I met Colin Cripps

June 1973 at the Left Centre in Coventry. We were both producing our respective magazines using the the Centre's Golf Ball Typewriters and Offset Litho Printer. Colin was producing The Willenhall Free Press
and Bo and I were producing the first edition of HOBO. Colin was from Cambridge but studying for a literature degree at Warwick University. He lived in Ivy Walk, Willenhall and I lived in nearby Willenhall Wood at the time. At the time Colin was involved in Tenants Association and  Willenhall Estate News.  At the time there was a 'minor gale blowing between the tenants associations'  and the Willenhall Free Press developed out of that.

Colin was also an accomplished guitarist and writer and his (then) wife, Lynda Hardcastle played recorder and sang. They had around them, in Ivy Walk, a group of creative people, poets, musicians and artists. Living in Willenhall I often went down to see them; join in the jam sessions, share poems and songs, swap chords sequences, riffs, discuss poetry, politics, philosophy and the Coventry music scene. Colin and Lyn and the others got involved in, and were highly supportive of the Hobo Music Workshop at the Holyhead Youth Centre in 1974 (more of that in a later post) and a few of the Hobo layouts were done at their place. Although they were not used for publicity in the end,One night, after discussing the apathy that was around at the time, they collectively produced some flyer's for the Hobo Workshop after one of the weekly sessions had a lower turn out. The Hobo Workshop did pick up but it took a lot of work and a 'Shut Down City Centre Concert' protest campaign to do it! (again more about the Workshop to come). The nucleus of the Mountain Ash Band was formed during this time but towards the end on 1974 after Colin completed his degree, they moved up to Ilkley in Yorkshire where the band wrote and performed their masterpiece, The Hermit. Colin also went on to write a history of the main forms and styles of popular music in the 20th Century

in 1988. The  book concludes with a short passage on forms of West Indian styles and a  small section on TWO TONE (pictured here) - 
However, that's jumping ahead -
Before they left Coventry, they made creative entries into my Communication Book - here is a stream of consciousness piece about Coventry by Colin from the book -

THE SLOW TRAIN (GOD, EVA, and all stations in between)  Colin Cripps

Coventry-city of spires-after all that – the torture you went through – why have you not learnt? Where is your heart? –

Office block, red wine sun through your uncurtained windows, no typists, no product, not even ink on sheets of A.10, only heaven glows on your walls- empty flats decay the clean way-no heart in the precinct, no life, no blood of general ownership flows though your hardened arteries-stillborn, this Phoenix will perhaps never rekindle – through double-glazing, from his skull he has directed vision-white concrete  rejects all light, creates no colour, but your grey is already halfway to nothingness – middle class lady, neatly attired in comfort fresh underwear, perfectly perfumed, motionless make up mask, I would never have discovered that you too shit if you hadn’t shat on me.

Lady Diahorrea unloads her troubles in her back streets, her public lavatories, her estates; Willenhall young maid that you once were – sitting beneath a tree in everyone’s forest – she put you in servants attire – on the bus from Chase Hostels to town, stubbly chin, old coat, old man on the way to work, drink and bed once a gain – never ending round of one bred to service – don’t believe the lady on the horse my brother, she takes the services of your sweat and eats your meal with delicate refinement, alas no use, coercion, creation, transformation in your sense, she shits her daily round, indiscriminately

selecting her areas, her  thousand bowed heads, her understains.

Labour party, union house, how far have you come! Quite grown! Gone up in the world of deodorised dreams – the backsliding, back handed, back to front, black legging respectable face of piracy, privateering, profiteering, political men.

So many fooled faces, visages, masks at mosques, business rituals at the Vere – where is the heaven you invoke? Your daylight séances produce no rebirth – your black mass meetings of monetary monks see no angels.

Somewhere a cell jumped off your car carpets, skipped the lights, crashed into the microcosm of Coombe, lived it all out, met up with you all, your felt ideas, your fantastic words, your devotion, will to go ahead, your energy, your art, your convincing universal politics, your human laughter as  you’ve sped up, spaced out, peaked, gone through, come down, crashed out and peered those curious eyes, red and sore, out at the outrageous, humiliating Babel  beyond your window. Raspberry of Radio One to raspberry at Radio One. Grow my flock. You are all in my dream; can I be in yours?

From your flyovers to your flies, papers to pamphlets, advertisements to mirrors, comfortableness to the twitch of worry, sore bones to broken minds, split people together ones with sad eyes, I pay you the greatest accolade – I have learnt from you.

Poet / Lyricist Ray King of Ivy Walk, Willenhall was one of them and wrote a sad farewell to them, recorded in the Communication book but ended up moving to Ilkley too and writing the lyrics for the Mountain Ash Band. Here are a few sections from his very long farewell poem Till Then - it is worth sharing!

......I am burning deep                                 

                        with pages

that  I long for all to see,

                        But Hark!

Did I hear a whisper in the dark?

 a year has passed

Many moons have waxed

                                 and waned

into forgotten episode.

          but something holds intact

something frosted like Christmas card landscapes,

                              Ideal.

Memory is fickle

                      Many tongued

treacherous as furtive night time.............

We were sometimes vein

   but strangely honest

   as we sowed those seeds

Time will take intensity from memory;                                                                        

that strange intensity that only now

                                          can hold..........

We will carry all those yesterdays

  to tire in smoky anedote

                              till wearied......

Though the thought was born

                 in lowly Ivy Walk

It strides the lord of thought

                              through night time

pausing on the brink of time

                                   awhile

to gaze a knowing eye

                         across the universe

of silver studded

                  velvet sky;

........are we nothing more than whispers        

as sound slips from a broken hour glass,

this I refuse,

              as much goodbye........

our suns will burn again

our suns will burn again,

                                till then, till then,

Till Then.

Excerpts for Ray King's Poem Till Then (Ivy Walk 1974)

Soon Ray moved to Ilkley too and the the Mountain Ash Band were formed. Ray  wrote all the the lyrics for the Hermit, an album that it is now very rare (see this website) Mountain Ash Band  The band consisted of  Colin Cripps Guitar / research and original concept and music; Ray King - Lyrics; Sean Mansley - Narration; Geoff Bowen - Fiddle / Recorder; Martin Carter - Vocals / guitar; Alan Rose - Vocals/ Whistle; Graham Jones - bass / vocals / recorder; Lynda Hardcastle - Vocals / Recorders; Kevin Slingsby - Drums. 1975 Pic of album cover The Hermit here -

It's the story of a local Hermit (local to Ilkley Moors) called Job Senior - written not so much as a story but as a series of 'Glimpses of his world' as they imagined them seen by Job at the crisis points of his life. Lynn told me the album was remixed for CD in the 90's and a second version of the Mountain Ash Band was formed with Alan Rose and Lynda Hardcastle.

"Reviewed by pOoTer:

Its been a long time tracking this legendary recording down. Possibly one of the rarest UK folk gems from 1975, as rare as life itself?. Awesome electric violin and disturbingly haunting vocals tell the depressing story of a Yorkshire hermit named Job Senior. "Birth" sets the scene for what is a profoundly sad album that will leave you deep in thought every time you hear it. "Journeys" a fine piece of violin work runs into "Stone on Stone" which is almost Incredible String Band in vocal style. "A long Winter" tells of the latter stages of Job's life after his wife dies and he is living alone on the moors of Ilkley. "Who Knows" is a sorry lament as Job ends up living in the remains of his dead wifes house which has been pulled down by her family in an attempt to evict him. "The Outcast/Rebirth" ends the albums tragic story. Hear it and weep................"

Here are the lyrics to the first song on this rare album written by Ray King with music by Colin Cripps. Pic below - Lynda Hardcastle - Vocals and Recorders.

BIRTH

On crimson wings the sun comes up                          

Across the eastern sky

Who see the early dawning hour

When some may live and some may die.

Bent on the earth beneath the sky

A new born cry is heard.

The silent sky is split in two

The first eruption of the word.

Your life is started.

Your life’s begun.

Be quick, the years wait for no one.

A million things are yet undone

Before the winking of an eye,

Before the setting of the sun

A chance is barely waiting,

A chance is barely anything.

Please know your hour will come, (too soon, too soon, too soon.)

Your time will come.

Mother’s in the kitchen and Father’s on the land.

They’ll tell you life is only what you’re holding in your hand.

They know the price of hardship; yes they know the coins of sweat.

They know the price that pain affords. They know, they know it all and yet.

Your baby hands are open

And clutching for a star

But still they stop and warn you

You will never reach that far.

Be quick time’s waiting,

Be quick it slips away.

A lifetime will not leisure

In the measure of today.

Lynda Hardcastle - (This is just one of their beautiful albums)

- went on to work musically with her new partner - Folk singer / guitarist Alan Rose in the Ilkley area c 1975 and in the 90's formed the successful all female Folk Group GRACENOTES

Fresh Maggots

You can hear more of their songs on Vox Here

now seem to be a cult band or rather duo with their 1971 RCA album and single now appearing on various sites. This Nuneaton duo played for us (the Friday night sessions 10 - 3 am upstairs at the Coventry Arts Umbrella club, when it was based in Queen Victoria Rd. (specific postings relating to the Umbrella club are to come to this). Further blogging about them will be included in the band directory also yet to be uploaded! Fresh Maggots consisted of two guys - Mick Burgoyne (vocals, guitar, violin, tambourine, glockenspiel), Leigh Dolphin (guitar).

Nuneaton duo who recorded for RCA. Booked for Arts Umbrella Jan 1971. The blurb in Umbrella News read “A rock group from Nuneaton as outrageous as their name, which promises good entertainment for devotees”. CET 1973 says Fresh Maggots invited to play Windsor Free Festival with Trilogy & A Band Called George.

Booked for Arts Umbrella Jan 1971. The blurb in Umbrella News read “A rock group from Nuneaton as outrageous as their name, which promises good entertainment for devotees”. CET (Coventry Evening Telegraph) 1973 says Fresh Maggots invited to play Windsor Free Festival with Trilogy & A Band Called George. Their single was called - Car Song/ B: What Would You Do (RCA 2150 1971)  and their album  Fresh Maggots (RCA SF8205 1971). Fresh Maggots, had another band on the go at the same time - a synthi band influenced by Kraftwerk. I can't recall the name of the synth band. I helped them get a gig at the Warwick University Arts festival 1972.

The following Fresh Maggots lyric was contributed to my Communication book by Denis of another Nuneaton band Flood

WHEN SHE LAUGHS.   By FRESH MAGGOTS

When she laughs her face lights up

Face lights up

When she laughs her face lights up

Face lights up

When she laughs the sun and moon

Are put to shame by the brightness of her smile  

Of her smile

And I love her, she’s all mine.

When she laughs she makes life worth while

Life worth while

When she laughs she makes life worth while

Life worth while

When she laughs all my problems swept away

By the brightness of her smile

Of her smile

And I love her she’s all mine.

When I’m sad she makes me laugh

Makes me laugh

When I’m sad she makes me laugh

Makes me laugh

When she laughs all my problems

Are swept away by the brightness of her smile

Of her smile

And I love her, she’s all mine.

Words Mick Burgoyne  /Music Leigh Dolphin (Recorded on RCA)

Titles on Disc 1

1.: Dole Song  2.: Rosemary Hill  3.: Quickie  4.: Everyone's Gone To War  5.: And When She Laughs

6.: Spring  7.: Balloon Song   8.: Guzz Up  9.: Who's To Die  10.: Elizabeth R   11.: Fustration

12.: Car Song (bonus track)    13.: What Would You Do (bonus track)   14.: Fustration (live/bonus track)

15.: Rosemary Hill (live/bonus track)  16.: Quickie (live/bonus track)  17.: And When She Laughs (live/bonus track)

18.: Spring (live/bonus track) Fresh Maggots CD site

FRESH MAGGOTS NOW HAVE A VOX SITE THANKS TO DENNIS BURNS

HEAR SOME OF THESE SONGS HERE

One of my favourite Coventry bands around 1970 was Wandering John.

I knew guitarist John Alderson from childhood, our parents were friends but I went to boarding school and on my return discovered that he'd become an excellent blues guitarist, electric and acoustic - on dobro - and still going strong I note with Tim James. John Gravenor was the charismatic lead singer ( he had a distictive voice in my opinion) and Ade Taylor on bass and Alan the drummer. One of my favourites was a cover of Taj Mahal's Statesbro Blues. (Originally done by Blind Willie McTell). I loved it so much that walking home from a Wandering John concert I wrote a lyric called Middlesbro' Blues - an English version I suppose! I had a sticker from the GEC, where I worked at the time that said Middlesbrough on my song book! I had no idea where Middlesbrough was back then but bloody hell, I ended up doing my degree in Middlesbrough! Should have called it California blues - I might have ended up somewhere more exotic! I lost the lyric long before moving and so can't tell if it was a good description! John Alderson taught me the rudiments of Davy Graham's / Bert Jansch's  Anji and contribute some cartoon character sketches for Hobo (which will appear here somewhere). I hung out with Ade Taylor for a while and he taught me to do barre chords - I practised all night and in the morning could play the Band's version of Dylan's I Shall be Released - replete with barre chords. Another favourite Wandering John song was Image of Ezrawhich Ade had written. He wrote them in my communication book after the group split up. I'd thought there were more lyrics to it than this but they must have been repeated! Pity there are no tapes of Wandering John - as CD or a My Space for them would have been good - although I believe there were some live tapes from the Lanch Polytechnic gig c 1971 - they were to be used for an album before the band split but were considered not clear enough. In this digital age, perhaps they could be enhanced if they still exist!! Coming soon to this blog, an article on Wandering John and a band profile in the band directory section.

IMAGE OF EZRA By Ade Taylor (Bassist of Wandering John / performed by them)

Confusion raised her coloured head

And messed my mind with amber thoughts

I drifted thro’ a purple haze

Where nothing’s found and nothing’s sought.

Chorus

Then I looked into the gilded mirror

Standing there was the Image of Ezra.

NOTE - Ade Taylor e mailed this note for Image of Ezra

"Image Of Ezra"
which I based on a poem written by Dave Sullivan. I have another verse for you and, maybe John G. has another? The song should be credited to Dave, myself and John A. who wrote the music for it! 

John Alderson and John Gravenor had a second band - an acoustic blues outfit called Last Fair Deal ( named after the Robert Johnson song - Last Fair Deal Gone Down). John Alderson played a Dobro, John Gravenor sand and John Westacott of another Coventry group - Whistler - later Zoastra and Urge (late 70's) played harmonica. I'm pleased to see Last Fair Deal is still going in a new form with John Alderson and Tim James (former lead man in the 70's Avant Garde Jazz outfit Ra Ho Tep) - Last Fair Deal

My favourite of theirs was a country blues called -

LOUSIANNA BLUES

(Country Blues song sang by Last Fair Deal C. 1970)

Well I’m goin’ to

Maybe behind the sun.

Well I’m goin’ to

Maybe behind the sun.

I just found out, my trouble just began

Well I’m goin’ to

Give me a mojo hand

Well I’m goin’ to

Give me a mojo hand

I’m gonna teach all dem women

What they don’t understand.

Well if da river was whisky

Da was a divin’ duck

Well if da river was whisky

Da was a divin’ duck

I’d dive to de bottom,

Ah drink my way back up.

That last verse is an example of the The Poetry of the Blues
(Check out this essay by
Francis Newton (AKA Historian Eric Hobsbawm) on my Outlet site.

Johnny Adams

was a songwriter and lead / rhythm guitarist / vocalist who was in a range of bands during the 70's and 80's. Bands include Flying Circus 72 / The Mick Green Blues Band (72) / Eli 73 / Fission (Rock band 73 /4) / Blue Jays (pop band 74) Squad 79 - early 80's was in a band blending 3 cultures - The Panjari, Jamok, Punk Reggae Band. In 1981 Johnny wrote to me in Middlesbrough (my new home) about his experimentation with Asian, punk and reggae music. Though interesting, unfortunately the combination didn't work out for them as his letter says "firstly to tell you the Panjari, Jamok, Punk, Reggae band fell through, not surprisingly with all the different ideas and cultures, didn't work."  His letter  said said he was 'doing freelance for a few Country and club bands, nothing serious. I'm beginning to get involved with this musik called Rock a Billie, I still like punk and reggae and I'm still writing a lot of songs and poems." This gives an idea of his wide musical range. He was, at the time,  considering his next move and going solo was an option also being considered.  Johnny also wrote to me Oct 1980 telling me that Squad had split up, he said "I'm forming a new band with Paul Hesket on Sax (Ex Swinging Cats and session musician with the Specials) - Charley Anderson (ex Selecter)) - Desmond Brown (also Ex- Selecter) and an Asian lady on Vocals" Of Course Johnny was also on Guitar. I'm not clear if this was the the Panjari band or that was another band formed after. Either way by 1981 he was considering other options. I lost contact with Johnny after 1981- my life becoming more centred around getting things going on Teesside. (Note - These bands will be blogged about later here in the forthcoming bands directory). This list isn't exhaustive!

Johnny was a punk before punk! I met him in 72 at one of the band nights at the Lanch Polytech (now Coventry University). He was wild! My friend offered us both lifts home and I had a Spanish guitar with me which I'd borrowed off a friend. She told me to take care of it so I looked askance when Johnny, who was in the back of the car, asked to have a go on it. I figured he'd wreck it! Risking all I let him have a go on it and couldn't believe the music he was playing!  Medieval tinged classical guitar work follwed by gentle self penned ballads like Gipsy Lady (lyrics posted here). Johnny was a showman and extovert on stage but underneath he was a sensitive and quiet bloke with a well accomplished and wide ranging guitar talent. Much to my surprise we became close and creative friends around 72 - 74 period. I was a lyricist learning guitar, he was a guitar player but also with a talent for lyrics. We influenced each other - my guitar playing was stretch to the limit jamming with him - using 3rds and 4ths etc. (as in Blackbird), incorporating unusual chords into the normal GDC sequences to make it fresh, lead styles, power chords, mixing first position chords with barre inversions, little classical and medieval sequences that he often used as intros to his rock numbers and much more. He strove for catchy, accessible tunes but used his classical knowledge to make them fresh and original at the same time. He never gave me lessons as such but I learnt a lot just hanging out with him, travelling around with his bands and playing solo or with their backing at gigs. We'd hang around town with Eko Jumbo acoustic on our backs, playing outside the Dive bar or museum or Cathedral grounds. Making up songs or playing our own. He learnt from my lyrics too. First impressions were right but only a fraction of the truth. Beneath the wild punk, the showman, was a very gentle sensitive soul with a great musical talent. He put music to one of my lyrics - Well I Don't Know -origianlly a blues influenced lyric but his version owed more to Streets of London style finger picking ( a far cry from the Hawkwind style material of Fission! Although redeveloped and arranged for Keyboards by my Teesside band in the 80's Trev and Collective Unconscious, an instrumental  version can be heard on my My Space with the lyrics in the lyric part of the Mp3 player ( The mono recording of Johnny singing the original version has been lost unfortunately and the new version has an added Bridge) - Trev and the Collective Unconscious

Johnny later played with Squad

- I think after Terry Hall had left and was featured on the Sent From Coventry c 1979  with a song about a Flasher!! Punk was made for him!  Here are some of his early lyrics from the time we were mates.

GIPSY LADY

On a country road, roams a gipsy

Following the stars, she looks so happy

Gipsy princess, can you see her

She’s the wind that howls..hear her murmur

Gipsy lady, you’re my angel

Just words won’t ever describe you

Gipsy lady, be my sunshine

Be my joy…will you be mine.

I’m so tired, till I see you

You’re my coloured star..where you going to.

Be my thunder, be my lightening

Be my queen.. my silver lining

Gipsy lady, talk to me

Gipsy lady , talk to me.

Johnny Adams 1972

HANGMAN’S GONE  - Johnny Adams Jan 72

The hangman’s gone to hang another man

The hangman’s gone, there’s another man to hang.

The hangman’s gone to the black of night

The hangman’s gone, two wrongs don’t make a right.

Chorus

The hangman’s gone yes the hangman’s gone

The hangman’s gone, yes the hangman’s gone

A son was born, a man was hanged

Thou shalt not kill, is man damned.

The hangman’s gone to the black of night

The hangman’s gone, two wrongs don’t make a right.

But you must realise something’s got to be done

Something’s got to end this inhumanity.

..................

HIDDEN NIGHTMARES

Hidden nightmares

Sword of darkness

Thrust upon me

Like a howling wind.

Rain of blood

Falls at my feet

Like a pool

Of wasted teardrops.

Trees of fire

Burning fiercely

My mind is jumbled

Like a twisted tree trunk.

I’ve left my soul behind me

In a cloud of dust

Making pretty pictures

Of ornaments.

Johnny Adams.

In 1972 I was invited to play at various Streetpress mixed media gigs in Birmingham - Moseley and in New Street. Me and my acoustic guitar. On two occasions I took some of Fission  on jaunt around Birmingham, meeting my friends there and backing me. Johnny Adams on lead acoustic, Anthony on Bongos. Local poets, songwriters were on alongside names like Graham Bond. Johny wrote a humourous song about one of the gigs, adapting a Yorkshire accent! Ant and myself threw in a few lines! it was nothing serious though!

JOHNNY’S MYSTERY TOUR (1972)

Tu found my way

Tu Birmingham station

I got off train alright

Got chucked outa-coffee bar

Told tu go on way.

Tu sun was shining

It was a lovely day

Got chucked of a bus

Got told to piddle on way.

Tu stood standing

In chippy bar

Eating ma pasty and chips

Took devouring glance at pooch

Tu left chippy

And went tu Bulls head

Tu what cider they serve

T trever fell flat on arse

Sitting in the Bull

Wanting chocky bar

When Tony said

Tu ‘backy shop ent far.

Tu sitting in the Bull

Going nowhere

Waiting for the lad

Tu finish booze

Tu Tony bongo-ing away

While Tu sweet play on Jux

Tu people yapping away

Supping away their blues

Count tu money

10 and half P for ash sticks

24p left

Now find way tu door

On way now

Tu have play on banjo.

By Johnny Adams + Ant and Trev.

Below are the lyrics to a song I wrote with Johnny Adams. The original lyric was written in 1970, walking home from the GEC where I worked also alongside Pete Waterman and Bill Campbell ( bassist of Coconut Mat / The Eggy). I was reading Paul Oliver's Story of the Blues

at the time and the lyric was a kind of blues influenced thing. In 73 Johnny took the lyric and and wrote and played some music to it. It was fingerpicked number, a little influenced by Ralph McTell's guitar style on Streets of London. It completely changed the feel of it but I loved Johnny's music to it. In 1986, in Middlesbrough, I redeveloped the song with my keyboard band - Trev and the Collective Unconscious.  Although main chords were based on Johnny's version, I added a bridge and partly updated the lyrics. I used to have a version by Johnny on tape but the tape's been lost along the way. (I may have my own version osmewhere that might be good enough to upload at some stage. Here, on my MY SPACE Trev and the Collective Unconsciousis the 1986 keyboard instrumental version can be heard, developed with Steve Gillgallon and Steve Ingledew and which we recorded on a Fostex 4 track Portastudio.

WELL I DON’T KNOW

I don’t know

I got no stone to throw

Well  I don’t know

I Got no ball to catch.

My friend the sun

Fled to

Oh please come back

And dawn on me.

Oh I don’t know

Perhaps I’ll leave here

Perhaps I’ll go

Far far away –ay.

I don’t know

My soul’s a star

Trapped in a jar

It just seems so far –

(Bridge)

The road is calling but I

Can’t go on

This restless feeling is calling

Me on and on

The lake she sings to me

Says I have no fish to give.

The tree he watches me

With no place to live.

Well I don’t know

I got no way to lose

All I possess

Is the blues.

Well I don’t know

I’m on my own now

I’m so alone now

Along way from home.

(Bridge)

The road is calling but I

Can’t go on

This restless feeling is calling

Me on and on

The lake she sings to me

Says I have no fish to give.

The tree he watches me

With no place to live.

I don’t know

Guess I’ll write a song

Well I don’t know

It all seems so wrong.

Lyrics by Trev Teasdel 1970

 

CONNECTIONS

by Trev Teasdel 1972.  I was round at Johnny's bedsit in Stoke Heath when I wrote this. John was writing a song and I wrote this about the creative process of looking for connections and inspirations. People used to write young people off but it was a very creative period

From a ceiling rose; musty with age

Hanging limp – earrings of dust,

Clinging from a bent burnt flex

Leading to a cracked-brittle lamp holder, holding

Secure a lifeless light bulb; waiting for connection.

I can see this quite clearly from the untidy chair

On which I’m sitting writing this.

John is sitting on the other untidy chair

In his Stoke Heath attic bedsit,

Trying to write a song on his Eko-Jumbo

Guitar, but his words keep tripping over

His melody line, but he’s waiting, playing

Patiently for the right connection.

I can hear this quite plainly from

The untidy chair on which I’m sitting.

On this untidy chair, on a unswept floor

With drawn-back curtains and spying landlady,

I am writing this like “A hungry husband eats a meal

with ‘man appeal’ “. Leaning on Leonard Cohen’s

Favourite Game; but the words may be as useful as                               

A burnt pea, but I’m writing, waiting, waiting for the right connection.

I can feel this quite fiercely from the

Untidy chair on which I’m sitting.

Upon the stereo unit

Balanced finely upon the deck

Sits an album of Pink Floyd music.

The stylus lies perched upon its rest

Like an unmated hen bird, the needle

Gloved in fluff – protected from

The piercing cold felt by the cawing

Jackdaw outside the window of this

Tiny room. Trailing from the unit

Is a lead, twisting and trailing to the socket

Where a plug lurks waiting, waiting for connection

As I watch from this untidy chair

In which I sit writing this.

Later in 1980, Johnny sent me another song lyric he'd written (I'd just moved to Middlesbrough at the time)

Solidier

Step in line, better be on time

No deserters

Disciplined to use your own mind

The Sargeant keeps you all in line.

The light brigade, school boy game

Winston Churchill's on his horse again

Grenadier, you can't hear

'cause you're dead on the battlefield

You're a soldier.

Dead heros lie in their graves

Telling us the world's been saved

The paper's say the boys are brave

No one else could do the same

By Johnny Adams, Coventry 1980

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Joe Reynolds was the saxophonist and songwriter of the Coventry band Willow c 1973 /4. The band advertised in HOBO. Joe was in various other bands along the way that may surface in the band directory yet to come to this blog. Joe later recorded, I think, at Horizon studios and played on some early Two Tone tracks (Selecter I think). In 1973 Joe contributed some of his poems for my Communications books. Here are the poems -

FOR DAYLIGHT ONLY

Reflected spectrum on dew damp pane

Technicolour morning

Wisp away the sandman’s dust

Spraying wind to chill my face

Squealing seagulls whip the sky

Fingering foam claws the beach

Over the rock pool rapids.

lightening lizards

Moss covered rock wall walks

Spitting forks the bluebottle’s death

Sleepy venom adder

King of the anthill.

Red flamed circle kissed the crest

Rippling arrowheads across the waves

Captured second forgotten dusk

From the reaching cliffs echo

Cricket singing serenade the night

Tomorrow’s dawn will wake you

..............................

TRUTH

Behind the spot light

That shows

What’s for us

I find after looking, my truths    

Folding themselves up

To look small

And hiding behind each other

And towards the sides

Of that light

The countless confusions

Struggling to find themselves

Through the mist

That limps above them.

..............................

PROSTITUTE

Through the alleys,

Night lights

Strike the slabs

And pierce the road

She walks ever watchful,

Dreaming

Of her non existing love

As profit

Rings the strings of her heart

Guilt and pride

Beneath her powder

Asking for her wage

Her mind all ablaze with dreams

As home she takes him

Pretence of not caring

Parrot fashion so straight

And upstairs

Her room

Nakedness in routine

That he must not see

A powder tear

As all her dreams

Of silk and bells

And old friends drive her forward.

And he unsuspecting

He mustn't’t know

As her cheeks tighten

As her fingers try to relax

In fear she holds her throat

With a rock

And smiles

As he dresses

His clumsy pants

She laughs so loud

He runs leaving his underwear

Behind

She picks it up

Still laughter.

A wardrobe full

Of past experience

And tears

If only one would stay

Could anyone ever come back

Or are they all married

Twisting

Her tears unfold

But listeners are as rare

As a unicorns horn

And who cares anyway

It’s her own stupid fault.

Around 1972, during the day time, writers, poets met up in city centre cafes like the Kongoni - Dave 'Byron' Reed often held court. Another place was the Lyons bar (in the post war pre-fabricated shops opposite Lady Godiva - this is now long-gone and the Wimpy bar - in the mock Tudor building by the steps to Trinity Church. (Not sure what it is

now!). Often I'd meet Scon (Steve Connelly) in the Wimpy bar and often we would write something each in the cafe and read it to the waiteresses or anyone likely to listen and some of the pieces made it into my Communication Books - ie A4 note books which I carried around in order to get contributions of creative writing, thoughts and graphics  from all the creative people I met on my wanders. One day, inspired by all the interesting names of dishes on the Wimpy Bar menu Scon came up with a couple of poems called Wimpying Blues! They were mainly a bit of fun!

Below are those  poems / lyrics and some some cuttings - Scon was one of the first in Cov to have his hair tinted as you will see from the cuttings below (1973).

WIMPYING BLUES – Scon

Listening to the

Hissin’, husslin’, howling wind,

I sank back in my chair

And read the Wimpy bar menu.

(on the recommendation of a friend)  

and fell back into a world

of butterscotch bonanzas

Wild honey bread rolls

(with butter of course)

Glorious knickerbockers

And specialy grilled cathedrals

And Polynesians given a roastin’

Bender brunches floatin’ away

Onbanana longboats

Which eventually sank

In the strawberry flacoured thick shake.

But coming down with a bump

As I sipped the last filthy dregs

Of that foul brew which they call tea,

I noticed the small print

“The management reserve the right

to make a 10p minimum charge per person” 

and I was in the forbidden hours

of 12am to 2 pm.

WIMPYING BLUES 2

(Concerning the music)

To listen is to hear

To hear

Is to consume

Similar to wot is done to

Wimpy bar food

Which Is consumed

(believe it or not)

and those unbelievable 

sounds of how

‘I did it My Way’               

slowly drift across

the atmosphere

and weird trumpets

producing ‘This Guy’s in Love with You’

dear

seem to take their toll

of unbelievers who sneer

at this moving experience.

So let yourself float away    

On Wimpy sounds

Let your mind be thrilled

By the rhythms of Downtown

(where all the Wimpy’s are)

and de music’s all so blue

it brings me to tears

and it brings all my fears to a head.

But even if you don’t dig it,

A wimpy wouldn’t be a Wimpy

Without music. 

                                                                                         

WHITE MAN’S BLUES

Well I can’t sing de blues

Well I can’t sing de blues baby

You know ‘cause I’m too blue

I walk across de street

See a man beggin’ at my feet

I wanna give him some money

But I haven’t got a penny

I walk into the shop

Wanna buy something

But I ain’t got nothing

I spent hours over a cup of tea

Thinkin’ my baby; she don’t love me

So I sing a song

‘bout Vietnam, Bangladesh,

Northern Ireland, Israel

And British lies

and hate

Russian oppression

Chinese degradation

Black panthers

Klu Klux Klan

Yippies

And hippies

Freebies

And greebies

And everything’s too late

So my song’s one of hate

Well baby de blues ain’t to be sung

De blues are to be forgotten.

When my pen runs out

These will slowly come

To a halt.

When my mind runs out

They’ll never start again.

I first came across Big Geoff through the Coventry alternative magazine The Broadgate Gnome c 1970/ 71.  The Dustman's Blues (below) was published in the Broadgate Gnome. Later Geoff contributed a wad of poems to HOBO in 1973. A couple of short poems appeared in Hobo. Here's a small selection of Geoff's works from 1970.

DUSTMAN’S BLUES

(Or a Refuse Collector’s Tale of Woe)

Get in for

Half-past seven

Any later

You get sent

Back home

Give your name to the bloke

Then hop on the wagon

You’re off for a

Knackering time.

Grab hold of the handle

With your left hand

And heave the bin on to

Your right shoulder

Watch how you go

Off to the wagon

Empty the shot

Then put the bin back.

Eight and one half hours

You’re doing that

Well you are according to your time sheet

But in actual fact

You like a half hour for tea

In the morning

A whole hour for lunch

Instead of half

Then knock off

An hour before

You’re supposed to

Collecting a ten shilling tip

On the way.

At the end of the week

You gets your thirteen quid

If you’re lucky

But you gotta watch your step

Or they grab you by the neck

And throw you with the litter

In the gutter.

All in all

It’s not so bad

It’s a real gas at times

But like I said

Just watch your step

Or your Dustman’s blues

Are over.

1970

I reached the bottom before I reached the top – Big Geoff. (published in Hobo No2)

Dark grey

Dusty day

Mournful

Morning

Against

Afternoon

Evening

Even

Worse than

Morning

Sorrow

Spreads

Her wings

Around us

Happiness

Has flown

To a distant

Day

Long ago

Leaving us all

In this

1970 Big Geoff

In this poem Geoff identifies 'the other woman' - usually a car or a computer but in this case a spanner and working class sexism!

FOR MIDDLE-AGED MARRIED MECHANICS EVERYWHERE

I love a spanner

All shining and new

Chromium plated

Double ended too

A half-inch hexagonal

Socket at one end

Three quarter inch

Square

Everynight

I polish her

And replace her in her box

As the other ‘tool’ in the corner

Is quietly darning my socks.

............

Interesting that Geoff says in the poem that he wants his words set to a reggae beat. This was written in Coventry 6 years before Bob Marley and 9 years before Two Tone. However there was a Ska scene in Cov in the late 60's / early 70's.

Sitting in an armchair

Fingers on my chin

Looking at the ceiling

The lightbaulb wears a grin

People all around are smiling

Wondering why and where

Maybe also wondering

How and who.

But I don’t care

As the room is all bare

And the candle flickers

In the corner

And I’m writing this

For the sake of it

As I realise

It doesn’t make sense

So I’d better finish

But then again

How would it go,

To a reggae beat?

..................................

I look down on the rich man

Who hides his money away

There are those who’d gladly take it.

But others who’d give in return

Their withered hands

For sowing seeds,

For operating the factory machines

To help make the turnover better

For a meagre amount of pay

Do you wonder that they sit around

Waiting for a better day

While you’re sitting to your Sunday lunch

Of roast chicken veg and all

While they sit out on the roadside

Wondering where they’ll get

Their next meal

Will it be round some warm fireside

Or fish and chips out on the road

They may say they don’t want your money

But a portion of it they do

To set up somewhere for them to stay

And to sow the seeds towards

Their better day.

They don’t want the worry behind yur wealth

Just enough to survive

Till they’re over sixty five

Till the time they can wonder if they were

Glad to be alive

Or if they wish life had ended

When work began.

1970

THE THREE SPIRES OF COVENTRY

By Edith Wilkinson

Three slender spires pointing to the heavens 

Their feet set firm through many a century.

A Trinity, like fingers raised in Benediction.

Shaped by craftsmen of old .

Yet still they stand through storms and wars and conflict.

A sign for anyone who cares to see.

As the spires shall stand triumphant,

The spirit of old shall evermore be free.

They stand as they have stood for generations

Traders, kinsfolk, gathered in their homes.

Nestling at their feet with timbered walls

And overhanging gables that stood the test

Of time’s decaying hand.

Standing quietly from day to day, the years

Gently ebbing and flowing until they passed away.

Yet still they stand, these monuments of ancient

Craftsmanship, until the twentieth century.

In their full glory stood. Day followed day,

Life was full and prosperous, this city of a

Dozen trades, made fair.

Good people went about their chosen business,

Prosperity and security was in the air.

Till ‘war’ with one word, that went around

The world; Exploded; “Coventrated”, wiped out

All the splendid schemes, left the ruins of the

City, ashes, with three spires, still standing.

To remind them of their dreams.

Erect and pointing proudly, through flames

And smoke, as though defying still, the evil yoke.

The folk braved the German blitzkriegs

And saw their ancient city razed to the dust.

Made way through the rubble of their homesteads

Queued for hours, for water and for bread.

They grieved, when flames ravaged their fair

City and hundreds perished, as the planes roared

Overhead: They kept heart and spirit of old .

The city, from ashes, newly risen,

Now proudly left.

Three slender spires, trademark of the city

Though stones may perish through the years to be.

The story of this city, that rose again from the ashes

Will be written on the pages of our history.

All look to a brighter future, brave hopes

And gentle charity; The message rising from

The spires of , may keep us all

In Christian unity.

Although this is not a poem submitted to HOBO, my attention was drawn to a pamphlet of poems by Edith Wilkinson called BRIGHT FLAME – who died on . It was published posthumously by her daughters – Diane, Christine and Lynda c 1968. Some of the poems were very inspirational I thought.  I would think there would be a copy in Coventry Central Library if anybody is intersted in it.

Ian Gage was a young man of 15 when he contributed these poems for Hobo c 1973/4. As Hobo came out infrequently owing to problems financing it, they were never published in Hobo, although it was intended to chose some for publication. Ian's family moved to Birmingham and, I think, he became a teacher, like his sisters Chris and Jan who were part of the creative scene in Coventry in the early 70's.  This early work was in part influenced by Marc Bolan - his fave group at the time.

HONESTY LOVE and YOU

Honesty is a concept,

And we use it to condemn each other.

It is an opinion

Just as right and wrong.

Love is a goal

Which sometimes gives peace.

It is expendable

As everything else.

You are my friend

But it’s only society that’s thrown us together

We could’ve both been

Quite different.

..............

For an oak tree you have       

         

The princely stance of a guardian,

As if in your silence, you

Guard the door to the house

Of light.

Endless pages I see tortured,

By the pen of thoughts.

Unfounded theories, which,

Though kind, cannot break

Through my brain.

Yet in your wooded suit,

Surrounded by friends and visited

By timeless magicians of skies,

No books can lead me through

The storm, as you,

Unto the presence of the holy man.

..................

O God,
so greatly garrisoned

By your guardians the stars.

You live hermitically hidden

So eoen  Thomas, one of the

Learned, could not see you

As you are.

You are far

As a mountain,

O God

Who can climb your mind

And look down, lovingly

On it all?

Like a lake is your heart

O but you are an ocean,

How can I drink you all,

To stop my drowning

.................

I planted a root,

Her barren soil arose
And fled.

.....................

I wear a ring, which holds my hand,

Comforting and clasping maternally.

It carries zodiacs and tales of ancient

Myth, attracting faces wherever

It guides me.

It’s a companion, that was lost

For such a time, and now

I can hold it in my arms and love it

Or let it roll.

My ring is a pride, a descendant

From the apple tree

A giver of patience and sight

Into all hearts a guiding light,

It tempts me

And I with bleary eyes pursue.

............................

IN THE SKIES OF YOUR EYES

I never hurt you,

But because I’m like me….

Don’t conceive, it’s sadly blind, an injured mind

Like the wind my heart is here to find

Your friendly soul, O that you would

Give it all you could to reach me.

And I’d teach you how to lay

With the clouds, above our guilty shrouds.

O your worry, I see it all a lie

As we dovelyfly through the woods

Of your stormy past

Now explained away by my dictionary tongue.

I lead yu through a path

Of your long and winding mind

They call it peace to find.

And I found it in the skies

Or your eyes, cavern-hearted.