Life’s A Gas - Great Concerts Revisited: Tyrannosaurus Rex, Sheffield, 1968

 

by Stuart Penney

It wasn’t my first Tyrannosaurus Rex concert.  Quite by accident I’d seen them in March 1968 supporting Donovan at the 5,000 seat Royal Albert Hall.  But without a record in the shops at that point they were still largely unknown outside the London underground club circuit.  Besides, I only had eyes for Donovan on that night, so you’ll forgive me when I say the duo’s short acoustic set passed me by virtually unnoticed in the cavernous RAH.

But things moved fast in the 60s and much had changed when I next witnessed Tyrannosaurus Rex three months later on Monday, June 17, at the Memorial Hall in Sheffield.  In the interim they had signed to EMI’s impossibly hip Regal Zonophone label (see below) and their debut single “Debora” was getting a fair amount of airplay, much of it from their powerful friend and supporter John Peel on his BBC Radio show Top Gear.  So, while they were nowhere near as hot as they would soon become, there was already quite a buzz around this strange little duo comprising Marc Bolan and Steve Peregrin Took. 

(Ed. Note: music press ads and demo copies of the single showed the title as “Deborah.”  This changed to “Debora” when the record went on general release.  The Melody Maker ad for the single also misspelled Regal Zonophone as “Zonaphone”).

The Venue

The Memorial Hall sounds rather grand but it’s actually a small 400 seat annex within the Grade II listed Sheffield City Hall complex.  Opened in 1932, it’s the semi-circular structure shown at the rear of the building here.

Rear view of Sheffield City Hall showing the smaller Memorial Hall circa 1930s

On June 17, Tyrannosaurus Rex played two shows here, at 7:00pm and 9:15pm.  In the pre-decimal currency era tickets were on sale for 6s/8d (33p), 10s/6d (52½p) and 12s/6d (62½p).  My girlfriend and I caught the early show and since the hall was no more than half full, we had a perfectly decent view from our vantage point in the cheap seats.  In fact, there were only 13 rows of seats in total (10 downstairs and three in the small upstairs balcony).

1968 ad from International Times

The tickets were purchased from music store Wilson Peck which was located on the same street and maybe 50 yards from the venue.  Opened in 1896 it was Sheffield’s longest established and most famous music retailer selling pianos, guitars and musical instruments of every description, plus sheet music and records from a handsome building on the corner of Barkers Pool and Leopold Street.  Other than the actual venue box offices, Wilson Peck was virtually the only place in town where concert tickets could be bought at that time.  My first decent electric guitar, a Gibson SG Special, also came from there in 1969 (it cost 159 guineas [£167] bought on hire purchase, naturally). 

In later years the imposing Wilson Peck building (aptly named Beethoven House) would briefly contain a Virgin Megastore. Today it’s a branch of long-established Sheffield jewellers H.L. Brown and the building has been renamed Yorkshire House.  Too much information, you say?  You’re welcome.

The Liverpool Scene

Support (or perhaps joint headliners) were The Liverpool Scene, a poetry and music ensemble fronted by the rotund figure of Adrian Henri (1932 - 2000).  Along with Roger McGough and Brian Patten, he was part of a trio of esteemed Liverpool beat poets who rose to fame in the 60s.  Their 1967 book The Mersey Sound became one of the most successful British poetry anthologies of all time, eventually selling 500,000 copies over many reprints.

The success of The Mersey Sound book inspired the 1967 CBS LP The Incredible New Liverpool Scene (plus a book of the same name).  Featuring poetry by Adrian Henri and Roger McGough with music by guitarist Andy Roberts, this in turn spawned the Liverpool Scene band.  The CBS LP was cut at Regent Sound studio in Denmark Street and, according to Andy Roberts, "It took two hours to record the entire thing, in glorious mono."

With their RCA debut LP Amazing Adventures Of still five months away from release, it’s fair to say the audience had little idea what to expect from the Liverpool Scene.  Their set would have been unfamiliar to everyone except perhaps listeners of John Peel’s radio shows, where he often read selections from the poetry books and played tracks from their CBS album.  Employing his typically florid prose style, Peel wrote this about the group in the November 17, 1967, issue of underground newspaper International Times.

In Liverpool I spent an ecstatic evening with Andy Roberts, Mike Evans, Adrian Henri and, briefly, Roger McGough.  Perhaps there is a modern Olympus beneath the soot and decay of 64 Canning Street.  I came away feeling better than I have since the rape of Radio London.  Andy played me an acetate of Roger McGough reading the "Summer with Monika" poems to Andy's accompaniment.  During the past year so much love and beauty has passed through me and lingered in my mind, but nothing has surpassed this.

(Ed. Note: 64 Canning Street was the communal house in Liverpool where the group lived.  Radio London was one of the offshore pirate radio stations where Peel worked before joining the BBC in August 1967).

He may not have been much of a singer, but what he lacked in vocal dexterity Adrian Henri made up for with a commanding stage presence, bags of energy and a wildly eccentric personality.  An engaging and witty frontman (and an excellent painter to boot), his poetry readings meshed perfectly with the musical backing provided by Andy Roberts and Mike Hart, fine guitarists both.  Except perhaps for the Bonzo Dog Band, no one else sounded much like The Liverpool Scene at that time.

Their Sheffield set list has not survived, but they almost certainly played material such as “Mrs Albion, You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter,” “Tonight At Noon,” “Don’t Worry, Everything’s Gonna Be Alright,” “Batpoem,” “The Amazing Adventures Of Che Guevara” and “Car Crash Blues.”

One of their most popular songs was a spoof on the British Blues Boom, then in full flower.  Titled “I’ve Got Those Fleetwood Mac, Chicken Shack, John Mayall, Can’t Fail Blues,” it didn’t appear on record until their 1969 second album Bread On The Night, but was always a live favourite.

According to the Melody Maker small ads, Liverpool Scene were gigging virtually every night during this period, playing endless club dates up and down the country.  A year later in June 1969 they would be chosen to support Led Zeppelin at the Royal Albert Hall.  Don’t ask me what the LZ fans made of them!

Andy Roberts went on to work with Iain Matthews in Plainsong and he was the “R” in GRIMMS, a sprawling music, poetry and comedy troupe featuring members of various multimedia bands.  He later released several solo albums under his own name.  Guitarist Mike Hart also recorded an LP for John Peel’s Dandelion label. 

(Ed. Note: operating between 1972-76, GRIMMS consisted of members of Scaffold, Bonzo Dog Band and Liverpool Scene.  The band name is an acronym formed from the initial letter of the main members’ surnames: John Gorman, Andy Roberts, Neil Innes, Roger McGough, Mike McGear and Vivian Stanshall.  Many other notable musicians including Zoot Money and Ollie Halsall also passed through the band).

John Peel

Let’s be honest, in mid-1968 John Peel was more famous than Tyrannosaurus Rex and the Liverpool Scene combined.  He’d recently been voted Britain’s top radio DJ (a position he would hold for years to come), and his name was a sure-fire drawcard at concerts and festivals throughout the land.  But you might say he had a vested interest in this particular event, being a powerful ally and mentor to both bands on the bill.  

Not only did Peel write the poem on the back cover of the debut Tyrannosaurus Rex LP My People Were Fair And Had Sky In Their Hair... But Now They're Content To Wear Stars On Their Brows, but his familiar droll Liverpool accent can be heard intoning a children’s story on the closing track “Frowning Atahuallpa (My Inca Love)” a song he sometimes narrated onstage during their live shows.  As if that weren’t enough, his photograph even appeared (albeit very small) on the lyric sheet sleeve insert.  

He was less visible on the Liverpool Scene LP Amazing Adventures Of, but his producer credit appeared in giant type, as large as the name of the band itself.  Make no mistake, John Peel was already a hugely important and influential figure in the UK alternative music scene at this time. 

Unfortunately, as T. Rex hit the big time around 1971 Peel was abruptly dropped from their inner circle, allegedly for some less-than-favourable comments he made regarding the single “Get It On.”  He'd been a loyal and vigorous supporter of Marc Bolan dating back to his time with John’s Children and few had been closer to Tyrannosaurus Rex.  Peel took it badly and, always one to wear his heart on his sleeve, even grumbled on air that he had been snubbed by his erstwhile friend.  

Tyrannosaurus Rex

But such unpleasantness was still a few years away as Peel shambled onstage in his baggy sweater, desert boots and ill-fitting corduroy jeans to introduce Marc Bolan and Steve Peregrin Took to the meagre Sheffield audience.  This was very early days for the duo, so Bolan was still using his cheap nylon string guitar which he played sitting down, elfin-like, cross-legged on the stage.  Took, meanwhile, was perched high on a stool with bongos gripped between his knees.  From there he towered over Marc, peering out from under his mane of hair. 

Although I loved their somewhat wonky, ramshackle psychedelic folk music and Bolan’s trademark wavering vocals, the major appeal of Tyrannosaurus Rex for me in 1968 was undoubtedly their powerful image, and specifically Marc’s look.  I was just 18 at the time and developed a powerful fascination (let’s call it what it was - a man crush) with the beautiful boy in the striped school blazer (worn ironically, no doubt) with undoubtedly the best haircut I’d ever seen.

At that time, we viewed Marc’s hair as a logical progression of Dylan’s 1966 halo of curls, via the Hendrix Afro.  Few of us anticipated the truly gobsmacking corkscrew apparition that would later confront us on the cover of the T. Rex album cover (aka the "Brown Album," see below) in 1970.  To this day, that’s still one of my absolute favourite LP sleeves, by any artist.

In 1968 that look seemed almost achievable.  So, before long I was off to Kensington Market to secure a pair of the blue velvet dungarees I’d seen Marc wearing.  It goes without saying that I also made a pilgrimage to Anello & Davide, the West End theatrical footwear specialists (where the Fab Four had their Beatle boots handmade) to pick up a pair of the same women’s sandals Bolan adopted around that time.  As for the hair, my tumble of curls was never quite as magnificent as Marc’s but it was a fair approximation nonetheless and it got me into all kinds of trouble, especially outside London where skinhead gangs lurked, and the natives weren't always quite as enlightened as in the hippest parts of the capital.

In Sheffield the duo played their top 40 hit single “Debora,” of course, along with the as-yet unreleased follow-up “One Inch Rock.”  We also heard tracks from the upcoming debut LP My People Were Fair And Had Sky In Their Hair... which was still a month away from release.  The set list is missing, presumed lost in the mists of time, but you can bet your life “Mustang Ford,” “Child Star,” “Hot Rod Mama” and “Afghan Woman” were played. 

After it was all over, we waited patiently with a gaggle of die-hard fans at the front of the stage hoping to meet (and hopefully greet) Marc and Steve.  Always friendly and approachable in his bumbling, Eeyore kind of way, John Peel eventually wandered out to assure us that, in true Elvis style, the duo had already left the building to grab a bite to eat before the second show of the evening.  Bowed but undeterred, we drifted out into the night with thoughts of a truly memorable concert playing on repeat in our heads.  

To see the embryonic T. Rex in such an intimate setting as this, with Marc Bolan just setting out on what would be an incredible journey of fame, fortune and, ultimately, tragedy was indeed a moment to treasure. 

But back in the late 60s big changes were afoot.  In September 1969 Steve Took was fired and replaced with Mickey Finn, who played his first gig with Marc on November 21.  Their debut album together A Beard Of Stars appeared in March 1970.  Finally, Bolan had a musical foil who looked as good as him. 

Marc allegedly said this about Mickey “He can’t play a note, but he looks FABULOUS.”  It may well be an apocryphal story, but I'd really like to think it’s true.  It sounds like something Marc would say, after all.  The band name was then abbreviated, and the aforementioned T. Rex album was released in December 1970.

Their first hit single “Ride A White Swan” - which didn’t appear on UK pressings of the LP - signaled a sea change in the way the duo sounded and that was the moment they stepped out of the underground counterculture and into the major league of mainstream pop, virtually inventing glam rock along the way. 

I hung around for a few more records - Electric Warrior (September 1971), the Bolan Boogie compilation (May 1972), The Slider (July 1972) - and even scored tickets for an early screening of the movie Born To Boogie at Oscar’s Cinema in Brewer Street, Soho (December 1972) before the love affair came to an end in 1973 with the album Tanx.  

Bowie excepted, the glam scene really wasn’t for me.  T. Rex was attracting a much younger audience, and I just couldn't relate to the hysteria.  After seven good-to-great albums and maybe a dozen excellent singles (not to mention Marc's wonderfully impenetrable book of poetry The Warlock Of Love), it was time to move on.  I still treasure (and enjoy) those early psychedelic folk records, mind you, and wouldn’t change a second of the time I spent with them. 

Regal Zonophone

Part of the appeal of the early Tyrannosaurus Rex records was the old-style label design of their record company Regal Zonophone.  It fitted perfectly with the late 60s zeitgeist and matched the pop/psych image of virtually all the bands signed to the label. 

The company was first created in 1932 following a merger between the UK label Regal (founded in 1914) and US label Zonophone (established 1899).  It originally issued American recordings licenced from the Columbia, Victor and Okeh labels as well as popular wartime British artists such as Gracie Fields and George Formby. 

Regal Zonophone fell into disuse in the 50s towards the end of the 78rpm shellac era before being revived (for the first time) around 1963 exclusively to handle vinyl releases by Salvation Army artists the International Staff Band and The Joy Strings.  A couple of 1964 singles by the Joy Strings even made the lower reaches of the UK charts before the label was again put on ice. 

In 1967 EMI brought Regal Zonophone back to life yet again, specifically to issue records by artists signed to music publisher David Platz’s Essex Music / Straight Ahead company.  These included Joe Cocker, Procol Harum, the Move and, of course, Tyrannosaurus Rex.  Following a trio of 45s on the Decca offshoot label Deram by the Move and Procol Harum (including "A Whiter Shade Of Pale"), Regal Zonophone got underway in August 1967 with the single “Flowers in the Rain” by the Move (which was also the very first record played on BBC Radio 1).  The inaugural LP on the label was the self-titled debut by Procol Harum released in December 1967.

Although Regal Zonophone limped on into 1975, all the big-selling Essex Music artists (including the now-renamed T. Rex) had already left the label by late 1970 and moved over to the newly created Fly records.  The debut single on Fly was “Ride A White Swan” and the first album was Looking On by The Move.

Within two years and only eight new LP releases (plus a number of compilations and Toofas) it was all-change yet again.  Fly was gone, to be replaced by Cube records who once again reissued virtually all the earlier material by the aforementioned Essex Music artists. 

Meanwhile, in 1972 Marc launched his own vanity label T. Rex Wax Company (through EMI). Kicking off with the single "Telegram Sam" (January 1972) and The Slider LP (July 1972) the label ran for around a decade before winding down in 1982. 

Note: Although the Salvation Army RZ records used the same label design as the later pop releases - and in fact the two did briefly overlap around 1967 - they employed a different numbering system and are not connected, other than both were part of the EMI parent company. 

In 1977 Regal Zonophone was briefly revived yet again for the one-off LP release Thrillington by Percy "Thrills" Thrillington, an orchestral version of Paul McCartney's Ram album. If you're Paul McCartney, I guess you have the power to resurrect a defunct record label for just one release!

Below is a partial Regal Zonophone discography covering the years 1967 - 1971. 

Regal Zonophone Discography 1967 - 1971

Albums (LRZ = Mono, SLRZ = Stereo)

Regal Zonophone S/LRZ 1001 - Procol Harum - Procol Harum (December 1967)

Regal Zonophone S/LRZ 1002 - The Move - Move (April 1968)

Regal Zonophone S/LRZ 1003 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - My People Were Fair and Had Sky In Their Hair... But Now They're Content To Wear Stars On Their Brows (July 1968)

Regal Zonophone S/LRZ 1004 - Procol Harum – Shine On Brightly (December 1968)

Regal Zonophone S/LRZ 1005 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - Prophets, Seers & Sages, The Angels of the Ages (October 1968)

Regal Zonophone S/LRZ 1006 - Joe Cocker – With A Little Help From My Friends (May 1969)

Regal Zonophone S/LRZ 1007 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - Unicorn (May 1969)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1008 - Junior’s Eyes – Battersea Power Station (July 1969)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1009 - Procol Harum - A Salty Dog (July 1969)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1010 - Tucker Zimmerman - Ten Songs By Tucker Zimmerman (November 1969)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1011 - Joe Cocker - Joe Cocker! (November 1969)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1012 - The Move - Shazam (March 1970)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1013 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - A Beard Of Stars (March 1970)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1014 - Procol Harum - Home (June 1970)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1015 - Toe Fat - Toe Fat Two (November 1970)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1016 - Masters Apprentices - Masters Apprentices (March 1971 released in Australia with the title Choice Cuts)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1017 - Idle Race - Time Is (May 1971)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1018 - J.S.D. Band - Country Of The Blind (November 1971)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1019 - Number Not Used Officially (A Tyrannosaurus Rex bootleg titled In The Halls Of Faeire later appeared with this catalogue number)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1020 - Northwind - Sister, Brother, Lover (July 1971)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1021 - Tear Gas - Tear Gas (August 1971)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1022 - Masters Apprentices - A Toast To Panama Red (December 1971)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1023 - Fela Ransome-Kuti And The Africa '70 With Ginger Baker - Live! (1971)

Regal Zonophone SLRZ 1024 - Accolade - Accolade 2 (1971)

Singles 1967 - 1970

Regal Zonophone RZ 3001 - The Move - Flowers In The Rain / (Here We Go Round) The Lemon Tree (August 1967)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3002 - Biddu - Daughter Of Love / Look Out Here I Come (September 1967)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3003 - Procol Harum - Homburg / Good Captain Clack (September 1967)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3004 - The Tickle - Subway (Smokey Pokey World) / Good Evening (November 1967)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3005 - The Move - Fire Brigade / Walk Upon the Water (January 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3006 - Joe Cocker - Marjorine / The New Age of The Lily (March 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3007 - Procol Harum - Quite Rightly So / In the Wee Small Hours of Sixpence (March 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3008 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - Debora / Child Star (April 1968.  Promo copies show the A-side title as “Deborah”)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3009 - Junior’s Eyes – Mr. Golden Trumpet Player / Black Snake (June 1968)

Regal Zonophone TRZ 2001 – The Move – Something Else From The Move (5 track EP - June 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3010 - Johnny Nash - Hold Me Tight / Let’s Move and Groove Together (July 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3011 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - One Inch Rock / Salamanda Palaganda (August 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3012 - The Move - Wild Tiger Woman / Omnibus (August 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3013 - Joe Cocker - With A Little Help From My Friends / Something’s Coming On (September 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3014 - Richard Henry - Oh Girl / Lay Your Head On My Shoulder (November 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3015 - The Move - Blackberry Way / Something (November 1968)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3016 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - Pewter Suiter / War Lord Of The Royal Crocodiles (January 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3017 - Green Bean - The Garden’s Lovely / Sittin’ In The Sunshine (Unreleased)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3018 - Junior’s Eyes - Circus Days / Woman Love (April 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3019 - Procol Harum - A Salty Dog / Long Gone Geek (May 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3020 - Tucker Zimmerman - The Red Wind / Moondog (July 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3021 - The Move - Curly / This Time Tomorrow (July 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3022 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - King Of The Rumbling Spires / Do You Remember (July 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3023 - Junior’s Eyes - Star Child / Sink Or Swim (August 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3024 - Joe Cocker - Delta Lady / She’s So Good To Me (September 1969)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3025 - Tyrannosaurus Rex - By The Light Of The Magical Moon / Find A Little Wood (January 1970)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3026 - The Move - Brontosaurus / Lightnin’ Never Strikes Twice (March 1970)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3027 - Joe Cocker with Leon Russell & the Shelter People - The Letter / Space Captain (June 1970)

Regal Zonophone RZ 3028 - Reign - Line Of Least Resistance / Natural Lovin’ Man (October 1970)

Loudon Wainwright III - Does Humour Belong In Music?

by Stuart Penney

The title of this piece comes to you courtesy of Frank Zappa who released a live album of that name in 1986.  Comedy in pop / rock is a notoriously difficult trick to pull off and few are able to marry the two successfully.  It’s one thing to write brilliant, comedic lyrics, but quite another to match them with high quality original songs ("Weird Al" Yankovic, I'm looking at you).

In my experience there are just a handful of artists who have consistently found the sweet spot between dark, caustic humour and great songwriting / musicianship.  Heading the list every time is Zappa, of course, closely followed by Randy Newman at his 70s/80s peak.  And then, we have Loudon Wainwright III.  He may be a tad less celebrated than the other two, but in the pantheon of tragicomic songwriters LWIII (as we shall call him) is right up there with those giants of disdain and acerbity.

I’ve been infatuated with Wainwright and his music for more than half a century.  His songs have regularly made me laugh and cry (mostly laugh, now I think about it) and every one of his 30-odd albums is uniformly excellent, often peppered with flashes of genius. 

He’s an engaging and hugely entertaining live performer too, and while it sounds an unlikely comparison, I often think of him as Frank Zappa with an acoustic guitar (but with a much friendlier disposition and the smut level dialled way down).  But how did this fascination with LWIII begin?  Come with me now as we travel back to the early 70s. 

After Bob Dylan withdrew from public life following his mysterious 1966 motorcycle accident, it sparked all kinds of crazy rumours and crackpot conspiracy theories.  One such tale claimed Bob had died and been replaced with a lookalike.  Even though Dylan soon returned to the recording studio he kept a much lower profile than before.  His voice was different and, apart from the occasional live appearance (eg Isle of Wight Festival in 1969), he would not tour again until 1974.  That was more than enough solid “evidence” for some that the old Bob was gone forever.  

So, in a move which, at this distance, can only be described as bizarre, if not a little desperate, the US music industry and the rock press began the search for someone to fill the void.  The hunt was on for what they insisted on calling the “New Bob Dylan.”  Presumably that meant they were looking for a candidate who played acoustic guitar, wore a harmonica rack around their neck and delivered self-penned deep and meaningful songs in a wheezy, Dylanesque voice.

Names pulled from the Woody Guthrie-style denim fisherman’s cap included (but were not limited to) Elliott Murphy, John Prine, Gordon Lightfoot, Bruce Cockburn, Tim Buckley, Steve Forbert and even Bruce Springsteen.  But of all those worthy troubadours there was only one man who had the wit, wisdom and self-awareness to write a song about the entire sorry business and that was Loudon Wainwright III.  Here’s a lyric extract from “Talking New Bob Dylan” which appeared on his 1992 album History:

Out of commission, had a motorcycle wreck

Holed up in Woodstock, with a broken neck

The labels were signin' up guys with guitars,

Out to make millions, lookin' for stars

Well, I figured it was time to make my move

Songs from the Westchester County Delta country

Yeah, I got a deal, and so did John Prine, Steve Forbert and Springsteen, all in a line

They were lookin' for you, signin' up others

We were "new Bob Dylans" your dumb-ass kid brothers

Well, we still get together every week at Bruce's house

Why, he's got quite a spread, I tell ya - it's a twelve-step programme.

Interviewed by Melody Maker in late 1970, Wainwright said "Every time I see myself compared to Bob Dylan I cringe.  I'd like them to stop, but there's nothing I can do about it."  Far from being comfortable with the new Dylan tag, Wainwright preferred to describe himself as "a post psychedelic aristocratic beatnik."

I first encountered LWIII around the time of his 1971 second album.  The songs on Album II - especially “Motel Blues,” “Saw Your Name In The Paper” and “Plane; Too” - were funny and sardonic in equal measure and they really resonated with me.  Best of all was the tender “Be Careful There’s A Baby In The House.”  Almost 50 years later I made sure this beautifully observed song took pride of place in a Spotify playlist marking the birth of our first grandchild. 

Then there were the succinct yet jocular album titles themselves. His 1970 debut Loudon Wainwright III was followed by Album II and, as sure as night follows day, we saw Album III in 1972.  Led Zeppelin were using a similar pithy numbering technique with their LP titles at the same time, but Loudon had a distinct advantage over Jimmy Page and co – that surfeit of Roman numerals actually formed part of his name. 

Ed. Note: In what must have been a marketing man's fever dream LWIII and Led Zeppelin actually appeared side by side as the opening tracks on the 1972 UK sampler LP The New Age Of Atlantic (Atlantic K20024).  Zeppelin’s “Hey, Hey, What Can I Do” was followed by Loudon’s “Motel Blues.”

Except on his somewhat earnest debut album, Wainwright didn’t really sound much like Dylan and all comparisons would evaporate in later years as his songwriting matured and his voice became sweeter and more melodic.  He didn’t look like Bob either, being several inches taller and built like an American footballer.  But he had a similar unkempt, ragamuffin image and his songs were quirky and confessional.  Did I mention many of them were also very funny?  

In 1973 he scored his first and only hit single with “Dead Skunk,” a banjo and fiddle-driven country flavoured track lifted from Album III.  This eulogy to roadkill is probably still his biggest and best-known song to this day.  Milestone or millstone, for better or worse, it’s his very own “Stairway to Heaven,” if you will:

Take a whiff on me, that ain't no rose

Roll up your window and hold your nose

You got your dead skunk in the middle of the road

Stinkin' to high heaven.

I suspect the first line quoted above sailed right over most AM radio listeners’ heads.  Used by LWIII to imply “smell,” “Take a whiff on me” was a clever pun borrowed from the title of a much-covered American folk song of that name referencing cocaine use.  

The first recorded version from 1930 was titled "Cocaine Habit Blues" by the Memphis Jug Band, but it was Lead Belly who brought the song to prominence.  In the UK there was a 1961 sanitised version by Lonnie Donegan titled “Have A Drink On Me.”  A decade later Mungo Jerry covered Woody Guthrie's version of "Have A Whiff On Me" on their "Lady Rose" EP and the record was banned from radio airplay by the BBC. 

As the years went by, he continued to release high quality albums on a regular basis (with the occasional foray into TV or movie acting - eg M*A*S*H).  Times and tastes may have changed but I always found time for the latest LWIII release: Attempted Mustache (1973), T-Shirt (1976), I’m Alright (1985), History (1992), Recovery (2008, in which he re-visited some of those early songs) and the rest.  Unlike many artists of his era, his songwriting only seemed to improve with age.

I had never seen him play live, but that changed in the mid-90s when he toured Australia on the back of the album Grown Man (1995).  In the interim much had happened in the Wainwright world.  Together with his first wife, the wonderful and sadly missed Kate McGarrigle (1946 – 2010), Loudon was now part of an impressive musical dynasty with their offspring Rufus Wainwright (b.1973) and Martha Wainwright (b.1976). 

His fractious relationship with his children proved a rich source of inspiration for songs.  These included “Hitting You” (1992), “Rufus Is A Tit Man” (1975), “Pretty Little Martha” (1978), “Five Years Old” (1983), “Your Mother And I” (1986) and much to Martha’s chagrin when she discovered it was written about her, “I’d Rather Be Lonely” (1992).  In retaliation the kids wrote their own Loudon-inspired songs, notably Martha’s “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole” (2005) and “Dinner At Eight” by Rufus (2003).

Over time LWIII’s albums had grown from sparce, solo recordings into extravagant full band affairs.  That was all very well, and it suited the material he was writing.  But for the pure, undiluted Loudon experience, just one man and his acoustic guitar will always be the only way to go.  And this was how I saw him perform at the intimate Fly By Night club in Fremantle, Western Australia.

Australian 7" EP 1973

Basically, a converted Nissen hut, the (sadly now defunct) Fly By Night was laid out a little like Ronnie Scott’s jazz club in London (albeit, with a capacity of 500, twice the size) with tables up the front and standing room only at the back, so early arrival ensured a prime spot at a table within touching distance of the stage. 

Over the two-hour set we saw a textbook LWIII performance: the idiosyncratic face-pulling and bizarre tongue-waggling, the hail-fellow-well-met anecdotes, the perfectly timed ad libs and continuous banter with the crowd.  Plus, of course, we got all those wonderful songs, many of them chucklesome, others tender to the point of heartbreaking: (“Dead Skunk,” “Road Ode,” “Your Mother And I,” “The Swimming Song,” “Men,” “April Fool’s Day Morn” etc).  His voice was stronger and more flexible than I remembered and his guitar playing (still with that ubiquitous Martin D-28), while fairly rudimentary, suited the material perfectly.  

He was still cracking jokes and joshing around when he came back out after the encore to mingle with the fans.  Most of the audience had already drifted away, leaving just a handful of die-hards.  “Ah, my people!” he boomed with mock braggadocio as they offered up items to be autographed.  The wisecracking and congeniality continued to the very end.

Before leaving I asked him to sign my treasured original vinyl copy of Album II.  It was the same one I’d had since first discovering his music in 1971.  It was the record I owned back when he was still in the race to find the “New Bob Dylan.”  And that, my friends, was quite literally a lifetime ago.  

As for the somewhat rhetorical title of this essay.  As long as the high-quality music in question includes a healthy dose of satire, irony, pathos and sarcasm (not necessarily all in the same song), the answer must surely be an emphatic "yes."

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 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