Written by Brain Damage contributor, John Phillpott in 1996 for BD Magazine
REPORTER AT THE GATES OF DAWN
It was twenty-nine years ago, but
then again, it could have been yesterday. I was an eighteen year-old
cub reporter on the Rugby Advertiser, ever-eager with open notebook and
sharpened pencil, waiting to pounce on any snippet of news that moved.
1967. There are a few years in
the 20th century that will always be remembered by the western world,
burned into our collective psyche. 1914, 1939... days of war. 1912
Titanic disaster, 1926 the General Strike. But there was no date with
destruction here, for this was the dawn of the legendary Summer of Love.
It was an amazing age to live
through, especially if you were one of those fortunate baby boomers who
had the ability and drive, or just plain luck, to fall into one of the
creative jobs newly available to the proles. I was literate but
innumerate. The "0" levels of two years before had been stumbled and
muddled through; how could any free spirit caught in the musical web
woven by Dylan, Berry, the Beatles and Stones concentrate on anything
other than the cultural Spring bursting into bloom?
Pink Floyd came to Rugby Benn
Hall probably sometime in the June of 1967. I had already interviewed
John Lee Hooker, The Small Faces, and John Mayall's Bluesbreakers. So
who were these Pink Floyd? Pop band, soul... R & B or blues? I
decided to find out. Now the amazing thing about being a reporter in
those days was that it was perfectly possible to cover a boring old
flower show on a Saturday afternoon and mingle with pop stars later
that evening. It is an understatement to say that those days are long
gone.
The day I met the Pink Floyd was
one such as this, the kind of day we all took for granted then, yet
seem so remarkable when viewed through the mist of years. Down to the
Benn Hall I went, flashed my Press Card on the desk and then made a
beeline for a door on the left next to the stage marked 'exit'. I had
done this many times before. I walked a few yards down a brightly-lit
corridor that smelled of stale cigarettes and sweat, came to the
dressing room, and knocked on the door. And there was Pink Floyd,
sitting having a drink and maybe a smoke or two.
They appeared fairly welcoming,
but I have to admit I was not sure about Roger Waters. The thick lips
reminded me of Mick Jagger and I was always worried about wise-cracking
showbiz people demolishing my somewhat shaky credentials as being a man
of the Press. Status Quo had given me a hard time a few weeks before;
the lyrics to Pictures of Matchstick Men should have provided a pointer
to their verbal prowess. So, taking a long draw of the cigarette that
was never far from my lips, I latched on to Syd Barrett... he looked
the most harmless and presumably the most friendly member of the band.
He had an intelligent and
sensitive face, was softly-spoken and genuinely patient enough to
answer my cliche-ridden questions. I asked about the music they played,
an obvious but necessary query in a media world not quite accustomed to
the rock and roll revolution that was now gathering pace. The remaining
questions would, I imagine, have been entirely predictable too;
favourite artists, film stars, influences, likes and dislikes,
ambitions etc. Oh yes, and favorite food. This shopping list might
appear crass to the relative sophistication of a 1990s reader, but it
must be remembered that young journalists in those days were fighting
an uphill struggle convincing their elders - the people in control of
power bases such as newspapers - that something called a Pink Floyd
Happening was worth covering in the first place.
Around midnight, I returned to
the Advertiser Office and wrote until dawn, fuelled by a couple of
bottles of brown ale and a packet of 20 Bristols. I probably produced
about a thousand words - far too long - and this was cut back by the
Editor, an English gentleman called John Lawson, a man in his 50s who
had been a prisoner of the Germans during the Second World War and who
was rapidly becoming bewildered by the events unfolding during the
momentous year of 1967. This is what appeared in the Rugby Advertiser's
columns the next Friday...
And so... the Editor admitted
that I had done a good job and chosen my words with care. My writing
style showed promise, despite the fact that I was describing a world
alien to him.
But 1967 was like that; a pivotal year where the new was ushered in and many of the old ways died on the vine.
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