Skiffle was like that. It progressed to Rock ’n’ Roll and Blues (in England) and players like Eric Clapton and Albert Lee, whose roots lie in Skiffle, began to be popular. But not many kids, in their wildest dreams, thought they could pick up a guitar and learn something quick that sounded like them. They were too far advanced. Something simpler was needed to give the kids the feeling again of ‘I can do that!’ Then Bob Dylan came round and thousands of youngsters overnight bought guitars and were strummin’ ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ in parks, on Tube trains, in the streets, everywhere, and most of ’em sounded as good as him, if not better. ‘New Wave Skiffle!’ The next time it happened was Punk. These were really important eras for getting new musicians off the ground. But back to the Horseshoe Skiffle Group.
We were now a Rock ’n’ Roll group. We were called The Horseshoes and did songs like ‘Ready Teddy’, ‘That’ll Be the Day’, ‘Oh Boy!’, ‘Let’s Have a Party’ – the choice of material was limitless. Up ’till now I’d experienced all my Rock ’n’ Roll idols on film or on record, I’d never seen any of ’em live. I’d missed the Buddy Holly concerts at the Regal, Edmonton. I don’t know why I didn’t go, I can’t remember. All the kids at school went and were ravin’ about him. Perhaps that’s what made me determined not to miss the next concert at the Regal. It was to be Jerry Lee Lewis.
That performance was a milestone in my life. The line-up was piano, bass and drums (coincidence: that is me and Dave’s line-up now! Or is it coincidence?). They had an electric bass, the first I’d ever seen, the loudest drummer I’d ever heard, and Jerry Lee playin’ piano like it was a new instrument. I had a piano indoors, but it never sounded like that! I still loved Little Richard, but this man played music that was even closer to my heart. His piano playing, although I hadn’t heard anything like it before, made sense. This was the way I’d like to play piano if I ever became a pianist.
I liked the songs he sang and the way he sang ’em. I decided then and there I’d catch as many of his English tour gigs as possible before he went home. Two days later he was deported. All because he married some thirteen-year-old girl! I couldn’t believe it! The Home Office decided he would be a bad influence on us youngsters. ‘Are they mad? Don’t they realise that me and the rest just like him for his music? They’re protecting us?’ From what? I was beside myself with rage. What he did in his private life didn’t concern me in the least. Of course I was right but the letter I wrote to the Home Office didn’t make any difference. They kicked him out and that was that. If someone had told me then that one day I’d record an album with him, sing a duet and do gigs with him, and he’d record a song I helped write, what would I have said? ‘You’re mad!’ But he did!
That Jerry Lee concert was in May 1958 and at that time I was coming up to school-leaving age. I’d had fun at school despite the ups and downs. I learnt to play guitar while I was at school and my first attempt at Skiffle was also at school. Me and Brian Juniper used to have a few sessions round his house. (It was through Brian that I met Dave Peacock much later. Brian was in the same junior school as Dave and formed a group with Dave when he left school.) My headmaster now and again threw a few compliments my way. I couldn’t handle that. It was out of character. He’d come into the class and give a lecture on the evils of hanging around street corners late at night. ‘Why not take a leaf out of Hodges’ book and learn to play a musical instrument?’ I almost thought, ‘He’s not so bad after all.’ The music teacher never gave me any encouragement, though. All Rock ’n’ Roll was rubbish in his book. I marked him down as a know-nuffink dumb-cluck.
But my being in favour with the Headmaster was short-lived. It was Christmas 1958 and the School Party.
It was the year canned beer was introduced and it was a bit of a novelty. Me and my mates decided to have a go and bought some Long Life beer to drink in the school bog. We had a line of cans set up along the top of the toilet doors. Me and my mate Don Philips were just drainin’ the last dregs out of our cans ready to go back and join the party. I said (feelin’ really big), ‘I bet ol’ Dunnie (the Head) would do his bollocks if he walked in now!’
I sensed a presence as I said it. I lowered my eyeballs as I was guzzling, and they fell upon a pair of horribly familiar baggy trousers. In ’em stood the Headmaster. Without a word he took the empty beer cans from us and once more it was ‘lookin’ through the legs time’.
The next morning we were both hauled up in front of the school and were asked to leave at the Christmas holidays. I was actually fourteen when I left (or was politely expelled) but I was fifteen just after Christmas, so legally able to start work, which I did.
The first job I got was at Turners, the jeweller’s shop on Edmonton Green, as a watch and clockmaker’s apprentice. My Mum knew the guv’nor, who used to go in the Exhibition pub where she played piano. My brother worked there when he left school a couple of years earlier, but he didn’t get on with the job and moved on.
The idea of messing about with old clocks, takin’ ’em apart and puttin’ ’em back together appealed to me. I asked Mum if she could get me a job there. I went up to be interviewed and I started in January 1959. 1 liked that job. At the time I had never dreamed of earnin’ a livin’ playin’ music. I never knew anyone who was a professional musician, I had a job and as far as ‘proper’ jobs go, it wasn’t bad. It was a little old nineteenth-century shop. I was on my own most of the time. I became quite good at mendin’ old clocks quite quickly, though I wasn’t mad on watch mending. All you did with watches was find out what was wrong and send away for a new part. But clocks; some of the old ones you’d get in, you’d have to use your initiative, and make new parts to get them going. The feelin’ of bringin’ them old clocks back to life was nice.
I worked hard when I was there but I was constantly late for work. I couldn’t get up in the mornings, and I still can’t. I hated mornings and still do. I’m a different person in the morning and always have been, regardless of what time I go to bed. I’m not proud of the fact, I’m just being honest about myself. It’s nothing to do with hangovers or anything like that. I was the same when I was at school. I am not very good tempered in the mornings and don’t want to speak to anybody. I get annoyed at stupid things that I’m ashamed of later in the day. When me and my brother had to get up together to go to school, we wouldn’t speak. But the sound of him crunching his toast used to make me want to punch him. Now ain’t that terrible?
I become a different person after midday and when I think of my instinctive feelings earlier that morning I am ashamed. I mean, ‘Stop crunchin’ that fuckin’ toast!’ WALLOP! What a little bastard! Thank Christ it wears off. I make a point of avoiding mornings at all costs, though sometimes I can’t. I feel I’m being victimised when I’m woke up in the morning to go and do something. I do it – but grudgingly. And them bright and breezy morning people! I feel they’re bein’ like they are just to annoy me. It can’t be natural. It can’t be natural to be laughin’ and jokin’ while it’s still mornin’. They’re doin’ it just ’cos they know it annoys me! Once again in the afternoon I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself. I’m thinkin’, I really had the hump with him this morning, laughin’ and jokin’ like that. I can tolerate him now and he’s still laughin’ and jokin’. But now it’s afternoon.
The best thing I’ve learned to do in the morning is to keep my mouth shut and don’t say nothing. As I said, I’m not proud of it and if the two of me ever met, the morning me and the afternoon or evening me, well, I don’t think they’d get on too well together. The evening me would not tolerate such a short-tempered little git as the morning me, and the morning me would not tolerate such a cheerful genial chap as the evening me.
When I started that job