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‘Is it a frog in a
boat?’
‘Erm, yeah.’
‘Cool’.
In reality the funny
little motif on the back of the Friars Aylesbury membership card was an
ink blob which swelled off my quill and deposited on the only bit of card
I had left. In the psychedelic style of the day, I made it look like it
was supposed to be a mystic sign, never guessing it would cause such
scratching of heads and discussion.
Such was my entry
into the world of Friars Aylesbury, which I’d first heard about from the
man who came up with the idea and happened to be my chemistry teacher at
the time, Robin Pike. He introduced me to David Stopps, who I had seen
around the town but, being only 15 at the time, I wasn’t yet fully settled
into the town’s pub circuit. I spent most evenings painting psychedelic
posters instead of going out or doing school work but they won first prize
at the Aylesbury Arts Festival. My art teacher was pleased so I saw it as
practise for the artist career I’d decided on. They asked me to design a
card and, after a few attempts, hit on the sweeping leaf Friars logo and
frog in a boat. I think I was paid a quid.
Come opening
night on June 1, me and my mate Graham from school got there early, intent
on signing up. Not knowing about things like guest lists I paid to get in,
getting back the membership card I’d just designed and seeing that I was
number six [although that may be wrong as I can’t find it anywhere!].
At this point I
had only seen three gigs in my life – all thanks to Robin Pike’s coach
trips which ran from the Grammar School: the 1968 NME Pollwinners Concert
with the surprise Stones appearance, Donovan at the Royal Albert Hall and
Jimi Hendrix that February at the same place. We dutifully sat and watched
each of the two acts: pretentious prog band Mandrake Paddle Steamer
posturing through titles like ‘Cougar And Dark’ and the fantastic national
steel blues guitar pickings of Mike Cooper.
Great stuff,
couldn’t wait for the Pretty Things next week. Then the bubble burst when
both Aylesbury Grammar School and my parents took exception to my
attending what was already being dubbed the usual den of drug-crazed
hippies. Although I sneaked in to a couple for a few minutes while going
to the Aylesbury Arts Workshop [situated where the Civic Centre toilets
currently survive], I wasn’t officially allowed back into the club until
the following December, thus missing Free, Blossom Toes and King Crimson.
I did manage to
see the East Of Eden-Fat Mattress double-header at the Borough Assembly
Hall in September. East Of Eden blew me away with their unique hybrid of
free jazz, Eastern ragas and Irish jigs which took off into the
stratosphere during the lengthy instrumental sections. They were also the
first group I dared approach, in the alley to the left of the pub leading
up to the Borough Assembly Hall’s entrance. Luckily Dave Arbus was a
thoroughly nice geezer and I never forgot it [especially in the light of
the obnoxious arrogance I would later encounter quite regularly. Fat
Mattress, trading on Noel Redding playing with the Experience and feeling
he should front a band, were pretty limp with one of the Flowerpot Men
singing [Not Bill & Ben, the flower-power band].
Now 16, I managed
to start going again on Mondays from December, starting with Keith Relf’s
Renaissance. Some tremendous nights through until July, standouts
including East Of Eden [starting the ‘Jig-A-Jig’ routine which would
catapult them into the charts], Edgar Broughton Band [my first stage
invasion, singing along to ‘Out Demons Out’], a surprise appearance from
the unknown Black Sabbath, Hawkwind’s proto-synths, Genesis while they
were new and exciting [although Phil Collins was always an arrogant tosser],
the crazed Writing On The Wall, mighty Graham Bond and his Hammond organ
and the awesome Van Der Graaf Generator [more nice blokes]. I gave up
sitting on the chairs and hung round in what was now called Leapers
Corner. Here you would wait for the more frenzied songs then jump up and
down, waving arms and legs in different directions. Some bands, like
Sweetwater Canal, even got the thumbs down for not inspiring much
limb-flailing lunacy.
Special mention
has to be made of Andy Dunkley, the man who played records in between
groups. I was a massive Peel fan but here were those records in their
shrink-wrapped glory. I loved the look of an American import, still do.
The ever-pleasant Dunkley turned me on to many things. I remember walking
into an empty Friars one balmy evening and he was unveiling Creedence
Clearwater’s ‘Bad Moon Rising’. Life is good, I thought. It’s partly
thanks to the good vibes established by Andy before bands that I decided I
wanted to be a DJ later in life [and was a few years later]. The look and
feel of records at that time is also a big reason I loathe and despise
faceless, funless download culture.
One night stands
out at the beginning of December 1969: the Friars debut of Mott The
Hoople. I’d read about them in Zigzag, the first fanzine which Pete
Frame had started and could be bought in the Friars foyer [Another
life-shaping factor as one day I’d be its editor!]. Mott had been put
together by producer Guy Stevens as a head-on collision between Jerry Lee
Lewis and Bob Dylan. Singer Ian Hunter’s ballads were uncanny Dylan
soundalikes but shot with his own personality and the band’s internal
dynamic. It was on the rockers that they really bust out, like their own
‘Rock ‘N’ Roll Queen’ and an incendiary instrumental version of the Kinks’
‘You Really Got Me’. Guitarist Mick Ralphs and bassist Overend Watts had
the longest hair I’d seen and, as they stretched the song with organist
Verden Allen wreaking psychedelic swirls and drummer Buffin upping the
tempo into a runaway locomotive it dawned on me that this was the maddest
noise and band I’d yet encountered. This was the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll
and unbridled mayhem which would later be revealed as punk rock. In my
face, up close and blowing up Aylesbury ex-servicemen’s club 38 years
before the demolition dullards brought it down to make way for that
repulsive Veridian Ghetto. Leapers’ Corner went bananas, which the group
really appreciated, getting off on the response and pushing themselves
harder. A mutual admiration society was born, Mott returning twice more to
this venue.
Mott were great
blokes too. When Robin Pike booked them in to play the Aylesbury Grammar
School Christmas dance, they sneaked me in as a roadie as I was underage
after I’d met them in the Millwrights over the road. I started following
them everywhere, meeting a fellow fan called Mick Jones who went on to
start The Clash. I thought they were the best group in the world, they
talked to me like a human being and, as they progressed, the songs were
turning into towering masterworks. In 1972 I would start
their fan club after Bowie entered the picture, but another story!
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