Roy Harper – the liner notes for ‘Live at Les Cousins’

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Telling it like it was – the liner notes for ‘Live at Les Cousins’

I’ve just reread the liner notes I did for the Les Cousins CD and I think it stands up as a summary of life back then in 69. It’s worth another spin.

‘1969 was a good year whichever way up you look at it. There was something in the air – probably ghanga. Everyone was suffused with an optimistic outlook. Everything was imbued with change. All the old crap was being jettisoned – ideas – thoughts – careers – suburbia. The world was new. The world was new. People sat up all night enthusiastically discussing the creation of the universe, the size of infinity and the intensity of the human spirit. Hair sprouted out of every available orifice – well – almost. People actually shared things with each other.

You could buy OZ and IT and read about Kerouac, Mao, Che, Ian Anderson, Captain Beefheart and Cochise. Everyone was dropping out into more meaningful existences that involved creativity and positive life forces as well as hugely wonderful esotericosities. You could spend hours discussing the obvious fact that T.S. Elliott would definitely have been straight while Shelley would probably have been a Freak. You enthralled to the tales of Black consciousness as epitomised by the Black Panthers, who had emerged from the Civil Rights Movement campaigns, Vietnam draft dodgers and utopian dreams of perfect societies based on freedom, creativity and harmony. There were free concerts, sit-ins, marches, demonstrations, happenings, love-ins and a whole range of other consciousness-expanding activities.

The underground created an instant identity. You were either a Freak or Straight. It had something to do with the length of your hair as well as the ideology you identified with, and the drugs you were using.  Freaks were pacifist sexual explorers embarking on chemical research and human, spiritual, political and environmental investigations. The ‘Revolution’ was just around the corner. In many ways, it had already happened. Straight society was already superfluous. We had our own Press, music, fashion, drugs, lifestyle and culture. Our language was permeated with Black hipster slang, man. Our dreams were megalomaniacal. I have my own theory that the planet just happened to pass through a cloud of hallucinogenic dust that only infiltrated certain young minds.

Of course, it was all a hugely naïve and pretentious bubble that could not hold its breath too long and subsequently produced a litany of disasters and chemical casualties. Still, even with the power of retrospective sight, it was wonderful to have been there and been part of it even if it was not a very smart career move for many of those involved. One is also forced to acknowledge that for most of the pseudo-freaks it proved to be little more than just another fashion statement, a passing phase which was fun at the time and got you laid. Sadly, the idealism went over their heads. Even so, it was an age of re-evaluation and individuality that engendered huge creativity in dress, thought, art and music and was the genesis and spawning ground for a lot of things that did not bear fruit until much later.

The most important thing about it was that it was so incredibly energetic and vital. There was so much to do, so much stimulation, so many places to be, people to meet, thoughts to share. All the doors were open. The 60s was a huge university and the curriculum was open-ended.

London was the driving force of the counter-culture. You could drop acid and do the Tate Gallery, 2001 or the Bonzos.

The club scene was alive and diverse. There were bands on tap every night with Blues from Fleetwood Mac, Chicken Shack and John Mayall – Folk with Bert Jansch, John Renbourn and Jackson C Frank – Psychedelic Rock with Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Hawkwind, Traffic, Nice, Cream, Family, Free, Tomorrow or Jethro Tull – West Coast Acid Rock with Country Joe, Captain Beefheart, the Mothers and the Doors – black blues with Son House, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Howlin’ Wolf and Jimmy reed – Old Rock ‘n’ Rollers like Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley. It was all mixed up with Jazz, Indian and pseudo-classical as with the Third Ear Band. Not only that, but it was ridiculously cheap. You could regularly see bands like Pink Floyd and Edgar Broughton for free. Hyde Park was a regular freebie. The festivals were three days for £1.50p. A gig was often 15p. Led Zeppelin at the Toby Jug was a staggering 25p –rip off or what? I could go on and on and get even more grotesquely nostalgic. Aye lad, when I were young. Them were the days.

There was no time to think – you were too busy doing stuff. The Incredibles at an all-nighter – Eel Pie Island bouncing up and down on the rotten floors to the flames of Arthur Brown. – giving demons hell with the Broughtons – at the Marquee with the guitar histrionics of Alvin Lee and Ten Years After – Hendrix smashing ceilings at Klooks Kleek – killing unknown soldiers with the Doors at the roundhouse – the Nice knifing organs at the UFO club – The Who smashing amps and Mooney driving his Roll’s and Lincoln Continental into swimming pools and ponds.

The Moving Being Dance Group naked and cybernetics at the ICI – it was all too much. Too much so that it was far out, man. Somewhere to the side, Straight society was landing on the moon but that was a side issue – we’d already visited other universes.

Even though the politics were getting out of hand in Grosvenor Square and Kent State, People’s Park and Chicago, where the Yippies put up a pig for president and Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin went to court in war-paint and jesters costumes, it was great.

Life and theatre had become confused.

Obscenity was on trial and was let off with a caution.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, there was this acerbic fiend who was putting vitriolic poetry to music and playing acoustic guitar at colleges and Folk Clubs – in fact anywhere that would have him. His name was Roy Harper and he had a sharp wit, quick mind and a maniacal laugh. He ranted, railed and played a mean guitar. His voice was good and his songs were excellent.

I first caught him playing three numbers sandwiched between Bert Jansch and John Renbourn at Les Cousins in early 1967 and I was hooked. I made it to three concerts a week and at least one had to be a mandatory Harper gig. I had discovered someone who was articulating the thoughts that were buzzing around my own head. He was painting my own pictures for me.

An early Harper concert might well meander through a few hours of thoughts and interjections with the odd song thrown in. The subject matter, targets and degree of vitriol depended on the mood and substances consumed. It was rarely dull.

Roy has never been a ‘performer’. What you see is what you get. He treats the stage like his front room. It’s not so much a performance as a dialogue that he enters into. You get the full contents of his mind – often mid-song and with no holds barred. No areas are taboo. For many, who are not quite on his wave-length, who may have come along for the songs, it is a frustrating experience. For those of us who like to mentally walk through the sundry realms of possibility, it is a voyage through your own thoughts and a highly stimulating process. Of course, that is not to suggest that the songs are not brilliantly good, too, but he ain’t no Cliff Richard or Paul Simon.

By 1969, Roy had progressed from street busker to songwriter supreme. We’d been regaled with Sophisticated Beggar and Come out fighting Ghenghis Smith and had our appetite whetted by the raw brilliance of Folkjokeopus. He was rampant and at his most aggressive. On stage masterpieces like ‘McGoohan’s Blues’ and ‘I Hate the Whiteman’ poured napalm on the claustrophobic society, we were all railing against. In was the sort of exhilarating invective that caused Melody Maker to accuse him of not coming up with any panaceas. I guess that before you can identify the answers you have to explore the problems. Roy was the octagonal peg who refused to be slotted. You got the idea that he was none too fond of Christianity and not a great admirer or respecter of rules and regulations. His ideal existence would have been a little more unrestricted.

We’d all heard a lot of songs live and were living in a great sweat of expectation. Roy had signed to the new prestigious ‘Underground’ label – Harvest – the same as Pink Floyd, Edgar Broughton and a host of others – and at last he was going to be properly produced. It was all going to do justice to the songs – and about time too! Peter Jenner was going to produce it at Abbey Road studios and he was a great guy who was sympathetic to the mood of the moment and the idiosyncrasies of the loony who hadn’t yet found his bus.

I was fortunate enough to attend many of the sessions and there are legendary episodes involving unwanted American ‘guests’ and vending machines. Still – that’s another story. However, to cut a long story short – Roy did not want ‘White Man’ sanitised in the studio. He had this vision of it raw and dripping venom. He wanted it spat out live in front of his audience, in a small club.

The idea was that ‘White Man’ was going to be the focus of the next album and it was going to be recorded at Les Cousins where he first started out. It was Roy’s second home – an intimate and totally familiar environment in which he could relax with the nucleus of his now considerable following and give full vent to his emotions. There was to be no holding back.

The news got out that the gig was going to be recorded and it was consequently heaving.

Dylan was playing to vast crowds on the twee Isle of Wight, while Harper held court in the sordid backstreets of Soho. It seemed somehow appropriate.

The place was hot with packed freakdom and the air was heavy with sweet-scented smoke. You went down these steps into this underground darkened cellar. EMI had brought its mobile recording equipment and the whole concert was recorded for posterity. I remember Roy being slightly more manic than usual and breaking a string on the first ‘take’ of ‘Whiteman’ so that he had to do it again. I guess it was the tension of being recorded and wanting to make it a good one or else just the way he was trying to put everything into it. Maybe it was the heat generated by the faithful?

It wasn’t just the guy striking the match – we were all on the album. We sat enthralled in the darkness, hanging on every note, willing it to be right and mentally holding it together.

It was one hell of a gig. We emerged into the streets of Soho with big smiles on our faces. The moon shone – the pavement echoed and we dispersed into the night bubbling.

In the event, they recorded the entire evening though only four reels of tape of the gig were found. It had sat on the shelf in EMI right up til now – a neatly packaged bit of history – vintage Roy Harper in his full potency when it was all new and looking to change things – snarling fit to shake the world!

The strange thing is that Roy Harper has never lost it. He’s still as crazy and still ranting against the system, trying to change it. You’d think he would have learned something in the ensuing quarter of a century!

Thank shit he hasn’t!

It’s a dirty job and someone has to do it – stick their head above the parapet and have the squealers, snouts deep in the trough, pass their judgements and make their superior snide remarks. If it wasn’t for a few torches in the darkness, we’d all be lost and slotted up our own arses by now. Maybe we are?

He may be crazy but he still makes a lot more sense than all the tribes of grey mediocrity who seem to be shaping our destiny.

Here’s to the next twenty-five years of insanity!

Opher 12.10.95

Hmmm – not a lot has changed since then. It seemed appropriate that a 69 concert should get released in 96 – as I said in the original – whichever way you look at it.

Extract – Nick Harper: The Wilderness Years Paperback/Hardback/Kindle

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Extract – Nick Harper: The Wilderness Years Paperback/Hardback/Kindle

The one mystery surrounding Nick’s career concerns the level of success he has so far achieved. It boggles me to think that he has not risen to the heights, received the recognition and walked away with awards. He surely deserves it. His time will undoubtedly come. Skills like his do not go unnoticed forever.

I suggested writing a book with and about Nick many years back but he was not keen. Nick is a modest man who neither seeks to inflate his achievements nor crow about them. He simply did not feel he had done enough to warrant a book. There was also the business side of it. Nick naturally shies away from any aspect of the business that is concerned with money making. He abhors anything smacking of exploitation. He feels that he is privileged to be able to do what he does; which is to create and play music. That should be sufficient. He is grateful when anybody enjoys his music and still amazed that he has a ‘career’ and people actually pay to see him. Nick refuses to see himself as a part of the music business or his songs as a commodity. Despite the fact that he knows he has to make a living he is not about to exploit his supporters by producing ‘product’. He does what he feels is right. He writes songs because they are an expression of how he feels. He is the same person on and off stage. There is no eye on the market.

Nick is extremely ambitious in only one aspect; he wants to get better as a singer, musician and writer and pushes the boundaries continuously. When it comes to promoting his career, getting on radio and TV, or looking at potential marketing he tells me he is lazy. That is not true. It is not so much laziness as a disinterest in doing anything that he is not inclined to do.

Nick is one of a rare breed who has integrity. He is genuine and honest. What you see is what you get. He’ll give you time after a show because he wants to. He is genuinely in awe that you should bother to make the journey and pay to see him play. Playing is what he loves doing. He’d do it for free. The guitar is not just a meal ticket to Nick; it is a friend he needs to play in order to keep sane.

Nick Harper: The Wilderness Years: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781678850661: Books

Roy Harper – Come Out Fighting Ghengis Smith.

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I was 18 when this album came out. I had this and Roy’s Sophisticated Beggar. Loved ’em both but this one received more needle-time. I lost myself in the philosophy as much as the music. It hit me at exactly the right time. I was taking my A Levels with a lot of pressure from teachers and parents dangling careers and money when all I cared about was music, girls and gorging on ideas, books, travel, poetry and an alternative type of life that had opened up before me. I was impervious to the pressures. I had no interest in careers, money or this narrow path on offer. I was reading Kerouac, getting into Beefheart, Dylan and motorbiking off to catch Roy playing two or three times a week. The London underground scene was in full swing and, blindly, I wanted in. The future could look after itself.

Consequently songs about pressures, infinity and possessions hit me right in the centre of my cerebrum. I wanted a life full of meaning and adventure, not boring security. Life for me was a quest. I was after something more fulfilling and meaningful. What Roy and this album had to offer was far more exciting than A Levels, a university place and some future career. I was ripe for it.

While this is not one of Roy’s favourites it still hits home every time I play it. Those words still resonate. The music is adventurous, melodic and captivating. The whole concept pushes the boundaries. Roy’s creative juices were on fire!!

This album remains one of my firm favourites.

Roy Harper – The Early Gigs circa 1967/68

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It’s hard to describe the early concerts in those two years as they weren’t really concerts like people were used to. They were events, gatherings, exchanges, sharings.

A concert was a performance. A singer/band would take the stage, present their songs, the audience would applaud, they’d introduce the next number and the musical performance would be appreciated. Roy’s gigs were not like that.

Roy would arrive with his battered guitar case, having hitch-hiked or arrived by train, (depending on where he was coming from and going to), set up on a stool, take his guitar out and begin. He used the house PA. There were no sound checks. No introductions. No appearing out of the wings (there usually weren’t any wings in those little clubs). No showbiz performance to build up tension or expectation. Roy was just Roy.

When he’s got himself together, played about with the tuning, he’d look up to take in the small gathering. He never treated them like an audience, never approach it like a professional performance. Roy would usually start with a little maniacal laugh and then proceed into some tale about an event that had happened on the way to the gig or something that had caught his attention, with an occasional strum and giggle.

Yes, there was a musician on a stage, and an audience, usually seated on uncomfortable wooden chairs in a small drab hall, but this wasn’t exactly a recital. Sometimes he would be performing at an intimate club like Les Cousins, at other times the back room of a pub, or folk club, a college venue or dreary, austere room. Most nights of the week he’d be on somewhere. Where-ever they would have him.

Where-ever it was, Roy treated all his venues as if they were his front room and his audiences as if they were a bunch of friends who had just dropped in. He talked to us as if we were sitting around a table together, whatever came into his head. He explained his poems, talked about current events, thoughts and feelings. Then he’d play a song. Even once he’d started he might stop partway in to share a thought that had come floating into his consciousness demanding to exit via his tongue.

That’s not to say that the songs and music were not valued. They obviously were. He crafted those songs and filled them with the seething emotions and thoughts that filled the inner turmoil of his skull. They were distillations of what he was thinking and feeling as well as being musical creations of great depth and skill. It’s just that he was consumed with communicating the full extent of everything; to explain and share what was going on in his head at the time, as it manifested itself, what was the grist for the poetry; what had stimulated his mind in that very moment. There was no holding back; no filter system. Consumed by a compulsion to fully share everything, it came tumbling out, often mid-song, sometimes in a torrent, an aside or an anecdote. He shared. It might be a relevant insight into the writing of the song or the circumstances that had led to its creation or it could be a completely novel idea or thought that had come into his head while he was singing. There was no knowing. Reality intruded. Roy was prone to distractions. These asides were often humorous, loaded with social insight, and often straying into areas that others might be wary of, pushing the bounds of the acceptable.

Some found this approach frustrating. They had come for the songs, not to hear Roy waffle on. They wanted a more professional performance. They did not appreciate the flow of a song being interrupted by one of Roy’s thoughts, no matter how meaningful or pertinent. The songs were brilliant. They just wanted to hear the songs. They felt they had paid for a performance. They found the interruptions infuriating.

But for me, and the others like me, who cottoned on to the whole unique experience, this was gold dust. Roy’s mind, his thoughts and feelings were every bit as fascinating and insightful as the songs. His ramblings and incisive dissections shone a searchlight of the songs and the events, feelings and thoughts that had led to the creation of the poetry. He was analysing and illuminating society and life in a way that nobody else had ever attempted. Mind blowing. There was nobody like this. Nobody did this. Roy was the Lenny Bruce of his day. He transcended the limitations of his chosen field. As with Lenny, who regularly exceeded the boundaries of comedy, taking his ‘performances’ beyond the realm of political satire into an exploration of reality, Roy was pushing back those barriers. This was not so much a performance as an expedition into the workings of a mind and exploration into the world in which he found himself. Roy was shining a searchlight into his mind and the society in which he found himself marooned as a horrified spectator. The songs were only one part of the experience.

This had a profound effect on the crazy rebellious youth I was at the time. I too felt myself to be a horrified outsider trying to make sense of an insane world. Roy was illuminating thoughts and ideas that had been floating around in my own head. It felt like he was clarifying and solidifying my own inner world. Nobody else had done that.

The ideas and exchanges not only explained the poems, and gave greater meaning and importance to the lyrics, but they sent tendrils of thought out into all aspects of the world around us. His mind was electric and electrifying. Roy’s mind was on fire, flitting here and there, dissecting, expanding and questioning.

No two concerts were ever the same. They depended on his mood. Sometimes there was more banter than song, other times more of a performance.

A Roy Harper gig was more of a sharing than a gig; an insight into a unique mind, a mind-expanding illumination of the social experiment we were prisoners in.

I think a number of us lived in dread that he’d ‘be discovered’ or become ‘famous’. If some promoter/manager took him on board and tidied the act up, removing the banter and making it ‘more professional’, we lose that relaxed sharing.

Not to say that the musical performances were not intense and incredible; they were.

I remember sitting in awe as Roy performed McGoohan’s Blues for the first time. It was an awesome slab of epic social commentary to the most rousing musical energy. It blew us away. The power and intensity; the sheer scale.

Dylan was the only one who came close (I always saw It’s Alright Ma,(I’m Only Bleeding) as being the only song that was similar in scope and impact). And how Roy railed against Dylan. He detested the way the music business clumsily put all the singer-songwriters into the same bracket as if they were Dylan protest clones. Roy had totally different roots, extending back to the Beat poets with shades of jazz, classical and English folk. He was not to be brushed off as a Dylan clone.

But those early renditions of the majestically powerful McGoohan’s Blues were spine-chilling and alone was surely worth the entrance fee? How could anyone complain?

For me, the St Pancras Town Hall gig in early 1969 felt like the end of that era. Roy had become much more successful. The queues went around the block. The venues were bigger. It had become increasingly difficult to maintain that informal intimacy. Though Roy did not change, the nature of the events, size of the audience, and distances involved between Roy and the audience, created more of a ‘performance’ element. Roy had graduated into a performer, not by choice, by sheer popularity.

Things changed.

Sadly, I’ve never heard any recordings from those early two years. No bootlegs surfaced. They reside in my memory. And, of course, our memories are imperfect, constantly reinvented, inaccurate and prone to subjectivity. In my mind those early gigs were monsters that shook me through to the core. There was no choice. I had to get to know this mad demon.

Roy Harper – One Of Those Days In England – Parts 2-10

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One Of Those Days In England – Parts 2-10

Although side one does have some melodic numbers of importance,  a  fun track and a slightly iffy single, side two is once again the main event.

   This 19.26 minute epic is one of Roy’s best songs.

   The political humour and references to drugs and sex in the opening (almost spoken) section guaranteed that this song would never ever get airplay, even if a song of this length would be considered, but to Roy’s loyal fans it has been one of his most revered songs.

   It is hard to analyse and explain a musical composition of such scope, complexity and imagination.

   The nine sections are all distinct and each is unique. The instrumentation is sophisticated and varied, ranging from driving heavy riffs through to delicate acoustic sections. The power of the guitars stems from the DADGAD tuning. His vocal delivery displays Roy’s complete range and tone of expression.

   Once again this is an epic progressive rock track that challenges classical music in its complexity.

   The content is impressive. The lyrics are a poem and dwell on the full spectrum of human experience from our history to our future conquest of space.

   One of Roy’s themes is the mad expansion and control exerted by society, often resulting in violence and terrorism. Another is the futility of resistance to such a global system. Roy juxtaposes these strong themes with that of the healing power of nature, with nature extending to include infinity and the universe.

   In Roy’s poem – history – our lives and times – is slowly fading into the past, taking all we have cherished. Soon we shall all be gone, along with our dearly held beliefs.

   The song ends with a positive note. We have time enough to make the most of what we have, to live and love in the moment and enjoy life.

   Part of the pleasure of any poem is unpicking the meaning of the imagery and inspiration. There’s plenty in this song.

   ‘One Of Those Days In England’ is a mammoth accomplishment from Roy at the very peak of his powers.

This only really touches on the intricacy of the poetry but illustrates the main themes.

Roy Harper: Every Album, Every Song (On Track) – Paperback

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Roy Harper must be one of Britain s most undervalued rock musicians and songwriters. For over fifty years he has produced a series of innovative albums of consistently outstanding quality. He puts poetry and social commentary to music in a way that extends the boundaries of rock music. His 22 studio albums 16 live albums, made up of 250 songs, have created a unique body of work. Roy is a musician s musician. He is lauded by the likes of Dave Gilmour, Ian Anderson, Jimmy Page, Pete Townsend, Joanna Newsom, Fleet Foxes and Kate Bush. Who else could boast that he has had Keith Moon, Jimmy Page, Dave Gilmour, John Paul Jones, Ronnie Lane, Chris Spedding, Bill Bruford and Steve Broughton in his backing band? Notable albums include Stormcock, HQ and Bullinamingvase. Opher Goodwin, Roy s friend and a fan, guides the reader through every album and song, providing insight into the recording of the songs as well the times in which they were recorded. As his loyal and often fanatical fans will attest, Roy has produced a series of epic songs and he remains a raging, uncompromising individual.

Thanks for the great reviews on Amazon!!

Nick Harper: The Wilderness Years – Paperback and now available in Hardcover

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Foreword

I’ve known Nick Harper for most of his life. I was a young student living the bohemian life of the sixties underground and he was the young son of Roy Harper. I’d just been knocked for six by Roy’s take on music, society and the universe at large and he invited me round to glimpse his life. Nick was part of it.

Since then I’ve been a teacher, writer, parent, partner, traveller and avid devotee of rock music.

I love guitar playing. When it comes to guitar playing I have seen all the greats up close playing in small halls – from Jimi Hendrix to Bert Jansch, Jimmy Page to Peter Green, Davy Graham to Eric Clapton; but there is one who stands out for me. His sheer brilliance is beyond anything else I have seen. What Nick Harper can do with a guitar is magical.

To quote Rob Adams from the Glasgow Herald – ‘If you haven’t heard Nick Harper you are missing out on one of the musical phenomenons of our age.’

The strange thing is that the bending of the strings, the tuning and retuning of strings within songs, the creation of new upside down chords and even the surround sound delay is never a gimmick. It isn’t showing off. It actually works to create great music and the tricks are integral parts of the songs that always add to the composition. He is recreating the sounds in his head. Nick expands upon the possibility and generates extensions of improbability.

I have only ever seen one person capable of such a thing and he was Jimi Hendrix. Nick’s limitation, as with Jimi, is merely the extent of his imagination. It goes without saying that Nick’s imagination is of the scope of galaxies. It is phenomenal.

I have been fortunate to observe Nick’s talents develop over decades and I never get tired of the crispness and range that his fingers tease or pound. He can make the guitar thunder or trill with delicate melodies. Nick produces music you can get lost in.

Yet more from ‘The Blues Muse’ – a novel tracing the history of Rock Music – Soho and the 60s Contemporary Folk Scene.

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The Blues Muse: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781518621147: Books

More Soho

I soon learnt from my new friends that the scene had been going for some time. A lot of the American singers who frequented the Greenwich Village had cut their teeth here. Both Bob Dylan and Paul Simon had performed regularly and were educated in their guitar work by the likes of Martyn Carthy. Spider Koerner, Stefan Grossman and John Fahey had passed through the clubs and contributed to the ethos of the scene.

Some of the names passed over my head but I could tell from the reverence in the voices that these were major players.

If my first visit was revelationary then the second was an epiphany. It started with a very young, fresh-faced Al Stewart with tales from the bed-sit land around us and the sexual exploits that went with it.

Ralph McTell was a gentle soul with cheery disposition who painted little pictures of sad clowns and disturbed youths.

This was brilliant.

But the best was yet to come. After an interval a reserved character took the stage and delighted everyone with his melodies and voice. Jackson C Frank was another revelation. Those tunes are still in my head to this day.

The last man up was one Roy Harper. I looked hard at him as he set up and tried to figure out what this was going to be. He looked young and eager with long fair hair and dark beard, smiley eyes and easy chuckle. He talked to the audience freely about the things going through his mind and seemed in no hurry to play.

I wanted to hear what he was going to do. Was it more Blues guitar? Instrumental? Or songs like Al and Ralph.

When he was ready he started. From the off you could tell he was no slouch on the guitar but it was not going to be any delicate finger-picking instrument. He was building up a head of steam right from the off.

Then he stopped and looked round at everyone.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘I spend most of my life surrounded by the things I stand against.’

It brought a cheer from the audience.

He resumed with a wry smile. What followed was a twenty minute, heartfelt polemic of a song that ripped into society and the establishment with barbed vitriol and biting lyrics. It blew me back in my seat. Not only was this a musical extravaganza of great worth but the delivery and poetry was right up there with the best that Bob had produced.

I was blown away again.

Somehow all this musical genius had been proliferating under this great stone called Soho.

Over the course of the ensuing weeks I discovered the all-nighters and the delights of Sandy Denny, Jo Ann Kelly, Mike Cooper, John Martyn, Nick Drake and Ron Geesin.

The music flowed like a perpetual river, a waterfall of splendour and power.