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

  In finding and putting together the various bits and pieces of gear, Dad lent me £8 to pay for a drum kit he’d sought out at the Salvation Army, and it made for a good start. It came with a Gigster drum (with only a couple of strands left on the snare), a stick, a brush, a large bass drum (without pedal or pegs) and a high-hat cymbal mechanism, with only one cymbal, which went up and down, never finding its partner! We also found a small amplifier, into which one of the lads would plug a semi-acoustic guitar, and, finally, we could record our efforts on Dad’s Grundig tape recorder, which we sat on the table.

  We took the gear to St Dunstan’s, set up and quickly discovered several limitations. The biggest was that, when I was singing, I had to bend my six-foot frame double, just to get near the microphone, which in turn made drumming impossible; and, conversely, when I was drumming, singing was just the same: impossible! However, I suppose the ultimate humiliation was on those occasions when the bass drum would set off on a slow rolling journey into the wings, to leave me stranded and looking very stupid!

  There was only one solution to the problem, and that was for me to choose between drumming and singing – and it was no contest! I have to say our first performance wasn’t too bad, but things were better than that, as I became aware that some girls out there were paying me attention, and that hadn’t happened to me before.

  Buoyed up with confidence, we rehearsed some more and the hall management were pleased enough to let us do another gig the following week. I also did what seemed the cool thing to do at the time, and changed my stage name to Garth Rockett (note the double ‘t’ to distinguish my name from the machine that nearly ‘did for’ Barry Dass some years earlier), while the group were called the Moonshiners.

  Audrey didn’t seem to mind about my name – in fact, she took it all in good part, and said she much preferred the noise we made to the days when I used to sit on the stairs banging a biscuit tin!

  Our enthusiasm was such that we improved quickly, and added to our repertoire, soon to be able to play a set that included ‘His Latest Flame’, ‘Good Luck Charm’ (both Presley, of course), ‘Hit the Road Jack’ (Ray Charles) and others by people such as Bobby Vee and John Leyton.

  There was another group sharing the hall in those early days, and they were called Ronnie and the Hi-Tones. In fact, they had got together before the Moonshiners (early 1962), and had built up a good local reputation. Their keyboard player, Dave Bone, was brilliant, and could rattle off Jerry Lee Lewis stuff with ease. His problem – the group’s problem – was that he sometimes decided not to show up, but, when they were all together, they were impressive. Although their equipment was also basic, it was better than ours, while we came to share rehearsal space with them, usually on alternate weeks, with each turning up to watch the other’s progress.

  The Hi-Tones enjoyed taking the piss out of us quite a lot, with the most obnoxious of them being their singer, known as Greasy Ron, whose vocal ability did not match his posing, and the buzz was they had their eye on me to replace him. One Saturday morning, their rhythm guitarist, Tony Tacon, turned up on a borrowed tandem, with drummer Keith Roach. They arrived at the house to be told by Audrey that I was at the sweet shop, and so they saddled back up to come and find me. Tony asked outright if I would join them, and, after a practice session at Dave Bone’s house the next day, I agreed.

  We changed the name of the band to the Javelins – after the famous Jowett Javelin car – and a further decision was taken, that the brilliant, but unreliable, Dave Bone should also leave.

  It was October 1962, and the line-up was Tony (Tubby) Whitfield on bass guitar, Gordon Fairminer on lead, Keith Roach on drums, Tony Tacon on rhythm and Yours Truly singing. With all this change, I altered my name once again, this time to Jess Thunder, and had it printed on our calling card.

  In terms of the material we rehearsed and played, it covered the spread of our influences: Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran, Georgie Fame, Howlin’ Wolf and, of course, Elvis Presley. We played songs such as ‘Oh Boy’, ‘Rave On’, ‘Not Fade Away’, ‘Cut Across Shortie’ and one of my favourites, ‘High School Confidential’.

  There’s always a first time when you take a decision that’s going to upset good people, and this was mine, as I explained my intention to leave the Moonshiners. In fact, the lads took it very well, and we parted amicably, while Garth Rockett and the Moonshiners (different line-up) would rise from the ashes many years later to do a project.

  With all this activity going on, I became aware of mutterings from Audrey, along the lines that I should start taking my studies more seriously, and thinking ahead to a responsible career – and, ideally, sooner rather than later! I suspect she was feeling that a bit of fun was setting me up with strange ideas that I might actually want to be a full-time singer, and so I obliged her by walking into a company called Auto Ice Ltd at the National Works in Hounslow. The firm manufactured ice-making machines, as their manager, Bill Brown, explained at the interview, and after I’d told him how well I’d be doing when my exam results came out, he took me on at the princely salary of £7 a week. As an aside, there was so much else we discussed that I totally forgot to mention my outside career with the Javelins (did I just!), but I enjoyed working at the company, and it wasn’t long before Mr Brown put me in charge of a department.

  I was clearly seen as management material, which may surprise my current manager, Phil Banfield, but during my time at Auto Ice I did help build things up, including becoming responsible for about a hundred and ten outlets in Jersey, Scotland and elsewhere. The exam results were conveniently forgotten, if you get my drift, and, although I stayed with ‘the day job’, music was now the absolute focal point of my life and dreams.

  The Javelins were a great bunch of people and musicians to be with. We had a great camaraderie and shared a cruel but brilliant sense of humour, all of which fused the band, and allowed us to progress to regular bookings at Wistow House and the Blue Moon (both in Hayes, Middlesex), and on up to the prestige Crawdaddy Club and the Station Hotel in Richmond, south London. And there we took over the spot vacated by the Rolling Stones, who were ‘happening’ on the back of ‘Come On’.

  The Javelins were the first band in which I’d be paid, the gig fee being £2 10s. Of course, it all went on travel and booze, but nobody cared, because we were doing what we wanted to do. And it was also with the Javelins that I had my first brush with heckling, on the night some bright spark shouted out, ‘Get yer hair cut.’ He did it while I was singing ‘King of the Whole Wide World’, but I promise you I did not falter!

  As our business card showed, we were willing (and needed) to play anywhere, so we’d occasionally get private functions such as a wedding, a bar mitzvah or just a ‘do’, such as a twenty-first birthday. The young ladies from good schools seemed to like us, probably because we were everything they and their sort of escorts were not, while I guess the idea of mixing with a bit of ‘rough’ somehow appealed to them. So while their chaps got drunk as lords (some probably were), the naughty rich girlfriends used to show us round the estates, stables, in cupboards, under tables, and interesting places like that.

  That said, it was well known among musicians that you had a far greater chance of catching a dose from one of these girls than you had from those who came to normal gigs, so everyone was extremely careful with them. Outwardly elegant, the aristocracy, it seemed, took some pride in being quite mucky!

  Javelin gigs would usually be performed in two sets of forty-five minutes, and we’d play rock ’n’ roll and blues. I used to wear a suit, while the others would be in band-type uniform – leather jerkins being in vogue. But most memorable was the stench that followed us around, because, whatever we chose to wear, it stank to high heaven! Not surprising, I suppose, because after a gig we’d chuck everything in the van and leave it there until the next time. And I also have fond memories of the van’s mattress, which was used quite a lot!

  As we progressed, of course, we added to the music, and covered
the likes of Sonny Boy Williamson, Howlin’ Wolf, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard, but unlike the Rolling Stones, Cliff Bennett, Georgie Fame or ‘Screaming’, we were not performing original material. That said, I would soon use one of life’s experiences to write my first song, ‘Puget Sound’, the lyrics of which arose from the one occasion when, I’m ashamed to say, I did let the band down.

  Audrey, who was still teaching, was offered the chance to go to America on a teachers’ charter, and the invitation was extended to allow for Pauline and me to go with her. So I went to see Bill Brown to ask for six weeks’ leave, and, when he said, ‘Over my dead body and your day job,’ I took that to mean yes, although I think he must have known about the Javelins, and could read how and where the winds of change were taking me. I then told the band about it, and they weren’t too pleased either, because it meant losing quite a few gigs, just when things seemed to be happening for us. Still, they didn’t throw an Auto Ice strop, and we flew El Al to New York, where we checked into our hotel.

  The next day, we went to the Greyhound Bus Station, where we picked up our $99 touring tickets, which offered three months’ travel freedom anywhere we fancied, and a few days after that we were on the West Coast, and I was in heaven! I would have been, anyway, but somewhere along the road, in Pennsylvania, this girl joined the bus – a classic Greyhound – and in the rear smoking section I learned much, including new phrases like, ‘Do all English girls do this?’ So ‘Puget Sound’ is about that journey across America, to the place of the song title, which would eventually be recorded on Mr. Universe.

  I remember the bus

  Just the Greyhound and us

  It was in between St Paul and Fargo

  There were two days to go

  But we virgins were slow

  And my hand hadn’t moved since Chicago

  We enjoyed the westbound trip so much that my Ithaca girl made the return journey, where we occupied the back section, while Audrey and Pauline enjoyed the spectacular scenery from nearer the front!

  Back home, I quickly settled back in with the Javelins, and also managed to get my job back at Auto Ice, this time in the factory, where they were ‘short’, and where I learned to weld and work on assembly lines. Although I couldn’t conceive of a career in industry at any level, the people at the company were great, and particularly Nick, who worked in the office.

  There was also a very beautiful, delicious secretary, whose name I choose to forget, but, when it comes to plain gratitude and respect, Bill Brown was my ‘top man’, particularly for giving me a job in the first place, and then for giving it back after America, when most others would have told me to sod off.

  And so life continued at a varied and often hectic pace, with the day job frequently followed by a gig, usually in the west London area. Although we all did our best to find more work, Gordon’s dad did most of that for us, acting as a sort of booking agent, which I think he quite enjoyed. He ran a sweet shop during the day, from which other things would later emerge, but, meantime, we improved our image and sound, which brought us at last, and somehow inevitably, to the doorstep of a man who would do so much for the music business: Mr Jim Marshall.

  Jim’s initial startup business would progress to become the most important amp-manufacturing company in the world, and it all began for him in July 1960, when he opened up his famous shop, Marshalls, just down the road from us in Hanwell. He’d first come into the entertainment business in 1937, beginning as a dance-band singer, before going on to learn drumming under Max Abrams; and, as he’d often proudly explain, Max taught Jack Parnell, Eric Delany and the contemporary Simon Phillips, with whom I’ve had the privilege of working (including on the Naked Thunder album in 1990). As a digression, I believe Jim also once played in the same band as Pete Townshend’s dad, while I, in turn, sat in the same classroom as Pete, representing ‘our generation’.

  However, after years of performing and teaching, Jim was able to read what was happening in popular music, and the rest, as they say, is history!

  So, by the time we were looking for gear, Marshalls, with Ken Bran, were already making and selling their own amps and cabinets, and the word quickly spread as to their attitude, understanding and workmanship.

  Talking of Jim Marshall, there’s a great anecdote to pass on, even though the time is really with early Deep Purple. The story centres on a piece of music paraphernalia known in the business as ‘slaves’. A few of us were hanging out in the pub one day, when our roadie, Mick Angus, turned up to announce the safe arrival of ‘the slaves’ we’d ordered, and added they were locked in the van outside. The announcement, and the way it was said, caused a moment of considerable reflective silence, along with much staring at us from the punters, even as we immediately realised what was going on. Eventually, the girl behind the bar said, ‘Excuse me, but did you say you have slaves in your van?’

  ‘Yes,’ we said, which was followed by another long pause.

  ‘Don’t you realise it’s against the law to have slaves these days?’

  ‘It’s all right, ’cause nobody knows, and, in any case, we only use them for our work.’

  Now utterly appalled, but still persevering, the lass pursued her purpose.

  ‘But it’s illegal. Slavery’s been abolished!’

  ‘Oh, come on, love, we’ve only got twelve of them.’

  ‘Where do you keep them, then?’

  ‘I’ve already told you: in the van.

  Another, even longer, pause.

  ‘And how long have you had them?’ to which Mick explained, ‘Well, I’ve just picked this lot up today. It’s really disappointing because we wanted white ones, but, because they’re in short supply, we’ve had to settle for black. We’re desperate, but you know what else? They’re all called Marshall!’

  But, anecdote over, let me return to the Javelins. They were from nice families – comfortably off, I guess, although not wealthy. Perhaps to some extent it was my own personal lack of security, or maybe it was arrogance or impatience, but, as the months passed by, I just couldn’t see my way through to stardom with the band. It was all there, almost, but always tantalisingly untouchable. Our photos appeared in local papers, we had fans and we had loads of work, but still something was wrong, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I could not even fault the musicianship.

  As part of the learning curve for so many bands of that era, it was wise to enter one or more of the Battle of the Bands competitions that did the rounds, and we did just that at the Essoldo in Hayes. However, for those who might have missed out on the period in question, these events were not just for local bands or ‘groups’, and many would travel from miles away for just a few minutes on stage. Once arrived and parked up, the wannabe stars would try to impress five or six judges, one of whom would probably be a DJ, and on this particular occasion we won the competition, beating a band called the Countdowns, who were also very hot in the area, and whose singer was Brian Connolly, with bass player Steve Priest and Mick Tucker on drums.

  For our performance we played ‘Sixteen Tons’, ‘Too Much Monkey Business’ and a slow, and very unusual, version of Conway Twitty’s hit ‘It’s Only Make Believe’. It was risky doing slow numbers in these situations, but the gamble obviously paid off for us – except that it didn’t, really, because we never got the prize of a working holiday at a Butlin’s holiday camp; and, when I took someone to the cinema to use the complimentary tickets we’d been given, we got chucked out, eventually to discover that, after the trophy had been taken away for engraving, we’d never see it again! Our success in the competition was ironically followed by Gordon deciding to audition for the Countdowns, and he got the gig.

  However, in some ways, we were not too disheartened, because he seemed to be forever going away – usually to Spain, where perhaps his parents had a house – and, following his departure, the Countdowns changed their name to the Sweetshop (after his dad’s business); and, when he was later replaced by Andy Scott, they
shortened it to the Sweet. With the new line-up the band would have major hits with songs such as ‘Little Willy’ (banned on the Mecca dance-hall circuit), ‘Blockbuster’ and ‘Ballroom Blitz’; also, they continued as such, right through to when I was with Deep Purple, whom they would support on a number of shows.

  Now, it’s an inescapable fact that nothing can remain the same in life, and the music business is certainly no exception, as the time came when the Javelins ran into difficulties, such that the cards began to tumble, as one disaster followed another, just as night follows day! So came that winter’s night when Tubby (Tony Whitfield) arrived by bus to show off his brand-new Framus guitar. It was still in its cardboard case, and we all stood waiting in the snow outside the Travellers Friend to admire it when the bus arrived, and he leaped down from it. Sadly, Tubby didn’t see the kerb, slipped and performed an incredible mid-air manoeuvre, which ended with the guitar breaking his fall, and its neck, so that only the truss and rod kept it as a single item. Because Tubby knew we’d not get paid that night if he didn’t perform, we strapped and glued the instrument together the best we could, and he played it like a bow, tucking it under his arm so the strings didn’t pull off the fretboard. The sound that came out of it was appalling, but we got paid, and his share went as the first instalment on the worthless purchase.

  After all the excitement, promise and dreaming, 1963–4 was turning out to be a demoralising period of my life. My work at Auto Ice lost its way, and I left them to join another company, which at the time seemed to have as bleak a future as I did. And that company was Tesco!

  As for music, and my future in it, I was now totally frustrated with the Javelins, and we disbanded in March 1964, although we’d get together in 1994 to make an album of ‘reminiscence’, which I’ll deal with later.