Ian Gillan: The Autobiography of Deep Purple’s Singer Read online

  However, the Episode Six era was still a few years away, so, to return to Aunty Joan time, Audrey was ambitious for me, while also being quite religious, hard-working, and possessed with considerable determination. Life for the family and friends revolved around the west London estates, from which territory a new and exciting ‘music genre’ would soon emerge, with names such as Screaming Lord Sutch (‘Screaming’ to his mates), Cliff Bennett of Rebel Rousers fame, Mick Underwood (whose name will crop up often in this story) and, of course, the man Mick would introduce me to one day, Ritchie Blackmore, who was a ‘savage’, and whose name also crops up a great deal more often! In fact, our little corner of the ‘universe’ would make a major contribution to the new music and ‘arts’ scene, as the early days of rock ’n’ roll rolled in, and continues to flourish to this very day. But, again, so much of this is tantalisingly for the future, as Pauline and I continued to cope with the increasing confrontation between our parents, poignantly illustrated by an incident that brought them to the final point of separation.

  Now, in reading this story, you must please accept that the entire family, without exception, loved animals, but with some species preferred to others. So, for example, Bill wasn’t too keen on cats, which meant that, in the mood of one particular day, it had to be right that Audrey should go out and buy one, returning home to triumphantly introduce us to Sally, a ‘statement’ that turned the atmosphere considerably more gloomy, and it was a gloominess that had existed an hour or so previous! There followed a short period of keen evaluation, after which Bill stomped off out, returning a short while later to introduce us to another pet, a budgie called Puff, whom he popped into a cage he’d also bought, before suspending both the bird and its detached house from a hoop frame. The frame was then hung on a stand, which stood about five feet high, and, once all was ‘sorted’, the whole thing was carried to a corner of the living room, from where the bird could watch the world pass by outside. To further set the scene, although there were two doors to the room, one had been blocked off by an item of furniture (I forget what it was), thereby leaving just enough space for a settee, which faced the fireplace, plus a table and two chairs, one of which was Bill’s. And that one he placed close to the bay window, which meant nothing could move from the hall without passing by him; it also meant the luckless cat had the endless frustration of an untouchable lunchbox!

  And then came the day when, by some incredible good fortune, Sally and Puff found themselves alone in the room. Not quite believing God was seemingly on her side, the cat mounted the arm of the chair, did her calculations on angle and distance, and then made the irreversible decision to jump. The leap took her to the cage with sufficient power to set the whole thing into gyroscopic motion, at which point God deserted her, and Bill took His place. Summing up the situation immediately, he moved with smooth efficiency, grabbed the poor cat in a huge hand, and in the same motion transferred her, without parabola, to the distant wall, where she stayed for a few seconds, before sliding (without brakes) down the floral wallpaper to the floor. Her life was most certainly saved by the fact she’d fortunately managed to withdraw most of her claws, and thereby save the wallpaper from being shredded; but a couple or more got left behind in the cage, where Puff idly inspected them as they cooled down in the sawdust!

  Looking back, I realise that never could marriage have joined a more unlikely couple, who would learn they had different ideas on politics, religion and social and cultural issues. You name it, and they didn’t share it! So perhaps it was asking too much for the relationship to work, and it all finally came to a head on the day Audrey discovered that Bill had an outside interest.

  As happened with so many young men in those days, Bill had stayed in the army, where he’d been promoted to sergeant in the Catering Corps, and, although things were generally poor between our parents, the situation began to deteriorate more rapidly, driven, I suspect, when letters started to arrive on the doorstep, postmarked Liverpool. Eventually, it turned out that Bill had a young girlfriend, and she was expecting his child. Audrey challenged Bill as to what was going on, and confronted his girlfriend at a meeting which must have been devastating for both women. For Audrey, the reason for shock must have been obvious, but so too for the girl, as she now discovered that her lover – and the father of her child – was already married. I believe arrangements were made for the girl to receive 30 shillings (£1. 50) a week until the child was born, at which time, the situation would be reviewed.

  The baby was delivered stillborn, at which point Audrey left Bill, taking us with her. I know it sounds insane, but for all that happened between those two sadly incompatible people, and for all I remember of Bill’s behaviour, I still refuse to think badly of him, or to blame him entirely for the relationship’s failure. Looking back on the saga, I can see that it was, likely as not, doomed from the beginning, but how and why it ever started is not my business.

  As I leaned forward to kiss my father on his forehead, I noticed his chin. Something strange. What was it?

  He badly needed a shave, always so meticulous about his hygiene and appearance. How many mornings had I stood and watched, fascinated as he explained and demonstrated the process, the ritual. First, wash your face with ordinary soap. Then with water as hot as you can bear, apply the brush and shaving cream. Palmolive, the old scent is gone now. Then the blade, leaving his skin even softer, it seemed, than mine. Occasionally, he would reach down, dab some cream on my face and shave me with a bladeless razor. Delicious! ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din,’ he would say.

  What was this, then? The last time I’d seen him was around 11 p.m. the night before as he left my hotel to drive home with a clean chin. He died within the hour at the wheel of his car. Now, here in the morgue, fifty miles away, and twelve hours later, he badly needed a shave.

  Yes, that is him, my father William. Yes, Yes!

  I stumbled through the formalities of identification. ‘Would you please make sure someone gives him a shave before. Before! Before what? I thought, turning away to try to hold my composure.

  So … whiskers growing on a dead man’s chin sounds like a sea shanty. All of my father’s being in me became focused at that time.

  In years to come (1997), I’d catch the mood of this period, and remember my father’s affectionate compliment to me in the sea shanty ‘Gunga Din’, a song I wrote for my Dreamcatcher solo project; my musical collaborator and co-producer of the album being Steve Morris, who I’d meet in that period with an early band I’d reinvent called the Moonshiners (Chapter 2).

  I’ll be true to you

  No matter what you do

  How you diddling

  Fair to middling

  I’ll be true to you!

  So just in case it seems my life was traumatic, or even miserable, in those growing-up days, that is not the case. Of course, it was sad to see the parting of parents, and then leaving what had been home to go and stay with grandparents, but I have many fine and fond memories to look back on, in which context I must also mention Uncle Alec, the mad inventor, from whom I suppose some of my own inventiveness comes. He was Bill’s brother, and as such he seemed very persona non grata at home. Indeed, Bill had always been very secretive about Alec, to the extent that I think he was even a little embarrassed by him, which was ironic in many ways!

  So Alec used to come down from Scotland to see us now and again, and he’d usually arrive with an assortment of cardboard boxes and bizarre paraphernalia. Bill would meet him at King’s Cross Station and steer him and his baggage to the nearest pub, where they’d stay until we kids were in bed. Eventually arriving home, Alec would unwrap and show Bill his latest gadget, which he’d explain about at very great length, and, after a good night’s sleep, he’d set off for the Patent Office.

  On one occasion, I was allowed to see one of Alec’s creations, and it was brilliant! It was made up of the most beautifully carved pieces of wood, all of which fitted together perfectly – after a good
hour or so – but, once the assembly was done, the invention took the shape of a head and torso, into which he’d fitted a small cupboard. This, when opened, revealed all kinds of mechanical wizardry: there was a left arm that didn’t move, but a device in the chest somehow activated the right one, which also caused the head to swivel; a flexible bottle inside the torso was filled with water, and, at the press of a button, the right arm would reach out, take a cup from Alec, slosh water into it, and hand it back so my uncle could drink.

  His idea was to sell the product to factories on a huge scale, and his enthusiasm was immense. However, as with most of Uncle Alec’s ideas, it was useless, although, in fairness, my later interest in carpentry (and the occasional useless idea as well) is probably due to his inspiration.

  It took a month to make my table

  It’s very nice I think

  I can eat meals on it

  And everyone says ooh!

  What a lovely table

  It was nothing says I

  You ought to be a carpenter

  Says this walrus lady…

  from The Candy Horizon (a collection of my poems dating from 1969).

  The other memorable thing about Alec was the fact that he called my father ‘Jock’ or ‘Willie’. Mr Morgan from next door also called him that, but Dad hated his name being vandalised, as I found to my cost the night I mimicked my uncle and said, ‘Good night, Jock.’

  With the parting of parents, all those moments of magic went, and we were left to find joy among the older members of the family, which we certainly managed with Granddad Arthur Watkins, who ran the household with a rod of iron, and along very Victorian principles.

  For most working-class families at that time, life followed strict codes of behaviour and peer respect. The man of the house – in this case, Granddad – was in charge, and his bidding was law. Sunday lunch (or ‘dinner’, as we knew it) was, in theory, a moment of ‘good feelings’ and togetherness on the Lord’s day of rest, but it was also permissible to be relaxed and happy!

  The BBC helped keep spirits high with a number of great radio comedy programmes, and the likes of Hancock’s Half Hour, The Navy Lark, Round the Horn and The Goons were my favourites. That said, and for sheer ‘neck’, Peter Brough’s admired and popular ventriloquist act with the legendary doll, Archie Andrews, took some beating, although his ratings strangely plummeted when he boldly crossed over to television, where the importance of facial control dawned on him!

  So the Lord’s Day was at least different and a bit special, although dinner was usually beset by a single problem: Granddad forbade laughter while we were at the table. Annoyingly, that rule didn’t apply to himself, and he was inclined to show no self-control whatsoever, as the comedy flowed from the wireless. In fact, there were many occasions when he lost it completely, usually during the Billy Cotton Band Show, which he loved. Also, there was a song that Alan Breeze used to sing: ‘Close the door, they’re coming through the window … der der der / Close the door, they’re coming down the stairs’ (or words to that effect). Granddad absolutely loved that song, and while he had hysterics, we all looked on – very glumly! He’d also have a go at Grandma sometimes, mostly to demonstrate his superiority, and thereby impress us, I suppose. The sort of thing he’d do included trapping her once in the corner of the living room, and keeping her there while he blew up a huge weather balloon he’d somehow got hold of.

  I should mention that Grandma was a very substantial lady indeed, a circumstance that seriously disadvantaged her on the day in question. So, while I was trying to do my homework, all I could hear was the sound of huge lungs blowing up this wretched balloon, so that it increasingly filled the room, and threatened to take Grandma from view – and, in due course, life itself. The noise coming out of the room was appalling, as Granddad, oblivious to his wife’s distress, continued to enjoy himself, until the balloon touched a piece of furniture and exploded!

  It necessarily took a little while for the noise and general fallout to subside, after which, to Granddad’s eternal joy, he was confronted by his very large wife, frozen in shock, and covered in a substance similar to bubblegum. Add to that the French chalk that went with it, and, as you might imagine, the dear old lady looked quite a sight – not too dissimilar, perhaps, to how Lot’s wife would have appeared, after she’d turned her face back to Sodom, and was changed into a pillar of salt. (And you didn’t believe I paid attention to the teachings of the Bible at Sunday school, did you?)

  Anyway, when Granddad was in a good mood, that sort of prank appealed to him, although, more seriously – or should I say differently – he did enjoy his music and songs, and had a fine bass-baritone voice. Sadly, any ambitions he may have had for earning a living that way were cut short by a severe bout of diphtheria, but, undaunted by the setback, he turned his hand(s), quite successfully, to boxing, which was an obvious move, if you think about it!

  In moments of reflection, and looking to see where my musical DNA comes from, I suppose it was Audrey who first turned my ear to music, although her brave attempts at ‘Rondo à la Turque’ on the piano always proved a climactic disappointment at the same bit!

  Anyway, as I’ve already said, with all life’s ups and downs, my childhood wasn’t too bad, as I observed, learned and began to take better notice of the world outside, while making friends and showing signs of a creative mind.

  To give some sort of focus to this, I suppose we’re now talking mid- to late 1950s, and remembering when Roger Bannister ran the first four-minute mile, Lester Piggott became the youngest Derby winner at the age of eighteen and Johnnie Ray had a big hit with ‘Just Walkin’ in the Rain’. As I recall, he used to cry a lot, did Johnnie Ray, and that made a lot of other people cry, including me – although I always thought him lucky to have such poor hearing!

  So the jigsaw of life was starting to come together as I judged it time to make my first statement of intent to the world, with the unveiling of my new invention: a low-cost submarine, which I had ready to ‘commission’ for the day the river Crane rose over its banks, and flooded Cranford Park to a depth of about four feet. There was a little hump-backed bridge that crossed the river, and led to St Dunstan’s Church and Old Cranford House, where Granddad had lived as a child, and is now buried. And, along the section where the bridge actually crossed over the river, there was post-and-rail fencing, beyond which the flooded park and meadows waited.

  Like most kids, we used to mess around with handmade carts – you know, old pram wheels front and back, with a bit of wood making up the chassis. Once assembled, the contraption was steered by feet planted both sides of the front axle, while, for those short in the leg, a rope pulled you left or right, and worked just as well.

  Enter now ‘Gillan the Inventor’. Enter also my great mate, Barry Dass, who lived next door, and had long before said he’d test the different ideas I had from time to time. When I told him about the submarine, he fairly willingly agreed to keep his promise, although I suspect his courage wavered a bit when he saw the meadow. Still, I managed to settle him down by saying he would have the title of ‘Captain’, it being my experience that in moments of doubt Barry’s ego could usually be relied upon to override his brain. However, setting status aside, I can still see him standing with diminishing enthusiasm as I converted the land trolley into a submarine with planks of wood forming a complete enclosure, in which he’d finally be entombed. To make sure Barry could share the fullness of the experience while under water, I cut portholes, which were taped over with cellophane; but, otherwise, I’ll admit the inside was a bit spartan!

  I put Barry’s lack of gratitude down to nervous excitement, as I nailed the final plank over him, before towing the war machine to the top of the bridge. Instructions were concise, so he knew that, when the sub had reached the fourth post along the railed fence, he’d have picked up enough speed to turn sharp left, pass under the railing and into, then under, the water. Of course, I’d checked the railing height to be sure it would cle
ar the boat, and had similarly worked out that he’d have sufficient thrust to carry him the sixty yards or so through the flood, to the other side.

  I guess he must have reached about 9 m.p.h. when he arrived at the fourth post, and swung left as instructed. To my joy, he also disappeared from sight, as I’d said would happen, and so I ran to the top of the bridge to get the best view possible of the other bank.

  Have you ever had that feeling that something has gone terribly wrong? I ask that because, after a little while, I noticed that, about three feet into the flood, bubbles were coming to the surface; and, as I puzzled over this unexpected distraction with my eyes still focused on the far bank, this head suddenly explodes from the submarine right in front of me, with a wooden lid perched on its top. Make no mistake: Barry looked huge, with eyes bulging and pumped-up blood vessels threatening to blow him apart. Even I’ll admit to being somewhat shocked. However, as soon as he’d returned to normal size, my relief turned to anger at his irresponsible incompetence – except that I’m not the sort who bears a grudge for long, and soon had him pencilled in for space exploration!

  At about the same time, and not too far away from the submarine incident, story has it that Ritchie Blackmore was also hammering nails into wood. Apparently, he’d also got hold of a load of planks, and one night took himself down the row of terraced houses where he lived, to seal off the back gates. His mistake was (I gather) that his house was the only one he left untouched!

  Differently, Johnnie Ray’s luck faltered a little with ‘Such a Night’, which the BBC banned for ‘suggestiveness’, but doors had been forced open a little, as rock ’n’ roll rumbled into England with the arrival of Bill Haley of ‘kiss curl’ fame. Of course, he was also pretty famous as a musician, and, when he arrived in London to perform his hits, ‘Rock Around the Clock’ and ‘Crazy Man Crazy’, there were riots at Heathrow Airport, which was just down the road. Anyway, if I was thinking about anything artistic at this stage, it was in the possibility of films, except there needed to be that final ‘leaving childhood behind’ experiment to deal with more immediately, as I told the hapless Barry about the spaceship. So he was pleased with the title of ‘Chief Test Pilot’, but less certain about the design, which basically used his parents’ kitchen furniture. This suited my needs perfectly, because it was American in style, and therefore came with lots of chrome and colours. The stool became the explorer’s main frame – nice and tall, with an elegant low back, while, it being around Bonfire Night, fireworks were in ready supply, which also meant there would be no problem with power. I taped about thirty rockets and crackers to the legs of the stool, carefully avoiding the area where his legs would dangle, then linked the common fuse, which was made up with bits of newspaper, sticky tape and loose gunpowder. The final act, being for health-and-safety reasons, had the structure attached by a washing line to the coal bunker, which acted as a restrainer. Remember, this was a ‘first’, and so it seemed prudent to limit the height of orbit for what was effectively a pioneer run.