Think Pink! The Island Book Of Records Volume 2 - 1969-1970

Edited by Neil Storey,

Published by Manchester University Press.

reviewed by Stuart Penney.

In late 1970 I took a job as a gofer at the famous classical music publisher Universal Edition.  At age 20 I had little interest in classical music and found the work mostly dull, what with all those Mozart scores and their endlessly confusing Köchel numbers.  But there were the occasional bright spots, such as when I stumbled upon a little-known 18th century Italian composer and cellist by the name of Francesco Zappa.  I’m sure we only sold a handful of his scores during the entire time I worked there, but it was always a thrill to see them sitting in the racks, dusty and neglected, tied up with brown paper and hemp string, bearing a faded label reading simply "Zappa."  14 years later the “other” Zappa would record an album of Francesco’s work arranged for Synclavier (an early digital synthesizer) in an attempt to introduce his long-forgotten namesake to the modern world.

As well as the usual Romantic, Baroque and Classical era guys, Universal Edition also published works by a number of 20th century composers including Karlheinz Stockhausen, Richard Rodney Bennett, Harrison Birtwistle and David Bedford whose manuscripts were often unorthodox and fun to examine, even for those who, like me, didn't sight read. For example, Bedford had a piece wittily titled “Whitefield Music 1 for 12 chime-bars, 12 tuned milk bottles, 4 drums,” and another called “With 100 Kazoos.” The latter work was commissioned by the BBC to be performed as part of Pierre Boulez's series of concerts at the Roundhouse in 1972. Boulez refused to conduct the piece.

As for Stockhausen, instead of conventional musical notation, some of his scores used squiggles, symbols and moving parts, including holes cut in the pages behind which cogs and wheels turned, revealing a variety of pictures indicating various random sounds and tempos to be played.  Picture the elaborate revolving sleeve of Led Zeppelin III and you’re still not even halfway there. Those Stockhausen scores were eye wateringly expensive even in 1970 and I can only imagine how much they are worth today. 

Why am I telling you this? Well, another 20th century composer whose work UE handled was Béla Bartók, which is where our story begins.

One day I was summoned into the manager’s office at Universal Edition and asked if I had heard of a “pop group” (his words) called Emerson, Lake & Palmer.  The boss was a stuffy old geezer who cared little for popular music, so it seemed a strange question.  I told him that, yes, I was familiar with the group and was also aware that their self-titled Island debut LP had recently been released.  I was tempted to add that I’d also witnessed the second-ever ELP live performance at the Isle of Wight Festival in August 1970 but felt this might be over-egging the pudding.

He appeared satisfied with my answer and reaching into his desk drawer, pulled out the petty cash box and handed over two crisp five-pound notes, instructing me to “Go and buy three copies of their gramophone record,” adding “and remember to get a receipt."  Universal Edition were located in the heart of the West End, literally yards from the Dean Street branch of the famous One Stop Records store, and many a happy lunchtime was spent there browsing the import LP racks. Returning with the trio of ELP albums (they cost a little over £2 each), I left them on the manager's desk (with the change and receipt) and assumed my task was finished.  But over the following week I was to see a lot more of those records.

It seemed the Béla Bartók estate had become aware that the track "The Barbarian" on the Emerson, Lake & Palmer album was an arrangement of Bartók's 1911 piano piece “Allegro Barbaro.” It was still in copyright, but the record cheekily credited the piece only to ELP. Bartók's widow was understandably miffed at this and contacted the band to request the credit be corrected, which is where the UK branch of Universal Edition came in.

It was bizarre to see three pink label copies of the ELP record spread out on the boss’s desk for days while what I imagined were high powered telephone negotiations went on with someone at Island records or the band’s management regarding the composer credits.  

It didn’t happen right away, but by the time Emerson Lake & Palmer was reissued on the group’s own Manticore vanity label in 1973, Bartók was correctly listed as co-composer alongside the band members on the sleeve credit for “The Barbarian,” while “Bartók” alone was credited on the label.

Incidentally, Emerson, Lake & Palmer (ILPS 9132) was the penultimate UK album to wear the famous Island pink label, the very last one being Tea for the Tillerman (ILPS 9135) by Cat Stevens which closed out the decade in late November 1970.  

I think it’s fair to say British underground rock, folk rock and blues pretty-much began with Island records circa 1967.  In response EMI set up the Harvest label, Philips gave us Vertigo and stuffy old Decca revamped their existing Deram label, which had started life in 1966 releasing mainly MOR material, turning it into a full-blown hippie haven for the likes of the Moody Blues and early releases by Bowie and the aforementioned Cat Stevens. 

All these imprints had their glory years and moments of magic, not to mention a boatload of obscure (ie poor selling) LPs, some of which are now worth a king’s ransom on the collectable vinyl market.  But in my view, none of those major label spin-offs could compete with the proudly independent Island label for quality and consistency. 

Like many an old head, one of the first Island label records I ever owned was the legendary sampler LP You Can All Join In (IWPS-2).  Released in April 1969 it contained a cross-section of artists who went on to do great things (Jethro Tull, Free, Fairport Convention, Traffic) plus a few who fell by the wayside (Wynder K. Frog, Clouds and Tramline).  Ironically, Tramline’s contribution to YCAJI was “Pearly Queen” a Jim Capaldi / Steve Winwood song from the second Traffic album.  It was all a little incestuous, but in the nicest possible way.

1969 and 1970 is considered by many to be Island's golden era and this is the period covered in the second volume of Neil Storey’s The Island Book of Records, published at the tail end of 2024. My copy has only just arrived, courtesy of Amazon who lost the first order, hence the lateness of this review. Volume one centered on the label’s earliest years from its calypso, ska and soul inception in 1959 through to 1968 and the start of the home-grown British rock explosion.  

This latest edition examines the legendary pink label releases in all their prog, folk and blues rock glory.  With Fairport, Tull, John & Beverley Martyn, ELP, Free, Cat Stevens et al taking centre stage, every album cover and single sleeve is present and correct (UK and foreign releases), most shown in full 12” LP-size.  They are discussed via brief interview quotes from band members, journalists and those who worked in and around Island during the period.  Author / editor Storey also contributes where clarification is required (see the Bumpers sampler below).  There are also countless music magazine ads, contemporary reviews and press cuttings, ads and other ephemera.

Following a lengthy dissertation on Blind Faith (their sole album may have been on Polydor, but Steve Winwood was still firmly contracted to Island at the time) the book kicks off with Tons of Sobs (ILPS 9089) the debut LP by Free. From there the 430-page hard cover volume works its way chronologically through the pink label years album by album, including all those missing numbers which have confounded archivists for years (Volume one ran to a not-inconsiderable 390 pages).  

For example, folk blues artist Ian A. Anderson who appeared so prominently on the cover of the You Can All Join In sampler was cruelly dropped from the label at the eleventh hour allegedly due to a clash of names with the Jethro Tull front man.  Ian A’s 1969 LP Stereo Death Breakdown, scheduled to be released on Island with the catalogue number ILPS 9094, eventually turned up on the Liberty label instead and the Island number remained unused. I daresay Anderson has been counting the money this savage blow has cost him ever since.

Other “missing” catalogue numbers include unreleased albums by Hard Meat, Wynder K. Frog and the band Clouds. Some were issued in the US while other gaps were filled by compilation LPs released only in France.

Once the catalogue hit its stride, however, it was all killer and very little filler. Few labels can boast Island’s strike rate of blue chip, timeless records from the late 60s and beyond.  It really is hard to find even a mediocre album, never mind a bad one, listed here after 1968.

The bulk of the book is devoted to the legendary pink label era and the records we have treasured for more than half a century.  There is detailed coverage of King Crimson’s In The Court Of The Crimson King, Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left, Fairport Convention’s Liege & Liege plus other massively influential early LPs by Martyn, Free, Tull, Mott the Hoople, Spooky Tooth and Traffic.  Foreign releases are included along with subsequent UK pressings on the pink rim palm tree label, which superseded the three famous pink label designs in late 1970. 

With their none-more-hippie ethos, Quintessence were a different and somewhat more obscure kettle of fish, and they often seemed out of step with the label’s big names.  But you can count me as huge fan of their heavy raga rock.  And let’s not forget this ragbag outfit from Ladbroke Grove also gave us two of the most elaborate Island album sleeves of the period, one of which opens up from the centre like a Buddhist altar.  For that reason alone, Quintessence should be forever cherished.

I was intrigued to see White Noise’s An Electric Storm (ILPS 9099) discussed at length. This early electronic album from 1969 really was an Island oddity, quite unlike anything else coming from the label at that time. Keen-eyed viewers of Danny Baker’s 2015 TV sitcom Cradle to Grave may have spotted a giant poster for this little-known album, along with another for Free’s Heartbreaker (ILPS 9217), on the fictional bedroom wall of the 15-year-old Danny.  

As far as it relates directly to the main Island (ILPS) numbering system, the Chrysalis label is also covered here.  Founded in 1967 by Chris Wright and Terry Ellis, Chrysalis (Chris+Ellis = Chrysalis) started life as a management company and booking agency, representing Ten Years After and Jethro Tull.  Early albums by Tull, Blodwyn Pig and Clouds were licensed to the Island label, while TYA were signed to Deram.  Island boss Chris Blackwell promised Wright and Ellis their own label identity should Chrysalis artists reach an agreed number of chart entries, and the target was achieved in fine style when Tull's second album Stand Up (ILPS 9103) sprinted to #1 in September 1969.

The first LPs to wear the green Chrysalis label with its red butterfly logo were Getting To This (ILPS 9122) by Blodwyn Pig and the third Jethro Tull album Benefit (ILPS 9123) released simultaneously in April 1970, although both still carried Island catalogue numbers at this stage. Several more Chrysalis / Island hybrid releases by Tull, Mick Abrahams, Clouds, Tir Na Nog and Procol Harum followed before Chrysalis finally hatched (or should that be metamorphosed?) and flew the nest, launching its own dedicated UK numbering series in August 1971 with Ten Years After's A Space In Time (CHR 1001).

An entire section is devoted to the trio of famous pink label sampler LPs You Can All Join In, Nice Enough to Eat and Bumpers. Inspired directly by the CBS Rock Machine Turns You On samplers which started it all, they were big sellers and introduced the Island catalogue to a generation of record buyers. 

Some years ago, I co-wrote a series of Island articles for Record Collector magazine, one of which focused on the sampler LPs (reproduced on my blog HERE). It highlighted the errors, discrepancies and downright cock-ups featured on Bumpers (IDP 1) the only double album to receive a pink label release.  Retailing at a shade under 30 shillings (soon to be £1.50 after decimalisation) it was incredible value, but not quite in the way Island had intended.

Whether it was wildly inaccurate track timings, incorrect mixes or simply bogus and misleading sleeve information, hardly a track on Bumpers was untouched by inconsistency and an already splendid album became an essential purchase.  It’s good to see Storey has listed the errors I first documented, plus a few more besides. 

At around £80 this is not a cheap book, but for Island aficionados it’s worth every penny.  Beautifully designed, lavishly illustrated and forensically researched, the 3kg tome is streets ahead of anything yet published about the label.  We’ve been promised several more volumes taking us through the 70s and into the 80s, each one covering possibly a couple of years of Island’s history.  If this comes to pass I’m sure they’ll all be excellent but somehow I doubt future books will scale the giddy heights of this one.  I maintain 1969-1970 was indubitably Island’s peak period.  And I’ll fight anyone who says differently.

The Ultimate Nick Drake Rarity?

 

How did an impossibly rare Nick Drake vinyl LP turn up in a tiny Australian outback town? Stuart Penney tells the story

Nick Drake’s records have always been somewhat elusive.  In fact, until the digital age arrived, and music became freely available to all, his vinyl LPs were invariably hard to find and generally quite expensive, too, even as reissues.  Why was this?  Let’s put it down to that old cliché supply and demand.  Except, unfortunately for Nick the demand didn't arrive while he was around to enjoy it.

In July 1969 his debut Five Leaves Left was released to modest interest from the folk music community, but widespread indifference from the general record buying public.  Initial sales of that LP can only be described as woeful.  I’ve heard it said that just 400 copies of the first pressing of FLL were sold in the weeks after release.  That number sounds a little low even for the most willfully obscure niche artist and I’d guess 2-3,000 copies is probably closer to the mark, certainly during Nick’s lifetime.  But then, on the other hand, that low figure could explain the crazy prices we see today, with pink label original copies regularly changing hands for £1,000 or more online.

Poor sales notwithstanding, Five Leaves Left had one important thing in its favour: it was on the Island label.  Since diversifying from Jamaican music and soul into white boy prog, psych, blues and folk around 1967, it’s probably fair to say Island had released barely a bad album.  Just about everything on Chris Blackwell’s label was worthy of investigation back then and Nick’s debut surely gained a following wind from groundbreaking releases by his Island stable mates John Martyn, Traffic, Jethro Tull, Free, King Crimson, Cat Stevens and the rest, even if it didn’t necessarily translate into sales.  If any UK record company could lay claim to the handle “trademark of quality” at that time, surely it was Island.

Sales wise, Drake’s final two records Bryter Layter (1971) and Pink Moon (1972) fared little better than his first and a reluctance to play live certainly didn’t help matters.  To his credit Blackwell refused to delete the albums despite the poor sales.  Then, following Nick’s death in 1974, the Island boss vowed that the three LPs would remain on catalogue as long as he had a say in the matter.

All of which brings us to my own copy of Five Leaves Left.  Although I never owned a first pressing of the LP in 1969, I knew people who did, and we fell in love with Nick’s hypnotic songs, unique guitar style and his voice like warm molasses.  Robert Kirby’s haunting string arrangements on four tracks were the icing on a delicious cake.

Naturally, as fully paid-up wannabe "heads" my pals and I were acutely aware of the nudge-nudge nature of the album title.  It was a reference to the insert found towards the end of each packet of Rizla cigarette rolling papers, warning users they had "only five leaves left."  Despite being scarcely able to stump up enough cash for a ten bob (50p) deal between us, this surreptitious reefer reference made us feel like we were somehow part of Nick's impossibly hip gang.

I watched over the years as those early, original Nick Drake vinyl LPs rocketed in value, even after the CDs became available.  It seemed that a combination of the always collectible Island label and the desire to own an original piece of Nick’s legend had driven prices into the stratosphere.  How we wished we’d had the foresight (or, indeed, the wherewithal) to buy a dozen copies in 1969.

By the mid-80s I was living in Western Australia and had started my own second-hand record store, stocked with thousands of LPs I brought over from London.  As luck would have it, 1985 was the perfect time to open such an enterprise in Australia.  Collectable records were starting to become big business in Britain, with Record Collector magazine taking its first faltering steps and record fairs popping up everywhere.  But the boom had yet to take off down under, especially in the sleepy west coast city of Perth.  So, for a few years I had the rare vinyl field almost to myself, especially as so many people started to jettison their LPs in favour of the newfangled CD format.

One day I received a call asking if I would be interested in buying a large record collection.  The LPs were located about a two-hour drive east of Perth in a small country town with a population of (according to Wikipedia) just 725.  It transpired that following a divorce, the owner had moved to the east coast a decade earlier, locking up the house and its contents.  Now he had decided it was time to sell up.

I was given the keys by his ex-wife and drove out to take a look.  The scene which greeted me was like something from a Stephen King movie.  The house looked virtually abandoned.  The electricity was disconnected, so the place was dark and gloomy, with everything covered in a decade’s worth of dust and cobwebs.

The furniture was old and threadbare and there were torn and dirty bedsheets covering the windows as makeshift curtains.  And there, taking up all available floor space in every room (bathroom, toilet and an outbuilding included) were thousands upon thousands of records.  When I counted them later it turned out there were around 8,000 LPs and almost as many singles.  It took three trips with two cars and a box trailer to take them all back to Perth over a couple of weekends (see photo below).  It was the kind of score every record dealer dreams of.

I won’t bore you with too many details of the collection, but you name it, and it was probably there: all the early UK Elvis LPs on HMV, both unfeasibly rare Blossom Toes albums and clean original copies of every conceivable 60s collectible album, including items by the Artwoods, Davy Graham, the Zombies and countless more besides.  And there, almost unnoticed amid the tsunami of rare and desirable items was a UK copy of Five Leaves Left.

Apart from a few dozen choice items which I still have, I sold most of the collection over the years.  But I kept the Nick Drake LP simply because it wasn’t in the best of condition.  For a start the sleeve was in two halves, so I assumed it was damaged and therefore unsaleable.  That was not the case, but thankfully I didn’t know any better at the time.

It proved to be a good move because since then it's been identified as an advance promo copy of Five Leaves Left sent out to reviewers and the like with the sleeve (front and back) in two separate pieces, or "slicks," which are slightly taller than normal.  Other differences include the Island box logo and catalogue number on the back cover.  This appears in black on all regular released copies, but it is printed in green ink here and is the only known Island release to use this colour typeface.

 

The matrix number in the runout grooves is also the lowest one ever seen for this release:

Side One: ILPS 9105 A//2 111.  Side Two: ILPS 9105 B//2 113

On side one the tracks “Day Is Done” and “Way To Blue” are reversed on the label and sleeve.  The album actually plays “Way to Blue” followed by “Day is Done.”  On subsequent pressings this error was corrected on the label, if not the sleeve.

On my copy the pink Island label (with its Witchseason logo) is almost white.  Whether it was always like this or has faded due to exposure to the sun, I can't say. 

So, what I initially thought was a damaged and virtually worthless item was in fact correct and incredibly rare.  I’ve no idea how many were made like this, but I’ve only ever seen a handful for sale online, so I’d estimate no more than 50 copies were produced.

As I write (January 2024), only one copy of this item is currently for sale on Discogs with an eye-watering asking price of £6,000.  That figure may seem crazy and who knows if it will even sell at that price.  But such is the collectability of Nick Drake and the pink Island label today I'm sure it will find a good home eventually.

Would I part with my copy?  Well, I do also have back-ups in the form of the CD and an early 70s vinyl pressing on the Island pink rim palm tree label (even that is a £150 item in nice condition), so yes, I probably could live without the original.  Maybe I should take it on Antiques Roadshow, assuming their pop culture expert has even heard of Nick, that is.  But then again, perhaps I’ll hold onto it a while longer and see where the price ends up five years from now.

Footnote:

In early 2024 esteemed music journalist and broadcaster Danny Baker announced he was about to sell his massive personal record collection.  In the Nick Drake section of the online auction catalogue Danny added this comment:

"The night before my records were carted away by [auction house] Omega - four men, five hours in the shifting - my son came round and I asked him again if there were any final records he wanted for himself. He said no. Then, after a minute or so, he said, “Actually Dad, I haven’t ever had a good copy of Five Leaves Left.  Do you have a spare?”  Well I didn’t have a “spare” but I did have the mint original.  So I gave it to him.  That’s why it’s not here and there’s a grand I’ll never see again.  Likewise my signed copy of John Martyn’s Solid Air.  I taught that kid well..."

The first of several loads of records packed and ready to go