Jeff Beck, by Deke Leonard - a fun read

[Mickeyboro]

As many of us have a bit of time on our hands, I thought I'd offer a chunk of Deke Leonard for your enjoyment and delectation. It's from The Twang Dynasty, his take on guitars and guitarists, and this is part of his observations on Eric Clapton.

 

EDIT: BY PUBLIC DEMAND, SCROLL DOWN A BIT AND I'VE ADDED HIS TAKE ON JEFF BECK.

 

The last time our paths crossed was when he kicked me out of the Royal Albert Hall. He was playing a month's residency there. He did it every February for a few years. Concert Sound were doing the PA. Again, I bumped into them at the office of Marshall Arts, and they invited me to tag along. I wasn't fussed about seeing Clapton because I thought his best days were long gone, but it'd be nice to have a night out with the boys. They left my name on the door and I got there early. It was about halfway through the residency so they'd settled into a routine and there was none of the bustle associated with a one-off gig. I gave the stage a once-over. Behind the band's gear was an arc of about fifty chairs that looked suspiciously like an orchestra set-up. The boys were hanging around the mixing desk, set up in the middle of the hall, switching things on. Except for Adrian, who was conducting a tea ceremony. All was right with the world. After some concentrated banter we settled into chat mode. We talked about the upcoming gig. They told me the show would be split into two sections. The first half would be Clapton with his band but during the second half they would be joined by a fifty-piece orchestra to perform ‘The Clapton Concerto'. A shudder ran through my soul. I am always wary when established stars decide to invade other genres. It always ends in tears. Listen, if you can stand it, to McCartney's ‘Liverpool Oratorio'. This is the man who wrote ‘Back In The USSR' – isn't that enough? What more does he have to do to prove it to himself?

"How are you mixing the orchestra?" I asked Robert. All the instruments, he told me, would be individually miked-up and fed down to the basement of the

Albert Hall where Tim Boyle, Concert Sound's in-house boffin, had a secondary mixing desk. Tim would sub-mix the instruments into blocks according to instrument and feed them back up to Robert on the main desk, so the whole orchestra would be on just five faders (ten cellos on a single fader – yum-flipping-yum).

The doors were opened and the audience poured in. The place was soon filled with murmur, chatter and laughter. I love the mood of a hall just before a gig. The buzz of expectation that heralds great events about to take place is stimulating, even if it's somebody else's gig. I sat at the mixing desk and waited for showtime.

Clapton's entrance, as you would expect, was greeted with rapturous applause. Andy Fairweather-Low counted the band in and they got down to work. Clapton was dressed in millionaire casual – Armani suit worn over a plain T-shirt, classy shoes and a diamante guitar strap. He was very good but he lacked the blazing conviction of the Yardbirds/John Mayall days. He'd gone all mobile phone, and it seemed a little incongruous to see a man dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, singing songs of misery and deprivation. Which prompts the question – do rich men have the blues? Well, I hope to find out one day. Some chance.

After a twenty minute break, the orchestra, rather self-consciously, shuffled onstage, wearing evening dress. They sat down, plugged in, made a few tuning noises and chatted amongst themselves until Clapton emerged and introduced the ‘Clapton Concerto'. I suppose it wasn't bad for what it was, but it was just as pointless as McCartney's ‘Oratorio'. It lasted, I think, for about forty minutes and I was bored senseless after ten. “I know,” I thought, “I'll go and see Tim Boyle in the basement.” Robert gave me directions and off I went. I entered the bowels of the Albert Hall.

Following the directions, I ended up in a large, low-ceilinged room, directly under the auditorium. The room was dimly-lit, the only light coming from the overhead lamp above the mixing desk, where Tim sat in solitary confinement in the centre of the room. Rows and rows of supporting pillars stretched off into the darkness, and along one wall were stacks of chairs piled high. I hadn’t seen Tim for quite a while, so we had some catching up to do. I took one of the chairs, plonked it down next to him and lit a cigarette. We had plenty of time for conversation because, halfway through the residency, the sound was all sorted out and Tim had little to do but make sure it was all working. We had a ‘how the hell have you been?' conversation and then the talk turned to matters technical. Facing him were two large monitor speakers, spewing out the ‘Clapton Concerto', and a patchboard like a telephone exchange with row after row of little red lights. Each light, he told me, was an individual instrument of the orchestra. As the ‘Clapton Concerto' mercifully neared its end, Tim pointed at the patchboard.

"Watch this," he said.

The piece ended with a long, sustained note, held by the whole orchestra, but before the note ended, the little red lights started to go out, at first sporadically, then substantially. The sound began to thin out.

"What's happening?" I said.

"They're all unplugging themselves," he said, laughing. "They do it every night. They're getting ready to be first in the race to get to the bar. If Clapton ever sees or hears them do it, he'll go apeshit."

"Can't they even wait until the end of the note?" I said. "I'd sack the flipping lot of them."

"Which Clapton may very well do," said Tim.

After it was all over, I said goodbye to Tim and went back up to the arena. The house lights were up and the crowd had gone except for a few stragglers. The boys were turning everything off.

"We'll be a while," said Robert, "so why don't you go backstage and we'll see you there after we've finished."

Rather than wander around the labyrinthine Albert Hall corridors, I took a short cut across the stage. I'd been provided with an ‘Access All Areas' pass so I could do that. The route from stage to dressing room at the Albert Hall is centre-stage. You go down a flight of stairs into a central hall, off which run corridors leading to the dressing rooms and the backstage bars. This central hall was sardine-packed with members of the orchestra. I picked my way through them, heading for the bar. As I passed through them, I overheard snippets of conversation. Clapton, apparently, had asked them to wait behind, because wanted to talk to them. They seemed rather concerned. While I was still in the middle of them, they suddenly fell silent as Clapton, now in civvies, walked into the central hall. He didn't look too happy. The orchestra parted like the Red Sea and he walked into the middle of them. They formed a circle around him and I found myself in the front row. Before I could excuse myself and leave, Clapton began to speak. His voice was low and full of menace.

"You're supposed to be professional musicians," he said, "but you're behaving like rank amateurs. In future, anybody unplugging their instruments before the end of the set will be sacked. On the spot. No appeal. No extenuating circumstances." By now, his eyes were blazing, and I was tempted to say, "Hear, hear, Eric. Sack the flipin' lot of them." Then he suddenly noticed me. Well, I was the only one not wearing evening dress. He looked me directly in the eyes.

"Who the flip are you?" he said.

"My name's Deke Leonard," I said, trying to fish my Access All Areas pass out of my jacket pocket. "I'm a guest of the sound crew. They told me to come backstage and wait for them. I just happened to be here when..."

"Well, will you please leave," he said, "this is private business."

"Of course," I said. I didn't like to push past him into the bar so I made my way back up to the stage. As I picked my way through the orchestra, Clapton, speaking in a measured voice, tore them to shreds. I went back to the mixing desk and told the boys about the bollocking the orchestra were getting.

"About time, too," said Robert.
"He should sack the flipin' lot of them," said Adrian.
"Too good for ’em," said Keri.
After the boys had switched everything off, we all went backstage.

The central hall was now deserted. There was no sign of the orchestra. Maybe Clapton had killed them? I know I would have. And I'd have told me to bugger off, too. We spent a pleasant, if somewhat raucous, hour at the bar, then we all left. I got to the stage-door at the same time as Clapton. He was deep in conversation with his tour manager (I assumed it was his tour manager because he was wearing about six backstage passes around his neck and carrying a briefcase covered in stickers). Clapton caught my eye. I shrugged and made a that's-the-way-the-cookie-crumbles gesture. He smiled faintly and nodded, before making an into-each-life-a-little-rain-must-fall gesture back.He got into his limousine and I got a tube back to Highbury & Islington. Life in microcosm.

Clapton didn't kill the orchestra and he didn't sack them, but, I was later told, they never unplugged their instruments before the end of the set again. Well, it was either that or suffer a savage and sudden drop in income. That focuses, wonderfully, the mind of the jobbing musician.

I haven't seen Eric since. We don't keep in touch. But I miss our little chats.

 

Edited March 31, 2020 by Mickeyboro

[jezzaboy]

Deke was the man when it came to writing about the music industry. His stories were well written, loads of humour and most of us can relate to the things that happened. Get them from Amazon, you won`t regret it!*

*(Well you might but ya boo sucks!)

Edited March 26, 2020 by jezzaboy

[casapete]

Excellent stuff Mick, thanks for posting!

Hope you're staying well. Pete.

[Mickeyboro]

Jeff Beck, by Deke Leonard...enjoy!

 

JEFF BECK
I've only seen Jeff Beck once. It was at a Prince's Trust gig at the Royal Albert Hall, in the presence of the Prince and Princess of Wales – Charlie Saxe- Coburg-Gotha and his first frau. Politically, I was ambivalent. On the one hand, as a Welshman, I do not recognize the title, Prince of Wales. It was imposed on Wales by Edward 1 after his defeat of Llewelyn the Last's army in 1283, which resulted in the annexation of the principality to the English crown. As a final insult to the Welsh, Eddie anointed his son Prince of Wales. An English Prince of Wales? This scurrilous act became enshrined in the Royal succession process, a constant reminder to the Welsh that they are not an independent nation. On the other hand, I was sure that the Trust did good work, but work that should be done as of human right, rather than at the behest of an hereditary, pampered slack-wit trying to inject some meaning into his pointless, empty, feather-bedded life. It shouldn't be handed down from on high. It should come from within. That said, it was a good gig.

I was there at the invitation of genuine Welsh princes – Jeff Hooper, Robert Collins, Adrian Fitzpatrick and Kerry Lewis. They had once been the Manband’s peerless sound crew. When the band broke up, they went into business on their own, calling themselves Concert Sound. The break-up of the Manband was, for them, a liberation. Once on the open market, they began to work with the crème de la crème of the entertainment business – Dean Martin, Stevie Wonder, Talking Heads, Eric Clapton, Elvis Costello, Shirley McLaine and Tina Turner. They are, to quote the sublime Ms Turner, simply the best. Which is why they were also hired to do the Live Aid sound. They are giants of the craft.

Quite by chance, I bumped into them at the offices of Marshall Arts. Barrie Marshall had once managed the Manband and, after our break-up, continued to manage Concert Sound. They were just leaving for the Prince's Trust gig in the Royal Albert Hall and they invited me to tag along. Which – as just a piece of flotsam on the ocean of life – I did (if you want some flotsam, I've got some; if you want some jetsam, I can get some). The PA system had gone in the day before so all they had to do was switch it on and line-check the microphones. But, before they started, they took part in an ancient Concert Sound ritual – a brew-up. Adrian always carries the makings with him; a kettle, a box of Glengettie tea-bags, cups, spoons, a bag of sugar and a bottle of milk. For Adrian, tea is not a beverage, it is a sacrament. Me too.

I watched the show from the mixing desk, the best seat in the house. All the usual suspects were on the bill – Eric Clapton, Stevie Winwood, Ringo Starr, Jeff Beck and loads of famous people I can no longer remember. And in the middle of all this, I spotted Andy Fairweather-Low, playing guitar. He appeared to be in a position of some authority, counting the band in and alerting them about upcoming changes.

"What's Andy doing here?" I said.

"He's Clapton's MD," said Robert. "When Clapton goes on the road, Andy puts a band together and rehearses them. Then, when the tour starts, all Eric has to do is stand in front of them and play. It's like a very sophisticated Karaoke machine."

It was a big band, with two industrial-sized drum kits on high rostra. Simon Kirke occupied one and guest drummers – of which there were legion – used the second (Ringo appeared for two numbers). Despite the stellar line-up, the show got off to a subdued start. Everybody did two or three numbers, usually their most famous songs, but they seemed a bit flat and lifeless. Everybody seemed to be behaving themselves (surely not cowed in the presence of royalty, gentlemen?). As a result, the applause rarely ventured beyond polite. Then, about halfway through the evening, Jeff Beck came on, and, for the first time, the audience, finally ditching polite applause, cheered with some conviction.

Beck opened up with a blistering, slow blues. He played a weathered, white Strat and, in between licks, he didn't stop fiddling with it, constantly making minor adjustments to the bridge, the pickups and neck, like a mechanic nursing an old racing car down the final straight to the finishing line (the mechanic/car analogy is particularly apt because, reportedly, he enjoys restoring vintage cars. He was once asked whether he’d prefer to be tinkering away underneath a car or standing on a stage, playing to 10,000 people. He didn’t have to think about it. “Under a car,” he said, “on a stage in front of 10,000 people.”).

Each lick was different, sometimes howling, sometimes purring, sometimes savagely aggressive, sometimes languid, sometimes picked at the bridge, sometimes halfway down the neck. He threw no shapes and – eschewing the

standard agonized facial expression of the rock guitarist in full, creative angst – his face was impassive and inscrutable. When the song ended, the audience howled with delight. As the applause died down, someone in the stalls shouted out a request.

"Hi-Ho Silver Lining!"

Others in the crowd took up the shout and a momentum began to build. Trying to lance the boil, Beck stepped up to the nearest microphone.

"flip off!" he shouted back. But it was too late. The request, now chanted by the entire audience, soon reached tipping point. It was no longer a request, it was a demand. Beck's shoulders dropped. He shook his head and said something to Andy. They'd obviously prepared for this moment. Beck must have known he'd have no choice in the matter. He may have banished it from his regular live set, but this was a special occasion. Better learn it, just in case.

Andy counted the band in, and the mob, recognizing the opening bars, went apeshit. Beck, still shaking his head, trudged up to the nearest microphone and started singing. Now, Beck is not a singer, as he'd probably be the first to admit, but it didn't matter, because 13,000 people stood up and started singing along with him. They stopped singing during the solo and played air- guitar, then, right on the button, they were back in on the vocal. The end of the song was cathartic. Everybody was cheering, clapping, stamping and laughing, all at the same time, and the Royal Albert Hall became a cauldron of unconfined joy. Beck unplugged his guitar, waved to the crowd and, still shaking his head, walked off. The audience moaned in disappointment, but the thunderous applause continued unabated. The band followed him off and the houselights came up. It was the end of the first half. Gradually, the applause died down and everybody started mingling.

It had been a momentous moment. Artist and audience had been fused into a single, euphoric entity by a flimsy, brainless song, performed reluctantly under duress. As an artist, you work tirelessly to perfect your craft but all your audience want to hear is the piece of music that least requires it. It would be like asking Stirling Moss to drive you down to the shops. But, to paraphrase Noel Coward, it is impossible to overestimate the potency of cheap music. I bumped into Andy during the interval.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

"Oh, I was just passing, saw there was a gig going on and just wandered in," he replied.

The second part of the show was somewhat anti-climactic. Beck's reception must have stuck a carrot up their collective artistic bum, because everybody perked up and started playing with some conviction. Beck re-joined the band for a few numbers at the end of the show but nothing achieved the mass hysteria induced by ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining'.

Still, I've been to worse gigs.

[Owen]

The whole book is TOTALLY worth reading. Buy it. Where else would you read (paraphrase) "I was asked if I had seen Hendrix play - I answered 'no, but he saw me'"? Written in the way that makes you read all the way through without putting it down if at all possible.

[bassace]

Based on these two extracts it must be a great read. Thanks for posting, Mickey, fair cheered me up.

[ezbass]

Deke was a great writer, Rhino Winos & Lunatics is one of my top ten reads: proper laugh out loud memories from his time in The Man Band.