’

To me, the landing on the Moon seemed like a significant terminator, where it tilted emphatically from Science Fiction into science fact. And since then… I suppose so, yes. And you actually contributed to the commemorative anthology of Science Fiction writers’ reactions to the event, ‘Men On The Moon’. It was one of those things (laughs). That was just… extrapolation. I suppose, it had happened, and to me – I could never understand at the time, when Yuri Gagarin went around the Earth, when he had PROVED Science Fiction not to be the giggling silly thing people thought it to be. Not like the Royal Astronomers who called it a ‘whole load of rubbish’. Then we actually got to the Moon! We – as Science Fiction people could at least have had a party to celebrate the culmination of a dream. We didn’t. Nobody did. Nobody cared. Reaction was non-existent. They’d proved it could be done. This was what all of the stuff is about. Doing it. Only it wasn’t, of course. What we were looking for was escape. And really, we resented them getting to the moon. Because that was the best avenue of escape we’d ever had. And they showed us what going to the Moon was really like. And Mars, of course, was worse. No more Dejah Thoris, no more John Carter, no more Lost Cities where anything could happen. We couldn’t do that anymore, you see. So we had to travel further out, didn’t we? Never mind Einstein – he was wrong. We got out of the Solar System to the stars. And that’s really the story-teller always running away from reality all the time. Getting away from it. Then fiction-writers began going backwards as well, back in time to re-invent the old sooth-sayers, sorcerers and witches, elves and hobbits. The bloody ‘Middle Earth’ thing – oh god! What was it – ‘Lord Of The Rings’? Which might be a wonderful story and all that, but it’s not for me. I just can’t. It’s a kiddies yarn, and that’s all there is to it.

Another effect of the ‘intrusion of reality’ onto Science Fiction was the so-called ‘New Wave’ which happened in Britain when Michael Moorcock took over as editor of ‘New Worlds’. Well, I don’t know. It had an effect on it. But I don’t know if it was a good one. Because the writing they were doing could have been anything. It was kind-of ‘novel’ writing. To me, it wasn’t a direct off-shoot of Science Fiction or anything like that. It was ‘Speculative Fiction’, in the real sense of the term. But to me it was more than an off-shoot. It was something different. I mean – it had been around before, and it’s still around. It’s like poetry. What is poetry? It’s what we choose to call it. So – you’re getting my concept of poetry, which is rhyming – the old ‘the moon’s a ghostly galleon’, or you’re getting the so-called free modern poetry which to me is just prose cut-up and stuck together. So the ‘New Wave’ writing… it did break down barriers, it was good in many ways, but it didn’t really carry everything with it. Because you got a lot of emulators, and they normally write pretty-much the same sort of stuff. That’s fine. And there again, not to denigrate anyone, but John Brunner did it with his ‘Stand On Zanzibar’ and his ‘Jagged Orbit’, ‘The Sheep Look Up’ – all very good books, all with a message. You can go so far down this route, and he did, he carried it very well indeed – ‘The Sheep Look Up’ is a great and horrifying book, if we’re talking about horror. But there it is. We’re living in it. It’s no longer in the future. It is now. Well – ‘Stand On Zanzibar’, that will be next week! But still there’s room for the so-called ‘Space Opera’. The action story. Not just the sort of ‘see-how-clever-I-am-that-I-can-produce-this-sort-of-thing’.

It seems to me that the Moon Landing, as you say, closed off one particular area of writing, therefore the ‘New Wave’ had to look for new avenues. But it also bears on what you were saying about ‘how close can you get to reality and still be SF?’ Exactly. So they tried to go inwards, exploring inward motivation. Which I think is very interesting – no doubt. I suppose, when you get into the ‘speculative’ going inwards, you’re starting to explore, let’s call it – for want of a better word, a state of ‘lunacy’. When I say ‘lunacy’, I mean not normal, in the sense that there’s no absolute definition of lunacy. When I say lunacy – if you’re going to talk about a normal man doing a normal job, you haven’t got a story. So you’ve got to sort-of stretch it a little bit. ‘He looked at the legs that were passing, and inwardly drooled…’ Now you’re talking about a man with an obsession. Now – how far does the obsession go before it… and this might be a great deal of fun for you and I to write about. But there’s stuff I can’t tolerate reading, and never write. Sort-of depicting cruelty to animals, and people do that. I always remember the beginning of the movie ‘The Wild Ones’ where they’ve got this scorpion surrounded by ants. I saw nothing in that. Nothing entertaining. Educational. Or necessary in any way. Why the hell do it? So when you get people doing this – probing inwards, I’m not saying people don’t think this way, but I don’t want to read about it, I don’t like it, and I’d rather it just wasn’t there. But that’s just me.

You proved in a sense that you were more than capable of doing that yourself as well as they could, when you wrote “New Experience” – which was about drugs, for publication in Moorcock’s ‘New Worlds no.144’ (Sept/Oct 1964 – collected into ‘The Best Of New Worlds’ Compact Books 1965). Well, I can do it. But no – if I’m getting this story right, this was… a funny story this one. ‘Cos I wrote it twice. And it was the only story I’ve done which obviously came from a dream. I’d had this dream, and I was woken up, and I was telling Ken Bulmer about it and he said ‘why don’t you write it up?’ So I did. And I couldn’t find any way to account for what was happening in this dream, except for loss of memory. Because in this dream I was in an auditorium, and it was empty, and then it was full, and then it was empty, and then it was full. And I thought ‘well, this is weird, this is absolutely weird’. So, on the “New Experience” – I don’t know which particular version, I think I wrote two, there was one where the character was drugged and he had gone away – he had gone out and he was wandering around, that was it. I forget what the other one was now, but everything that he saw he remembered only for a fraction of time, so everything he looked at was perpetually new. And it was strange. Because I don’t know how well I did the story. But that was it. There was another version of that story – I don’t know if that appeared in ‘New Worlds’ too? I can’t even remember the title now. But I tried to tackle it from a slightly different viewpoint – ‘the enemy within’ kind of style. This could have been scope for a great introspective soul-searching novel, you see – ‘this is what I’m talking about’. But I lacked the skill to do all that. It was just an odd thing. Something that – ‘how do you account for?’, ‘what would happen if?’ But I suppose when you do dream, and it’s easy to see how you could just slide into all this, sometimes you dream and don’t realise. You think you’re awake, and then you wake up and realise you’ve been dreaming. Usually it’s to the cost of a good dream. If you experience joy – and it turns out, ‘Christ, I was only dreaming that’. And this has happened to me a couple of times. Once I remember, many years ago, I remember so well, getting out of bed, crossing over to the kind of paraffin fire they had at the time, doing something to it, and going back to bed. Only we didn’t have a paraffin heater. I couldn’t believe it. I said ‘I know I did this!’ – I just know I got up, went over there, turned it off, and went back to bed. Other people have this experience too. Most people have. Or you wake up and think ‘that’s a bloody good book, I really enjoyed it, I’ll re-read that book’ – then you realise, wait a minute, there is no book. You dreamt the book. And yet you go looking for the book that’s not there… But that’s the sort of thing you’re talking about in that story, “New Experience”. It’s not unhinging yourself with drugs. It’s just changing perspectives, I suppose you’d call it. But there again, when we talk about that, are we still talking Science Fiction any more? Or exploration – either that’s all been done. Or it can be done, again and again. You get souped-up on mescaline. Aldous Huxley did that, didn’t he? We’ve had the opium dream. I know. I suppose the problem is, though I can read this – your experiences under drugs, or your experiences under any thing you might try… But I can never be you experiencing it. I’ve only got your word that you saw whatever happens. I mean – read an account of someone who’s taken LSD, and I can’t – sort-of, fit in with it. I can understand you saying ‘the cushion opened its mouth and spoke to me’ – so what? That’s not me seeing a cushion open its mouth. So the personal experience of it has its limitations. Then there’s always the suspicion of disbelief. Did it really happen? Has it been souped-up, polished, edited, revised, made to look good. We won’t have two virgins, we’ll have seven. We won’t have a hundred-story building, we’ll have a thousand storeys. You never know. It’s impossible, because when you try to write down your own dreams you find it almost impossible. They vanish…

As ‘New Worlds’ was going into its experimental phase, Philip Harbottle’s ‘Visions of Tomorrow’ continued to champion the more traditional style of SF narrative. Yes, they were. That was deliberate, I think. But old Phil was unlucky on that. It’s a shame. It was a bloody good mag. And it did turn out a very good thing. The stories were good. The publication, the whole thing was nice. It just had distribution problems. There was a rupture in its distribution. It was timing – had he done that in the 1950’s, for example – you see, no problems! But it was the same with ‘Nebula’. ‘Nebula’ again was a good mag, which could not break the distribution network. Unless you’re in with WH Smith and people like that, you’ve had it. And obviously – unless they’re displayed, they can’t be sold. My own trouble with ‘Arrow Books’ was similar. I used to go to the person at the publishers and say ‘look, I’m walking through a train station, Victoria or Waterloo, and I go along to the bookshop, and I cannot see my work, I cannot see my books. Why aren’t my books being sold there?’ That’s when I learnt, yes – we do sell there, they buy half-a-dozen. But when they’ve gone they won’t re-order. The managers won’t, they’ve sold their half-a-dozen, that’s it. And the mechanics of this are cruel. ‘Cos with Smiths and Menzies, one or two people have the distribution monopoly by the shelf, and unless you play their way by their terms – y’know, if they don’t want you, that’s it. They are the ones who call the tune. So my stuff was never sold as it should have sold simply because it wasn’t displayed as it should have been displayed. So – in the publishing world it’s not what’s good, it’s what is sold. What they choose to hype up, what they choose to launch or push.

Your ‘Earl Dumarest of Terra’ novel-series sold very well in the USA. The ‘Dumarest’ novels did. They’ve been a great friend to me – old ‘Dumarest’. My saviour you might say, literally my saviour. That’s another thing. For ‘Ace’ – for the first eight books they ran to 50,000 words. I’d already done no.9 – then ‘Ace’ goes over to somebody else (‘DAW’). And they want 60,000 words. ‘Mayenne’ was the story. So we have to put in more words. How do I put in 10,000 extra words? They go in the middle of it actually! That was another stretching exercise! But ‘Dumarest’ books went on and on… until, eventually they dried up. They continued going in France. They reprinted the whole run in France. Plus novel no.31. Novel no.32 was written and a contract was signed. But whether 32 will ever see the light of day in an English publication is something else, I don’t know. I’d like to see it (in fact ‘Dumarest Saga no.32: The Return’ was eventually published by Gryphon Books - ISBN 0-936071-83-4). And I’ve since hoped that someone would reprint them – all the ‘Earl Dumarest’ books, in a thicker format. I don’t know what it was with the ‘Dumarest’ books – perhaps they were too thin? That’s another possibility, the era of the thick book began creeping in. People buy by size. And these were all done on 60,000-word length, like I say, 50,000 originally. But they could all be put together. Several of them were written as sequels to each other. There’s one that’s really a triple, there are two that are triples. So they could make a nice thick book. Omnibus editions. A bloody good thick book too, because I’d revise it – I’d put some more in and take some out. A nice 120,000-worder with bags of action in. But no.

The ‘Dumarest’ series must stand as one of the longest-ever SF novel-cycles. I don’t know. I don’t know about the ‘Perry Rhodan’ series, you see. They came out. You see, the trouble with the ‘Dumarest’ one is, I was only producing two novels a year. If I’d done three a year it would have been a lot better all round. I was all set to do the same thing with my ‘Captain Kennedy’ novel-series, but they hammered that one on no.17 – or was it 16? (novel no.17 – ‘The Galactiad (The Cosmic Duel)’ was only published in Germany, in 1976). The ‘Captain Kennedy’ books were done at a rate of one-a-month. Which means you sort-of don’t have to put in so much explanation, because the reader had read the previous one only last month so he didn’t need to have… or, you only need put in a line or two. On the ‘Dumarest’ ones I had to sort-of base the things on ‘nobody may have read the previous book’, so I had to make it complete in itself…

My conversation with the ‘Tall Adventurer’ winds down, moving into related areas such as his scripting for comic-books, his tie-in novels for the ‘Space 1999’ TV series, his ‘Atilus The Gladiator’ novels set in ancient Rome, his Westerns (as Chet Lawson, among others), his Foreign Legion tales (as Jud Cary), and more… far too wide an expanse of literary terrain to be completely covered even in a feature of this length. He signs his stories in magazines I’ve brought for the purpose, and selects some rare editions from his own shelf to gift me with. He’s never less than a commanding figure. Odd to imagine now that, as a kid, I would hang on every word he wrote. And that, preparing myself for finally meeting him, re-reading those same stories, they work exactly the same kind of magic. We shake hands. And E.C. Tubb smiles, “it’s been a great shakedown…!”

INTERVIEW CONDUCTED BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

With grateful acknowledgements to Philip Harbottle and
EC Tubb for help, inspiration, and for their kind indulgences.

Eddie Cochran CD



Album Review of:
‘ROCKIN’ IT’ by
EDDIE COCHRAN
(Thunderbird CD0013) www.t-birdrecords.com

Writer Mick Farren claimed the lines ‘I called my Congressman but he said, quote, I’d like to help you, son, but you’re too young to vote’, constitute the first genuine political Rock ‘n’ Roll statement. Well, maybe. But as an early Rocker with an abbreviated life-span Eddie did pack a lot into his years. Valuably, the Rockstar label ransacked his posthumous archives, salvaging raw and curious formative stuff, session work, studio try-outs and instrumental blue-prints into a series of albums, the best of which forms the source for the thirty tracks collected here. The earliest, “Hearts Of Stone”, is a two-track home recording done at Chuck Foreman’s home in Bellflower, LA, when Eddie was just fourteen. Soon, he was making himself a useful guy to have around, not only adept at fingering a fretboard, but picking up and adapting new-style techniques that gave him a session edge. Eddie’s big Gretsch guitar was gainfully employed around local shotgun studios, where he became familiar with the tricks involved in shoving primitive dubbing technology beyond its natural limits. While sitting in on songwriter demos too. A session for the Bo Davis ‘A’-side “Drowning All My Sorrows” is a Sun Rockabilly version of “Heartbreak Hotel”. Producer and long-term collaborator Jerry Capehart’s Western Swing version of “Latch On” is evolved into proto-Rock by the Cochran Brothers, with Eddie’s grunts and back-chat. Despite not being real brothers, the duo formed a convenient vehicle and a Rocking proposition, no harmonies, but instead trading lines and contra-lines with “Slow Down” and the lost ‘A’-side “Tired & Sleepy” about ‘an uptown cat living in a crazy pad’. Eddie’s first US Top 20 single “Sittin’ In The Balcony” – no.18 in March 1957, appears as a live TV version. Endearingly, as he’s smooching his girl through the movie they ‘stop loving to watch Bugs Bunny’, before resuming again. This is not a hit’s compilation. Which is not to say there’s not brilliant stuff. “Mean When I’m Mad” is moody macho posturing, “Pink-Peg Slacks” borrows its sartorial style from Carl Perkins. “Cruisin’ The Drive-In” is irresistible teen Pop-Rock. And “Nervous Breakdown” is not only a dry-run for the three CF&G riff-chords of “C’Mon Everybody” but the ‘no more cruisin’ for a week or two, no more runnin’ round with the usual crew’ lyric too. As a bonus there are four strong live hit performances from Jack Good’s TV ‘Boy Meets Girl’ show in early 1960, just three months before Eddie’s fatal A4 collision. It’s a cliché to ask what might have been, but on the evidence of this career overview his prolific talent and voracious appetite for experiment was on a stratospheric rising curve when it was abruptly terminated. “Summertime Blues” has since been blustered and inflated into Pomp by the Who. “C’Mon Everybody” and “Somethin’ Else” done with snotty comic-menace by Sid Vicious, more in line with Malcolm McLaren’s masterplan of integrating Punk into long-term insurrectionist tradition. But no-one’s ever bettered Eddie’s originals

Friday, 27 August 2010

'Love Song Of The City'



LOVE SONG OF THE CITY
(after Adrian Henri)

for you, I would translate the smoke from factory chimneys
into bouquets of plastic flowers
for you, Israel would bomb Gaza with Love Poems
for you, High Court Judges would perjure themselves
Old Ladies would help Policemen across the road
and the Pope would commit bigamy
for you, I would fill out every application form and questionnaire
in the Huddersfield Council Offices, in triplicate
would cross Leeds city centre, vaulting over every parking metre
without sustaining injury, at rush hour, a million times
would write four-letter poems on rail-station toilet walls
would die to rise again on the third day
like dawn over Bradford mills
& would paint pictures with the patterns
left by petrol stains on garage forecourt...

you are Warhol’s banana on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
you are a Miles Davis solo on the Radio Two breakfast show
you are a joint in church at midnight
you are Lois Lane to my Clark Kent
you are Auden on the cover of ‘The Beano’
you are a Bach cantata on the ‘Blue Boar’ jukebox
you are amazing grace

for you, every plaster duck on every wall of every terraced house
in Huddersfield would take wing to circle
the one-way street system, the wrong way
mine-shafts would silt with parking tickets
& Barnsley councillors would pawn
the Town Hall cutlery
for you, airports would return apologetically to forests
vapour trails would form erotic symbols across the sky
& daisies would be sown across the motorways
for you, I would write poems as bright as magnesium flares
to light your way
back to
me…


Published in:
‘MOONSHINE’ (UK)
‘PENETRATION’ (UK)
‘SANDWICHES no.16’ (UK – December 1976)
and my collection ‘POSITIVE/NEGATIVE’ (Straight Enterprises – UK)
while ‘Love Pome’ was published separately in:
‘BOGG no.15’ (UK)

Liverpool Scene: 'Bread On The Night'


ADRIAN HENRI:
‘BREAD ON THE NIGHT’

Looking back on:
‘BREAD ON THE NIGHT’
by LIVERPOOL SCENE
(RCA Victor SF8057, 1969)

What were they thinking of? What on earth were the RCA suits thinking when they scheduled the release of ‘Bread On The Night’ by Liverpool Scene? Could they really have imagined they had a commercial property on their hands? Is that remotely possible? Surely it’s evidence of strangely different days that a major record label was willing to release, not just one Liverpool Scene LP, but four of them. Each of which failed to return on its advance. What were RCA thinking? Grab a look at the cover-shot. The group were incapable of giving good face, even in the dishevelled sixties sense of disarray. From every logical marketing point of view, they were a preposterous proposition. A rabble of rogues, a parcel of misfits. Well – there were precedents, actually. Listen to various fragments of the album, and you touch elements of, not quite Scaffold or the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, not quite Lindisfarne or the Fugs, but something that has bits of them all, and none of them. Liverpool Scene was part of the greater art-Rock Folk-Poetry trad-cabaret anti-commercial underground, and also a scene unto themselves. There was nothing quite like them, prior to them, and there’s certainly been nothing remotely like them since.

Adrian Henri was already a name. Although he was far from the only name within the group. I once talked my way into supporting him when he did a reading at the Wakefield ‘Unity Hall’. Wrangling at the pay-desk until I got free admission in exchange for a twenty-minute reading spot. The venue is now derelict, although then, around the early-to-mid-seventies, I also saw Captain Beefheart, and punk band Chelsea there. A strange constellation of names. I hadn’t been writing long, but I’d written a poem consciously in the Adrian Henri style, attempting to draw upon the same kind of urban wistful romanticism, aping his Pop-culture references and sudden flights of oddness, the way he twists lines from the street-level into the esoteric within the space of a phrase. I’d sat up typing out multiple copies on colour-tinted off-cut paper stolen from work, with layers of carbons adding to their bulk, so that once I completed the set on stage I was able to throw copies from the mike down upon the audience. The intention was that they’d rain down like poetic confetti. Instead they formed a flying wedge that narrowly missed causing harm. I’m sure I glimpsed Adrian Henri smirking from the side of the stage. He formed a solid presence, rotund, bearded, wearing a fringed brown-leather jacket. He was reading from his latest book, more serio-surreal than the audience expected. I got the feeling they wanted the hits. The poems they knew. The ones from ‘The Mersey Sound’ anthology (Penguin Modern Poets No.10, 1967). When he did something familiar they reacted and applauded with genuine vigour. But I also gained the impression he was somewhat disappointed by the level of their response. In fact, he confided as much later, in a slightly guarded way across the alcove of the ‘Black Horse’ tavern opposite. Not that he need worry. What’s one night in Wakefield out of a life of readings?

Liverpool. It was different then. Even the accent was different. Over the years since, it has changed. Listen to the rich slur of Lennon or George Harrison in ‘A Hard Days Night’. That accent has gradually shifted, evolved higher and more whining, to become what it is today. During World War II Merseyside took the full brunt of the Luftwaffe firestorm, but came out with a swaggering bantering confidence, classless and free, with an insolent cheek as wide as Gerry Marsden’s grin. If it’s now nominated a European City Of Culture, it was more so then, when Ginsberg declared it the ‘centre of the human universe’. Even after the ‘Mersey Beat’ group-wave receded, as Pop got more lyrical, poetic stanzas went Pop, and the press refocused on new levels of creativity in the city. The logic said that if record-buyers could memorise huge verse-screeds of ‘Desolation Row’, they could deal with Pop poets too. After all, it had been going on in pub back-rooms for some time, in the L8 ‘Streates Coffee Bar’, or in the ‘Everyman Theatre’. Although now inextricably entangled with the riot-myths of Toxteth, Liverpool 8 was then ‘an unpunctuated state of mind’, a gently decayed bohemia of layabouts, artists and beatniks, a low-rent district of Georgian squares and terraces where – as Liverpudlian George Melly tells it (in his ‘Revolt Into Style’, Penguin, 1970), Henri’s ‘bearded, bespectacled, pear-shaped polymath’ infused his diverse enthusiasms for Apollinaire, Andre Breton, Jarry and Magritte into the volatile culture mix. Next door to the Liverpool Police HQ on the corner of Hope and Hardman Streets, there was ‘O’Connors Tavern’ – a sometime poetry venues outside of which the group-shot cover-photo for ‘The Amazing Adventures Of Liverpool Scene’ was taken (the venue later became a Fancy Dress shop). If it sounds obvious to say now that the poetry they read there spoke with its own street-level voice and distinctive humour, it was revelationary then. To Adrian Henri, poems could be like found-art picked up from words in the street, ‘words scrawled on pavements, words painted on walls, words painted on the road – Stop!, Go!, Halt!’, or maybe words like ‘dandelion seeds blowing from waste-ground’.
And yet Adrian Henri wasn’t all Liverpool. Born in Birkenhead – 10th April 1932, he spent the war years down the coast in Rhyl, working the fairground for ten summer months. He studied at the old-fashioned North Wales St Asaph Grammar as the only student of his year taking ‘A’-level Art, hence having the study-room to himself! He graduated in Art in 1955 from the University of Durham. But his life in art moved parallel to his life in verse. By 1957, turned twenty-four, he was back in Liverpool where he encountered Roger McGough and Brian Patten. Soon after that he was doing Jazzetry – Jazz-Poetry, exploring temporary performance art at multi-media ‘happenings’ before there was a name for it. His poems sang anyway, written to the percussive rap of acoustic typewriter, and by 1965, to paraphrase Jeff Nuttall, he was inevitable. It was he who invited Ginsberg up to the ‘pool, although its cultural connection with the Beatles may have been a catalyst in his accepting, and Henri drew outsiders such as Pete Brown and Mike Horovitz into the reading scene. He was writing poems about “I Want To Paint” (‘fifty life-sized nudes of Marianne Faithfull, all of them painted from life’), while his first one-man exhibition took place at the London Institute Of Contemporary Arts in 1968. He did an album with Roger McGough ‘Recorded Live Along The Mersey Beat’, with the ‘Scouse guitar’ of Andy Roberts playing back-up. Titled ‘The Incredible New Liverpool Scene’ (1967) it included Adrian’s poems “Tonight At Noon” and “Mrs Albion You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter”. As McGough, in league with Mike McGear and John Gorman, lived out Henri’s line about when ‘poets get their poems in the Top Twenty’ (in “Tonight At Noon”), and Brian Patten took his tousled versifying south, Adrian Henri gravitated further into group-form. An idea most would have filed under ‘improbable’.

John Peel, still DJ-ing his ‘Perfumed Garden’ at Radio London picked up on ‘The Incredible New Liverpool Scene’ album, played bits on-air, and encouraged its development. When Adrian assembled a new semi-stable group-oid line-up – playing its debut gig at Aberystwyth, it was his personality plastered across the band. With Tuesdays at O’Conner’s, and a Wednesday-night residency at the tarted-up Cavern Club. Yet the first single was Mike Hart’s raucous proto-scally sing-along “Son, Son”, issued in November 1968. Hart recites the verse with mock-childish naiveté, until the catchy hook-chorus comes crashing in with irresistibly rowdy harmonies. A fine single promoted by RCA to healthy air-play, it proved a worthy trailer for ‘The Amazing Adventures Of Liverpool Scene’ (1968) which came a month later. John Peel took producer credits for this, their debut proper, a beautifully unwieldy confusion of delights, a roaring cabaret made up of divers entities. The emerging Liverpool Scene would never be confined by the simple description ‘Rock Band’. With its joyously chaotic mixture of sounds, poetry, spoof ‘Bomb Commercials’, news items, and songs with titles like Mike Hart’s “Happy Burial Blues” (words by Maurice Cockrill), it was a fairly accurate reflection of their full-on stage attack. Here are Adrian Henri’s folk-songs being ‘sung by real folk’, a world in which ‘art galleries are closed to people over twenty-one’. But if RCA had thought they were signing a second Scaffold with their coy music-hall ditties and comedy-pantomime sketches, then that illusion must soon have become apparent. Liverpool Scene was made up of musicians with genuine technical ability, versed in a wide range of styles, and unwilling to settle for purely back-up status. Indeed, collectivist fusion was the concept imprinted into the unwieldy gang’s genome. They were a Rock group – with poetry, and it was this degree of stylistic incongruity that gave Liverpool Scene both its vital air of shambling anarchistic spontaneity, and the rifts that would bring about its long-term instability.

When Adrian Henri published his well-received poetry collection ‘Tonight At Noon’ (1968), excerpts were drawn from, or fused into the Liverpool Scene repertoire, either with or without the addition of complex musical accompaniment. The poems were written to be read aloud anyway, and were intended to work better on stage than on the page. They plunder the Pop-mythology of Frankenstein, and Batman – set to the TV-theme tune. They quote piecemeal from the Coasters (“Along Came Jones” in “Wild West Poems”) and Phil Spector (‘to know you is to love you’ in “Love Poem”). The poem “Me” credits influences as wide-ranging as John Coltrane, Blake, Jackson Pollock, Kropotkin, William Burroughs, HP Lovecraft, Trotsky, Marquis de Sade, and others, while poems like “Love Is” – set to a reggae rhythm (‘love is feeling cold in the back of vans / love is a fan-club with only two fans / love is walking holding paint-stained hands / love is’) and “Song Of Affluence” – as poems, are simply Pop songs without music. The latter taken from the source also pillaged by American Rock band Electric Flag for their “I Wouldn’t Leave My Wooden Wife For You”. Some of the poems form contrived jokes or word-play, but they are direct, and they communicate in ways that spoken-word had not communicated for decades. They still provide a luring introduction to the idea that poetry can be fun. Ideally suited to initiates.

‘Tonight At Noon’ is dedicated to Charlie Mingus, and to Liverpool group The Clayton Squares, and poet/saxist Mike Evans – a former member of the Squares, was there. As was guitarist-songwriter Andy Roberts. Not Scouse-born but from Harrow, Andy happened to be attending Liverpool University while backing Adrian Henri’s poetry and ‘playing Spider John Koerner numbers’ (Spider John was a white American ragtime guitarist). Andy was in full-time from the group’s inception, even as he and Adrian did duo poetry dates (including Leeds Folk Club at the Royal Sovereign pun 30 June 1967). Mike Hart from the Roadrunners was there too. For ‘Bread On The Night’ (1969), Hart was gone, but drummer Bryan Dodson and bassist Percy Jones were in. Liverpool Scene, or its various guises – Bobby & The Helmets, Brute Force & Ignorance, or The Spontaneous Rubbish Ensemble, carried no passengers. Credits were equally split.
Mike Evans’ melancholy squeeze-box opener to the album, “The Day We Danced At The Dole” tells a tale that sets up exactly what it’s all about, bursting into the kind of jaunty tambourine-rattling Morris-Men reel last encountered on a Fairport Convention album. It relates how installing a jukebox in the Leece Street Labour Exchange transforms dreary dole-queue drudgery into joyful celebration. ‘Signing on to Rock ‘n’ Roll’ becomes the danceable solution to benefit fraud with Wilson Pickett, while there’s Englebert playing in the Woman’s section. Give the story a JobCentre-Plus rebranding and the scenario doesn’t quite work. Andy Roberts, a hugely underrated presence whose own creativity is frequently overlooked in the light of his associations with every other manifestation of poetry, comedy, and Folk-Rock, adds “The Raven” and “64”. The former is not an Edgar Allen Poe reference, but carries a macabre-humour edge, as the ‘family sat, tossing goldfish to the cat’, with TV dinners on their knee. The raven on the roof becomes a metaphor for the vagaries of status and fortune as munitions-work is both the curse that kills the father even as it class-elevates the family over their next-door neighbours who ‘cultivate a garden which they smoke’. The latter title is a jaunty neighbours-from-hell tale, based on the house-number Adrian Henri and Andy Roberts shared through the Liverpool Scene years. There’s ‘a hole in the bathroom ceiling where the poet’s foot went through, which now is used for chucking things at people on the loo’. There’s also Mike Evans’ “GBS Blues”, with its Dylanesque phrasing and harmonica, a song that seems to be about a girl who ‘wears clothes so clumsy you’d think they’re for some other girls’ and who ‘walks like a spaceman treading on a brand new world’, before it expands into full stoned acid-surrealism. Then, flip the vinyl to side two, and “Come Into The Perfumed Garden, Maud” is credited to Henri but features creeping bass and free-jazzy sax in its long instrumental changes. While the linked “See The Conkering Heroine Comes / Winter Poem”, is decorous with Andy Roberts’ Simon & Garfunkel guitar. It risks straying into over-cuteness with its romantic imagery of ‘caught purple-handed coming back from blackberrying’ and the Pop-consumerist eye that sees ‘leaves, you said, were the colour of the green sweets in Mackintosh’s Weekend’. Reflecting the change in seasons its ‘cold hands through woolly gloves’ conjures a kind of sensual pleasure.
But the two major tracks, one on each vinyl side, are primarily Adrian Henri vehicles. He’d trailored ‘the entry of Christ into Liverpool in 1966’ as a line in “I Want To Paint”, referencing James Ensor’s 1889 painting ‘The Entry Of Christ Into Brussels’. He’d also anticipated the poem with his own painting dated 1962-64, showing crowds gathering outside Lime Street Railway Station (art critic William Feaver observes ‘Henri and friends, Beatles among them, stand beneath signs for ‘Ban The Bomb’, ‘Coleman’s Mustard’ and ‘Long Live Socialism’. Seekers of the original Sergeant Pepper need look no further’). But here, he inflates the line into a full epic poem, into a Liverpool ‘Desolation Row’. It opens with quiet Saturday morning shoppers carrying baskets, there are dogs, girls in curlers, and headscarves that smell of factories. Then the pipes and marching kettle-drums of the procession come around the corner into Myrtle Street, with drunks stumbling and ‘excited feet crushing the geraniums’. Although it’s essentially observed from life, the sectarian march fills with transfiguring masks and a menagerie of incidents. Henri notes the banners non-judgementally, from the ‘Loyal Sons of King William Lodge, Bootle’, to those announcing ‘Keep Britain White’, or ‘Long Live Ian Paisley’, all fleshed out further by the full band (playing the Folk song on which TV’s ‘Z Cars’ theme is based), as the procession winds down past the Labour exchange, the Philharmonic Hall and ‘O’Connors Tavern’. Henri exhibits the full range of his art-literary influences by drawing Guillaume Apollinaire into its Symbolist soundscape, with the Pieter ‘Bruegel-faces of old ladies in the crowd’, then he glimpses absurdist ‘Ubu Roi’ writer Alfred Jarry ‘cycling carefully through the crowds’, as well as James Ensor himself, the ‘King of Masks’. And a figure in white robes on a donkey. The phantasmagorical parade peaks into a shouted crescendo filching stuttered ad-speak ‘Guinness is… good for you’, as a Pop-Art collage might appropriate print-ads. Then there’s the aftermath, the anticlimactic evening, the ‘men with big brooms sweeping the gutters’, and the poet himself stumbling home alone with ‘empty chip papers drifting round my feet’. Sometimes, listening to an Adrian Henri poem can be all but indistinguishable from being inside it. An amazing sound-poem, it would reappear, in print, as part of the revised and expanded edition of ‘The Mersey Sound’ (1983).

Then there’s “I’ve Got Those Fleetwood Mac Chicken Shack John Mayall Can’t Fail Blues” with Andy Roberts slide-guitar artfully pastiching the kind of ‘Jethro Tull belly-full Savoy Brown reach-me-down’ white-boy Blues the lyrics satirise. An Adrian Henri song – rather than a poem, it opens ‘woke up this morning’ – the only way a blues can open, with him finding ‘my agent, and the people from Blue Horizon records, Mike & Richard Vernon, standing in my room’. They advise him to learn some Blues, son, because there’s gonna be a great big boom, daddy! So, with ‘bottleneck the latest trend’, even though ‘I don’t know the chords and I just can’t sing, but there’s lots and noise and the drums don’t swing’, the band cranks up into blues-standard “Spoonful” which Henri slyly reworks into first ‘got money by the spoonful’, then money by the handful, by the roomful, and finally by the bank-full! The track winds down with the sound of creaking chairs and scattered applause, as the virtual gig collapses. Henri whingeingly mimics an irate Jobsworth complaining that the Hall should have closed at ten-thirty and it’s already past eleven. Hadn’t he fought the war for the likes of us? The comic scenario deliberately reflects the footer-text on the sleeve that warns ‘Cash With Bandleader On Night Of Engagement’, and the track probably stands as the group’s most high-profile moment.

Throughout those years Liverpool Scene formed a lumbering presence at Festivals (including a Saturday set at the 1969 Isle of Wight Festival), or touring supporting such unlikely headliners as the burgeoning Led Zeppelin, as well as appearing at concert venues across the land. And inevitably, on stage with Liverpool Scene, the over-awing presence of sixteen-stone ferociously-bearded Adrian Henri was visually dominant. They toured through 1969, during which they released another single – “The Woo-Woo”, a percussive sax-led largely-instrumental piece commemorating the fictitious Bobby & The Helmets, a group-name not exactly unconnected to the glans of the penis. According to Adrian Henri’s lead-in, Bobby & The Helmets died in a New York soda-fountain explosion in 14 August 1957, but they play on for ‘the great promoter in the sky’. As the year ground to a halt it found the Scene in an advanced state of disintegration. There was to be one more group album – ‘St Adrian & Co, Broadway & Third’ (1970). But there were other outlets for the group’s material. The Andy Roberts solo catalogue had already begun with solo LP ‘Home Grown’ (1970) – a title not exactly unconnected to the home-cultivation of dope in ‘a garden which they smoke’. The album includes his fine “Moths & Lizards In Detroit”, reliving incidents from the Liverpool Scene’s eventful US tour, before which Brian Dodson contracted tuberculosis, precipitating former-Escorts drummer Pete Clarke to step in. ‘That terrible American tour which just about destroyed us’ as Andy Roberts recalls. But ‘Home Grown’ remains a highly collectible album, and a general good thing. Nevertheless, by April it was obvious the Scene was extinct. They split up following a final gig at the LSE, and such was the state of relations within the group that they were unable to complete twenty further planned dates. Sandy Robertson, their manager, told ‘Melody Maker’ that ‘the group was going to carry on until the end of June, but there was so much disharmony between the members it became impossible to continue’.

They split with only one slab of retrospective vinyl remaining, the rarities and out-take collection ‘Heirloon’ (1970). Its material spanned a life-time running from September 1968 to June 1970, with previously unreleased live material. There’s an extended version of Mike Evans’ “Tramcar To Frankenstein” well-worth ear-time (‘as I boarded the tram the man said ‘just ask for Frankenstein’… the lines grew rusty and dusty’), a rocking “The Woo-Woo”, the percussive “Gunner From Dakar”, and Adrian’s “Love Is”. It was followed by the compilation ‘Recollections’ (1972). Already by this time Andy Roberts had formed his band Everyone, debuting at the Isle of Wight Festival, and Mike Hart had released his first solo album (‘Mike Hart Bleeds’ produced by John Peel and issued through his Dandelion label). A second album, issued under the ‘Mike Hart & Comrades’ group name, called ‘Basher, Chalky, Pongo & Me’ also came through Dandelion in October 1972. It was a humorous set featuring Bonzo Dog luminary Viv Stanshall and pianist Robin Park working their way through titles like “Neil’s Song”, “Dear Bathsheba Everdene” (referencing Thomas Hardy), and the amusing “If You’ve Ever Been In Love”. Andy Roberts formed Plainsong with Ian Matthews in 1972 and made one country-flavoured LP for Elektra together before Ian quit, and the project folded. He was also part of Grimms – from 1973 to 1974 with Zoot Money and Neil Innes, a tumultuous churning mix of music and humour, a road show which he themed with “Clowns On The Road”, while continuing to record for Elektra, with solo album ‘The Great Stampede’ (1973). From April 1977 Andy Roberts was part of Yellow Dog (with ex-Stealers Wheel Gary Taylor, plus Kenny Young & Herbie Armstrong formerly of Fox), then through October he was playing with Roy Harper’s Black Sheep, while writing the score for the BBC ‘Play For Today: The Out Of Town Boys’ (January 1978) and Howard Schuman’s theatre extravaganza ‘Censored Scenes From King Kong’ (February 1978). But despite such eventful fragmentations there was one final spasm left in the suspended Liverpool Scene.

In June 1974 they got together for a reunion two-month one-off tour (with bassist Dave Richards replacing Percy Jones, and drummer Mike Kellie standing in for Frank Garrett). The round of gigs were taken at a less furious and self-destructive pace, with space for each member to indulge in solo explorations. Andy Roberts played a country-styled spot fleshed out with material from his ‘The Great Stampede’, and later played acoustic banjo on “Wild West”. Mike Hart added his own composition about the events of 7 January 1968 – “Gliders, Pranks & Other Things”. While Adrian Henri read poems about Batman – opening with ‘rockabye baby’ and pleading for the caped crusader’s intervention in the Vietnam conflict, and about the Liverpool Football team with “The Ballad Of Chairman Shankly”. But there was ensemble playing too on “Car Crash Blues” – dedicated to Enoch Powell, “Speedway” which, according to Roberts, ‘has little to recommend it except that it is loud and we get off on it’, and finally the exuberant dance-craze “The Woo-Woo”. It was a tour that provided fascinating intimations of what might have been. A spectacle altogether too expansive to ever be contained within the restrictions of a vinyl LP, although the 2CD ‘The Amazing Adventures Of Liverpool Scene’ comes close, and there’s a live TV-clip dated February 1969 on YouTube of the spacey jazzy improvisations swirling around a reading of “We’ll All Be Spacemen Before We Die” illustrating how dextrously fluid a fusion it could be. Twas indeed a motley crew, and this performance shows how amazing ‘Amazing Adventures’ could be…

While, around the same time, on the liner-notes for the Jam’s ‘Modern World’ album Paul Weller was writing his dedication ‘for Adrian Henri, for foresight and inspiration’. Even as Henri was doing his reading at the Unity Hall in Wakefield, he was becoming part of cultural heritage. With ‘Bread On The Night’ as a rare and precious delight. A souvenir of a curious era when a major record label was willing to conjecture such an unlikely proposition. Surely, in retrospect, when the RCA suits signed Liverpool Scene, it’s less that they imagined they had a commercial property on their hands. More evidence of strangely different days, when squirming unformed art-experiments were emerging in the unlikeliest places and in the strangest of forms. The established hierarchy were tilted off-centre by it all, didn’t know how to react. They sensed something was happening, that there was a sympathetic audience for it, and there was a need to grab a part of whatever it was. Oddly, now when consumers have vastly more inflated disposable incomes, music-industry budgets seem proportionally that much tighter. Probably that’s something to do with the growth of the independent sector. Back when Liverpool Scene were roaring the major labels exerted a monopolistic stranglehold on vinyl, and RCA revenue from its mainstream artists Elvis Presley and Jefferson Airplane were there to finance its more esoteric forays into less lucrative projects. That a major label was willing to release, not just one, but four hugely diverse and rewarding Liverpool Scene LP’s, is a remarkably enduring testament to those strangest of strange days. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Adrian Henri never left Liverpool. He lived in a tall Georgian terraced house on the fringes of Toxteth, and died 21st December 2000, aged 68.

Meanwhile Unity Hall in Wakefield is constructed on several levels. Some weekends they held flea-markets here, where you might pick up an early ‘Eagle Annual’ or some Little Richard 78rpm’s. Other weekends they held model-railway exhibitions. Tonight they have live poetry. The wind comes in off a huge expanse of bare tarmac car-park as I crouch in with poems in every pocket. Even as I wrangle at the pay-desk it’s evidently already started, for somewhere above me I can hear the promoter’s clinical poetry being read. Once I’ve slunk inside, I see an ‘artsy-fartsy’ audience sitting in their polite rows, applauding politely as someone reads excerpts from RD Laing very seriously and conscious of every significance-inflection. There’s a couple of token post-hip delegates, but even they wear their carefully-pleated denims and finely-arranged hair in studied postures of image-association. There’s a display provided by the local ‘serious’ bookshop, lots of ‘Tonight At Noon’, and Liverpool scene album sleeves. Much later, once the readings are done, Henri dutifully autographs said memorabilia and answers inane questions with admirably feigned interest. He looks slimmer and fitter than he does on the album sleeves, his beard and hair carefully trimmed, an inlaid leather shoulder-bag over his expensive buckskin jacket. The only visible symptoms of agitation are the way he shifts from foot-to-foot, as though rehearsing flight, and the way his owlish spectacled-eyes race around the hall seeking some mode of escape. Behind him they are serving tea, which explains my escape too… to the alcove of the ‘Black Horse’ tavern opposite. It’s tempting to romance the evening further. That he picks up on my own poetry set, recognises its potential. That he speaks intensely, confiding secrets and enthusiasms, passing the torch to me. But it wasn’t like that. He seemed a little downbeat, and me a little overawed. Not that he need worry. What’s one night in Wakefield out of a lifetime of readings?

LIVERPOOL SCENE:
INDIVIDUALLY & COLLECTIVELY

‘THE INCREDIBLE NEW LIVERPOOL SCENE’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (CBS 63045, US Epic LN 24336, 1967) Adrian Henri reads “Love Is” and “Tonight At Noon”, Roger McGough reads “Let Me Die A Young Man’s Death” with Andy Roberts playing back-up, recorded in two hours in Denmark Street’s ‘Regent Sound’ studio

“Son, Son” c/w “Baby” by LIVERPOOL SCENE (RCA 1762), single issued in November 1968

‘AMAZING ADVENTURES OF LIVERPOOL SCENE’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (RCA Victor SF7995, US RCA LSP4189, 1968), Line-up is Andy Roberts, Adrian Henri, Mike Evans, Mike Hart, Percy Jones & Brian Dodson

‘BREAD ON THE NIGHT’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (RCA Victor SF 8057, 1969), Mike Hart had quit, although still contributes his songs

“Love Is” c/w “The Woo-Woo” by LIVERPOOL SCENE (RCA 1816) single issued 1969. ‘The Woo-Woo’ carries writer-credits to Henri, Roberts, Dodson, Jones, & Evans, while ‘Love Is’ bears the credit arr: Bobby & The Helmets

‘ST ADRIAN & CO, BROADWAY & THIRD’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (RCA SF8100, April 1970) Pete Clark replaces Brian Dodson on drums. Side 1 is Adrian & Mike Evan’s impressions of their three-month-long ‘Made In The USA’ tour, Side 2 recorded live at the ‘Airport Lounge’, University of Warwick, 1 October 1970

‘HEIRLOOM’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (RCA SF 8134, October 1970), released post break-up consisting of material recorded between September 1968 and January 1970, including Adrian Henri’s “Love Is”

‘RECOLLECTIONS’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (Charisma CS3, October 1972) Double album compilation made up from the first two group albums. Chris Welch in ‘Melody Maker’ said ‘in retrospect Liverpool Scene could only have existed when it did. Before would have been too soon. Now would be too late… don’t forget them, we’ll ne’er see their like again’

‘THE LIVERPOOL SCENE FEATURING ADRIAN HENRI & ANDY ROBERTS’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (Polydor 2310055, 1972), a Best-of compilation also drawing on Andy Roberts solo projects

‘AMAZING ADVENTURES OF LIVERPOOL SCENE’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (Esoteric ECLEC22138), a Best-of 2CD compilation including previously unreleased live, and digitally remastered material

‘LIVERPOOL SCENE: AMAZING ADVENTURES OF LIVERPOOL SCENE’ + ‘BREAD ON THE NIGHT’ by LIVERPOOL SCENE (issued as expanded double-CD with bonus material, Beat Goes On BGO CD538, 2001) In ‘It’ Roger Mortimore wrote ‘they booze and screw and talk like ordinary layabouts. But they also work at their thing. They don’t waste time. Or if they do, they write about it’

‘HOME GROWN’ by ANDY ROBERTS (RCA SF 8086, March 1970 with lyrics printed on the sleeve, reissued on B&C Records CAS1034, 1971 with slightly amended listing and some re-recorded tracks, ten tracks including “Just For The Record”, “Applecross”, “John The Revelator”, “Moths & Lizards In Detroit”, “Creepy John”, “Gig Song”, “Queen Of The Moonlight World”, and “The One-Armed Boatman & The Giant Squid” with added “Lonely In The Crowd”, features Gerry Conway, Mac & Kissy Kissoon, Carol Grimes, Ray Warleigh. ‘Melody Maker’ said ‘it’s country, it’s delightful, it’s good’ (issued on CD by Strange Days WAS104, 2007)

‘MIKE HART BLEEDS’ by MIKE HART (Dandelion, Cherry Red expanded-CD 2008), includes “Son, Son”

‘NINA & THE DREAM TREE’ by ANDY ROBERTS (Pegasus PEG5, 1971, CD Strange Days Records WAS1042, 2007), includes “Keep My Children Warm” and “Nina”. Promoted by a tour supporting Steeleye Span. Andy also plays ‘string organ’ on Cat Stevens’ ‘Teaser And The Firecat’ album (1971)

‘EVERYONE’ by ANDY ROBERTS (February 1971, B&C CAS1028, reissued as Polydor LD2310068 with amended listing including Neil Young’s “Cowgirl In the Sand”), from Andy’s short-lived ‘ill-fated attempt to form a band with Bob Sargeant’ (organ), Dave Richards ex-PC Kent on bass, John Porter guitar, & John Pearson (drums), seven tracks, three by Andy Roberts, three by Sargeant, with “Trouble At The Mill”, “Sad”, “Midnight Shift”, “Don’t Get Me Wrong”, “Sittin’ On A Rock”, “Too Much The Loser”, “Radio Lady” & “This Way Up”, ‘NME’ said ‘for some unknown reason which only Andy can reveal, he has chosen to submerge himself within the context of this band, so that his individuality is somewhat obscured. This is a pity for he has a great deal to offer… more than this particular album demonstrates’

‘BASHER, CHALKY, PONGO & ME’ by MIKE HART (Dandelion, October 1972), issued through his ‘Mike Hart & Comrades’ group name. Later, both Mike Hart LP’s combined onto See For Miles SEECD419, 1995

‘URBAN COWBOY’ by ANDY ROBERTS (Elektra K42139, June 1973), solo guitar with low-key rhythm-section (Timi Donald’s drums & Dave Richards’ bass) and Andy fresh from Grimms. Ian Matthews adds back-up, while the track-list includes “All Around My Grandmother’s Floor” which was co-written with Mike Evans, “Elaine” with Richard Thompson’s guitar, “Big City Tension”, “Richmond” recalling ‘Jeff (Beck) on stage with the Tridents’, and single “Baby Baby” with Martin Carthy on banjo and Zoot Money backing vocals – ‘a strangely compelling sound that should take it into the charts’ said ‘Melody Maker’. It didn’t!

‘ANDY ROBERTS & THE GREAT STAMPEDE’ by ANDY ROBERTS (Elektra K42151, December 1973, also available on cartridge!), includes single “(53 Miles From) Spanish Town” (K12127), features musicians BJ Cole and Gerry Conway. Sleeve shows a US small-town street-scene with ‘Nicholson’s Wonder Store & Bar’

‘ANDY ROBERTS’ by ANDY ROBERTS (Charisma CS6, March 1973), compilation drawing on Liverpool Scene material as well as solo albums, his stint with Plainsong (producing the fine ‘In Search Of Amelia Earhart’ album), and a few tracks from Everyone. Cuts include “The Raven” and equally satiric “Goodtime Charlie”

‘CHARIVAR’ by ADRIAN HENRI (limited edition LP, 1974), recorded live at the ‘Liverpool Academy Of Arts Gallery’, with “Scenes From The Permissive Society”, “Butterfly”, “Mrs Albion, You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter” and “Liverpool Poems”

‘FROM TIME TO TIME’ by ANDY ROBERTS (Big Ben Records, 1985, re-issued on CD as ‘BEST OF ANDY ROBERTS’ on Mooncrest CRESTCD014, 1992)

‘ANDY ROBERTS: JUST FOR THE RECORD 1969-1976’ by ANDY ROBERTS (Sanctuary CMEDD1084, 2006) 2CD-set includes digitally remixed tracks from ‘Home Grown’ and beyond

www.andyrobertsmusic.com

Scaffold: Live In 1968


‘THANK U VERY MUCH’: SCAFFOLD

The Spring of 1968,
and Scaffold are the bridge from Pop, into poetry.
They have records in the charts, and Roger McGough
is part of the era’s biggest-selling poetry anthology.
A combination worth investigating… surely?

Scaffold. Think about it. The last UK hanging took place in 1964, although capital punishment stayed on the statute book until 16 December 1969, when Home Secretary James Callaghan finally deleted it. The Scaffold was the instrument of execution involved. So, choosing to perform as Scaffold is pretty much radically bad-taste. As confrontational as transsexual Punk-Rocker W/Jayne County calling his/her band the Electric Chairs. Even though the edginess, for McGough, McGear and Gorman, seldom strays beyond their group-name. Back then I can’t say I gave the name much consideration. It was just Scaffold, that trio of fun Liverpudlian humorists. We’d seen them on TV doing catchy schoolboy ditty “Thank U Very Much” in their matching white vaudeville suits. For radio airplay it even gushes ‘thank you very much for playing this record’. How cheekily neat is that? The hits provide a connection to a wider audience. To, for example, me. It makes them a malleable part of quirky-Pop. Stand-up comedians with an ear for a good tune. Poets with a smart line in patter. A Pop group with arty aspirations. We know McGear is really McCartney. And that McGough is a poet. But poems are pretentious stuff with intimations of fey effeminacy. You gotta be careful not to let your guard down. Poufs read poems. Not regular blokes. As Eric Burdon says, working class youth ‘feel more pain but laugh much louder’. Arty stuff is not for the likes of thee and me. Don’t get above yourself. But I buy the book anyway, ‘The Mersey Sound’ (Penguin Modern Poets No.10, 1967), so becoming one of its quarter-of-a-million sales, helping to make it the biggest poetry anthology of the age. If the book were a 45rpm record, sales like that would buy it into the Top Ten.

Poetry is weird stuff. A landscape without maps. Dust-dry boring. But with intriguing intimations that there’s something in there that might just be good. And worth finding… if only you can figure out the right way in. McGough is one way in. This early-spring night Scaffold is on at the red-brick University annexe off Cottingham’s King Street. A short stroll there, past the Village Green and the ‘Tiger’ pub. My girlfriend at the time is dismayed as we walk into the venue to find there’s no chairs, instead you squat cross-legged on the parquet floor, although someone’s thoughtfully provided coloured scatter-cushions. Soon, after a pause of shuffling and small-talk, they’re collectively lining up to do “2-Day’s Monday”, just the three of them, no backing musicians or elaborate props, McGear opening with a dumb-and-dumber voice, ‘Monday is washing day’. And it was. In the kind of terraced houses you see in ‘Coronation Street’ or ‘Bread’, back then, without techno-appliance, the household wash takes all day, and backyards balloon with billowing pegged-out bed-linen and intimidating items of otherwise-concealed feminine underwear. There’s a scene in ‘Get Carter’ in which a fleeing Michael Caine accelerates his getaway car down a back-alley where drooping washlines are strung out flagging across the street side-to-side. It was like that on washing-day Mondays. The other days of the week duly follow – Tuesday is soup, Wednesday is roasta beef, Thursday is shepherd’s pie, Friday is fish, Saturday is payday, before, with hushed mock-reverence and hands steepled in prayer, it’s ‘Sunday is church’. For some, it still was. Each Scaffold takes a verse before building the chorus-harmony repetitions together. Part kids-chant, part-folksong, it was wholly Liverpool. ‘Is everybody happy? You bet your life we are’. On stage, every now and then McGear betrays something of his genetic McCartney link, without the fab chipmunk cuteness. Although all three sing, write and share a scouse wit, within their conjunction of talents it’s fair to hazard that McGear has the voice, McGough the words, and Gorman the comedy. A possible contender for the Goodies, the prematurely folliclely-challenged John Gorman occupies the oddly-shaped centre-space. ‘NME’ journalist Roy Hollingworth once claimed he had the face of ‘an amiable cod’, hastily adding ‘amiable, intelligent, cod’. And the gormful John contributes his ‘Father John’ spoof preaching monologue, as later he would embody the stage-persona of McGough’s ‘PC Plod’.

McGough is clean-shaven, open-neck shirt, but with glasses to denote a certain schoolteacherly intellect. Now he’s doing “Goodbat Nightman”, a poem, but one full of comfortingly familiar iconography and Pop-culture references. Oddly, all three ‘Mersey Sound’ poets write Batman poems… actually, it’s absurd to suggest there were just three poets writing on Merseyside. There weren’t. But just as Brian Epstein signed the Beatles, Gerry Marsden and Billy J Kramer, and they became the face of the 1963 Mersey Beat Boom, so Penguin signed Adrian Henri, Roger McGough and Brian Patten, and they became the three ‘Mersey Poets’. And each of them write ‘Batman’ poems. In an era of enlightened atheism it’s no longer authentically possible to appeal to the spiritual yearnings of a William Blake, so in moments of anguish where do you direct your deepest existential angst? DC & Marvel superheroes provide the ideal contemporary stand-in. The Adam West TV-series was a tongue-in-cheek cult trend. The comicbook strips were being plundered by Pop Art from Roy Liechtenstein to Peter Blake. It provides a bridge, a conduit to audience-recognition. It ticks all the boxes. So can their ‘Batman’ poems be used as poetic litmus to compare and contrast their strengths and credibilities? Patten constructs a melancholy elegy to the ‘lost celluloid companions’ he’d left behind beyond the event-horizon of adolescence. Adrian Henri’s more muscular invocation ironically urges the caped crusader to ‘help us out in Vietnam… help us bomb the jungle towns, spreading pain and death around’. While Roger McGough’s offers an appealingly amusing word-game about batjamas, batwater-bottles, batbeds with battresses. It closes ‘Batman and Robin are saying their prayers’. And this night, and pretty much every night he reads it, it works perfectly. Then “Let Me Die A Youngman’s Death” is a more considered ‘hope I die before I get old’ meditation on the prospect of physical ageing, voicing a desire to grow old disgracefully and be ‘mown down by a bright red sports car on my way home from an allnight party’ at 73, or cut up by my mistress ‘catching me in bed with her daughter’ aged 104, she throws away ‘every piece but one’, leaving us to snigger-guess which part of the diced poet she chooses to keep.

For McGough, coming here tonight is something of a slight return. It was at Hull University he took his French and Geography BA, then he taught here for three years. It was only when he returned from east coast back to west-coast Liverpool in the early sixties that it began. By colliding with Adrian Henri and fifteen-year-old Brian Patten at Liverpool L8’s ‘Streats Coffee Bar’ in 1961. A meeting that eventually resulted in their breakthrough three-handed anthology. But first, in 1962 McGough appeared in the Merseyside Arts Festival as part of ‘The Liverpool Oat-Lady All-Electric Show’, with Post Office engineer and sometime comedy actor John Gorman, and Michael ‘Blank’. Being step-brother to the famous Paul presents problems as well as opportunities. To conceal, or to exploit? McGear’s first published photo – in ‘Mersey Beat’, credits him as ‘Francis Michael’. In 1963, after an Edinburgh Festival stint, the by-then performing trio graduate onto Granada-TV’s weekly magazine programme ‘Gazette’ for a six-month run and they turn pro. It’s only now that Mike became ‘McGear’, playing on the Liverpool ‘it’s the gear’ slang. But “Thank U Very Much” provides the first hit. The story goes that Mike was phoning Paul to say ‘thank you very much’ for the gift of the Nikon camera, and the phrase velcro’d in his head. Adding thanks for the Sunday joint, our national beverage, the union jack, the ‘Sunday Times’, the birds and bees, our gracious Team... and the Aintree Iron. Then “1-2-3” – with trendy sitar on the record, is lyrically simpler on the ‘one two, buckle my shoe’ nursery-rhyme construction, although Paul would soon use the same device for “All Together Now” on the ‘Yellow Submarine’ soundtrack.

Although George Melly saw their ‘satirico-Pop’ taking in ‘verbal and visual sniping at the establishment’, Scaffold was seldom heavy arts. Sure, the first side of their ‘L The P’ (1969) album is catchy tunes, but flip it over to the ‘Humour & Poetry’ side and there’s stronger performance material skirting vaguely naughty bits while taking in politics and sacrilege (‘blasphemy, blas-for-you, blas-for-everyone’ as Eddie Izzard phrases it!), with satire on race and TV quiz shows. To McGough ‘we didn’t see it as high art or low art, they were just what we did’, they being the songs. Yes, that sentence doesn’t quite hang together, but you get the drift? To Gorman, ‘we simply wish to express our art-form in direct contact with the audience’. So they form a self-contained three-man alternative cabaret. With an across-the-boards appeal frequently likened – by those who could remember, to the Alberts, the London group formed by Tony and Douglas Gray, and favoured by the likes of Peter Cooke and Spike Milligan. But Scaffold’s appeal goes way-further, it goes national with “Lily The Pink”, a million-seller no.1 throughout December 1968. Essentially, it’s a music hall novelty song about the miraculous and most efficacious ‘medicinal compound’ which enables Ebenezer to become ‘emperor of Rome’, gives Mr Frears with the sticky-out ears the ability to fly, cures Robert Tony’s anorexia to the extent that they have to ‘move him round on wheels’, and sex-changes Jennifer Eccles so that the girl from the Hollies hit-song can ‘join in all their games’. But everyone knew it, everyone liked it. So, if Scaffold were not exactly hip-credible, they were impossible to dislike, and were still very much part of the UFO ‘Liverpool Love Festival’ with Adrian Henri, Mike Evans and Andy Roberts, 23 June 1967. For the future – in the early seventies, all three Scaffolds became part of the Grimms, while also diversifying into solo work. They continued as stage and club performers, while also maintaining disparate individual careers. The final Scaffold gig was April Fools Day 1977 at the Royal Albert Hotel – although they reunited for a Granada-TV ‘What’s On’ for the tenth anniversary of “Lily The Pink”. And reconvened for a celebration of the ailing Adrian Henri at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall (21 March 2000)… But all of that still lay in the future when I saw Scaffold at the red-brick University annexe off King Street. It wound up a fun evening, with the added frisson of that fugitive ingredient ‘culture’. Emboldened, I next bought ‘Penguin Modern Poets no.5’ – Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Gregory Corso, and Allen Ginsberg, and things were never quite the same again. So, I guess, thank you very much, for playing that Cottingham gig in 1968, thank you very much, thank you very very very much…

SCAFFOLDING: FIRST 2 LAST

Roger McGough (born 9 November 1937 in Litherland),
John Gorman (4 January 1937)
Mike McGear (7 January 1944)

6 May 1966 – “2-Days Monday” c/w “3 Blind Jellyfish” (Parlophone R5443) Prod: George Martin
2 Dec 1966 – “Goodbat Nightman” c/w “Long Strong Black Pudding” (Parlophone R5548) Prod: John Burgess. ‘Another Batman send-up and rather funny’ says the ‘Record Mirror’ reviewer
4 Nov 1967 – “Thank U Very Much” c/w “Ide B The First” (Parlophone R5643) Prod: Tony Palmer. Reaches no.4
15 Mar 1968 – “Do You Remember?” c/w “Carry On Krow” (Parlophone R5679) Prod: Norrie Paramor. Reaches no.34
14 Jun 1968 – “1-2-3” c/w “Today” (Parlophone R5703)
18 Oct 1968 – “Lily The Pink” c/w “Buttons Of Your Mind” (Parlophone R5734). Produced by Norrie Paramor, engineered by Peter Brown. Andy Roberts guitar on ‘B’-side. Reaches no.1
Jun 1969 – “Charity Bubbles” c/w “Goose” (Parlophone R5784)
Oct 1969 – “Gin Gan Goolie” c/w “Liver Birds” (Parlophone R5812) Reaches no.38
Jun 1970 – “All The Way Up” c/w “Please Sorry” (Parlophone R5847) theme from the movie
Oct 1970 – “Bus Dreams” c/w “If I Could Start All Over Again” (Parlophone R5866)
Oct 1971 – “Do The Albert” c/w “Commercial Break” (Parlophone R5922)
Nov 1973 – “Lily The Pink” c/w “Thank U Very Much” + “Do You Remember?” (EMI2085)
May 1974 – “Liverpool Lou” c/w “Ten Years After On Strawberry Jam” (Warner Bros K16400) Prod: Paul McCartney. Reaches no.7
Dec 1974 – “Mummy Won’t Be Home For Christmas” c/w “The Wind Is Blowing” (Warner Bros K16488)
Mar 1975 – “Leaving of Liverpool” c/w “Pack Of Cards” (Warner Bros K16521)
Oct 1976 – “Wouldn’t It Be Funny If You Didn’t Have A Nose” c/w “Mr. Noselighter” (Bronze BRO33) ‘larf? I nearly puked’ says the ‘NME’ single review
Apr 1977 – “How D’You Do” c/w “Paper Underpants” (Bronze BRO39)
Oct 1977 – “Lily The Pink” c/w “Thank U Very Much” + “Do You Remember?” + “Gin Gan Goolie” (EMI2690)

MIKE MCGEAR SOLO

Apr 1972 – “Woman” c/w “Kill” (Island WIP6131)
Sep 1974 – “Leave It” c/w “Sweet Baby” (Warner Bros K16446) Reaches no.36
Feb 1975 – “Sea Breezes” (Bryan Ferry song) c/w “Giving Grease a Ride” (Warner Bros K16520)
Jul 1975 – “Dance the Do” c/w “Norton” (Warner Bros K16573)
Nov 1975 – “Simply Love You” c/w “What Do We Really Know” (Warner Bros K16658)
Jun 1976 – “Do Nothing All Day” c/w “A to Z” (EMI2485)
May 1980 – “All The Whales In The Ocean” c/w “I Juz Want What You Got - Money!” (Carrere CAR144)
Jul 1981 – “No Lar Di Dar (Is Lady Di)” c/w “God Bless Our Gracious Queen” (Conn CONN29781)

L THE P’s

May 1968 – ‘MCGOUGH AND MCGEAR’ (Parlophone PMC/PCS7047, reissued as EMI CDP7-91877-2 in April 1989), does not feature John Gorman, but lists Graham Nash, Dave Mason, Zoot Money & Andy Roberts. Recorded and promoted as an Apple project, was issued too early for the label itself
Jul 1968 – ‘THE SCAFFOLD’ (Parlophone PMC/PCS7051), reissued in 2006 as ‘LIVE AT THE QUEEN ELIZABETH HALL 1968’ (Él ACMEM63CD), includes “2-Days Monday”, “Virginity” and closes with “Thank U Very Much” + McGough poems “Poem For National LSD Week” & “Let Me Die A Youngman’s Death”
May 1969 – ‘L THE P’ (Parlophone PMC/PCS7077) recorded at EMI 12 January 1969, Prod: Norrie Paramor with Music: Side 1, Humour & Poetry Side 2
May 1973 – ‘FRESH LIVER’ (Island ILPS9234) Prod: Tom Newman, with Andy Roberts, Neil Innes, Zoot Money, Gerry Conway, Doris Troy
Feb 1975 – ‘SOLD OUT’ (Warner Bros K56067) with Zoot Money, Lol Crème, Ollie Halsall, Frank Rocotti
Oct 1982 – ‘THE SCAFFOLD SINGLES A'S AND B'S’ (See For Miles CM114), 22-tracks from EMI & Warner Bros
Feb 1992 – ‘THE BEST OF THE EMI YEARS: THE SCAFFOLD, THE SONGS’ (EMI CDP7 985022), 20-track compilation
Feb 1998 – ‘THE VERY BEST OF THE SCAFFOLD’ (Wise Buy WB885572), 12-tracks from EMI & Warner Bros
Aug 1998 – ‘THE SCAFFOLD AT ABBEY ROAD, 1966-1971’ (EMI 7243-496435-2-9), containing 26 EMI tracks, including 8 previously unreleased
Mar 2002 – ‘THANK U VERY MUCH: THE VERY BEST OF THE SCAFFOLD’ (EMI Gold 7243-5-38474-2-5), contains 26 digitally remastered EMI and Warner Bros tracks
Feb 2008 – ‘LIVERPOOL: THE No.1’s ALBUM’ (EMI 50999-5-19522-2-8), multi-artist album, including one newly-recorded track by Scaffold

MIKE MCGEAR SOLO ALBUMS

Apr 1972 – ‘WOMAN’ (Island ILPS9191) with Mike in Nuns cowl on cover, reissued Edsel EDCD507, Feb., 1997 with four short tracks omitted
Sep 1974 – ‘MCGEAR’ (Warner Bros K56051, reissued See For Miles SEECD339, Apr 1992 with two additional tracks) features Paul & Linda McCartney, Denny Laine, Gerry Conway, Jimmy McCullough, Danny Seiwell. Single “Givin’ Grease A Ride” is co-written & produced by Paul
Dec 1996 – ‘A COLLECTION OF SONGS FOR THE YOUNG HOMELESS OF MERSEYSIDE’ (Merseyside Accommodation Project) anthology with one newly-recorded Mike McCartney track

JOHN GORMAN SOLO ALBUMS

1977 – ‘GO MAN’ (This Record Co Ltd DJF20491)

ROGER MCGOUGH SOLO ALBUM

1978 – ‘SUMMER WITH MONIKA’ (Island ILPS9551, reissued 1997 on Edel EDCD508) with cover art by Peter Blake, and musicians Andy Roberts, Zoot Money, Dave Olney, Pat Donaldson