EARLY DAYS AT ISLAND RECORDS

When Laurence Cane-Honeysett and Michael de Koningh, were writing their books on Trojan ('Young, Gifted and Black' Sanctuary 2003) and the early reggae scene in the UK ('Tighten Up' Sanctiary 2003), they had asked me for some of my reminiscences.  For what they are worth, I'm posting the notes I sent them here, and hope that those who have an interest in the history of both reggae and Island Records might find something in them to amuse them. And if you haven't read the books, do so!

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I started at Island in September of 1965. I had been very interested in music since I was quite young, growing up in Winchester, Hampshire. The first record I remember hearing that I REALLY dug was 'Shake, Rattle and Roll' by Bill Haley and His Comets. I was staying with friends in London in 1954, and I had just turned 8, and although the lyrics didn't really make any sense to me, the sound made me feel fine and energetic. Of course, being only 8 meant I was pretty energetic anyway, but I do recall replaying the disc over and over again. I remember the label being a gold Brunswick, the record was a 78, and I thought the title was 'Sheikh of Rattlin Row'. (As in Rotten Row and other London streets).

In 1955, following a stay in hospital at which time I had my tonsils removed, my folks gave me a wind-up gramophone as a get-well present, and a pile of 78s. Most of the records were junk, although I recall playing 'In The Mood' by Joe Loss and some risque (for the 30's) tune called 'Connie in the Cornfields' on Decca. I forget the artist. After a couple of days, I craved something hipper, and so dear old mum came home with 'Rock Around The Clock'.

Within a couple of years, I was listening to Little Richard, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Gene Vincent, et al. Two or three years later, the list included Big Joe Turner, Howlin' Wolf, Louis Jordan, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee and so on. I was hooked on the blues and Rock n Roll.

I subscribed to the NME, Disc, Melody Maker, Record Mirror and by the early 60's, to Blues Unlimited, R & B Monthly and Roger Eagle's cool R & B Scene. I was .... drum roll ... his Hampshire distributor! I also kept a scrapbook of record reviews, news, concert reviews etc, and remember saving an amusing letter written to the NME from one Guy Stevens, predicting that the new Jerry Lee Lewis 45 would be a huge hit. And if it were not, he would eat his record collection. The record flopped, and Guy wrote a very funny letter some time later expounding upon the gastronomic joys of his Jerry Lee vinyl. Little did I know then that I would end up being a buddy of dear sweet Guy at Island.

My circle of close friends was all blues and Rock n Roll fanatics, and we'd hang out at local record stores after school - those were the days when one could take a stack of records into a booth and play 'em, over and over. Weekends, we'd scour the local junk stores looking for used records, or cycle the 12 miles to Southampton and check out the junk stores in the St Mary's district. Good pickings down there, as Southampton was a big seaport, and sailors would come on shore from trans-Atlantic trips and sell their American 45s for beer money. We'd pick up stuff on Atlantic, Specialty, King and all manner of exotic labels. One odd label I grabbed back then (probably 1963) was something by the Continentals on Island. When I got it home, I found it wasn't Rock n Roll, nor R &B or Blues, but something else. Kinda weird, but rather appealing. WI 010 ... I remember the number. I still have it around somewhere.

Around about the same time, or perhaps a year or so later, I started reading reviews in Blues Unlimited and R & B Monthly of records on the Sue label,  a subsidiary of Island Records. During this time I was a mad pen pal to anyone who had an interest in blues and who would write back. Mike Leadbitter, of Blues Unlimited, was particularly encouraging, and we became good friends. I recall hitching down to Bexhill to meet him and being turned on to Joe Liggins and many other great jump blues guys.

I left Eastleigh Tech College in Hampshire in 1965. I had been taking A-levels so I could get into journalism, but music was really calling me, and so my father, who was a clockmaker and very concerned that his one and only son get ahead in the world, arranged, through his bank manager, an interview with Leslie Perrin. Dad went up to London at least once a week, to attend auctions at Sotheby's or Christie's, where he would buy or sell clocks, and so we went up to London early in September of 1965. He went to his auction, and I went and met Mr Perrin. All I knew about him was that he was a publicist (whatever that was) in the music business. Turned out that his clients included the Rolling Stones, and so he was obviously a heavy hitter. I really had no idea what I wanted to do, other than run Little Richard's fan club or something similar, and I was, even then, pretty sure that wasn't much of a good idea. To be honest, I don't recall much of what Leslie said, except his emphasis that I should get into publishing. And now, over forty years later, I recognise that was extraordinarily good advice. Naturally, I didn't take it. 

The meeting ended around noon, and I was at a loose end until I had to meet up with Dad at 6 pm ... what to do?  I knew that Sue had just released a Larry Williams LP, and so I thought I might give them a call. Perhaps they were looking for someone who really dug Larry Williams. And after all, I did have several great London-American 45s by the man, plus his actual American LP on Specialty. (Bought thru the legendary Transat Imports).

I called their offices, which, it turned out, were in Kilburn, and was told to come over immediately. They were, indeed, looking for someone. And so it was that I arrived at 108 Cambridge Road in Kilburn, a shop converted into offices, and met with David Betteridge. I was ushered into his office - a large table around which sat his secretary Pat, and a fellow I later learnt was Guy Stevens. David was looking for a van sales rep to start work immediately. Such a job obviously entailed the minor necessity of possessing a driver's license, which was a bit of a problem as I had never driven anything in my life. Can't be THAT difficult, I thought, and airily told David that I didn't actually have my license yet, but was learning, and expected to get it any day now. Surprisingly, he said, 'OK, start on Monday. We'll start you out on the route in a week or two when you pass your test.'

And so started my association with Island.

KILBURN CAPERS

When I started with Island that Monday there were two people in the front office - the room that once would have been the shop. Deidre Meehan, whose main task was receptionist , but as Island was not much more than a Mom and Pop enterprise back then, did other stuff as well, Charles Collett, a lanky dreamy kind of guy who was really a jazz fan, and had, I felt, ended up at Island by accident. It was he who put together the Harold McNair LP - ILP 926. The rear main office was the domain of David Betteridge, Pat and Guy.  There was another smaller office at the back that housed a chap named Neville and a woman named Jackie. They worked on royalties and accounts .... Neville had some mysterious colonial background, I seem to remember, overseas civil-service type of gig. I recall his handwriting - unbelievably neat and painstakingly tidy. Downstairs was the stores, where Tim Clark presided.

And it was to the stores that I was directed, to learn the catalog, get out orders for mailing or for the three van reps that Island then had. Tom Hayes and Bob Glynn covered London, and Chris Phipps covered Birmingham and Manchester. It was because of Bob Glynn that I was named Rob, in order to avoid the confusion of having two Bobs in the business. It was no big deal to me - my folks had always called me Rob, so I was comfortable with it.

My first day on the job was spent sleeving ILP 922 - the Larry Williams LP that had just come out. For some reason they had not been sleeved at the factory. It was a job that seemed to go on forever. The stores were dank and rather dark, and whatever bits of wall showed thru the racks and shelves, were covered in egg cartons, as was the ceiling. Turns out the room had previously been a studio run by Sonny Roberts - he of Planetone Records. Sonny would come by occasionally - a sweet and friendly guy, dark and Ethiopian-looking. The last time I saw him was in 1980 - he had a shop in Harlesden. We had a good chat, and he laid a couple of Tim Chandell albums on me. When I was in Jamaica in 2016, Dandy put me in touch with him, and we had a wonderful talk. It was Sonny who had introduced Chris Blackwell to Lee Gopthal, who owned the premises at 108 Cambridge Road, and who was, therefore, very instrumental in introducing the future partners who formed Trojan Records. But that is getting ahead of things ....

Labels Island carried then were Island, Sue, Jump Up, Aladdin, Black Swan ... these were all Island labels. Jump Up and Black Swan were pretty much moribund by then. Oh, yes there was Surprise as well. LPs only, consisting of risque comedy albums by Belle Barth, Rusty Warren and the like, Rugby Songs Vols 1 & 2 (both of which sold a phenomenal amount of copies). And a few distributed labels, such as Rio, Hala Gala, Carnival and probably a few others. Also a couple of LPs that were sold 'in a plain wrapper' - 'Nights of Love in Lesbos'  and 'Music to Make Love By' - really very tame stuff by today's standards, but they seemed quite daring at the time. I think these were supplied by Dickie Jobson, an associate of Chris Blackwell and David Betteridge. (From here on, I'm going to call David DB and Chris CB, because that was how everyone referred to them). Dickie incidentally had the first in-car 45 player I had ever seen. And as I now think about it more, probably the ONLY one I've ever seen. (I found out years later it was really CB's). I do remember him giving me a ride somewhere and me finding a Buddy and Ella Johnson 45 on the floor of his mini, raving over it (it was on Old Town), and he gave it to me. I still have it. Why is it that record collectors can remember such minutiae?

When I wasn't working in the stores, I worked the phones upstairs. I did that the first week, I seem to remember. Amongst the new releases that week was WI 209 - 'Go Whey' / 'Shelter the Storm' by Jackie Opel. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was the first time I would encounter screwed-up label copy - the title should have been 'Go 'Way'. I'd call a list of retailers, and we’d mail them the order by the end of the day. So I would be on the phone in the morning and then work with Tim in the afternoon packing orders and having them ready for the mailman who would come at 5.30. It was always a mad rush to get everything filled, but we always seemed to get it done.

After a couple of weeks, it was becoming apparent that my driving license was going to take a bit longer obtain than I had imagined. I had indeed bought a car - a1949 Morris 850 just as soon as I got the job, and kept it at home in Winchester. I stayed in London during the week - in a gloomy one-room bedsit in West Hampstead - and split for Winchester each weekend, where I would hook up with friends that had licences, and we'd just drive all weekend, all over Hampshire, with heads full of Neal Cassady exploits. In about a month  I did get the licence, but by then DB had tumbled to my job-getting ruse, and with remarkable good humour, had found work for me in the office and stores. I was relieved, because the driving thing had been gnawing at me, and I finally was able to relax and enjoy myself.

SKA-ING IN NW6

Life at 108 Cambridge Road was never dull. Whether it was Guy showing off his 'new artwork' on his VW Beetle (everytime he bashed into something or someone he referred to the damage as 'new artwork), David and one of the reps running out of the door and jumping into cars to go chase down Don Rickard, the owner of Rio Records who owed them dough, or unpacking American imports just arrived from Heathrow, there was always something eye-opening going on.

Guy, incidentally, was one of the worst drivers I ever rode with. He usually wore Cuban boots, with block heels. These shoes didn't help his driving style, with which he used his heels rather than his toes on the pedals. The heels, being built up, tended to slip off the pedals with frequently alarming results. I rode with him twice - on both occasions from Kilburn to Oxford Street, where CB had his office, along with fellow directors Chris Peers and a handful of others. The second time was the last - I always made sure I was in the driver's seat on any later occasions.

Island put out around half a dozen releases every week - 4 or 5 on Island, and perhaps one on Sue. Every week, a bundle of 'new release' sheets would arrive, brought by Mr. Read, who had a small print shop a few doors up Cambridge Road. A cheery baldheaded man, he was always ready with a joke and took in his stride all the mayhem that always greeted him. Nothing seemed to faze him, absolutely nothing at all. Release sheets were a record industry staple - they listed both sides and the artists and label/catalog numbers of all the releases of that week - and a handful would go out with every order.

When the new releases arrived from the factory - mainly British Homophone back then - they would be blasted all week from the sales office. Ska was still king in 1965, and although it had, in the main, been very alien to me when I first joined the company, (there very few West Indians in Winchester in the early sixties), it didn't take long to foster a very deep appreciation. I could see the parallels to American blues and R & B in that the music was promoted and sold to a minority populace, and it flew mainly under the radar of what was presumed to be popular culture. I dug the small labels, and I spent much time checking out the back catalog, and marvelling at the biblical language that resonated thru the titles, and the strange argot in which the tunes were sung. It was mysterious, and the mystery was deepened by the odd rhythms and wild harmonies. Records had a much longer life back then, and many titles were constantly in and out of stock. Tunes like 'Rub Up, Push Up', 'Carry, Go, Bring, Come', 'Guns of Navarone', 'Guns Fever' sold and sold for years after their release.

Musicians often came around the offices to pick up records, or just to shoot the breeze. Jackie Edwards was a frequent visitor (CB persevered for years to break Jackie - he ultimately made some noise as a songwriter, penning tunes for the Spencer Davis Group and thereafter Stevie Winwood). Owen Gray was a familiar face - he was reaching for the soul market with things like 'Shook, Shimmy and Shake', as was Jimmy Cliff, who was working in London playing soul with an act that owed more than a nod to James Brown. Cuts by these artists, along with Millie Small, were CB’s early forays into pop. Calypsonian Young Growler often came by. Rico Rodriguez too, and I'm sure many others who have just disappeared from my memory. I do remember Emil Shalit, the owner of Melodisc, coming in a couple of times, always looking a little battered around the edges.

Being teenaged in London, and earning only about $14 or $15 a week, meant that money was in short supply for anything other than food and rent. Tim and I usually ate at Peg's Cafe over the road, and drank at The Shakespeare next to the office. Peg's was a greasy spoon of unparalleled squalor, whose main redemption was a policy of letting Tim and I eat on tick until payday came on Friday. The Shakespeare also developed the same policy - whether it was just Tim and I who got credit at the pub, or everyone, I don't recall. Certainly, I have never before, nor since, come across a pub that espoused boozing on the slate. What this meant in practice was that by payday on Friday, after the week's bills were paid, our wallets were savagely depleted, and by the time Monday came back around, life was back on the tick.

It was during those Cambridge Road days that I attended my first recording session. CB hired the function room at the Marquee Club to host the taping of a comedy LP by Charlie Hyatt. For a few days before, I had been riding around London on a 50cc Suzuki, the property of Millie Small. Millie, who had sold a lot of copies of 'My Boy Lollipop', and later 'Sweet William' on Fontana, (Island's early pop issues had come out on Fontana, an imprint of Phillips), had been given the bike by a fan, but she never used it. After a couple of learning mishaps, I had gotten the hang of the machine and rode it to the Marquee, as DB had asked me to get there early and 'organize' the drinks and refreshments so that when the invitation-only audience arrived, they would have immediate access to a tipple.

I found that organizing drinks was right up my alley, and had a glorious evening. Long John Baldry was playing the Marquee that night, with his band Steam Packet, which included Rod 'The Mod' Stewart and, I think, Julie Driscoll. I oscillated between the two rooms, checking out the British R & B and the mainly - to me - incomprehensible speech of Charlie Hyatt. Whatever it was that he was saying, it was obviously uproariously funny, and I staggered about in tears.

I made it into the office around 10 am the next morning, red-eyed and hungover. 'Rob Bell! ' bellowed DB, 'where the fuck's Millie's motorbike?"  Oh shit, I thought. The bike. Forgot all about that. I rushed down to the Marquee, but of course, it was gone. It did turn up, a week or so later, a little bent, but still working. I'm pretty sure Millie never knew.

The LP came out, ("Kiss Me Neck - It's Charlie Hyatt') but didn't really sell much. No LPs really sold much in those days in the West Indian market. We had a 'Millie Sings Fats Domino' on Fontana which did pretty well, but things like Jackie Edwards' various LPs, Derrick Morgan, Keith and Enid really just sat there on the shelves. I think the first LP that really sold was 'Club Ska', which came out a couple of years later, and that was because it had crossed over into pop. Of course, the budget Trojans did great business, but they didn't come along until 1969 or 1970.

Singles were the backbone of the business, bolstered by importing American LPs. Imports were profitable although risky. In those days albums were hardly ever released in two markets simultaneously. The trick was buying hot product from the States, such as 'Otis Blue' by Otis Redding, and selling it before its UK release. If it came out before the imports were sold, one had a lot of pricey US product sitting around unsold. So for a while in 1965 and early 1966 import fever was rampant in London. The hip west end stores would be on the phone constantly ...'Is such and such in yet'? And when a shipment did arrive at Heathrow, it seemed to take only a matter of a few minutes between clearing customs and arriving at Cambridge Road before The Garnett Mimms, Nina Simones, Otis Reddings, Drifters etc were on the reps vans and out there in retail land before one could shout ‘Haile! Haile!’  A maelstrom of activity.

Occasionally, I'd go out on the road with Tom Hayes or Bob GLynn, but I have to say I didn't particularly relish the salesman side of things. My knowledge of London was lamentable - on my own, I would have inevitably become regularly lost. Perhaps more to the point, I dug being at Cambridge Road. It may have been just a little storefront business situated as it was in a fading old neighbourhood,  but it was to me the centre of the universe. Being down in the stores with Tim, listening to DB raging and screaming down the stairs at us for boiling sausages in the kettle that Pat had just used to make his tea in, gazing in wonder at the pile of probably 4,000 copies of WI 360 (James Brown's 'Night Train' on Sue), searching through old cupboards in pursuit of WI 031 - a scarce Wilbert Harrison issue out of print since 1962 - making up orders for Chris Phipps that we'd take to the railway station (St Pancras?) to ship via Red Star to Birmingham, or sending an order to HR Taylor's also via train. (Taylor's were a Birmingham based distributor).

And all the time ska music would thunder through the building, punctuated by shakers, scrapers and cries of 'Heeck, Heeck, Heeck'. It was a gloriously mad time, and I loved every minute of it.

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