Peter Green of Fleetwood Mac and me.

In the 1960's I had a flat on Fulham Road just before Stanley Bridge. Two doors away was a pub called The Black Bull, and opposite was a teacher training college run by Franciscan Friars, called The College of St Mark and St John.  Above the Black Bull was a large room that bands used as a rehearsal room. One such band was Fleetwood Mack. Each evening in the Bull I spent time playing darts and trying very hard to like London Beer. When bands were rehearsing we could hear the boom of the bass and the time set by the drummer. A bass player called Bob Brunning was training at the college and also playing in Fleetwood Mac until John Mcvee joined from John Mayall. Pubs being pubs we became friends and stayed so until his death. However, as Fleetwood Mac became more famous Bob turned to teaching and as headmaster played his bass at school assembly.  He eventually  set up home with Elspeth his first wife in Battersea. The street was called Bullen Street. So far so ordinary. But he hadn't given up playing the blues. With pianist Bob Hall he formed a band called The Sunflower Blues Band. One recording session at Phillips Recording Studios at Marble Arch he asked me along to take some photos. He had a guest playing lead guitar on some tracks. I took photos and this guitarist, disguised as a hobo played some stunning blues. I asked who he was, "His name is Peter Blue." said Bob. "He's a gravedigger."
The record was released as Bullen Street Blues. Only Bob could get Peter Green out of hiding at that time. I am reminded of this because Peter Green has just died, a great loss to music. Some say Clapton is Britain's greatest guitarist, he might be now that Peter Green has died.

Chris Kenningly clarinet and unconvicted

Okay Chris as you asked, a blog mentioning you. Chris kenningley come to Leeds College of Art as a callow youth, with dark good looks and one talent. Not his drawing skills, we all had them, nor the fact that he had escaped the mining village of South Emsal, with his lungs still intact, but that he could play the clarinet. As Martin Fox, the best trad jazz clarinet player in the whole of the North of England, had been nearly wiped out at the FForde Grene traffic lights in Harehills by a drunk lorry driver, Chris was dragged reluctantly into the The Ed O'Donnel jazz band. Ed gave him some King Oliver records to listen to and expected him to learn all the licks in a week to play at the Friday night rave at Woodhouse Moor working men's club. I was there selling condoms at 3 shillings for 3, to pay my way through the week. Much to everybody's surprise Chris got through 6 numbers, and became a regular fixture. After that he was enrolled in the Leeds Jazz society and deped in all the jazz bands in the area. One night coming going to a gig in Sheffield the car passed through Hoyland Common, and Chris after 10 pint of Tetley's was in need of a piss. So rather than stop the bus he peed out of the window, or that was what Herbert Hooley of high Hoyland reported to the police. In actual fact the lads were larking about with water pistols playing at Candid Camera stunts and Herbert claimed the pee had ruined his new tie. At Barnsley Magistrates Court Chris protested his innocence and was let off much to the chagrin of the rest of the band who were fined. The press got hold of the story and it became front page news in all the tabloids. He went on to playing the sax and trying to make a name for himself in London, but the Leeds Music Mafia kept him at bay for full stardom. However not that many players can say they were complimented by Rose Hayes, Tubby's wife, in the Meridian Hotel in Nice, for their playing. As Tubby is one of my hero's this alone puts Chris in my hall of fame.
We were in Nice for the Nice Jazz Festival, we had both managed to get hold of press passes and spent most of our time between the murguez stall and back stage, or in the well in front of the stage reserved for  press photographers. Stan Getz did a 2 hour set with just a piano player and Chris and I stood in the wings two arms lengths away in such awe of his talent that we didn't take a photo of the performance although we both had cameras. We just forgot. Such is the power of the master of the West Coast Scene. Rose Hayes knew Getz from Tubbie's friendship with him, and introduced me to him, I was tongue tied but managed to quiz him on his set up. I could see he had a Selmer mark VI tenor and a rubber mouth piece. He said as he was getting old and had cancer so he preferred a set up that was an easy blow. Here it is.
An Otto Link 5* rubber with a 2.5 reed.  Now you know.

MIKE OSBORN BOOK DESIGNER

I came down to London from Leeds a freshly minted Graphic Designer in 1964. I had £50 in my pocket and an ambition to set the town alight with my talent. The aim was to eak out this sum until I had only the bus fare back to Yorkshire remaining and rethink my ambition, not to help run Bill Cropper's transport business. It took 2 weeks to go through the money and I was down to my last pound plus the bus ticket back. So I did what any other self respecting budding genius would I do. I walked into my favourite pub in the west end and bought a pint. The Dover Castle in Weymouth Mews near Harley Street was run by an ex debutant who had a terribly disfigured face from a car crash as a young thing. I had with me my large black portfolio containing my work. The guy behind the bar was my age and friendly and we got chatting. He asked me what was in the folio and was I an art student. I revealed to him my story and why I was in London. He said, "Let's have a look at the work, come into the back bar and open it up on the table." He silently turned the pages looking intently. He asked when I was returning to Yorkshire. "Well I've just spent my bus fare so I will be hitching a ride when I leave here." 'Tell you what." he said, "stay at my place tonight and tomorrow come into work with me." "What here in the pub?' "No to Waterlows the printers, we need another designer, I'll introduce you to my boss, and then you will work next to me, you can cast off* can't you?" I nodded.
"Ok that's settled I finish in a minute, and then we can have a drink. My names, Mike by the way."
Mike Osborn lived in Harley Mews above a garage, with his parents and two sisters and another stray designer who he had befriended and was courting his elder sister. They all squeezed into an area no bigger than the garage itself. Now me. His Mum and Dad, Gene and Stan, sisters Carol and Mary, Gary Brocklehurst and Mary's boyfriend John Daws and me stayed in the Dover Castle until closing time then we all went back to Harley Mews for sandwiches and pickles. I slept on the floor between the wall and the bunk beds which Mike and Gary were in. I had found a London family, it was like evacuation in reverse. I got the job by the way. £9 per week. I was reminded of all this yesterday when a belated Christmas card arrived from him and Eve. I had to laugh, Mike was notoriously forgetful and always tardy and lax with deadlines, waiting until the eleventh hour to present his work. If you are a paperback thriller fan you have probably handled one of his book covers. Thanks Mike I owe you.
* CASTING OFF. Choosing a type face and point size, for a piece of copy, typed or otherwise, and make it fit into a specific area.

Nick Ewart RIP

It was not on the cards that I would outlive my oldest friend with my dicky ticker. At the age of 17 Nick lived on peanut butter sarnies laced with marmalade, and when he could afford it, Tetley's mild ale. He smoked Woodbines but craved Sobrani No. 6. He lived with his Mother a, sales person at Scofields in Leeds, at the top of North Lane in Roundhay., in a private 2 bedroomed flat, just a ten minute walk from my council house. Of an evening he would turn up to raid the sack of potatoes that stood in our porch, having spent the money his mother had given him for the purchase of the same, for cigs. In those days he was as thin as a lat and perfected the Pink Panther walk that all tall boys assumed before filling out. His wit was infectious and pulled the birds. Included in his conquest were Marilyn George, a stunning long legged blond, my sister Denise, Fiona Tidswell, and Teresa Tyrell, probably all at the same time. Nick myself Denise and Fiona made up a foursome for evenings of laughter and no sex. I don't want to delve into his finances, as he still owes me money from those days, yet he managed to buy a Vespa scooter, and then a Morris Minor convertible. I don't know what he had in his trousers but he still creates rage at the mention of his name, from two of his ex girlfriends partners.
Nick was 6 ft something and I was 5'4", 5'6" in cowboy boots. Because we were art students and dressed differently and had longish hair, we were always the intended victims of the local student bashers. but we had a plan. I would climb onto Nicks shoulders and he would run us out of the  room with me bashing anyone in our way from a great height. I think the surprise element rather than my flailing limbs got us home safe with only minor injuries. One of the venues in which this tactic was used was The Kirkstall Arms,  the venue of Martin Bollands jazz band. To get there we had to drive down Kirstall Hill in my Austin 7 Ruby, which was painted bright yellow. As most of the cars in those days came in black only, it stood out like a pork sausage in a bakery. The wags in the back Nick, Brian Herbert and Jammy Douglas, found out that they could steer it by leaning to the left or to the right, because their weight lifted the front wheels off the road. Rick Brown in the passenger seat would be leaning too, but in his perverse way, in the other direction. So the journey to Kirkstall was a fight in itself. I meanwhile was praying that the lights at the bottom would be green, because it was impossible to stop with the weight of 5 bodies in the car and only cable brakes. As we careered across Kirkstall Road I would be frantically shouting left, then right to avoid a collision, with smoke coming from the brake pads and the smell of burning oil,  we somehow survived.
Alas Nick and Brian are dead, and Jammy who became dancing Dave, might be still with us. As for Rick, he's probably morphed into Darth Varder

Nick Ewart and the sport of gas pipe clay shooting

I first met Nick Ewart, when he turned up at my house to courte my sister. I was still in the 6th form at school, but worked for my father as a driver as well. This of course affected my school work, and I was desperate to change tack from the daily grind of maths physics and chemistry. I had opted out from games and used to sit on the school flat roof, above Leeds, drawing. Nick was already at Leeds College of Art, and said why didn't I just come to the college and join in. They could only throw me out. I became Steve Crow, The real Steve Crow spent all his time in the snooker club behind Leeds City Varieties, and was at the point of being thrown out of college. So I became him. I amassed a great volume of work, Leeds College of Art "black drawings," pottery, lettering. I could use the lathe which I had mastered at school, so I was really happy there.
 Obviously my school attendance was light. I couldn't opt out of anything else. Assembly was off as I already didn't go, I said I was Jewish, and refused to sing hymns. Eventually I was called into the headmasters office, and given a lecture on how I was only fit to be a fitter in an Engine works, and I should get my hair cut. My mother never made me get my hair cut and accompanied me to the interview. At the end of his advice my  mother, all 5 foot of her, stood over him and said, "Headmaster my son is made for better things than a fitter, and as for the hair you are as bald as a coot, why not let him enjoy his whilst he has it?' So I applied for Art College under my own name. Term time had already started but they granted me an interview, as they were short on numbers. During the interview, it was stated that I looked familiar, I said yes you will have seen me as I go the the school next door and have friends at the college, so I am sometimes in the building. I applied to be a product designer, and with my Science O Levels was accepted to do that. Once in, I was free to choose any course. I chose graphics but with hind site I would probably have made a better product designer.
I'm sure the Principal realised who I was, or in fact wasn't, He had suspended me from the College, a month before, for participating in blowing clay* from a first floor windows at the Architectural students, using half inch gas pipes. Me Nick and Trevor Varley were the culprits, but as I wasn't a student, I took the blame, they couldn't suspend me as I shouldn't have been there anyway, but I was barred from the building. Fortunately for the interview I had grown my hair and started a moustache, but I'm sure he knew. The reason could be, as I found out later, that every one in the College disliked the Architects, as they were all from monied backgrounds and had flash cars, as opposed to most in the C.of A who lived on crusts and a penny worth of jam from the canteen in order to afford a pint.
Nick was 2 years above me, and had joined at 16 straight from school. However he was 2 years younger than me, so it seemed to work and we became best mates. He left, with no qualifications, for London, and became a top packaging designer. Talent will out, proving that if you are good enough you don't need any letters behind your name.
* For those who wish to take up the sport, this is how it is done.
Take 3ft of 1/2inch metal gas piping. Run water through it to make the inside slippery.
Put a wad of very wet modelling clay in to the mouth end of the pipe. lean out of the window and blow, like using a blow pipe. It is remarkable how far it goes, and it ends with a very satisfying splot.

PIZZA EXPESS FULHAM ROAD

In 1968 A Pizza Express opened on the Fulham Road. The walls were an Op Art extravaganza painted by  Enzo Apicella. On the Saturday of the opening week a party of us decided to give it a try. Sandy, Michael Abrahams, (my cousin) Rick Browne and myself, were in the vanguard. Our first pizzas arrived at 12.30pm. During the course of the day most of our friends and trendies from the Kings Road, came, ate, and went.  A lot of photographers with models in tow were amongst them.  All the girl models were dressed to kill and braless. By 10pm we were into our 3rd pizza and 8th bottle of red biddy. Sandy eventually got fed up with our commenting on the braless girls, stood up removed her bra, threw it across the room and never wore one again until she was 50.So the pizza not only started a food revolution, but a breast revolution as well.

Jammy Douglas, alias Dancing Dave

LEEDS CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL, my Alma Mata, was situated on Gt. George Street, next to Leeds College of Art. The Mecca Locano Dance Hall in Leeds was in the County Arcade, now part of The Victorian Quarter and a stones throw from school. It had a lunch time disco session, entrance a sixpence, the price of a bag of chips with a fishcake. Me and Jammy Douglas, would bunk out of school and jive the hour away. School cap and tie removed and hair duck tailed with Brylcream. Jammy was a superb dancer, taught by his big sister, a Ballroom Competitor. I took my steps from him, and became an expert in the 'Jive.' The trick was to step in on two girls dancing together. When the girl taking the girl part twirled around Jammy would catch her out held hand and I would step in and take her place. if we were lucky these two girls would be our partners for the whole session. No words were exchanged just dance steps. When the session was over we would return to school sweaty but ready for double Maths. Jammy eventually became known as Dancing Dave, among our set. Incidentally Jammy got his name, not from being lucky, although after his naming luck came his way, but from an English lesson in 2A. We were reading Prester John by John Buchan, and someone, was asked to read aloud a passage from it. In this passage was a character named Jamie Douglas, which he mis pronounced as Jammy. Henceforth Dave became Jammy.