The C.O.

B Log

Unweaving the web

There was so much happening at the time and of course so much has
happened since that to try and relate an accurate sequence of events is
tricky to the point of illusory.

Its high summer 1968, so maybe that

thorny old adage, if you can
remember the 60s you werent there
is at least partly coming into play.
There will surely be people out there -
if theres any still around who were on
the scene at the time - who will refute
my version of events. I suspect this is
inevitable as we all remember things
differently. Nevertheless this is the
way its remembered by me.

Bound to Go. Stockroom 5.

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By now `Enry and I had stopped running the Folk Cottage, the Great
Western Jug Band had disbanded and The Stockroom 5; Clive Palmer,
Tim Wellard, John Bidwell and myself had become a regular unit playing
mainly but not exclusively American Old Timey songs from the repertoire
of Uncle Dave Macon.

Evelena and Karen Ann had recently returned to Sweden and Olive had
disappeared from the scene, probably off on her travels. See Bound to
Go.
Instead of being lonely my feelings were those of liberation. Being in
love had exhausted me. Now I just wanted to concentrate on writing and
making music

`Enry had begun working

as a salesman in Penzance
living with his charming
girlfriend Jenny. I think they
were saving up to get
married.

In early 69, whilst I was off

travelling, Pete Berryman
The Great Western Jug band about 1967
and `Enry would come
together to form a new band. They would be joined, for a while
at least, by Clive Palmer , the ex Incredible String Band and
by then ex Stockroom 5 member. They took on the silly
soubriquet of The Famous Jug Band, whose idea was that?
Clive would bring new songs to the band, the plaintive A Leaf
Must Fall and the poignant Nicholson Square , for their first
album Sunshine Possibilities . To take the lead vocals they
were joined by Jilly Johnson, the mayors daughter from Truro .
When I heard about thi s I secretly thought what fools they were
to miss out on the chance of having me as their lead vocalist
but forgive me, Im getting ahead of myself.

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In the late summer of 68 John Sleep somewhat surprisingly

approached Clive, John, Tim and I with the idea of running the
Folk Cottage. We didnt want too much responsibility so agreed
to just Saturdays including a late night session.

Roll Down the Line. Stockroom 5

It was mainly The Stockroom 5 who played these two

sessions helped by the floor singers who were, as Ive said
elsewhere, crucial to the success of the club. Performers like
Diane Partridge, Jake Walton and many others added a great
deal to the overall success of any evening.
Wizz Jones, the great blues player from Balham would
occasionally play a guest spot when he was around. He
unfailingly packed in the punters.
The Stockroom 5 were flying, away some would say with the
fairies but in fact those summer months would evolve into some
of the most pleasurable of my life so far. It seemed that Clive
and John were constantly playing together, woodshedding as I
used to call it borrowing a jazz term , sometimes playing
through the night. Theyd had a Banjoguitar made for them by
Barry Trust. It was an attempt at authenticity and a replica of
the one Sam McGee played in Uncle Dave Macons Fruit Jar
Drinkers. So we were playing mainly old timey stuff on stage
but off stage the style of this new music was entirely different.
It had a distinct Middle Eastern flavour and obviously Clive still
had some of the sounds of his Afghani and Indian travels
ringing around his head . The overall feel of the various pieces
of music I have from this period, all very roughly recorded, is
one of timelessness. Some of it sounds just like field
recordings from another age and culture which in a way is
exactly what it is.

Instrumental - Clive, John and Mick.

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Tim and I began joining in with them on these sessions, Tim on guitar
and me on bongos, an African drum and vocals. Clive would occasionally
play the fiddle, resting it upright on his knee and bowing across it Afghani
fashion or was it Appalachian mountain style? It was all wonderfully
untutored, committed and totally right for the piece of music we were
playing at the time.
One great tune I used to love playing was the Indian, Song of the Hills,
with Clive playing the fiddle in this fashion. Tim would play a very
effective dropped D rhythm part on his guitar with John playing Clives
banjo although it could have been his own banjoguitar. In this piece Im
using thimbles to play the skulls reasonably effectively in a style that
could be described as skullbuggery.

Song of the Hills. Clive, John, Tim and Mick.

Later Clive would make himself a one stringed bowed

Arab instrument called a Rabab. Some of these
instrumental s would eventually turn into songs.
Clives Goatherders Dancing Daughter , Johns song
Child of the Season and my song I Told Her all came
from this period . At last I was
blowing with guys who were
writing their own materiel. It felt
exciting, it was a new departure.
I now understand that these w ere
the first tentative musical steps
towards what became a year later
The Temple Creatures.
But Im getting ahead of myself John Bidwell and Tim Wellard at the
again; lets get back to the Folk Cottage early Sixties
Stockroom 5. The name came from a rehearsal room we used to use in
Newquay and there never was a fifth member of the band. At this time
all four of us on occasion would do solo floor spots although Clive was by
far and away the most masterful at this. With songs like Pete Seegers,
Saccos Last Letter to his Son, and Tom Lehrers My Home Town in his
repertoire not to mention all the wonderful Joe Morley banjo pieces, he
would mesmerise the late night revellers.

Saccos last letter to his son. Clive Palmer.

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John as I remember used to play a mean solo version of Denomination

Blues. Tim had begun writing his own songs and I did the odd, very odd,
recital of my own poetry usually to a rather quizzically confused silence
but nevertheless it really felt like things were happening.

Denomination Blues. John Bidwell.

Id produced a book of
poems - see Bound to
Go -which Clive had
illustrated for me. I
loved the rough and
readiness of his
sketches which
perfectly echoed the
overall feel of the
poems. I tried selling
the booklets at gigs
but nobody bought
them so I used to give
them away. The song
/ poem Totters Hymn
to the Universe always
went down well. I
performed it in the
spirit of Gus Ellen, the
Music Hall artist that
Id always loved since
hearing my dear old Nan Alice sing his songs whilst at the kitchen sink.
It was around this time that I noticed how I was putting on a cockney
accent instead of doing it naturally. It made me realise how much Id
changed in such a short period of time.
Twelve Gates to the City was a song that wed heard sung by the twin
titans of the blues Blind Boy Fuller and the Reverend Gary Davis. We
recorded it a cappella on one of our all night caravan blows with Clive
taking the lead in his wonderfully understated declamatory way. John
had swapped a bunch of well played blues albums with Diane Partridge
for a slightly worse for wear Grundig reel to reel tape recorder.

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The record button often flipped off mid recording so John being a bit of a
technical wizard had devised a method of holding it down with three
Swan Vesta matches. The same machine would later double up as an
amplifier for his yet to be invented Dulcitar. On the track you can hear
my annoyingly nagging voice accusing John of stealing my harmony part.
Oy! Youve stolen my `armony. Find yer own! I really was / am a
pillock at times. No wonder Clive used to lose his rag with me.

12 Gates to the City. Stockroom 5.

We all moved into a very congested caravan situated in a copse at

Carland Cross. The locals treated us with great suspicion and sometimes
contempt and who could blame them a band of Irish Tinkers would have
been more sartorially acceptable, played more recognizable music and
wouldnt have made those funny smells around their campfire in the
evenings.
For a while it felt like we were whirling around the West Country folk
scene in a careless, celebratory dance of life. In fact we were chugging
and limping, painfully slow at times, from one gig to the next in Clives
ancient dark blue Ford 100e van. Of course it couldnt last, the feeling of
freedom not the van, which is probably still being driven to a slow death
somewhere. One day I suggested changing our name to Lickety-Split.
Thankfully Little John was extremely derisive in expressing his dislike of
it, Its an Americanism man, dont be so idiotic it just dont relate. Clive
just gave me his famous look of thinly veiled disdain. For a change I got
the message and shut up.
We had a Wednesday night residency at the Lobster Pot, a club run in a
community hall in Newquay by a bullish, ebullient Irishman called Larry
McLaughlin. He ran the club with two women or should I say chicks who
as I remember took a particular shine to us, Tim being their especial blue
eyed boy. I probably only remember this because I was jealous. Within
weeks of the Stockroom 5 playing, the club went from an audience of a
few dozen to a good few hundred. I was delegated to ask Larry for an
increase in the money paid for our gig. He refused point blank more or
less accusing us of getting ideas above our station. It was obvious his
jealousy was getting the better of him.

Milwaukee Blues. Stockroom 5.

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One night we were playing what wed already decided would be our last
gig in the hope of bluffing him into upping our money. Wed just launched
into Uncle Daves Bound to Go as our second encore when Larry switched
off our one and only shared microphone and strode onto the stage
announcing through his own mic the next weeks guest. It was a
spectacular snub but what followed was even more dramatic. Clives red
mist descended like a hawk on a rabbit. Before anyone could react he
was up off of his stool launching an all out attack on the hapless
McLaughlin. A timeless silence was broken by the caterwauling of his two
helpers. To our disbelief and horror Clive had grabbed his steel rimmed,
nickel plated Clifford Essex banjo by the neck and headstock and was
making a cart-wheeling swing with it. Twice it whizzed with a whoosh
passed the fleeing McLaughlins bonce. Luckily for all concerned the third
and last swing also missed by what Barney Potter would have called a
gnats knicker. I often think if it had made contact we would have soon
been visiting Clive in his condemned cell in Pentonville prison waiting for
the Queen to commute his sentence to life. Larry actually ran out of the
club and disappeared. Clive said in a remarkably calm voice, OK, lets do
this song then, and so we flew with much gusto once more into Bound to
Go. Its true that some people had left after the incident but those that
stayed gave us the warmest of applauses at the end of the song.
We were soon running our own club nights on a Friday evening at the
same venue and packing them in. I even spied one of the McLaughlin
girls, er chicks there one night on the edge of her seat looking longingly
at Tim. It was the first time I noticed we were attracting a definite hippy
type crowd, apart from the way they looked, flairs and long hair and so
forth the sweet stench of marihuana in the interval was a bit of a
giveaway.
The word on the street was that Larry had closed down for lack of
clientele but that was just a rumour.
Henrys band was playing a Friday night residency at the Railway Tavern
in Penzance so we approached the publican to see if we could run a late
session on Saturday nights. He agreed in principle and said, trouble is I
`eard that you lot were a load a druggies.
Heard where we protested as indignantly as we could.
That boy who plays that there jug thing `ere on Friday told me.

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Aitch, when confronted about it just blanked me and kept schtum. I

think to his relief I made light of it. I let it go it wasnt worth losing a
good mate over.

Kissin on the Sly. Stockroom 5.

After more assurances we were allowed to run the late night Saturday
sessions which became very successful. The session after the interval
between 11 and 12 essentially became a lock in and was always packed.
As the deal was that we took the door take and the guvnor the bar, he
was rubbing his hands together in glee.
I noticed how the rest of the band disappeared when I did my poetry
recitals. I tried not to let it get to me. I was at a vulnerable point
regarding the poetry. The creeping realisation that it was Dylan Thomas
who was the genius and not me had all but become a given in my head.
Coincidentally much of the audience ghosted away during my recitals too.
I just thought they were all heathens.
It was the audience that eventually blew it for us at this gig. I kept
asking them not to smoke joints in the corridors or on the stairs but they
persisted and after a clandestine visit from a brewery man the guvnor
reluctantly said at the end of one session, sorry boys I `ave ta let ee go,
I did warn ee though. So that was that.

That summer in further attempts

to stoke the fires of interest from
the ever burning furnaces of show
business we played other
prestigious high profile gigs such as
the Cornish Wrestling
Championships at Wadebridge. We
tried to encourage John and Tim to
take part as they were the only
Cornish members amongst us but
they declined. Sadly any smoke
signals evident didnt reach beyond
Restormel.
Before we knew it the summer
was gone and autumn began
whistling around our ears like a demented dawn milkman.

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It became unseasonably cold. One Sunday morning I woke in the

caravan with last nights gig still ringing in my head. Bound to go /
bound to go / over the road and Im bound to go / It may rain and it may
snow but over the road and Im bound to go. My eyes wouldnt open
they were stuck together with a mixture of sleep and the frost riven air.
A vigorous rub did the trick. I opened the curtains, my hot breath
misting up the window. I looked out onto a world locked up in a frozen
scream. The denuded trees looked stricken in pain. I looked over at
Clive and John who were both gently snoring and then at the plate which
displayed the remains of last nights chips, stubbed out roches and fag
ends. Grimness weighed me down and I was tempted to go back under
the blankets but instead got up to make a pot of tea. Tim was away over
The Sawmills to see Demelza, a female percussionist we had all recently
befriended, so there was just the three of us.
The gas had run out so I went outside to find kindling for a fire, the
frosted grass crisp under my feet. I soon have a pot of water boiling over
a crackling fire. I can hear Clive tuning up then playing his banjo inside
the caravan and then the throb of Johns accompaniment. They probably
hadnt even exchanged any words, the music came first. It ghosted out of
the caravan like the past melting the air into present life. A sunbeam,
splashing across the fire, renders it invisible. I make the tea and get out
the biscuits. It was a all we had but theyre not the usual Digestive
theyre Bourbons, a treat! We then rehearse some songs for the gig in
Newquay next week including I Told Her which pleases me.

Rise when the rooster crows. Stockroom 5.

Were never gonna make it here, its just not gonna happen.
It was Clive saying what wed all been thinking. The prospect of a full
winter in Cornwall trying to make a living from music was more than
depressing, it was suicidal.
Well its London then I suppose I said sounding more relieved than I
intended.
Im ready said John; anythings got to be better than this.
Yeah, I dont fancy Scotland this time of year said Clive.
I kept my own council about my projected Moroccan trip thinking Id
see where the music took us first but I was getting worried that My
Treasure see Bound to Go would be spent before I had a chance
to travel. It was never spoken but I think we all wanted more success or
at least enough money to live a decent life on.

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The money made from gigs in Cornwall was a pittance and after
expenses for rent and the car we hardly had enough for food and dope.
So the decision was made, wed leave for London in a weeks time. Tim
decided to stay in Cornwall and play music with Demelza.
So real early one Friday morning the three of us set off in Clives old
ford van nursing it up the A.30 to the city.
It was 3.30am the next day by the time we reached Ladbroke Grove.
Robin Birch, an old mate of Clives was squatting a basement flat in
Cambridge Gardens and hed invited us to crash there for a while. The
street was alive with what looked like characters from a travelling
burlesque show.
We must have looked like a bunch of drab country bumpkins in
comparison. There was also what looked like undercover policemen on
every corner. I looked over at Clive; he was beaming pleasure from
every pore. Johns expression reflected my feelings of extreme
apprehension.
We were ushered in by Robin. The house itself was
vast. It at once became obvious that the three floors
above were still in the sways of heavy partying. The
ceiling was visibly vibrating and a sound, although
vaguely muffled, as if a tube train was passing over
head ensured we talked as if at a disco. The flat was
dimly lit but well furnished.
To my eyes Robin was quite an imposing character.
He was tall, over six feet with a mane of curling jet The infamous Lee
Heater
black hair falling perfectly careless onto his generously
proportioned shoulders. With his well chiselled aristocratic physog he
was painfully good looking. He cultivated an enigmatic air. It was said
he was heir to vast estates somewhere up north. True or not he certainly
had the swagger of the landed classes about him. There were two or was
it three extremely attractive young hippy looking chicks hovering in the
background at his every beck and call. He had them make up army beds
for John and me in the hallway. Clive had the sofa.
Upstairs the notorious Lee Heater held court in his infamous commune.
His reputation went before him. Vietnam vet, serial seducer, constant
acid dropper. You name it he was it. He was hounded by the police
wherever he went and loved it.
In the few roads that ran parallel to Cambridge Gardens it seemed that
every other house was a squat.

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Loud music - The Stones - The Floyd -The Dead played endlessly. It
was a constant barrage which as you walked down the street mulled into
a cacophonous mishmash of noise. It was strangely comforting, it may
be noise but its our noise, a kind of gentle British anarchy. I think it was
a social experiment that hadnt been tried before, well maybe in Haight
Ashbury in San Francisco.
There was another reason we were here. Clive had somehow arranged
to meet his friend Ricky who was travelling back from India and
Afghanistan. I walked in from one of my peripatetic tours of The Gate
and there he was sitting in the kitchen spinning a yarn or two to the
three, obviously enthralled hippy girl chicks who were giggling and
staring in wonder by turns.
Ricky was a swarthy looking Celt with a broad Scots accent but youd
never know it by just looking at him. He was dressed in full Afghani
regalia including a very extravagant turban affair on his head. He looked
like a Pashtun tribesman just down from the hills and in a way he was for
hed gone native over in Afghanistan.
Rickys impenetrable Scots accent made him seem slightly inscrutable
but he was open and friendly and I liked him immediately.
Propped up next to the table was an extremely well travelled sailors
sack.
Ive brought you a wee bairn he said to Clive reaching into the sac
pulling out something wrapped in an intricately woven and colourful piece
of cloth. He passed it to Clive whod become slightly flushed with
apprehension. Clive placed it gently onto the table and began carefully
unwrapping it. Ooooh - Ahhhhh went up from the three women. It was
revealed....a small, about 2 feet long, Indian hand harmonium which
Ricky referred to as the wee peti as you wanted. It only had a two and
a half octave range. You keyed it with one hand and pumped it with the
other. We didnt know it then but in the near future it would become the
keystone of our new sound. After a couple of days that had seen first
Clive then me and finally John play around with it it became obvious that
John was the one with the most aptitude and creative flair. For a time it
seemed the harmonium was joined to his hip.
I saw Lee Heater one day in the street, he recognised me from the
house. Im just too sharp for your pigs here man he bragged, theyll
never pin me down brother, hang loose and prepare for the revolution.
He was looking this way and that as if totally paranoid then did a quick u-
turn and disappeared up an alley.

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He was like a kid playing cops and robbers but for real. Ladbroke Grove
must have been the worst place in the world to drop a tab of acid yet
everyone seemed out of their heads on it. I knew I couldnt take this
kind of life for long and although we never spoke of it I think John felt the
same. Clive, although always cryptic about such things was obviously
relishing being with his friends. I couldnt hazard a guess as to what he
felt about the scene though. For my part it began to feel like I was living
in a war zone, a non partisan at a post revolutionary party.
It became obvious that dope in some quantity was being shifted in and
out of the flat. A large bong had pride of place in the centre of the
Turkish rug in the sitting room.
On this particular night the bong had been working overtime so
everyone crashed early. Single fold up army beds must have been
designed by the Marquis de Sade for they are wilfully painful to use. The
foetal position is impossible to achieve or indeed just sleeping on your
side. Its like trying to sleep in a horizontal deck chair.
That night I had the bed nearest the front door, my head was about
three feet away from it.
I was already awake from the discomfort and considering sleeping on
the floor even though it would be freezing cold down there. It was dawn,
the first crack, when I heard what sounded like loud whispered
commands being given, coming from the other side of the front door.
And then all hell broke loose. At first it didnt occur to me that it was the
police I thought it was some wasted freaks from upstairs. Bang! Bang!
Bang! If you dont open up now well break down the door, and then
Its the police-open up!
I stared at the door not knowing what to do. Robin rushed past me
wearing a very elaborate dressing gown saying, get rid of your stash. I
dont have one I replied suddenly feeling guilty for smoking everyone
elses dope. He opened the door, Is there something wrong officer? It
was met with a very grim faced sergeant saying We know youve got
drugs in there son, lets be `avin` em.
They were in and everywhere in seconds, making more chaos out of the
chaos, turning out cupboards and drawers onto beds and floors. Theyd
even brought an Alsatian dog along. The handler was obviously enjoying
himself by letting the dog terrorize anyone within snapping distance.
By now Clive had miraculously transformed himself into a very large,
extremely angry Spitting Cobra reared up and ready to attack. The three
hippy girl / women chicks were being incredibly brave in restraining him.

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When the revolution comes youll be in the firing line he spat jabbing a
fang towards the burly sergeant.
I fought itd already `appened mate replied the sergeant sarcastically.
A soft voiced constable tried to calm Clive down.
Take it easy son, dont do anything stupid. It wont take long. If we
dont find anyfing you can go back to sleep.
I on the other hand had become lizard like, mute and invisible - a
chameleon maybe. Whereas John, hands on hips stomped about like
some outraged vicar whose fete had been taken over by Satanists. At one
point I thought he was going to start praying for the depraved souls of
The Pigs. Robin of course was calm, detached, pretending to be in
control.
Meanwhile Soly Greene the well known dealer who had arrived the night
before was turning first a light then a dark shade of green in the corner.
As the police were banging on the front door hed chewed and swallowed
the best part of a key of Red Leb. The police suspecting something fishy
was going on insisted on accompanying him to the toilet but soon
retreated when along with the vindaloo hed eaten earlier he started
regurgitating the dope down the pan. This enabled him to safely flush
away the incriminating evidence. He came back into the sitting room and
collapsed onto the floor. Within another ten minutes the police had left
empty handed. As a parting shot the sergeant being the last one out
turned to Robin saying, We know youre at it `ere, well `ave yer, sooner
or later were `ave yer. And then as an afterthought to Clive he said,
revolution or no revolution bruvver. As the door closed behind the
sergeant Clive shed his skin returning to his normal laid back state. John
became withdrawn and I started shouting obscenities at The Pigs, now
theyd gone.
Robin along with the three hippy chick girls, er young women, started
clearing up. I went for a walk to clear my head and decided Id had
enough. I just had to figure out how to tell the fellas.
My Treasure - see Bound to Go - secreted in a special pocket had
been burning a hole inside my duffel bag. There was about 100 in ten
bob and pound notes. Id been saving up since the spring. I was going
to take it to sister Annie for safe keeping but now Id decided to travel I
resolved to never let my duffel bag out of my sight even using it as a
pillow when I slept.

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The next afternoon whilst we were having a blow (playing music) I just
said to Clive and John, Im away travelling next week so I wont see you
guys for a while. All I got were nods of assent back. It was supposed to
be my big dramatic moment. John used it to explain that he too was also
leaving, going back to Cornwall to resume playing music with Tim and
Demelza. They were to form the short lived but still remembered
Novelty Band.

Go lassie Go. The Novelty Band.

In fact I left that evening to stay with ma and pa over in Finsbury Park.
It had only been about six months since I last saw her but mum seemed
to have aged. She said she had a toothache. Go to the dentist then I
said, but it was met with a blank stare. Pop wasnt around the night I
stayed; he was on night shift at Mount Pleasant and doing overtime on
the Royal Run.

Earth to Heaven

Mum was annoyed at the length of my hair, get it cut, you look like a
Nancy Boy she said laughing but she meant it all the same. I looked up
an old Greek Cypriot girlfriend. She loved the hair and we heavily petted
a few hours away. The next morning I was leaving just as dad was
coming in, it felt awkward but right. I told him I was going to Europe, I
didnt mention Africa.
What for?
Just to see
Good luck he said and pressed a fiver into my hand as he shook it
leaning close saying, that should help a bit, and then in a whisper, and
get yer bleeding `air cut. I tried not to notice his watery eyes
And so at last I was off. I changed most of My Treasure for Travellers
Cheques and with just a couple of shirts, a spare pair socks and
underpants plus passport and note book I hitched down to Dover feeling
more confused and apprehensive than adventurous.
For a full account of Mick Bennetts Moroccan travels see winter 68 /
spring 69 - part 5 of Bound to Go.
A year or so later I would once again find myself in Robins company.
This time it was back down in Cornwall.

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I think Robin and I were both closer to our preferred element so

warmed to each other a little more this time.
Robin had picked Clive and I up in his Land Rover for what he termed, a
few hours sport. Hed brought a friend along, Terry I think his name
was. He was a wiry thin yet tough looking countryman with a great bush
of facial hair. Somehow it looked false on his bony physog. He had three
terrier type dogs with him all leashed together. Robin also had dogs on
board, a long haired Lurcher and an enormous Irish Wolf Hound. We
drove to a wooded valley then parked on an old track.
Robin and Terry both carried double barrelled shot guns with a belt of
cartridges each, both uncocked and correctly held I was glad to notice.
We skirted the periphery of the woods for a while until Terry with his
dogs took off in the opposite direction. Robin, Clive and I with the two
other dogs dropped down into the heart of the woods. It was a perfectly
cloudless Cornish summer afternoon with just a hint of a breeze
whispering in the trees. A little later I heard the terriers yelping madly
somewhere in front of us deep in the wood and then a double retort of a
shotgun.
Robin shot a couple of rabbits flushed out by the Lurcher and brought
back by the Wolfhound. He shoved the carcasses into a shoulder bag he
was carrying. We finally met up with Terry again and there lying by his
feet was a dead fox.
Strange he said, looks like it died from exhaustion, probably chased to
death by the hunt. Robin picked it up by a leg and threw it
unceremoniously up into a tree for the crows he said.
Were all eat well tonight he said after he shot another three rabbits on
the way back to the Land Rover.
The farmhouse looked like it had grown out of the hillside. Clive, Robin,
Terry and I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee, watching the three young
women, the same hippy chicks from last year but looking more mature,
skin,
gut and butcher the rabbits then prepare the stew. As the sun went
down we all ate it outside with copious glasses of red wine and the
occasional spliff.

My return to home shores predicated almost entirely on the fact that I

was by then broke was eased by my old pal Ralph allowing me to stay on
his sofa at his council flat in Croydon for a month or two.

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I took a job in a factory on the Purley Way, which I thought was spelt
Pearly until I saw the road sign, making metal shop fittings and the like.
It was the pits, probably the worst job Id ever had in my life. The
working conditions were Dickensian. After a few weeks I managed to
organise about thirty people from the floor to walk out for better
conditions and pay. We were totally unaffiliated to any union. The
management threatened dismissal on the spot. More than half of them
went back immediately followed a little later by some more. In the end
there were just three of us left and it and it wasnt even dinner time, me
and two seriously down at the heel women. They told me they didnt care
if they got the sack as their husbands were on the dole. It would mean
they wouldnt have enough money for their beer so therefore make them
look for work.
Even though I wasnt paying Ralph and Nanna any rent the wages at the
factory were still not enough to live on so what it must have been like for
these two women I could only guess. The three of us went home early
that day.
In those eight months I was away, as expected, everything had
changed. Aitch I hear had got married. Clive had joined and already left
the Famous Jug Band. Im not sure of the circumstances. Maybe he just
walked, as was sometimes his wont.
With a head full of North African sounds I was anxious to get back to
playing music again, I also had a couple of notebooks full of un-gestated
ideas for lyrics.
It was spring again, my favourite time of year in Cornwall. I met up with
Clive in London and we travelled back down in his trusty old van to what
was feeling increasingly like home, good old Kernow. We joined the
others at The Old Sawmills.
The Novelty Band - Tim, John and Demelza who had been playing
traditional materiel with a new twist have been going well, playing some
good gigs at festivals in places such as St Pirans Round in Perranporth.
Clives stock of handmade instruments had grown. Hed made an Arab
Oud like instrument and a reeded chanter, also handmade, called I think
a Chennai had been added to his arsenal.
It was great to see Clive again; he was full of plans for the future and
talked of making a full set of pipes either lowland or Northumbrian. Later
as C.O.B was forming he would also be full of encouragement for me,
saying things like youre the writer so write. At the time it was just what
I needed to hear.

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In the right weather The Old Sawmills could be the most beautiful place
on earth. After a short punt up the river from the town of Fowey youll
soon see on your port side a little creek nestling in a wooded valley.
Ralph Mctell has written a funny little song about it called Cannabis Creek
on his album Somewhere Down the Road.
A China Clay railway line runs by the river and as you float under the
little bridge youre met with a placid more thoughtful world. The old mill
house although missing its wheel is nevertheless quite grand sitting snug
in the bank side halfway up the creek. Theres a jetty where you see the
first little cabin shaded by an old Holm Oak. Beyond the house amongst
the trees are more cabins
sat in their own
seclusion.
If I remember correctly
I started to write the
lyrics to Music of the
Ages in Denys Val Bakers
study there. Hed kindly
said I could use the room
whilst he was away
sailing in Sanu and one
evening I was whiling
away a few hours reading
a book from his library,
The Illustrated Book of
Zen Buddhism. In fact it
was the same book Id
picked up the previous
year when pictures of
sculpted stylised lions in
front of a temple caught my eye. What a great name for a band I
thought, The Temple Creatures.
That evening I put it to the others expecting it to go the way of Lickety
Split I said What about Temple Creatures as the name for the band?
Then I waited for the barbs of derision to fly back, but to my surprise
encouragingly soft balls of approval returned by way of mumbles and
nods. I wonder if any of them remember this. I have a strong feeling
they wont, especially as I never really became a permanent fixture in
that particular band.

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I do recall one memorable gig I did with them in Fowey Town Hall. We
did the entire gig without a support act by doing solo spots. We decided
to make more of a show of it. Clive, who happens to be a very passable
Taylor, had run up costumes for everyone on Jessie Val Bakers old Singer
sewing machine. I remember mine was made from an old white and gold
brocade curtain, full length with a hood. When I think of it now it was
embarrassingly camp but at the time I thought I looked alternative and
cool. Little John wore what can only be described as a psychedelic
piskies outfit which suited him down to the ground which in fact due to
the laws of physics wasnt very far, (sorry John). I cant remember Tims
outfit, he must have had one. Ill restrain myself from making one up for
him its too tempting.

Lazlo Faya. Temple Creatures.

Clive had made himself a rather wonderfully layered flowing

arrangement out of dark red linen topped off with a rather splendid
turban. He looked marvellously moody and messianic. At the time I
thought, although I wouldnt have dared to tell him, he looked like an
extra, nay the male lead from the
set of Lawrence of Arabia.
The girls, Genevieve and
Demelza appeared in over the top
wispy hippynesss of their own
devising. Every time I looked at
them I was in danger of
dissolving into helpless tears of
mirth. Tim and John did a great
duo spot and played Celandine
Blues, one of their joint
compositions.
I vaguely remember a flash
going off through the gig so if
theres anyone out there with
some old photos of the evening
please get it touch, they would
look great in the FotoFunnel.

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Apart from my poetry spot its remembered as a great night.

As I was about to start my recital the band, as usual, had gone to the
pub for a quick beer, all except Clive who, I was glad to see was sitting in
the front row. Id sung Totters Hymn to the Universe and was halfway
through a poem called Socio Autopsy Too. Things were going well, the
audience were enjoying it. I was just thinking Id hit them with one of my
more obscure pieces when I glanced over at Clive. He was in a kind of
thinkers pose, chin propped up by his hand propped up by his knee. But
then I noticed. The bugger had fallen into a deep sleep. If Id
concentrated hard enough I could have heard him snoring. Was it the
dope or was it me? Probably a little of each I decided. I finished off with
a quick Body / Advert.
Clive miraculously woke up just as the smattering of applause for my
set was dying down and the rest of the band was reappearing from the
pub. Suitably revived he strode up onto the stage and proceeded to do a
solo set which brought the house down. By now I was sitting in the front
occupying the very seat that Clive had been sleeping in. I tried
desperately to fall asleep during his set but just couldnt make it and
found myself applauding with the rest of them.

Earth to Heaven. Stockroom 5.

We only did a couple of Uncle Daves songs all night. In retrospect it was
the beginning of the end for the Stockroom Five and the beginning of
the beginning for the Temple Creatures.

My Home Town. Clive Palmer.

After the gig in the Fowey Town Hall we were all pretty pumped up with
the success of the night and after an encore, I think we did Song of the
Hills but I cant be sure, we all took off smartly for The Galleon just
making it before the bell rang. They didnt know what had hit them.
Show in town is there, the publican said to Little John - or you just fall
orf a toadstool somewhere?
He looked like a Cornish Wrestler but giggled like a school girl, along
with most of the old boys at the bar.
No show, John said poker faced, just felt like dressing up a bit, my bird.
It was after midnight when the six of us, Tim, John, Clive, Demelza,
Genevieve and myself finally staggered back to the hall.

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We packed all the gear into the Val Bakers inflatable dinghy and then just
managed to all squeeze in beside it. After a few hefty tugs Tim managed
to get the outboard to splutter into life and we were off. Halfway back
the boat started to deflate and we began to ship water, as if that wasnt
bad enough the outboard decided to splutter out of life which sounds
funny now but wasnt at the time for we had all our instruments on board
with us. Clive improvised a bucket from his turban and started frantically
baling out water; John grabbed the only oar and calmly started to paddle.
Tim improvised another paddle from a piece of old plywood found in the
bottom of the boat.
The river I noticed was full of dancing light and our wake was like a
cataract of falling stars.
Wow! Look at the phosphorescence man I shouted, its like the `eavens
`ave opened.
Fuck the fucking phosphorescence man help me with this water
screamed back Clive. I grabbed one of Demelzas shoes and started
baling out with that.
We finally slurped and sloshed back into the
Sawmills instruments intact, feeling none the worse
for wear. I was woken next morning by the sound of
Denys pumping up the dinghy.

We were coming back from a Temple Creatures gig

in Clives van late one night when John suddenly
said, I forgot to stash the dulcimer in the back of the
van. Its alright answered Clive, well pick it up
tomorrow, Ill ring them.
No you dont understand, I brought it out of the club
and stuck it on top of the van.
Clive braked so hard that if the dulcimer had still
been there, which was unlikely, it would have flown
off and smashed to pieces on the road. We went
back all the way to Penzance but saw nothing of it.
It had probably launched itself quietly off into a ditch
The Dulcitar. It gave us
somewhere and was beginning its gradual
distinction
disintegration back into the clay.
This, as blessings often do, came disguised. The very next day Clive
was busy.

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Improvising, he found some old piranha pine slats - whoever lives there
now dont pull out the left hand drawer of the cabinet in the second cabin
and after a couple of days hard work using any materiel at hand it was
there beneath his fingers, a funky and almost functional dulcimer. It was
now up to John, the engineer, to bring the beast to life. The machine
heads might have come from an old guitar, the wire for the frets from the
garden shed. Clive carved the bridge from some hardwood he found but
the sound produced was dull. The real breakthrough I think came from
John. He started to experiment with the buzzing sounds coming from the
bridge that at first he tried to eliminate but hearing how interesting they
sounded endeavoured to exaggerate. At least thats what I thought.
How do you know where to put the frets as you dont have the old one
for a template? I asked John thinking Id impress him with such a
technically informed question.
I shall be employing the mathematics of harmonics and probably making
use of the golden ratio, he answered a little too smugly for my liking.
Bloody big `eaded Grammar School boys I was thinking.
Yeah I was wondering whether youd have to do that I replied.
Was that an accident, I asked when I heard the distinctly sitar like
sound, I mean was it intentional or a discovery?
John used to hate it when I tried to be too clever, he still does.
Totally intentional, its precisely what I was after he replied obviously
rattled.
Out of an old bone found in the garden Clive had now fashioned a one
piece bridge. John then experimented with the angle that the string hit
the surface of the bridge at. Eventually he had it buzzing and bright and
then soon discovered that bending the string at the right time made it
slur and sing. So there it was The Dulcitar.
Im still convinced it could have been patented and marketed and made
us all a small fortune. I would of course deserve at least a quarter cut of
the royalties for being such an inspiration at its inception.
Once furnished with a very fundamental bass guitar pick up and pushed
through the old steam driven Grundig serving as an amp it would become
the sound that would soon inspire many of the songs or was it the other
way around?
The Temple Creatures were always a loose affiliation of different
people. Both the Val baker girls and Chrissie Quayle the folk singer from
Zennor were members at one time or another. Clive left sometime
towards the end of 1970, I think.

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The band carried on for a while but I dont think it was ever the same
without Clive, his input was crucial to their sound and materiel. John,
Tim and Demelza left for London. Clive and I stayed on at The Old
Sawmills.
Around Christmas
time I wrote John
and Demelza a long
rambling letter a
copy of which I still
have. Reading it
now I realise I
havent changed that
much. Its
excruciatingly
laborious. Its
meandering
adolescent mish-
mash of overwrought
prose beggars belief
and must have been
due to a surfeit of
either too much
laughing water or
some overly wacky
backy. I include it
purely out of a sense
of morbid curiosity.
And it goes on and
on for another two
pages of which I
wont inflict upon you
as you probably
wouldnt read them
anyway. It was just after this that I heard on the grapevine that Ralph
(Mctell) wanted to talk to me about something important. The next day,
as the phone wasnt working at the Sawmills, I walked into Fowey to call
him. What happened next has been well documented elsewhere but the
gist of it was that Joe Lustig, the full on but likeable Jewish New Yorker
who managed Ralph, had cobbled together a production deal with C.B.S.

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Ralph was showing signs of great interest and no little talent in the
production side of making records and Joe was eager that he got some
music under his belt. I used to naively think of Joe as a bread head.
Youd think someone would have tapped me on the shoulder and said,
Mick, its his job mate. I would have understood - maybe.
Are you Clive and John interested in making a record?
What?
I got him to repeat it just to make sure I heard it right. Ralph had always
been supportive of what we did and I know he loved Clive as a performer.
He saw it as a chance to work with his mates, a labour of love as it were.
The poor sod didnt know what he was letting himself in for.
Let me know in a couple of days he said, and then well work out how to
go forward.
Clive was cool when I told him but I could see that he was just as
excited about the prospect of recording as I was. The timing could not
have been better. It gave us a goal that also brought into focus all sorts
of possibilities for the future.
Lets keep it simple Clive said, too many people will cause too many
complications. How about just you me and John, we can always augment
other people when it comes to it.
So we were off up to London once more. John jumped at the chance,
he didnt need convincing after all by this time he and Clive had a good
backlog of materiel under their belts.
I stayed with Ralph and Nanna at their new house in Putney. They
were such good friends I felt totally at ease and at home. One party night
I was told off by Danny Thompson though, for being sick in the sink and
not clearing it up. He was quite rightly affronted at the thought of poor
Nanna having to do it. The night before I distinctly remember him asking
me what I thought about the idea of kissing the Popes ring. He didnt
fancy it did I? I looked at him and said, I hadnt really thought about it
Dan, Ill let you know. It wasnt long after this that he declared himself a
Muslim. After his conversion Danny was just the same old Danny.
Maybe he was influenced by the fact that some of his African-American
jazz heroes had converted, I dont know.
Occasionally whilst staying at Ralph and Nannas Id pop down the local
offy for beer and the like, noting its name, The Tartan Lancers.
The prospect of recording had focused all our minds, every day it
seemed I wrote something new. Rehearsal and writing sessions were
over at Enfield at Clives dads place.

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It was a long schlep from the southern suburbs to the northern and as
John had already claimed the sofa at Clives I used to crash at Black
Rogers place in Hackney. I was quite pleased, I got a bed there; you
should have seen the sofa. The infamous Roger Blackmore - see Bound
to Go- would soon become our Roady.
It wasnt long before we had a short list of about twenty numbers for
the sessions. Clive was playing less and less banjo having recently
picked up the guitar and balalaika. He was playing the balalaika with a
pick in what I perceived was an oudish manner with lots of down picking.
It was on one of these afternoons that it struck me that he was born
completely out of his time and that he really should have been a
troubadour playing for royalty or the like sometime back in the middle
ages. It was around this time, mid 1970, that Clive said to me, youre
the writer so lets have some lyrics. I didnt need telling twice.
The harmonium and dulcitar changed our whole soundscape, sometimes
even promoting the perfect setting for the songs to live in.
But just to clarify; lets get back to the spring of 1970.
In the novel First Love to Last which you can read about about by

clicking on Novel, I have the main protagonist Mickey Bullock wandering

high on Dartmoor experiencing a revelatory moment when the song
Martha and Mary pops fully formed into his head. It is of course a
fantasy.
In real life in that spring of 1970 Id started writing a poem about an
old girlfriend called Mary whilst staying in one of the cabins at The Old
Sawmills. I only had a few lines and was walking close by the woods
when a magnificently ancient magnolia tree just bursting into blossom
came into view. It struck me the blossoms looked like hands clasped in
supplication. This in turn put me in mind of the Virgin Mary. I found a
story in Denyss library about Martha and Mary, the daughters of Lazarus
and after a week or sos honing, the poem Hands of Mary was born. It
must have been just over two years later in the early summer of 72 I
suppose. Im in London for the recording of Moyshe Mcstiff and the
Tartan Lancers of the Sacred Heart, riding on the top of a double-
decker bus on my way to Clives for a pre recording rehearsal. I start
playing around with the words - Unto you and I this day is born - the next
line, there lays the wealth of many centuries triggers a tune in my
head which I start to hum.

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By the time I join Clive and John I have the song Martha and Mary more
or less finished, words and music. I sing it to them and both of them
immediately look for and find it on their instruments. Clive, playing the
balalaika, was soon underpinning the tune with some perfect chordal
strumming and John on guitar was counter balancing it rhythmically and
also providing a bass part with his thumb. Im astonished. I think we
were all astonished, it was perfect. It proved to be one of the easiest
tracks to record. I think I did the vocal in one take. I also wrote the
lyrics for a middle eight, which proved more difficult to fit with a tune or
mode. It was Ralph on the day of recording who came up trumps with
that. So the song was still collaborative for without the other three guys
input it just wouldnt have turned out the same.

At The Old Sawmills in the spring of 1970 I begin writing the lyrics to
Music of the Ages, once again I had just a few lines which Id written in
Denys Val Bakers study. Well at least I thought of it as his study. I think
the family referred to it as the library or music room. There was a full
sized classical harp there that I used to take notes from when pitching a
song. Denys as I remember used to write in a little hut especially built for
him across the creek. Every morning quite early hed punt himself over
to his little retreat and just write all day.
I remember him fondly as a gentle gentleman who always treated me
with the greatest respect which I paid back in kind. I was also aware he
had this extra dimension about him.....he had a publisher. He taught me
by example that if you want to write you must go about your business
quietly, EVERY day.
Id heard John playing a tune on his newly invented dulcitar. It was a
seriously entrancing sound and the melody easily lodged itself in my
brain. I thought Haiku and wrote in the spirit of that particular discipline.
The leap of a small frog to water - a silent sun / touching of our bodies is
music for everyone.
Thats all I had as I took a walk up through the woods to the waterfall,
my favourite spot, which produced for time entwines my very soul / a
strangled briar kills the tree / I cannot hear-the music of the ages / the
silence of a million tongues.
Whilst sitting on the rocks there the song more or less wrote itself.
Both Clive and John insisted I change the word strangles for kills. I was
upset for days. A year later it would be Clive of course who sang the
song on Spirit of Love. I was miffed at first, wanting to sing it myself.

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Then I heard Clive do it and knew I could never give it the same sort of
authority. I also realised how much he must have liked it to want to do it
in the first place so that felt good. I still love the song and the way he
sings it.

Music of the Ages. C.O.B live

One evening I watched speechless as the formidable Jess Val Baker,

who I think we were all a little in awe of, wielded a large kitchen knife
and repeatedly stabbed the dinghy whilst ranting expletives. It was
Denys this and Denys that until the boat looked like the droppings of
some giant duck. It was made even more comical for me because Jess
was swearing in such a posh accent. I never found out what it was all
about and the boat was patched up and refloated within a couple of days.
I must point out how unusual an occurrence this was for Denys and Jess
were mostly a very happy couple and it would be wrong to insinuate
otherwise. They were extremely tolerant and creative people. They must
have been to put up with us lot. Lines were drawn in the sand about
certain things though.
The girls were instructed not to get pregnant though considering
Demelzas sexual proclivities that would have been difficult. No books
were to leave the house, at least were only allowed to go as far as the
cabins and no chemicals acid or speed - were allowed on the premises.
So the locals in Golant got it about right when they referred to the place
as Cannabis Creek.
Once when Denys and Jess were about to sail off in Sanu thinking I was
the most reliable of the bunch they put me in charge of the strawberry
patch and the chickens. A big mistake! I failed miserably having got
distracted in St Ives by a rather gorgeous hippy girl tourist for a week.
Upon my return I found that the pigeons had eaten all the strawberries
and now instead of six chickens there were only two. The cock and hen
had eaten their babies. When Jess eventually found out she didnt say a
word to me, literally. I was unceremoniously sent to Coventry for a good
month and even then she was cold and overly polite. I didnt blame her,
Id let her down. The closest Denys came to a chastisement was when he
said, shame about the chickens in such a way as to make me feel
extremely guilty for weeks. But we were soon back to our old distant but
congenial ways.

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When I think about them now Denys and Jess really were exceptional
people and for a couple of years - one of which they stayed in Bermuda
where Jess was teaching pottery - their largesse gave me a taste of
freedom that still occasionally excites my palate. For a working class city
boy that was priceless.
Denys had lived a fascinating life. Hed changed his name to Val Baker
because it sounded good and authorish but also to honour his father
Valentine Henry Baker, a pilot instructor in the First World War who had
died in a flying accident in 1942. After a period of freelance journalism
Denys had become secretary of the pacifist community in Camden Town
in London. I realise now that my understanding of the man at the time
was entirely one dimensional. Ive since found out what a multi faceted
character he really was. For an excellent albeit brief autobiography of
Denys Val Baker go to Wikipedia. When you look it up the body of his
work is nothing short of astounding in its enormity.

Clive, John and I were, as individuals, entirely different which is

probably why we had such great dynamics within the band. We did
though have a few important things in common. Firstly the three of us
were working class boys and so therefore, although obviously this is not
always the case, we had leftish leanings. And then of course the most
important unifying factor, our collective love of words and music and
more precisely, the performing of them.
Clive as is well documented had been performing from an early age.
For a great read and more information concerning the background of
Clive Palmer see Grahame Hoods biography Empty Pocket Blues
published by Helter Skelter. For an insight into the background of Mick
Bennett see the introduction of Bound to Go available as an eBook
through this site.
Little John (Bidwell) wasnt given his first guitar. Like me, although I
only had to pay half towards mine, he had to save up his pocket money
for his too. Unlike my guitar his didnt end up gathering dust under the
bed. After a year of hard saving at thirteen he finally walked into Bill
Hardings Music Shop in Newquay and bought a chocolate brown Palm
Beach for 3-15s, a vision in plywood and glue. The stencilled on Palm
Trees looked particularly attractive in the depths of the Cornish
drizzlemist winter, down in the valley where he lived at Rejerrah. The
Skiffle boom was at its height in Britain.

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Not long after it fizzled out so did the guitar. It would just last him
through puberty before it imploded one day. He had literally played it to
death by teaching himself all the Chas Mcdevitt and the Vipers hits, being
particularly enamoured with Nancy Whiskey. He had bought the Bert
Weedon-Play in a Day tuition book but quickly ignored it.
So there were no lessons of any kind he just picked it up by ear, by trial
and error. He replaced that first guitar with a Levin which he still has to
this day.
Bert and Joan his mum and
dad both played music and
sang. Joan played the
harmonium in the local
chapel and sometimes Bert
sang songs from his native
East Anglia. Later Bert
would teach himself the
violin and mandolin and
serenade anyone who would
listen. His playing was not
always on the button
rhythmically but had a wonderful larger than life, impish quality about it.
Much like Bert himself in fact.
Growing up in the wilds of Cornwall in the fifties was in many ways a
blessing in some a curse. His was a large family of four brothers and two
sisters, John being the eldest boy. He would later put his lack of height
down to a poor post war diet.
Although the family were never in dire need like many others at the
time they didnt need a course in home economics to work out they were
living from hand to mouth. Loving care made up for any economic
straits. Academically he was undoubtedly the brightest of the bunch
although this would probably be hotly contested by his siblings. John
sailed through primary school and the 11 plus to manoeuvre the
sometimes choppy waters of Grammar School. He left with six Os and
three As in Chemistry, Mathematics and Physics. This brought him to
Bradford University to study Industrial Chemistry. Throughout this time
his trusty Levin was a constant companion.
As with so many others of his generation the call of the Sixties became
greater than the need for a formal education.

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Spirit of Love

The pull of the guitar and performing with his old school friend Tim
Wellard was to prove a stronger influence. John wrote the C.O.B song He
Never Came Back one desolate dawn on a deserted platform at Truro
railway station on his way back home from dropping out of University.
Not long after this he took a job for E.C.L.P. as a chemist. It was at this
time he started to frequent and play in the Folk Cottage at Mitchell
where he would eventually rub shoulders with the likes of Wizz Jones,
Ralph Mctell, Clive Palmer and many others. It would set his musical
path for the next few years.

In Joe Lustigs apartment in South Kensington, it was all pugs and

period furniture. With as little ceremony as possible, I for one only
glanced at the contract; we all signed the record deal with Joe and
therefore C.B.S. We also signed a management deal plus I think rather
stupidly signed over our publishing to Joes company. The carrot I think
was an advance royalty payment for the princely sum of 500, between
us. This may also explain why we passively accepted Clives Original Band
as the name. Whose idea was that? Joes of course. None of us liked it
but we were broke. We needed the Wonga. What about Lickety.....I
began but the looks on John and Clives faces shut me up.
The allotted studio time drew ever nearer. We stopped rehearsing a
couple of days before hand and cleaned our act up as it were, no booze
or drugs. We now had a short list of ten numbers plus a couple of
possibles.
The Marquee Studios in Richmond Mews in Londons Soho just round the
back of the famous Marquee club in Wardour Street were bog standard
and brilliant. Along with the sound engineer Colin Caldwell, who would
soon go on to engineer Anne Briggs new album The Time Has Come,
had a good pedigree and was thought amongst those who knew as being
the business. I loved being in Soho along with the South Bank it was
probably my favourite London place. Not so long ago the Temple
Creatures had gigged in Les Cousins which was just up the road. I also
had great memories of being benzied up at the all night sessions in the
Flamingo, grooving along to Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames in the
early Sixties, dressed up to the nines in my three piece Prince of Wales
check whistle and green faux crocodile skin winkle pickers with Cuban
heels.

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All the women there were much older than me and to my disgust none of
them took me in the least bit seriously, see Bound to Go.
Of course Clive and Ralph both had studio work beneath their belts.
Ralphs first album Eight Frames a Second had come out back in 67 and
Clives in 66 with the first Incredibles. On the other hand John and I
were complete novices.
We voted on which songs to drop from the list. I Told Her much to my
disappointment was voted off as was was Johns Child of the Season and
Clives Solomons Song.
Just a few days before recording Clive expressed his discontent at his
own vocal on Soft Touches of Love and suggested I do it instead. I
agreed but wasnt happy with the recorded result. I knew I hadnt found
the right voice for the song.
The Israeli song Evening Roses or Erev Shel Shoshanim was also
dropped from the list. Clive had been singing it in Hebrew and I think he
was worried about his pronunciation being inaccurate. At the time it was
a popular song and I think if wed recorded it as a single in both English
and Hebrew it would have done well. Clives interest in Jewish mysticism,
which I think he pursues to this day, dates from around this time.

Erev shel Shoshanim Slowly the night time falls

Netzah Na el habusstaa A rose scented wind above
Mor besarim ulevona I whisper to you my love a song
Leraglech miftan Softly a song of love

On the first day of recording Joe (Lustig) was strutting about like a
cockerel with four hens. He was making us all nervous and then
suddenly to everyones relief he disappeared. Our relief however was
short lived. In a most bizarre episode - in retrospect thinking of Joe it
seems quite appropriate Joe reappeared with a clutch of Pythons, the
Monty type, in toe. They were obviously recording in another studio and
Joe had just collared them to come and see my boys at work.
And there they were Michael Palin, Eric Idle and John Cleese as large as
life in front of us looking well...... embarrassed. Joe insisted on formal
introductions. They were as bemused as we were and were soon gone.
The first few hours of recording were entirely chaotic with tempos
forgotten, tempers rotten, lyrics only half remembered and voices drying
up with nerves.

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What Ralph must have been thinking I dont know, it was certainly a
steep learning curve for him as a producer? He became very
disciplinarian which was exactly what we needed.

To settle us all down Clive had gone out and laid the main track down
for Banjoland, note perfect. He had to do a few takes though as mikes
were tried in various positions to get the required sound. Clives
composure was a hundred percent. He had after all been playing the tune
since just after he stopped wearing short trousers.
Recording Wade in the Water a cappella proved easy, the rehearsals
had paid off but...... we kept straying off the beat. Enter Beat Miester
May who was soon in the booth with us clapping and stamping on a bass
pedal. This was one of Clives songs although I did help him out on a few
verses. Whether or not hed heard the Gospel number of the same name
Im not sure but I religiously avoided any Christian references trying I
think to allude to the sheer beauty of the planet.

Wade in the Water C.O.B Live

It became one of our most successful live songs. Ralph set his stall out
on this number and became a stickler for note and harmony accuracy and
so we took our time getting it right. It reminded me of all those years
ago at the Folk Cottage see Bound to Go- when Ralph would take on
the choirmaster role for The Mitchell Minstrels or was it the Garroty Parrot
Band?
By the end of the second day things were falling into place and we were
all starting to enjoy the process. Everyone was focussing on their own
individual roles and performances trying to give their best.

As a song I wasnt sure of Serpents Kiss but Clive and John were
adamant, I had to do it. Id written it the summer before at The Old
Sawmills............
One day our rural idyll was disrupted by the arrival of some American
friends of Demelzas and Sunshines. Sheldon, slick urbane fast talking
Sheldon, was apparently the leader of the Agitprop Circus or some such
codswallop.

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The whisper was that theyd done live sex in their show in Amsterdam.
By the time theyd all been ferried up from Golant village where theyd
parked their trailer home there must have been at least a dozen of them
on our patch. One consolation, there were four chicks, although it
became immediately obvious one had been Demelzaed. In fact the
women seemed much more knowing and worldly than the men. After a
couple of days of their bragging about their past exploits wed had
enough. I suppose we were partly threatened as they were on our patch
talking hip and looking successful. A tactical retreat was in order. I
suggested only half seriously that we build some huts in the woods and
live in them until theyd gone.
I could see Clive was getting rattled, he was definitely not happy.
You people have lost the plot he said to Sheldon.
What plot man? There is no plot man, you getting paranoid man. We
give, we take and we make people happy, thats all man, thats all.
Seeing the look on Clives face I worried for Sheldons safety. Sheldon
was right about the giving bit though as Id already experienced that the
night before from Angelika one of the chicks from the troupe. Then John
apropos to nothing suddenly burst out disparagingly.............
Youre just a bunch of wazzicks.
O youre so cute retorted Sheldon facetiously although he had no idea
what it meant. I didnt either so I asked John later.
What does wazzicks mean John, the same as poltroons maybe?
He waited a second or two and then said, a bunch of New England kids
playing at being hippies.
Oh I see, you mean schmucks.
The three of us spent the next day cutting and collecting lengths of
hazel and ash. We cleared a small area at the edge of the woods on the
valley floor not far from the stream and waterfall. Close by a natural
spring conveniently bubbled from a rock. I dug out a shallow pool so we
could scoop up pans of water. By the early evening we had constructed
two small primitive huts. One was a tee-pee type the other a bender,
both were just large enough to sleep two. Bracken from the hillside made
the insides remarkably comfortable. If it had rained we would have been
washed out but luckily for the next week until the Americans left the
weather held.
We were visited by a marginally famous poet and his arrestingly
gorgeous chick one day.

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She was very impressed with what we were doing saying stuff like, Oh
Peter, look at what these chaps are doing, its so charming. But he,
obviously piqued, threw a hissy fit and stomped off mumbling something
like, I have no interest in this kind of ridiculous half baked rural
revisionism. Being acutely aware of the working class / public school
dynamic I could see he was obviously pulling rank on us. Just to make a
point his arrestingly gorgeous chick stayed a little longer after hed left,
sharing a joint and a mug of tea with us.
After shed left I suggested to the fellas that we don our Fowey Town
Hall costumes and start charging the cognoscenti to come and see how
the rural side of the revolution was being fought.
It was one of the few times they both laughed at one of my jokes. I
rarely got both of them at once.
Years later, not knowing the marginally famous poet had passed away, I
noticed a park bench dedicated to him in Falmouth. I found it deeply
ironic, a bench! Im sure he would have hated it.
Sheldon, brandishing a sip-sip like a peace pipe, came one day and
joined us around the fire.
Wow! You guys are far out he said, youve really taught me something.
Clives face was a picture of studied disdain.
Angelika Sminsky was dark haired and dark humoured with a low
rumbling laugh like a villain out of a horror flick. She had black eyes
infused with gold flecks. She danced in the troupe in that crazy hippy,
whirling dervish fashion, that I always thought looked vaguely demonic
and was what some guys called sex on legs. As I found out her legs
definitely went all the way up to her bum. She was older than me by
some five years. Her skin which was dark changed hue regarding to how
sexually charged she was. Her touch sent the hairs on my body including
my head into fits of strictures which made me look like Catweazle. I took
to calling her Squidchick which she loved thinking it was some kind of
compliment. In an intimate moment I asked her whether it was true that
theyd done a live sex show in Amsterdam. Sure man, why not! She said
it with such matter-of-fact-ness as if it didnt matter that I replied with
more moral outrage than I intended, Well I can think of a lot of reasons,
why go to such extremes in front of people? I got no reply of course, the
business in hand was more important.

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On this particular night I was laying in the bender listening to Clive and
John blowing in the tee-pee next door whilst I read Rimbaud, as you did.
She crawled in through the low entrance tunnel which Id added as an
afterthought, naked except for a blanket. She was holding a small pipe
which she passed to me along with a small ball of dark brown gooey stuff.
It was Opium, my first and as it turned out, last hit of the stuff.
Sit up straight babe and open your
lungs she commanded letting slip
the blanket and giggling as she sat
down on the tickly bracken. The
dreams came furious and confused in
colours almost sickening in their
intensity. At one point I was a
human worm slowly eating my way
out of a giant apple. We made love
but I felt nothing as if detached from
my actions, almost watching myself
like a voyeur. To be honest I didnt
enjoy it much, the opium or the love
making, it was as if it was happening
to someone else.
When I awoke the next day I could see it was late as the sun was
shining through the roof of the bender from almost directly above.
Angelica had gone off to do whatever it was that agitprop dancer /
actresses did. My head was a tangled mess; I couldnt string two
thoughts together.
I stumbled to the waterfall and just fell in the pool with the vain hope it
would shock me awake.
Clive and John were nowhere to be seen so I got a small fire going,
made a cup of tea then sat on the bank by the stream feeling detached
and nervous.
Rest peaceful be assured of this the breath of life is but a kiss, the
words just fell off the end of my pencil. I was hungry so I decided to
walk into the village to get a pint and a pasty. I went the woods way
thereby avoiding all the others.

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The village of Golant was really just a wee homestead grown out of a
few old fishermens cottages. Many of the cottages were second homes
even by then. Consequently there was a snobbishness abroad that you
could almost smell. The Guv`nor of the Fishermans Arms was an ex
farmer called Claude something or other and a more dislikeable sort of
character you couldnt wish to meet. I heard him talking to one of the
yachting fraternity one day. Claude was a Cornishman and was trying to
put on a posh Cornish accent. As you can imagine it sounded totally
ridiculous. He looked at me that day as if looking at a monkey in a cage
and only just suppressed a burst of laughter. There was a large jug of
water on the bar. I swallowed the urge to pour it over the great beetroot
dome of his bonce.
As I ordered a pint and a pasty
he said, Alright my bird, but ony
corse no ones `ere, you frum that
there Cannabis Creek are ee? You
bedder sit outside case any o my
reglars comes. You got yanks up
there now I `ear?
I averted my eyes, bit my tongue,
paid and sat down outside with
my pint.
Within a minute or two the rest
of Serpents Kiss issued from the
end of my pencil. Between these
dreams the shadows spread...........
When this kind of thing happened it always made my day. As I got up
to leave I put my head through the pub door and shouted in a jolly sailing
sort of way. Thank you so much Claude, youre a diamond in the rough
ol` boy. It was worth it just to see the look of incomprehension on his
wind worried face. I was hoping Id inspired a good dose of acid reflux
from his bloated gut.
We nailed Serpents Kiss in the studio without too much trouble. The
tune, if you can call it that, was obviously one of Clive and Johns
instrumentals that fitted the words to perfection. On our way back to
Putney in a cab that evening after the recording session Ralph turned to
me saying, Serpents Kiss Mick, whats it all about?

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The poor sod had been spending hours behind the mixing desk trying to
get it right and he probably had the words going over and over in his
brain like some demented mantra. I was trying to think of a slick answer
when I heard myself say, dont ask me mate, I only wrote it. I could see
he must have been thinking, What a
complete wazzick! I thought his idea to
get Ursula Smith from the 3rd Ear Band to
play Cello on the track was inspired.
We had all the tracks sewn up in four days
which left one for mixing. Spirit of Love,
as it was a vaguely anthemic track, seemed
like a good title so that was decided.
Feeling chuffed with myself I went over to
Ma and Pas in Finsbury Park for a couple of
days.
That evening I popped down my old local
The Gunners for a pint. I wasnt half way
through it when a bunch of local geezers,
My Dad at the Firms do. 1941?
some of whom used to be my so called
friends, began throwing insults at me finally jeering me out of the pub,
threatening all kinds of abuse. To pretend it didnt affect me would be a
lie. It put me in a very lonely place, like a bullied little boy. Quietly
fuming I went down the Blackstock Tavern, an old haunt of my dads in
his younger days, for another pint. The assault, for thats what it was,
had taken me by surprise. I was shaking as if Id been in a fight. Id
tried not to react to their insults, difficult for someone like me. Id
forgotten how different I looked to them. Thats what really pissed them
off, the long hair. It was the first thing Ma had said when she opened the
door, Aint chu `ad that `air cut yet? I suddenly saw all those local boys,
some not even young men anymore, for what they were. Trapped in
their own little worlds they were running scared, scared of anything
different to what they knew. It threatened their sense of who they
thought they were. Pathetic Bastards!
Tom Berry, a singing buddy of my dads from before the war, was in the
pub. Already quite sozzled he was celebrating a win on the dogs from
the night before. He saw me, came over and insisted on buying me
another beer. Blimey your `airs getting a bit
long in it was his opening remark?

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I told him about the idiots down The Gunners and he just said, Theyre
not important son, they just dont know nuffing And then he just burst
into song............Do not forsake me my darling / on this our wedding
day.
Come on Tom keep it down said the
guv`nor but he was too late, an old lady,
in fact it was Dot, Mrs Forbes from down the
road, had already begun joining in. I do
not know what fate awaits me / I only
know I must be brave. Then at least
another half a dozen people were
singing....or lay a coward / a craven
coward / or lay a coward in my grave. And
then Tom as if grabbing his moment of
fame put one foot up on a chair, lent on
his knee and sang out..........Oh to be
torn twixt love and duty / s`posin I lose
my fair haired beauty / look at that big
hand move along nearing high noon. It was quite a show ...He made a
vow whilst in state prison / vowed it would be my life or his an` / Im not
afraid of death but, oh, what shall
I do, / if you leave me. I found
myself singing along with rest of
them. It was brilliant.
He repeated the first verse and
then it finally fizzled out with just
about everyone in the pub
singing........ Wait - wait alone /
wait wait alone.
The guv`nor although shaking
his head was sporting the biggest
grin you can imagine.
Back in the early Forties Tom
Berry and my dad had been in a
very successful live to air concert
together. I include the concerts
programme and a photo of the old man singing, (note the skulls in the
background) not just for sentimental reasons but to give a little depth to
his character.

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When I got back home before Id said a word dad said, youve `ad a
couple I can see by yer eyes.
Yeah I met your old mucker Tom Berry down the Blackstock; he was in
good voice and sang High Noon to the whole pub.
The old man couldnt believe this. Is he still doing that old chestnut?
Silly old bugger! But he had a wistful look in his eye and I knew that
hed loved to have been there. For a long time now hed stopped going
into pubs. Id never really found out why. Maybe it was his age or
something.
What yer famous now or something he said, this came for yer, it gave us
all a fright we thought youd had an accident. He handed me a small
brown envelope. It was a telegram, a first for the Bennett household
which still didnt have a telephone or a bathroom. It was from Joe telling
me of a ten o clock meet tomorrow morning for a photo shoot in Regents
Park. It said a taxi will be arriving at nine thirty to pick me up.
Get out of it said the old man, you gotta be `aving a laugh and then he
was off telling everybody in the street about it. Mum just said, silly old
sod. From this one incident and then later seeing me singing in the
Festival Hall dad managed to convince himself that I was going to be
famous.
Sorry about that dad.
I never saw the
photographs they took of
the three of us that day in
the Rose Garden and as far
as I know no one else did
either. The album was
released in the autumn; I
received my complimentary
copies, they still smelt of ink
from the factory. Slipping
the pristine disc out of its pure white paper sleeve was tantamount to
ones first conquest. I also had the same silly grin on my face for days
afterwards
Almost overnight our world changed. Joe-the bread head-Lustig was
doing his job. Black Roger became our Roady and in his red Volkswagen
split screen camper van we embarked on a countrywide tour of the clubs.

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Some were not particularly Folky either, more in the mould of the old
working mens clubs. They were tough but when they liked you they
really liked you.

Sweet Slavery. C.O.B. live.

One of our favourite folk gigs was at the Highcliffe pub in Sheffield; it
was full of enthusiasts and became one of our best venues as we felt
people really appreciated us there.
With three or four gigs a week at last we were truly on the road. I loved
it, it made us work hard and forget ourselves. If wed recorded after that
first few months the result would have been entirely different to Spirit of
Love but not necessarily better.
For me, seeing Britain like this was an eye opener with Scotland
especially chiming deep. I came to realise Id become a little parochial in
my outlook since living in Cornwall.
The country was full of great clubs run in the most part by enthusiastic
people, often frustrated musicians who did it for the love of the music.
After paying the artists they invariably lost money. I also found out what
it felt like to have a girl in every port. It felt good for the ego but not the
soul, there was always something missing.

Id first met Bert Jansch the previous year at the Half Moon in Putney
as an old friend of Clives from Scotland. I think he had made a couple of
albums by then but I had not heard them at that time. I felt totally
relaxed in his company as we sat around talking and drinking in the
saloon bar. I didnt even know he was playing there that night until he
told me. He was easy going and friendly and I liked him immediately.

After the interval he went through to the performance area in the back
room. It was packed solid with people. Without any introduction he just
got up on the stage and started to play probably taking the MC and sound
man by surprise. The transformation blew me away. I wont make the
old cocoon to butterfly analogy but if I did it would be quite accurate. For
the next hour he was in total command, people were enraptured.
After the gig we sat around and chatted for a while much like we did
before with Bert sitting there once more his unassuming self.

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The message came from Joe; we were to support Bert at his upcoming
gig at the Festival Hall on the South Bank. We looked at each other and
thought great, a big gig at last. It was a month away so we had plenty of
time to prepare.

The lights dimmed and you could just make out a shadowy figure walk
centre stage, sit down and start playing. Quietly at first and then as the
spotlight went from dim to bright the musics volume lifted too. As Anjie
filled the vast auditorium appreciative applause washed liked a warm
wave over Bert from the serried ranks of the audience.
It was unmistakably Bert, the voice, the guitar, no one else on earth
made those sounds. One man, a voice and a guitar alone in a spotlight in
a cathedral like space where everyones attention had become
immediately concentrated on him and there he was, self contained,
impregnable. And their
attention held one
hundred percent
throughout the hour
plus that he played for.
Would be guitar players
and performers in the
audience were awe
struck but what exactly
is it that sets him apart,
or for that matter any
successful solo artist?
Charisma? Talent? Its
not so easily explained.
Bert would have no idea
and even if he had would be much too embarrassed to speculate. For me
its that I know Im getting the real person without any showmanship or
flim-flam. Hes just saying, this is how I see it and feel it and I want to
share it with you. Of course the talent is there in spades in the unique
amalgamation of voice and guitar and a delivery that is artfully throw
away yet demands attention.

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The art of the solo artist is not just about talent. Ive known plenty of
great musicians and singers who really dont have what it takes. Theres
something about an on stage persona that either works or doesnt. Its
either their approach or personalities or something that doesnt quite
click. I could name a few but that would be foolish. Well, its clicked
alright with Bert thats for sure.
People love mystery but they also love to be able to feel certain
accessibility and maybe a connection on an equal level. Bert, although he
doesnt cultivate it certainly has the mystery and its the sheer
uniqueness of his approach that people love.
For instance an artist such as Ralph Mctell has hell no doubt hate me
for saying this a boy next door charm about him, hes basically there
sitting on your sofa singing to you and telling you a story. Along with the
note perfect playing its a winning combination I dont think hell hate
me for saying that.
Clive Palmer when hes playing solo just has to walk onto a stage and he
commands it, Ive seen it many times. He seems to say, well this is
what I do, Im doing it for you, you can either take it or leave it. People
take it eagerly, in fact they lap it up.
These three artists have one important thing in common, that is the
knack or natural bent of being themselves onstage.

Wed gone through the whole of our Spirit of Love repertoire. When
He Came Home was an unexpected success, in the a cappella part Id
dropped down on one knee as I used to all those years ago as a Minstrel
at Pontins - see Bound to Go. There were sporadic crackings up
across the audience. Friends joined us on stage for the encore for which
we sang Spirit of Love. It produced yet another encore so we just did it
again, a mistake I suspect. I glanced down to the front row stalls and
there was mum with her hanky out and dad who looked like he was
glowing.

Clive was undoubtedly the most at home on the concert stage. He had
a depth and seriousness about him that I knew I could never muster. My
nervousness manifested itself as frivolity, his, in a total focus.

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At times we must have looked like good cop-bad cop. John was
workmanlike about his task having taken on his usual scientist working in
a laboratory persona.
Anne Briggs was said to have done a wonderful set but sadly I missed it
having been called to the bar to meet my fans (mum, dad and sister
Annie).
All things considered it was a wonderful night and gave us a great boost.
Joe began booking us into Universities. At last, we were making some
Wonga.
We had nearly a week until we were due to gig back up north again.
Clive was on a pipe making kick. I need bamboo, its gotta be mature
but not brittle and at least 18 inches long between the knuckles, its for
making reeds. He wasnt talking to anyone in particular but as he said it
I remembered the stands of giant bamboo Id seen in the jungle when Id
stayed in Mandala the head camp in Heligan Woods near Mevagissey. So
one day the three of us set off for Heligan. At
the time it was enjoying a serious notoriety of
a those bloody `ippies in the woods nature.
After struggling through the undergrowth,
Little John had a rather nasty altercation with
some brambles and what looked like fox shit.
I think he was more annoyed at us for
laughing at him than the fact we made no
move to help him.
As I stumbled into a bog and sank up to my
knees his uncontrollable laughter told me hed
got his own back. We eventually found the
bamboo, thicket upon thicket of it. Clive went
The Little Cottage called Rose
to work selecting lengths that he deemed
appropriate. Trying to get out we got hopelessly lost until we saw a
plume of smoke curling its way up through the trees.
This turned out to be a little cottage called Rose at the time being
squatted by a Glaswegian abstract impressionist painter by the name of
Campbell Smith for a vignette of this encounter see Bound to Go
He administered much appreciated cuppas. Unbeknown to me at the
time this very cottage, in around five years time, would become my
home for nearly 25 years and the place where my kids would grow up.

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Between the many splendored highs there were also a few deep rivered
lows. This, as anyone who has led the gigging life on the road knows, is
inevitable.
The post industrial countryside looked dead; the rivers, so lacking in life
looked lost in their meanderings. These dour thoughts were juxtaposed
with the joy of knowing that The Arsenal my beloved Gunners had
just done the double as we sped towards Sheffield University that early
summer of 71.
John had recently bought, for the
enormous sum of 25, a wonderful
fold up, ex Salvation Army
Harmonium with a nigh on full size
keyboard. This immediately gave
our sound a whole load of extra
depth. He had it decorated by Barry
Trust in faux art deco come hippy
multi coloured twirls and it looked
great on stage. This was to be a
support gig for Mike Absalom, an
artist I hadnt heard of before. He
probably looked at our name and
thought the same about us as often
these gigs were a purely business
arrangement between agents.
By this time a certain amount of
disillusionment had crept in. Once more the money was the problem. We
were only just breaking even again. The rigours of crashing on
organisers floors was taking its toll. After this one we would be back to
Cornwall for a week which we were all looking forward to. Wed already
done four gigs that week and were all well and truly knackered.
I thought Id inject a little light hearted humour into the proceedings by
improvising some new lyrics. What on earth I was thinking of I dont
know, it was just another of my spectacularly inept miscalculations. The
exact lyrics I sang to Spirit of Love that night Ive conveniently forgotten.
I have a dreadful notion it was some triumphalist claptrap or other about
Arsenal winning the league by beating Tottenham and the F.A. Cup at
Wembley by beating Liverpool. The winning goal was scored by Charlie
George.

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I could have easily sung The double is there for all to see / Spirit of
George move in me or some such tripe. I remember feeling quite
pleased with my little joke as I looked over at Clive who to my surprise
was glowering back at me, eyes like coals from the fires of hell. Even
then the penny didnt drop. Whats wrong with him I wondered?
Halfway through the next verse I sang even more glib travesties of the
real lyrics. We finished the song; the last vibrations from it pulsated
through us and died away as the audience applause in turn subsided.
From the corner of my eye I saw what I thought was something falling
towards me, a microphone stand maybe? It wasnt falling it was flying
and it wasnt a microphone but Clives very amply clenched fist heading
towards my very amply fleshed hooter. It missed, just, and then I
managed to duck the left upper-cut that was following through.
Poor Mike Absalom rushed onto the stage and calmed things down by
calling for an interval. The storm was over as soon as it had begun.
Clives angry accusations at my disrespect rang around the dressing room
and seeing how upset he was I had to agree with him. I quickly
apologised, it would have been foolish to do otherwise. The next day I
apologised to Clive once more for messing with the song. There was a
banality in what I did that I was ashamed of. Once again my insensitivity
had bitten back at me. He apologised back. I think he was disappointed
in himself for losing it. The three of us were prone to the occasional hissy
fits, it was part of our collective baggage but its entirely untrue to say we
fell to bickering and the like, we just didnt, even at the end.
It soon blew over and we were back on track in no time. Black Roger
the Roady was helpful in this respect as he had the knack of making light
of everything and it rubbed off. Helpfully our cheques arrived which, for
a while, always cheered us up.

The student audiences were very different to the Folk Clubs. It wasnt
just that they were more pissed; they probably had more eclectic tastes
and were listening to people like Dylan and The Dead whereas the Folky
lot were much more parochial in their tastes. The students had a different
kind of enthusiasm, more as if they were on our level or something. We
met some great people who were genuinely excited about what we did.

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One of the best gigs we did that summer was undoubtedly Cambridge
Folk Festival. I was so pleased to see we were on the same bill as the
Boys of the Lough. Id seen them in Dublin the year before and
become a fan so to get a chance to meet them was a real pleasure. The
formidable core of the band as I saw it was Dick Gaughan and Aly Bain.
One steeped in the Scottish tradition the other in the Shetland, their two
distinct styles of playing coming together in a wonderfully cohesive
manner.
This left the two Irishman, Cathal McConnell on vocals and flute to
embroider a tenor tracery and Robin
Morton on concertina and bodrahn to
weave a rhythmic weft that sewed up the
sound picture perfectly. Except for Aly
they all took turns in singing too.
The whole thing reeked of the reel deal.
There was a balance within the band right
down to their characters which seemed to
interact really well together.
After C.O.Bs set Robin came up and
congratulated us. Dick said he thought Id
sung the Scottish Lament The Flowers o` the Forest, Nay bad fuir a
Sassenach. I took it as he meant it, as a compliment but then took him
to task regarding the actual meaning of the word Sassenach insisting that
it was a derogatory term for a lowlander like himself proffered by a
highland Scot not necessarily a put down to an Englishman. I could see
Id got him a little rattled so for a change I shut up.
I told Cathal how Id been singing Bonnie Blue Eyed Lassie myself ever
since Id heard him sing it in Dublin the year before. Thats grand he
said, tis a fine song.
I also remember feeling that at this time there was a great accord
between the three of us, for a while the chemistry in C.O.B. was just
right. We delivered the goods at Cambridge. In retrospect I cant help
thinking that the decent fee we were getting had made all the difference
but maybe Im being a little too cynical.

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Moyshe Mcstiff

It was great being back in the

studio although I never took the
idea of making a single seriously; it
was after all Joe Lustigs idea and
against all rationale. At the time I
thought all things Joe were
unhealthily commercial and
therefore uncool. Once more Ralph
was to produce and after hearing
the various new songs we were
individually and as a group in the
process of writing he picked Blue
Morning, one of Clives. I added a couple of new verses and it was ready
to go. But go where? How to arrange it? Clive ran through it a few
times in what I call his solo style and I thought it worked.

Its gotta be commercial, its a single for Christ sakes. Joe was doing his
aberrant cockerel impression. I should have said, Why dont you just
cluck off? Instead we all ignored him and eventually he did anyway.
Someone, Im not sure who; I hope it
wasnt me, came up with the idea of
doing it with an offbeat Folk Reggae?
Please! And I was asked to sing it. The
session was fun, I loved working with a
rhythm section and I thought the la-laad
choruses were hilarious almost
pythonesqe-Ralphs idea?
With an eye on the possible Melody
Maker headlines I tried to sing it wistfully - Whispering Mick works wistful
wonders with Reggae shtick. The B side Bones was just a fall about
representing Clives occasional penchant for gallows humour. Everything
considered it was a fun day out.
The promotional gimmick to give a free bottle of whiskey - surely it was
a miniature - away with every copy sent to DJs and the like was pure Joe.

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Was he relating this whiskey to Blue Morning and the hair of the dog? It
was after all a jaunty little ditty of depression and loss.
Anyhow all the business did was drink the whiskey and use the single
as a Frisbee so that was the height of that.

Back at the good Old Sawmills whilst I was away, Eileen Zack, a good
friend of mine from New York had come looking for me. At that time
there was a cabal or was it a coven of women there who were ruling the
roost and had become quite up themselves and they treated dear bubbly
Eileen, she was literally bubbly as when she spoke little bubbles of
enthusiasm appeared at the corners of her mouth, worse than shabbily
not allowing her to stay or even offering her any sustenance. I was
furious and it sewed a seed of doubt in my mind. If you ever read this
Eileen please accept my apologies.
She was undoubtedly one of the most positive and giving people Id
ever met and it gave me pause for thought regarding the people who
surrounded me. From then on I knew it wouldnt be long before I moved
on. In various other little ways it became obvious that my Old Sawmill
days were approaching some kind of dnouement.

A welcome distraction comes along as I start to hang out with J, the

rather comely blonde daughter of the local country doctor. Well bred and
beautiful she was studying for a Humanities Degree at Plymouth
University. Thats cool I said without having the foggiest idea of what
the Humanities were, studying how to be human maybe? We quickly
formed a very close friendship which I think happens easier when youre
younger. She accussed me of being predatory, wolf like in the woods. I
said she was fawn like, a lamb to the slaughter. Finally we agreed we
were just lonely. In fact we were two loners looking for respite and for a
while it really worked.
We had a love of literature in common and so I got involved in her
studies and she in the ideas I had for songs and poems. It was exciting, it
felt grown up. For a while we became each others muse.
On the road you need a point of stability and she became it for me so
instead of writing her letters I sent her poems on the wind.

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I recently found this one trapped in a suitcase. I called it Summer

Litany. She wrote back telling me it was the most beautiful thing shed
ever read and I believed her.
We both knew
our relationship
was not going to
last. Because of
this there was a
certain amount
of regret and
sadness which
we both
indulged in but
once we
accepted our
fates would be
separate we had
so much fun
together.
I used to
fantasise that
she was my
Fanny Brawn
and I her Keats
- not the dying
of TB part
though as we
wandered lost
around the
sylvan glades of
Calvithick
Woods. It was a pure romantic indulgence as we didnt have the pain
that comes from deep involvement and attachment. It was as if we were
both scared to commit and knew it. There would be no great dramatic
exit from each others lives just a numb, almost guilty drifting apart.
The decision was made that Genevieve Val Baker would join the band as
a percussionist / drummer and I would take a more central singing role.
I was smoking less and less dope and feeling much better for it and the
less I took the less important it became.

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Joe had done a new production deal with Polydor this time and when the
news came that he wanted to do another album it totally cemented our
endeavours.. We had a whole month before studio time. This period of
work was only interrupted once for me by
what I now feel was a miscalculation. We
broke, or at least some of us, one of the
Val Bakers rules. They were after all away
in Bermuda where Jess, I thought rather
cleverly, had found herself a job as a
pottery teacher.
Id dropped acid once before back in 67
and I didnt like it then much either. I
remembered a young fella on the scene,
whose name escapes me now, was utterly
damaged by the stuff and ended up in
Bodmin nuthouse so what possessed me to
C.O.B 1972
take it Im not sure. I do remember I was joined by J my
love-comely-blonde-lady so maybe that had something to do with it.
Whether this trip was stronger than the one before I wasnt sure but
anyhow I hated it. Every second seemed slower than the one before until
I felt lost in a great nowhereness. It scared the living daylights out of me.
J was crouched in a corner looking terrified although later she would
confide that she loved every minute of it.
I felt adrift with no past and scared witless that Id just disappear into a
incomprehensible sea of meaningless colours and shapes. The scariest
thing was that I became convinced that this was IT. There was no going
back; there was nowhere to go back to. I was lost in a never ending
now. I stayed in bed for the whole of the next day even sending J away
when she came to visit. It was another week until I felt I was back to a
sane safe place. I swore Id never take acid again.
It was a very confident and happy quintet of C.O.B.s that left for
London that sunny Sunday summer morning in 72. Demelzas drumming
had improved a hundred percent in the last year and Genny was forever
singing. All things considered we were better prepared for the recording
of Moyshe than we were for Spirit.
Sound Techniques Studio came with its own pedigree with some of
Folks and Folk Rocks alumni having already recorded there. It wasnt
voiced but I think it put us on our mettle.

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The Fairports with Liege and Leif in 69, Jethro Tulls This Was in 68 and
even Pink Floyd had recorded their single Arnold Layne there in 67 and
the list went on. Rather than feeling apprehensive I felt relaxed and
confident going into the studio. As we arrived Ralph and the engineer
were there waiting for us. They were both relaxed and going about their
business quietly. We knew we had good materiel and were looking
forward to laying it down. Having Danny Thompson on bass for some of
the numbers was an enormous plus for we all loved his playing. I
thought he was the cherry on the bottom of the musical cake. I heard he
didnt even get paid for the sessions he did. How disgraceful! Sometime
later he accepted a dozen or so albums in lieu. In pristine condition they
now exchange for 300 and over. I assume he hasnt played them to
death thereby devaluing them so maybe he did get paid after all. If so
hes the only one. Well done Danny!
Clive had a great idea and tune for a song,
sung as if by a minstrel in the court of King
Solomon. We borrowed heavily from the bible
for the lyrics. It was decided that for the
recording I sing Song of Solomon which I was
very pleased about as I loved the song and the
way we were doing it.
Id wanted to write a song in the style of a
traditional ballad for a while. The thought of it
still existing and being sung in a pub
somewhere in say 200 years time was
attractive. I had extensive notes from an
evening spent in Biddy Mulligans pub in Kilburn a few months before so I
used these to help me write Pretty Kerry. A year or so later the I.R.A.
were to bomb the place when the guv`nor refused to pay his dues to the
boys.
John had come up with a somewhat quirky instrumental on the
harmonium. He insisted it was Bach-like with counter point to prove it. I
heard ceremonial trumpets and jazz. Thinking of King Solomon and the
Queen of Shebas journey to him to test his wisdom the idea of Shebas
Return as a name for the piece seemed appropriate. The music worked
perfectly as a prelude for a song Id just finished about Haillie Salassie
called The Lion of Judah.

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It started to feel that there was a link, an existential link between the
numbers. It certainly wasnt preconceived it must have been a
subconscious thing that was happening.
For some time John had been playing around with a riff on the dulcitar.
It had what sounded like a circular rhythm, a convolution out of and into
itself. Eventually he transcribed it onto the guitar and transformed it into
the song Eleven Willows played in 11/8 time.
There was a blip or two on the sessions. One in particular was entirely
due to the over use of some rather strong Nepalese Temple BalIs which
certainly didnt make Ralphs job any easier. I looked over at Clive and
became convinced that his head was about to explode. Meanwhile he
seemed to have fallen in love with a rather gorgeous potted palm. My
own head felt like the inside of the bass drum which Ralph on occasion,
Im sure out of deep frustration, would peddle the living daylights out of
in a pointless effort to make us keep time. At the same time John looking
as he often did, off into the middle distance, was obviously working out
how he could apply Einsteins Theory of Relativity to the next piece of
music he wrote.
Chastised for being unprofessional by an overwrought producer we
called the session off for the day. At least we got Clives O Bright Eyed
One and Johns Shebas Return down, just.
The next day we were all bright eyed, bushy tailed and quickly became
workmanlike in our creative endeavours. Thats how I remember it
anyway.

Chain of Love. C.O.B

I felt Danny Thompsons bass part on Chain of Love contributed very

much to the success of the track in fact to all the tracks he worked on,
along with some wizardry from Ralph. Clives song Let It Be You had an
almost abstract, honest quality about it. He surprised us all by making
light hearted jokes at the songs expense which I think was a measure of
how good he felt about it. In fact by the end of the recording and mixing
sessions we all felt good about all of it.
This seems like a good place to discuss the title of the album. Firstly it
was a period of time when the accepted conceit was why use one or two
words when ten would do. There were many instances where a little
restraint would have been a better way to go and maybe this is one.

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Nevertheless its a fun title and thats the essence of it, its frivolous, a
joke. Moyshe Mcstiff and the Tartan Lancers of the Sacred
Heart is a silly collective soubriquet for the three of us; the Moyshe
Mcstiff part especially is based on me and is a lie. Let me try to explain.
Over the years some people sometimes assumed I was Jewish and often
Id say nothing thereby giving them a tacit assent. I did this because I
felt they were indulging in racist motivated stereotypical preconceptions,
- I have a rather large roman nose - which I hate. I mean I hate their
preconceptions not my hooter which remains a prize possession.
Growing up in North East
London I had one or two
Jewish friends. They
attracted me because they
were different which was
exactly what I wanted to be,
outside the mainstream.
From them I picked up many
Yiddish slang words and
expressions such as be a
mensch for be a man.
Schmuck was an overused
expression for an idiot and
was derived from smok
meaning penis. To schlep
was to carry something heavy for a long way. Spiel was to talk a load of
rubbish when trying to sell someone something, gonif was a thief and
schlemiel described someone who was stupidly clumsy. `Allo Moshe was
hello mate but my favourite and one I used at every opportunity at the
time was meshuggener for someone who was essentially brain dead and
couldnt think for themselves, oh and shyster was for someone who
ripped you off. At school these expressions peppered our language,
spicing up the conversations of Jew and Goy alike. There were many
more expressions and using them made you feel you were a member of
an exclusive club. I still use some of them today.
My father had moved down from Scotland as a young lad but to all
intents and purposes he was a Londoner so this Scottish / Jewish thing
regarding me is a complete myth, a romantic lie propagated by others
but perpetrated by me.
I was merely trying to reinvent myself the same as many other people
were doing at the time.

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As far as the albums title is concerned I wanted something that smacked

of a heroic quest that also reflected our different personalities.
I like a quote from Clive that Ive read somewhere that Moyshe, the
album, was an attempt to reflect lifes spiritual journey. I think thats
exactly what it was.
The sleeve design by Paul Whitehead came as a surprise and whatever
the actual artistic merits of the painting we have the artist to thank for
coming up with such an arresting image. We had no input apart from
giving it the nod. I liked it from the very first glance. I assumed at the
time that the three figures depicted were supposed to be us and I heard
that hed played the music
whilst painting it which is a
good way to go and in fact
Ive been doing the same at
times whilst writing this
potted history. Let me
make it clear though, the
cover is not literal in any
respect and the songs have
absolutely no inferences to
crusaders or St George and
to say otherwise is just not
true. I think I can speak for
the three of us in this
respect.
There were certainly no orthodox religious motives behind any of the
songs. The whole thing was simply a take on how we saw our world at
the time, a world which turned with a simple expedient, to make music.

Im not Jewish or Scottish and never have been but I liked the idea of
being a Scottish Jew, it appealed to my sense of persecution, of being
different.

I had always hated racists and still do. This would be a great banner to
wave at them I thought, like waving a red rag at a bull.

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I would proclaim it in company whose conversation I thought, was

veering in a racist direction, not difficult to find, in Britain but especially
in Cornwall and then sit back and see the reaction. Sometimes for extra
effect Id throw in an offhand, so dont bother asking me to lend you a
fiver OK thereby pandering to the old clichs of tight fistedness for both
racial groups.
Once I even got into a slanging match with two Arabs who must have
thought I was Jewish too. It was inside the British Museum of all places.
I was gazing into a glass case housing an ancient edition of The Torah,
opposite they stood looking at an ancient edition of The Koran. They
jumped to conclusions and it became quite nasty as they started abusing
me in Arabic, one of them spat at my feet. Two officials appeared and
shut us up. The two Arab fellas followed me around the museum for
quite some time until I managed to give them the slip. I felt like going
up to them and saying, Look Im sorry, I lied, Im not Jewish already, my
life, I lied, you stupid pair of meshuggeners.
We played Cambridge Folk Festival to great acclaim again but generally
we were still struggling moneywise even though we were now headlining
most of the gigs. If wed had to pay Genevieve an equal cut and Black
Roger a decent wage it would have broken the bank.
It wasnt spoken of but I think we all knew that to continue in any
decent manner we needed Moyshe Mcstiff and the Tartan Lancers
of the Sacred Heart to start selling by the thousands.
Joe came up trumps again. He booked us for a nationwide tour with The
Pentangle. We decided to cut and run for Cornwall for a welcome break
before the tour began.

J, who was determined to succeed in her studies, had gone to live in

Plymouth. I woke that first morning back at The Old Sawmills and knew
immediately I didnt want to be there. Im going off walking for a week I
informed the others as we sat around the kitchen in the Millhouse.
Setting off an hour or so later I hadnt reached the river before I heard
a voice behind me shouting, hang on Mick Im coming with you! It was
Genevieve.

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I just had to get away its getting so claustrophobic at The Mill she said
slightly breathless. Slightly breathless, it was one of her charming little
quirks.
So that was it, we set off together. I tried to explain to her that this
was no holiday spree, Well be sleeping rough and walking on the coastal
path. Thats OK she said slightly breathless. We made it round Gribben
Head and past Menabilly on a wonderfully bright gusty day.
Genevieve was the best of company as she talked non-stop about her
dreams and aspirations. She wanted to write or paint or maybe both. By
the time we got to Par it was already getting dark. Up on the Golf Links I
broke into a hut so we could get our heads down.
Its not ideal but at least well be dry
Dry? It stinks she said, Im not staying here.
And with that, without another word she was gone, striding off into the
night. I shouted out her name a couple of times but to no avail. I had no
torch, no sleeping bag, just a duffel bag with a toothbrush-no paste-and a
notebook and pen. The silence wrapped itself around me.
I set off early the next day grabbing some breakfast at Porthpean then
striding on to Black Head. It felt truly good to be alive. My hunger pangs
coincided with my arrival in late afternoon at the picturesque little fishing
village called Mevagissey. There were hundreds of people wandering
about the place looking lost. The smell of stale cooking oil mixed with
smelly fish was almost overwhelming. I bought a Pasty and was looking
forward to the knobby bit at the end when a bloody seagull beat me to it.
I got out of there as quick as I could and carried on walking along the
coastal path until I arrived at the achingly pretty little hamlet of Gorran
Haven. It was full of old people sporting annoyingly contented half smiles.
I carried on around the headland marvelling at the gentleness of the
rocks as they slipped without grandeur into a sea bereft of any drama.
Rounding a spit of cliff a majestic, heart lifting silver sweep of wildness
came into view. Id reached Vault Beach; see Bound to Go. Not a soul
besmirched its two miles of wind driven sand. I walked to its far reaches
and then climbed up the briar tangled cliffs to sit for a while beneath the
cross on Dodman Point. The view was perfectly belittling. As evening
descended I scrambled back down onto the beach and made myself a
comfy wee place by the foot of the cliffs.

As I stared up at the splendour we call the Milky Way a flood of aloneness

washed through me the like of which I couldnt remember and I laughed
at my own silent tears then fell asleep.

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The next morning as the dawn split a cloud with a half hearted beam of
dull light I felt like a ship wreaked sailor and loved it. In those few split
seconds after ones synapses first snap into action an expression I hadnt
heard before popped into my head, face the fiasco I said it over to
myself as I made a wee fire and ate a chocolate bar, the only food Id
thought to bring. No sun today, the cloud cover looked impenetrable.
After a while off along the beach in the distance I saw a single figure with
what must have been a dog. Time to go; I scrambled back up the cliffs
eventually finding a road. After an hour or so I climbed over a dry stone
wall and walked down into a wooded valley to sit beneath an enormous
beech tree that threw dancing dappled light and shade for yards around.

She always treats me real gentle when her changes are slow / although
sometimes shes really violent I know it helps me to grow / shes in the
legs of the leaping leopard stalking the high plateau / shes in the hunters
eyes as he vies with the shadows in the screech of the vulture
below..........and I know she can teach me to grow / O face the fiasco and
fears....face the fiasco / face the fiasco.

For once it wasnt a girlfriend I was writing about but a mother, Big
Mother Earth. It was to be a paean to the environment.
After wandering lost for a while it dawned on me that once again Id
come upon Heligan Woods. I found what looked like the remains of an
old hunting lodge and made a make shift bender for the night. The next
morning it distinctly felt that Id found somewhere like home.
I stayed for a couple of days frequenting the pubs in Mevagissey or
trying to. The only pub I could get served in was the Kings Head where
the publican, Old Vic, held sway. Tis alright boy as long as you dont
swear or do anything funny with the ladies he said on our first meeting
after Id asked for a pint. Had someone been there and warned him I
was coming?
The Pentangle were a fine bunch of people and from the very start of
the tour I felt fully accepted by all of them. Considering the success they
had already enjoyed there was never a hint of them pulling rank, there
was no cabal of any sort just total equanimity.

The gigs were a step up again for us and a tour of the nations top
concert halls was timely as to be honest the thought of a career that
involved an endless round of folk club gigs just wasnt worth

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contemplating. We were already feeling it was like some kind of

treadmill.
I found this step up a little daunting at first and began to suffer from
some pretty dreadful symptoms of stage fright which were finally
combated by keeping clean no dope or booze and twenty minutes of
breathing exercises before each gig, very kindly suggested by John
Renbourn. Jacqui McShee was also very helpful with her advice and for a
while became a little like a favourite sister.
I loved what the Pentangle were doing
musically. It was an entirely new musical
avenue they were exploring or building
really and the mixture of styles and
influences made for a very rich musical
cake. Jacquis folk grounding jelled
perfectly with Berts unique blues
influenced guitar work which in turn spun
The Pentangle. A great bunch of sympathetically through and around Johns
people more classically influenced approach and
vice versa. It shouldnt have worked but it did, exceptionally well being
seamlessly anchored and built upon by the
rhythm section provided by Danny and Terry.
If Jacqui took the role of favourite sister for
a while then Danny certainly took the role of
brother. One night whilst over
enthusiastically carousing on the streets of
Edinburgh I was apprehended by a police
sergeant equally over enthusiastic in his task.
To say he was burly doesnt quite do him
justice. Im pretty sure I was singing Bonnie
Blue Eyed Lassie so I feel justified in blaming
this incident at least partially on Cathal
McConnell from The Boys of the Lough. Being used to drunken Jocks
the sergeant was somewhat nonplussed to find he had a rather voluble
Cockney type fellow on his hands and not only that the wee sassenach
just wouldnt shut up even when pinned up against a wall in a Full
Nelson.

It was certainly Dannys superior powers of persuasive diplomacy and a

rather deft slap on the top of my head that finally shut me up and

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convinced Sergeant McDuff to release me from his grip of death. Without

further ado he let us go on our merry way.
It was a real pleasure to stay in decent hotels for a change but of course
it came at a price. Joe paid us every ten days or so and our gig fees that
at first looked like a Kings ransom soon shrunk to such an extent that we
may as well have been back playing the clubs again. Once more
disillusionment began to set in.
In Glasgow we met Billy Connolly, an old friend of Clives from the days
of Clives Incredible Folk Club in Edinburgh. A whole bunch of us went
out for a meal together.
As usual Black Roger was doing his impression of a louche, eccentric
English aristocrat except it wasnt an impression he was just being
himself. As Im sure you can imagine its not the most sensible way to
behave in Glasgow. Billy in his best brogue asked no one in particular,
who the fucks thaat? Oh thats just Roger, our roady I said trying to
sound as cool as I could as Roger was being escorted to the door by a
6`3`` highland warrior disguised as a barman.
Ive never forgotten Billys reply, With a
Roady like that youll need a
fuckin minder
It was great to see Wizz again.
It was the first time Id heard
him in a concert context and his
playing and singing was
wonderfully crisp and clear.
What he presented had no
trouble in filling up the
sometimes vast expanses of the Wizz Jones at the Folk Cottage 1966
concert halls.
Id always felt that Wizz was a slight enigma,
remarkable in his attitude towards performance and indeed everything. I
thought to his advantage he was never one of the boys. From the
outside his life style always looked exemplary.

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No drugs or booze and certainly no womanizing. And yet this amazingly

restrained man was able to produce music and songs marinated in a
worldliness that beamed a rheumy eye on love and loss. Id always loved
his thumping Broonzy bass that underpinned his guitar technique,
steeped in untutored talent. And the way he
insisted on a resonance that involved squeezing
every drop of brightness out, to emphasise
certain notes.
Wizz sometimes seemed to labour under the
malaise of self deprecation on and off the stage.
I know because I had the same problem, if
thats what it was. To help balance out the
quirks of self abasement I often managed to
bring a healthy dose of self aggrandisement into
play so I would be one day the master, the next
day the fool. All Wizz needed to do was to play
and the demons of self doubt as if by magic
simply flew away.

To say the end of the tour was anticlimactic

would be a gross understatement. The last few
gigs were cancelled due to Danny Thompson
falling ill, thankfully he soon recovered. In the
New Year Bert was to announce he was leaving
the band to pursue a solo career. The Melody
Maker screamed, Pentangle Split!
Landing back in London I felt lost. There was a
terrible shouting silence. Nothing happened.
Moyshe wasnt selling. Unlike Clive I was
surprised and felt let down. Once more we were
broke. The album had gained a few good
reviews but it wasnt getting any real exposure.
I felt Joe, whod never been that enthusiastic
about us, had let go the reins. What were we supposed to do go back to
playing those Wednesday night gigs in the church hall in Port Isaac? The
answer Im afraid was yes.

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In the New Year to keep the ball rolling we decided to do a Friday night
residency at the Half Moon pub in Putney.
After just a few weeks it became quite a success but we all knew it
wasnt enough. It was on one of these Friday night sessions that the sails
finally fell windless on the plucky little ship that was C.O.B.
The club was packed to the doors. Shebas Return had always been a
tricky piece to play. John had mentioned this a number of times. This
particular evening he was struggling and insisted he couldnt play it. So
we played Lion of Judah without the intro. The gig went well, we got the
usual encore and with the help of Roger were starting to pack up the gear
when I looked up to see Clive walk up to John with the best part of a pint
of Ramrod and Special in his hand. They exchanged a few words
whereupon John was duly anointed. It was a fait accompli; there was no
going back from that. John had said he just froze when about to start the
number, or did he actually refuse to play it? Whatever!
John, looking like hed just stepped out of the shower had hardly
reacted to his drenching although I might have heard an emphatic albeit
quiet Right! issue from his lips. He wiped himself dry, packed up his
gear and left. It would be the last time Id see him for years. I didnt
know it at the time but hed already begun blowing with Wizz Jones, a
liaison that would soon develop into a country band called Lazy Farmer.
The next morning, without seeing Clive, I left for Cornwall. In a way I
think we knew our time had come and gone.
C.O.B was a mutation, the strange psychic offspring of two bands, the
Stockroom Five and the Temple Creatures. Stylistically poles apart
the former was Clives kindly old timey alter ego, the latter, a kind of
group grope towards some acid fuelled utopian idyll. Neither stood the
test of time, they didnt need to, they spawned C.O.B. As in all hybrids
C.O.Bs demise was the end of the line.
Our parting of the ways after nearly three years was not particularly
amicable but it was fundamentally truthful. I suspect John, maybe not
even consciously, wanted something like this to happen. He should have
asked me, I would have obliged. But seriously the spark, at times so
strong, had guttered and fizzled out. C.O.B had had their day. With the
help of Ralph Mctell we produced two albums with some good songs on
them and it was time for us as individuals to move on. Not so long after
this I heard that the Val Bakers were putting up The Old Sawmills for
sale. It really did feel like the end of an era.

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By 75 the Val Bakers had left and The Old Sawmills had transformed
itself into The Sawmills Recording Studios. Fast forward ten years and I
would be going there to record some of my songs with The Atlantic
Swells for Simon Frasers Dangerous Records but maybe more of that
later.

Postscript

When the idea first occurred

I faced the prospect of writing
this potted history of C.O.B if
not with trepidation then with
a certain amount of
apprehension so I had no
problem putting it on the back
boiler for a year or so. The
thought of casting back to
over forty years ago with any
accuracy was daunting. It would have to be
C.O.B in 72 but where's Demelza?
a broad sweep down and across the years
lit with the occasional description of what life was like with my fellow
members of C.O.B, Clive Palmer and John Bidwell.

Memory is the strangest thing. If and when they read this I hope theirs
concur at least somewhere along the line with mine.
It turned out that my misgivings were groundless and the exercise has
proved a most enjoyable backwards glance to a time I ran with a seeming
freedom that I have not experienced since but as I say memory is the
strangest thing. By the very nature of recollection there are bound to be
inaccuracies, false sentiments and the like. For these I apologise and can
only say theres been no intent to hurt or misinform. The mind in recall is
not precise which sounds like an excuse for shoddy research and probably
is.
I dont believe what we wrote and played had any connection with so
called Psychedelia whatsoever. It just didnt and of course the names
Acid and Psychfolk have been conjured up by this present generation
and thats OK, people need labels.

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Personally Ive always disliked the Folk tag anyway and the psychedelic
thing was just a thinly veiled reference to the drug culture which we in
C.O.B. were definitely never a part of. What we were a part of was the
cultural upsurge of new voices in the 1960s and 70s. We were certainly
of our time and yet happily Spirit of Love and Moyshe Mcstiff
and the tartan Lancers of the sacred heart, against all the
odds seem to have stood the test.
I realise there are people I havent mentioned during this short
overview. Im afraid this is due to the nature of the beast.
Martin Val Baker deserves a mention as one of those people who insist
on shunning the limelight yet are directly responsible for its existence.
Apart from being a good friend he helped and promoted a number of the
different bands I was involved in from C.O.B through Scarlet Runner
and the inimitable Crooks and Nannies. He would have made a good
manager but decided instead on promotion. Over time many artists
benefitted from his endeavours. We all know hes an old Beatnik at heart
and maybe even a closet mouldy fig. It is said that at the back of his
wardrobe he hides various accoutrements from the old days, floppy
jumpers, Jesus sandals and the like. If your passing and you hear The
Hot Fives West End Blues emanating from his bedroom window youll
know hes at it, going ape in front of the mirror whilst clicking his fingers
shouting Dig that crazy horn man! But this could all be a filthy rumour.
Over all these years hes helped keep the Cornish music scene healthy,
a true unsung hero. I shall stop now before Martin, Im assuming he will
read this, becomes too embarrassed or big headed or both.
As I think Ive mentioned before, considering it was such a short period of
time, five years if you include the two Creatures and Stockroom 5 years,
it has to some extent informed the rest of my life.
Those five years now exist in my minds eye as a journey remembered
for the changes rang and where the ordinary rarely impinged upon our
lives and our senses were never dulled by any forced regime. The two
albums we made during those few years go some way to represent our
achievement but voyages of discovery often didnt find the prize they set
out to search for. I think our prize was the journey itself.

Mick Bennett
The Red House
Beaug Kan
Thailand
2012

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For some sketches of the times immediately following this period and
also music from the archives of the little known bands Scarlet Runner,
Crooks and Nannies, Noah Bones and the Skeletones, Noahs
Roadshow, The Skellys and The Swells click on Post C.O.B Log.

Click on the spider to return to the Home Page

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