John Martyn and the Basing Street Blowers
WELL, here we are down at friendly Island studios again, a great black warehouse bathing in the late afternoon rain (ah, there’s poetry for you), awaiting the arrival of that tardy personage, the noble and zealous John Martyn.
He finally finally appeared, drenched and speeding like a blue arsed fly, a full hour and a half late, just in time to hear the last cut on the Sharks tape, before repairing to the local that squats at the top of a cobbled alley full of spades repairing old cars and potential muggers hiding behind lamp posts.
Safely installed in a corner behind a couple of jars of Notting Hill Country ale – nectar of the gawds – the interview chums into action, as abortive as ever; it’s a ludicrous game anyway, if you think about it.
Passing by the familiar safety of such penetrating en-quiries as “what are your musical roots,” we jumped right in talking about the album he’s been recording back down the road. It appears that John’s music, on album, anyway, is taking three directions at the moment – acoustic, electric and “band,” i.e. several tracks include what shapely Island press officer Maggie describes as “The Basing Street Blowers” – Steve Winwood, Rabbit Bundick, etc. It’s the same music, mind, but John likes to express what he’s saying in different ways and through different media.
“I don’t fancy going all electric,” he confirms, grinning insanely, “but there are some songs that wouldn’t sound right any other way.”
Onstage he alternates between a Les Paul, which, he says, is good for the top range, and a Yamaha acoustic with a pickup, which he claims is best for a good bass response.
“But what I really need is something that falls between the two,” he adds, and goes on to recount a strange confrontation he had at a gig in Canterbury recently: “After one of the electric numbers this little Irish guy comes running up to me and says ‘When by Peter Erskine are yer goin’ ter starp piayin’ tha’ feelthy sheet?’ He was really uptight, so I said, ‘Listen, what are you on about, you’re bringing me down man – the rest of the audience are digging it… Apparently he’d seen me three years ago in Bel-fast before I started doing any electric stuff.
“I told him that if he listened carefully he’d find the same things going on, but it was no good. He was genuinely outraged; he just couldn’t accept anything I did unless it was acoustic. That’s like spending your whole Iife only eating potato and sausage.”
It’s hard to describe something like the evolution of a person’s music in words, and it’s even harder for the musician to describe the changes that are taking place within him that will colour his music, because, like anyone, he’s probably not that aware of any. Its not somethinng you think about.
But John will tell you that he thinks he’s deliberately trying to simplify his lyrics and concentrate more on the essence of the music – “the sound of the notes” – a phrase he’s constantly referring to.
“Yeh, I’m consciously trying to make the lyrical part as simple and direct as possible,” he says. “There’s something about lyrics that I distrust,” he adds thoughtfully. He claims that a purer form of communication is in pure undiluted music.
John’s old lady, Beverley, who’s worked a lot with him in the past, both on stage and in the studio – and at home (they have two children) – is also about to start work on an album – “they’re very chick songs,” qualifies John – but it’s unlikely that they’ll be doing anything together for a while, especially as John’s soon off to the States, on January 17, with Free and Traffic.
It’s a 31-day tour on which he plays 28 dates and it’s the first time he’s been there, and he says that the thought’s a bit scary, as well as exciting – coming from Hastings he’s not what you’d call a city person.
Peter Erskine
Disc
16 December 1972
