August 2024
MEMORIES OF A FESTIVAL
It was after I’d spoken to Alan Corr (@CorrAlan2) for his festivals feature for RTE that the memories flooded back.
On my way to Amsterdam to read poetry at a “happening”, I took in the 8th National Jazz & Blues Festival at Sunbury. The Saturday evening session began with a group with one single, Hush. Deep Purple had yet to find their mojo. Joe Cocker & the Grease Band were rip-snorting. I blagged my way backstage (!) to congratulate their new guitarist Henry McCullough, a friend from Gene & the Gents, The People (Eire Apparent) and Sweeney’s Men.
While I’d have enjoyed hanging out backstage, I wanted to see the other acts so I went back out front and caught Tyrannosaurus Rex, with Marc and Steve sitting cross-legged on the stage. Ten Years After wouldn’t become well known until after the release of the Woodstock movie years later. The Jeff Beck Group was a curious musical hybrid with Rod Stewart as frontman, Ronnie Wood on bass and Nicky Hopkins on keys. The set was eclectic. I’d already seen the Nice so their explosive performance came as no surprise. Then came Ginger Baker. And Phil Seamen. Cream were breaking up but, unannounced, Eric joined the drummers and reprised his unmistakable Bluesbreakers’ “woman tone” to great effect.
Toneage (circa 1966) (l to r: Gene Mulvany, John Olohan, Eamon, Pat Dunne.
I was at the burger van when the Crazy World of Arthur Brown commenced their set. But the sudden screams came from behind the van. I turned and watched in horror as the rusty galvanised roof of a lengthy walk-way fell like a line of dominoes. As the structural collapse spread, the wailing of people, some in sleeping bags, who’d been crushed underneath, or of those who’d been perched on the roof, grew louder. Soon the sirens of ambulances pierced the din. Onstage, Arthur Brown, self-styled God of Hellfire, not realising what was unfolding in the darkness, threw a tantrum. Chaos ensued.
On Sunday afternoon, gentle folk and folk-rock sounds helped dispel the bad memories of the night before. Eclection (with Gerry Conway on drums) had been named by Joni Mitchell. The Johnstons, with Paul Brady in the line-up, sang Joni’s Both Sides Now. The Incredible String Band were, as usual, wonderful.
The evening show provided the highlight of the festival. Alexis Korner introduced John Mayall who was followed by Fairport Convention. Both bands were excellent. But nothing prepared us for a new band whose debut album wouldn’t be released until the autumn. Jethro Tull was a blues band with a difference. The flute-playing of the man in a ragged overcoat sounded sensational and Mick Abrahams was no slouch on guitar. The band was the hit of the festival. And were never as good after that. Neither Chicken Shack nor Spencer Davis, who followed, stood a chance. But Traffic, who closed the festival had a hip soulfulness that wore well.
In hindsight, I was at a crossroads in my life but couldn’t have known it.
I’d sold my old Toneage drum kit, was working in advertising and was attempting to find a voice as a writer. That weekend, I found myself paying too much attention to the drummers at the festival. Ian Paice, Bruce Rowlands, Mickey Waller (Jeff Beck), Brian Davison (Nice), Ginger Baker, Phil Seamen, Carl Palmer (Crazy World), Gerry Conway, Jon Hiseman (Mayall), Martin Lamble, Clive Bunker, Pete York and Jim Capaldi. A workshop for dreamers.
Horslips (circa 1972) (l to r: Charles O’Connor, Declan Sinnott, Eamon.
I suppose the message is to never give up. Less than two years later, after we’d spent an afternoon posing as a band for a Harp Larger commercial, I suggested to Jim, Charles and Barry that it might be fun to see if we could actually play a few tunes together as opposed to miming. We kinda looked like a band. Out of that unlikely scenario grew the opportunity to both write lyrics AND play drums. And an even more unlikely scenario, to make albums. As luck would have it, I would later to cross paths with many of the musicians I’d enjoyed that weekend.
Really, you couldn’t make this up. Blessed, eh.
