Famous bands' first
guitarists: there’s possibly a book to be written there. You know: the ones
that either left, lost their marbles or turned up at the studio to find that
their gear was in a skip outside with no explanation (only to get a phone call
from a roadie two months later) etc. etc.
From The Yardbirds
onwards (Eric Clapton making way for the superior Jeff Beck) the ‘60s and ‘70s
are littered with examples of groups who lost founding axe men only to finally
make it big. Pink Floyd, of course, had Syd Barrett who, at least, had a few
months working WITH his replacement, David (don’t call me ‘Dave’) Gilmour
before he was ousted; The Moody Blues lost future Wings member, Denny Laine,
but ended up with Justin Hayward (un)luckily for them; Thin Lizzy’s Eric Bell
drank himself out of a job, only to find that his replacement of TWO guitarists
would lead the Irish rockers to world domination; Jethro Tull replaced Mick
Abrahams with Martin Barre; Genesis parted ways with Anthony Phillips due to
his stage fright (which almost split the band up) before they opted for Steve
Hackett; and Yes ejected Pete Banks after a brief power struggle (and a
disagreement about the use of an orchestra on their second album, Time and a Word), meaning that they could employ boring old perfectionist, Steve
Howe.
Which brings me to the
subject of this episode of Lousy Song, Great Solo: David ‘Davy’ O’List, who had
the honour of being in TWO bands who went on to greater things after he left them: The Nice and Roxy
Music. The poor guy must have felt cursed.
Born in Barnet, and
rising to prominence in London’s swinging sixties scene in a third rate bunch
of psychedelic chancers known as The Attack (whose biggest claim to fame was
that they recorded ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ a few days before Jeff Beck), he was
nonetheless a gritty, suitably far-out guitarist who (not unlike Pete Banks in
Yes) actually managed that most difficult of tricks: having a truly distinctive
sound. Unfortunately (again, as with Banks) the ability to play is rarely
enough when you’re in a band with some other erm… strong personalities. Fate was ultimately not kind to these men.
O’List was recruited to
join the ensemble that had initially been put together as P.P. Arnold’s backing
band by Immediate label boss, and industry manager/provocateur, Andrew Loog Oldham, The Nice. Of course the band already had one show-off in their ranks in
the shape of organ-mutilator, Keith Emerson. However at this stage Emerson’s
legendary stage high-jinks were tempered by a deft touch on the B3 which owed a
lot to his jazz heroes (Jimmy Smith etc.). He had yet to meet Bob Moog and
unleash the full force of progressive rock on an unsuspecting public. But along
with the powerful and sprightly rhythm section of Brian Davison (drums) and Lee
Jackson (bass and gruff vocalisation) The Nice were, in truth, true pioneers.
Their sound was both muscular and psychedelic, matching sonic experimentation
with classical chops and the ability to stretch out arrangements live. Add to
this Emerson’s exhibitionism, such as his tendency to stab his Hammond organ
with a Hitler Youth dagger (given to him by their roadie at the time, Lemmy
Kilminster), and the band were all set to become one of THE bands to watch in
the Summer of Love.
Equally adept at mauling
respectable stuff by Bernstein (‘America’) or Bach (ahem… ‘Brandenburger’) as
well as writing their own freak-friendly numbers, The Nice looked set for big
things. But this was 1967 and show business had yet to understand how to handle
or present such wild stuff. It’s here that O’List’s story not only crosses
paths with Syd Barrett, but even comes to mirror it. The band were booked on a
‘package’ tour with what now seems like a dream ticket for anyone interested in
the period. Stuffed low down on a bill that included The Jimi Hendrix
Experience, The Move, Pink Floyd and Amen Corner, time constraints meant that
each act played short sets which veered wildly in content and barely allowed
for the full force of their stage craft. Remember, this was famously the period
of misguided ‘commercialisation’ which was leading Syd Barrett to rapidly
unravel. With a hit (‘See Emily Play’) on their hands and faced with screaming
teenagers, such a tour didn’t sit well with the Floyd (or indeed many of these
acts who were trying to break free of their ‘pop’ shackles in search of
something loftier and more exploratory). Syd became more and more unreliable as
the tour trundled on.
It’s interesting to note
that Syd’s legendary instability actually led to O’List being drafted in at the
last minute to sit in for the missing Madcap at a few shows. By all accounts he
was more than up to the task. And yet, less than a year later, the strains of
competing with an ego as large as Emerson’s had begun to take a similar toll on
the guitarist. Well, either that or some kind of chemicals... Scant footage of the band (see below) shows O’List cowering in
the background, unable to compete with the organist's flailing acrobatics. The
camera barely registers his presence.
What’s more, some
accounts paint O’List as suffering similar mental troubles to Barrett, but
whatever the truth, he, himself, became unreliable, arriving late for gigs etc.
and following a fateful gig at Croydon’s Fairfield Hall the axe fell.
It’s here that O’List’s
destiny almost crosses paths with another of the guitarists mentioned above -
Steve Howe - as it was he who was initially auditioned as a replacement. When
he eventually turned down the job the band continued as a trendy power trio (in
the mould of long-forgotten pioneers, Clouds), upped the classical pretensions
and eventually imploded due to lack of success and Emerson’s longings to find a
better vocalist (more of which later) and be taken seriously as a composer
(stop sniggering at the back).
A couple of years
drifting in rock limbo for O’List ended briefly when he placed an ad in the
music press looking for a band to fill the void in his professional life. As it
happened the person to answer was none other than Bryan Ferry who’d seen O’List
in concert at Newcastle City hall in 1968 and had been impressed. And for half
a year O’List helped Roxy Music gain shape, even up to the point of recording five numbers for John Peel’s Top Gear show, all of which would eventually turn
up on the band’s debut album a year later. By all accounts (barring O’List’s –
his own account makes for some mighty peculiar reading) the guitarist’s
eccentricities quickly wore on the other members and with a young PhilipTargett-Adams (later to be renamed Manzanera) in the wings as their road
manager, the writing was on the wall. Once more fame and fortune had eluded
O’List.
This isn’t the end of
his story, however. As the above linked interview recounts, O’List’s hasty
ejection from Roxy seemed to have left Ferry feeling uncharacteristically
guilty, and he was invited back to provide some guitar on Ferry’s second solo
album, Another Time, Another Place. O’List’s claims to have played on
But to return to the
subject of this article: back in 1967 The Nice were signed to Immediate records
and recording their debut album which went under the amusingly cod-serious
title of The Thoughts of Emerlist Davjack (see what they did there?).
This was to be The Nice at their most concise and approachable as well as their
most psychedelic. The album, coupled with the single version of ‘America’
(which features a great solo by O’List at its core), would turn out to be one
of the great defining documents of English psych. From the revved up re-tooling
of Dave Brubeck’s ‘Blue Rondo A La Turk’ (here renamed ‘Rondo’) via the full-on
baroque pop explosions of the title track and outtake (included on reissue),
‘Diamond Hard Blue Apples Of The Moon’ to the creepy experimentalism of tracks
like ‘Dawn’; the album is actually a delightful product of its time. O’List is
on fire throughout: just check out his explosive intro to ‘Bonny K’. However,
also very much a product of its time are Lee Jackson’s hokey, jokey, florid
lyrics.
While I can understand
why Emerson would eventually tire of Jackson’s rasping, oft-shouted vocals,
preferring the angelic pipes of Greg Lake as an accompaniment to his
mock-symphonies, I have a bit of a soft spot for his voice. On later work, such
as their take on Dylan’s ‘Country Pie’, I think his Geordie bluster fits the
bill nicely. But there are times when it can grate terribly. One such moment is
on the song chosen for this series: ‘The Cry Of Eugene’.
Closing the album, this
track sums up just about everything both right and wrong with The Nice. Emerson’s delicate organ intro displays a
sensitivity that runs counter to his usual, more outré approach (as on the
bombastic piano ending to ‘Tantalizing Maggie’ which Alan ‘Fluff' Freeman used
as a comedy jingle for years on his Radio 1 rock show) and promises far more
than is delivered. O’List at this stage limits himself to a weird, overdriven
viola-like accompaniment. Enter Jackson, burbling what can be only described as
psychedelic drivel. The song’s dreamy atmosphere is completely broken by his
barking delivery of lines like ‘’The cry of three plus two times nothing at
all, splits all time’s mind asunder.’’ Please, if anyone has the foggiest idea
what the song’s about, let me know. Here, the internet has failed me…*
Building in intensity
the song reaches a histrionic zenith at the exact mid-point where a frankly
wobbly cornet adds a touch of typical English baroque-ness accompanied by
Emerson’s thumping Rachmaninov impersonations and all hope seems lost. But out
of nowhere at 2’ 45’’ comes O’List playing an arpeggiated, fuzz-drenched
six-note motif that rips open the feyness and forcefully shoves the song into
its tortured climax. Six notes, played over and over but they all matter. It’s
as if someone left the studio door open and the zombie ghost of Jeff Beck
walked right in. From this point on all hell breaks loose. Beneath Jackson’s
laboured delivery O’List goes positively APESHIT. I can still remember the
first time I heard this as a teenager, and even then I recognised the
greatness. And, if that weren’t enough, as a masterstroke, 20 seconds before
the end of the track the motif reappears, devouring all before it until the
song does the only thing it can: stop dead.
Nearly 50 years on, the
track (and the album) remain favourites of mine, mainly for O’List’s manic
attack. Jackson obviously felt offended by his bandmates’ treatment of the song
as he re-recorded an insipid version on the debut album by his follow-up band,
Jackson Heights. This version just emphasised how lousy the song was, and yet
O’List’s solo remains a highlight of British ‘60s rock.
*Also, I have no idea if the use of the name Eugene had any influence whatsoever on The Pink Floyd's later 'Careful With That Axe Eugene'.
