Cowboy Song

by Graeme Thomson

  Barber calculated that he was away 85 per cent of the time. When he returned he struggled to adjust and often seemed not to even try. She was now working in social services, dealing with people with significant problems. Lynott seemed to be afloat in his own bubble.

  ‘The more Philip came home from tours, the less he would speak to his girlfriend,’ says Bell. ‘He’d just come home and go, “Oh yer, hello, I’m home.” That was it. “Wash my clothes, make my dinner, let’s go to bed.” Then, goodbye – away again. That’s the way it could get when you’re away from home for maybe four weeks at a time. You come back and your girlfriend is there and she’s very domesticated. You can’t relate to it. You want to go back to the sleazy hotel rooms and sitting up to three o’clock in the morning with loads of people, smoking dope, and so on.’

  ‘Phil was always playing the field discreetly,’ says Carroll. ‘At gigs he would nearly always pull. Girls were attracted to Phil and he was attracted to them. It was a given.’

  ‘To some extent [the womanizing] is overstated,’ says Frank Murray. ‘Women would come up and talk to him … It was natural for lead singers in bands, especially one as easily recognizable as Philip. It didn’t mean he had to go off with them all.’

  During the inevitable Irish tour in the spring of 1973, much was made of Thin Lizzy’s success in what a small piece in the Irish Times called ‘the Great Big World Outside’. The paper’s review of the band’s show at the National Stadium noted their newfound dynamism, and also the change that had come over their lead singer. ‘[His] presentation is much improved. Philip Lynott no longer waves one leg awkwardly in the air as though looking for somewhere to put it down, maybe because the group have found their feet at last.’8 Another piece, in New Spotlight, admired their ‘superb light show’ and mentioned the ‘international acclaim’ that had greeted the band since they were last back home.

  They went into Tollington Park to record their third album with renewed confidence. On the heels of ‘Randolph’s Tango’, another new song confirmed the progression in Lynott’s writing. ‘The Rocker’ lays persuasive claim to being the first Thin Lizzy classic. From its explosive guitar riff to its roll call of tough-guy mannerisms, it’s the sound of Lynott shrugging off his hippie robes. The tangible fact of having a hit seemed to encourage him to step inside a new, mythic persona, hanging with ‘the boys’ in the juke joints, watching the ‘chicks’, ‘looking for trouble’.

  The iconography is baseline rock and roll: sex, violence and motorbikes, although there’s room for a reference to ‘Teddy boy’ Carroll and his ‘Rock On stall’. What could be crude is highly effective. Henceforth, Lynott’s lyricism became considerably more streamlined and character driven; emotion tended to be subordinate to building narrative atmosphere. ‘He worked his way through the poetic thing, and he hadn’t quite found his [style] until he hit on “The Rocker”,’ says Eamon Carr. And while it’s possible to divine tongue-in-cheek humour in the song’s heightened portrait, it presented a vision of the quintessential rock star, which Lynott would find himself increasingly striving to live up to.

  Although not the hit it deserved to be when it was released, in punchy edited form, in November 1973, ‘The Rocker’ shored up Thin Lizzy’s waning critical credibility. The sense of a creative breakthrough was confirmed on their third album, Vagabonds of the Western World. The record was a quantum leap. Harder and tighter, with better songs, crisper production and a cleaner mix. The growing expansiveness was affirmed by the addition of organ and Fiachra Trench’s rich string arrangements.

  Refining the harder rock edge of ‘Mama Nature Said’, ‘Gonna Creep Up on You’ and the full-length, full-tilt version of ‘The Rocker’, the title track is pounding Celtic psych-rock, with a menacing bodhrán beat, a cry of ‘tura-lura-lura lura-aye’ and a reference to Synge’s Playboy of the Western World. The song’s vagabond anti-hero is a romanticized vision of Lynott’s father, ambiguously depicted as an unfettered rake who roams the world seducing women without revealing his name – and is a ‘pretty fine dancer, too’. It’s also an idealized mirror image of the singer, the son of a ‘gypsy’ who ‘gave a girl a baby boy’ and wears an ‘earring in his left ear’.

  ‘A Song for While I’m Away’ is an intimate billet-doux from a travelling musician, road-weary but leaving his love a promise of devotion on the pillow where his head never seems to be. It’s a classic piece of songwriting and Lynott sings it beautifully, almost crooning, as the strings glide through the air around him. It’s so tender, one almost believes him.

  You are my life, my everything, you’re all I have

  You are my hopes, my dreams, my world come true

  You’re all I have

  The most emotive track on the record was ‘Little Girl in Bloom’, an almost pastoral reflection on a young girl and the child she carries. It’s one of Lynott’s finest songs, elevated by a tremendous studio performance of understated power. The opening thrum of feedback leads to a slightly off-beam bass figure, overlapping lead vocals and a soon-to-be familiar twining of electric guitars.

  ‘Little Girl in Bloom’ is an emblem for Thin Lizzy’s newfound maturity and self-confidence. The eight songs on Vagabonds of the Western World sounded like a band shaking itself from its slumber. ‘It was just a great record,’ says Tauber. ‘Everything about it was great: the songs, the whole Thin Lizzy ethos, and he worked so hard on the words. Philip was a great rock lyricist. He was the best lyricist that I ever worked with.’

  Lynott had become even more focused in the studio since the Slade tour. ‘He would push your creativity to the limit,’ says Bell. ‘Sometimes I would come up with an idea for one of his songs. “No, it’s too jazzy.” Then I’d say, “Okay, what about this?” “No, it’s too bluesy.” “What about this?” “No, it’s too melodic.” “What about this … ?” This would go on for about forty minutes and I’d say, “Well, for fuck’s sake, that’s all I know!” He’d nod and say, “Right.” As if to say, “Now you’ve got to start playing Eric Bell.” That was great because it helped me develop a style. Philip was his own talent, but we all chipped in, and he encouraged that. They were his songs, most of them, but it was still a three-piece band. It still hadn’t developed into Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy. He was firm but very, very fair.’

  On ‘The Hero and the Madman’, he demanded that the laidback David ‘Kid’ Jensen record multiple takes of his spoken-word narrative. ‘He could be a tough bugger to work with, but he knew what he wanted,’ says Tauber. ‘He wasn’t vindictive. He wasn’t mean, he wasn’t spiteful. He just wanted things done the way he wanted them done because he had a vision. You can’t really argue with that.’

  The vision extended to all aspects of the record. Lynott had originally asked Tim Booth to design the artwork, but when Booth was unable to take it on, he turned to Jim Fitzpatrick, who created a remarkable space-rock sci-fi piece equally influenced by Marvel comics and ancient Celtic art.

  An Irish artist working for a local advertising agency in Dublin, Fitzpatrick had made his mark in 1968 designing Viva-Che, the iconic red-and-black poster image of a bearded Che Guevara that has adorned T-shirts, placards and the walls of student flats ever since. In 1969 and 1970, before Lynott left for London, he was also creating magazine art and Day-Glo posters for Tara Telephone. When Lynott saw Fitzpatrick’s work for Tara Telephone on the wall of a friend’s Dublin flat, he was instantly impressed. ‘Philip used to come around and stare at them: “Oh man, these are brilliant!”’ says Eamon Carr. ‘They were the closest thing we had seen to something you’d get in Haight-Ashbury or the Fillmore posters. Two years later he had Jim working on Thin Lizzy’s album sleeves. Very savvy! It’s a magpie business, and Philip was checking out all sorts of angles and opportunities.’

  At the same time as Thin Lizzy were beginning to hit their stride, another angle presented itself. Ritchie Blackmore and Ian Paice had resolved to leave Deep Purple and start a new band with former Free vocalist Paul Rodgers. Blackmore lo
ved ‘The Rocker’ and Lynott’s Jimi Hendrix aura. After coming to see Thin Lizzy live he invited Lynott to be part of the band, tentatively called Baby Face.

  Blackmore was unaware of Lynott’s previous connection with Deep Purple. In 1972, tempted by an £1,000 offer from a German music executive called Leo Müller, Thin Lizzy had spent a day at De Lane Lea Studios recording an album of five Deep Purple covers, plus an assortment of instrumental jams, including ‘Danny Boy’ and ‘House of the Rising Sun’. Lynott played bass but refused to sing, so they sub-contracted Elmer Fudd vocalist Benny White and the band’s keyboard player Dave Lennox to complete the line-up. Released in January 1973, Funky Junction Play a Tribute to Deep Purple felt ever so slightly undignified, but it was easy money. No mention of Thin Lizzy was made on the album, while the cover photograph was of a different band.

  A year later, Lynott was jamming with the real thing. ‘We had one rehearsal,’ he later recalled. ‘When it came to the recording, Paul Rodgers didn’t turn up, so we put down two tracks as a three-piece.’9

  The idea quickly fizzled out. Blackmore allowed himself to be talked back into the ranks of Deep Purple, Paul Rodgers formed Bad Company, and the recordings have never been released. Their quality and quantity is widely disputed. According to some sources, there are two or at most three scrappy, unfinished backing tracks in the Deep Purple vaults. Others claim that there are four or five very good completed songs, including a cover of Johnny Winter’s ‘Dying to Live’. Blackmore’s view was that it all sounded like a Jimi Hendrix fan convention.

  Quite where this collaboration would have left Thin Lizzy isn’t clear. When news of it surfaced, Chris Morrison released a press statement maintaining that Thin Lizzy were not splitting up and that Lynott was committed to the band. Ted Carroll insists it would not have spelled the end of the group. ‘It wasn’t a secret,’ says Carroll. ‘He told us about it, but whatever way it went Phil wanted to stick with Thin Lizzy.’

  The band dynamic during the making of Vagabonds had been good; out on the road, however, they were disintegrating. They toured the UK from late September to late October 1973 following the release of the new album, recorded a quick John Peel session, and then sailed to Germany in November for two weeks of dates. Now heavily involved as Thin Lizzy’s agent, Chris O’Donnell was intent on pursuing a more aggressive booking policy. He wanted them to play hipper clubs, and encouraged Lynott to move centre stage rather than loitering out on the margins. His contributions extended to suggesting what they all might wear. ‘I thought the band were starting to get more interested in how we looked rather than how we played,’ says Bell. Lynott argued, very plausibly, that image was a fundamental element of success. There was a general awareness that in the background the star-making machine was cranking into gear.

  ‘Our management, the record company and everyone got on to us, and said, “You need another hit, otherwise you’re going to be a one-hit wonder,”’ says Bell. ‘That’s when Philip really started wanting the fame and fortune. He used to say to management, “When are you going to make me rich and famous?”’ He used to say that all the time. We’d had a small taste of it with “Whiskey in the Jar” … so Philip started getting hungry for it.’

  Bell felt hollow. His professional unhappiness stretched back to the success of ‘Whiskey in the Jar’. ‘We were flying out to France to mime to records, and Eric just wanted to play guitar,’ Lynott said. ‘He couldn’t understand why we had to do these things. In the end it got to him.’10

  ‘I remember how miserable I was on Top of the Pops,’ says Bell. ‘As I was miming to the record I was thinking, is this it? I thought if I ever got to Top of the Pops, man, I would be the happiest man alive, and there I was, thinking, what’s wrong?’

  His girlfriend had left for Canada with their young son, and he had experienced a terrible acid trip, which had made him paranoid and almost suicidal. He was self-medicating. The drug scene around the group had become heavier. ‘We were really fucking messed up,’ he says. ‘Philip was just getting into cocaine for the first time ever at that point, and I was drinking a lot and smoking a lot of very strong dope, all the stuff that everyone was doing anyway. We were completely wasted all the time.’

  The mood deteriorated on tour in Germany. The band were presented with three engraved brandy glasses after a show. Bell smashed them all. ‘Philip went mad: “What the fuck are you doing?” We drove back to our hotel, we were walking down our corridor to go to bed, and all of a sudden Philip turns around and punches me. We were both rolling on the ground in this German hotel about half three in the morning. They got the police around.’ On another night, Bell asked to jam with a German rock band and, when they refused, he jumped on stage and kicked their PA over. ‘The guitar player was going to annihilate me,’ he says. ‘One of our roadies just stopped it as he was about to plant me into the ground.’

  When it came to the band’s public image, three of Lynott’s cardinal rules read: Always be professional. Never lose your cool. Always be in control. ‘I never recall seeing him drunk,’ says Jim Fitzpatrick. ‘He could hold his liquor.’ It was a macho point of principle that prevented him showing any empathy for Bell’s predicament. ‘I can’t understand it to this day, because he knew what I was going through,’ says Bell. ‘He knew my girlfriend had left, and this, that and the other. He didn’t give a fucking shite. There was no discussion about it. It was like, “Oh yeah, she’s away. Right, just get on with it.” Nobody wanted to know. It was, “Let’s do the next show. Let’s try and get more famous.” I started becoming really, really paranoid. In the car, with two of my closest friends.’

  Thin Lizzy’s end-of-year Irish tour began at City Hall, Cork, on 20 December 1973. The escalating unhappiness, tension and clash of sensibilities reached a head in Bell’s hometown, during a show at Queen’s University, Belfast, on New Year’s Eve. In front of friends and family, the guitarist suffered a breakdown on stage. ‘He turned up at the soundcheck fairly drunk – and got drunker,’ Brian Downey told me. ‘When he got on stage he was really quite drunk. I think he realized that, because he was so drunk, he couldn’t play too well, and it was his hometown, which made it worse, and so he said, “I’m off, good luck, see you later.” He left us, he just walked off the stage. We were halfway through the show and we had to play as a two-piece. This was a pretty big old venue, Queen’s University, and he left the two of us to finish the gig.’

  ‘They should have cancelled the gig,’ says Bell. ‘I couldn’t even stand, never mind play. I was just completely fucking lost. This voice came into my head and said, “Eric, if you don’t get out of this situation you are fucked.” It came to the third song and I just got my guitar, took it off, and threw it fifteen feet up in the air. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. Turned round, kicked all my amps off the stage and just staggered off. Collapsed underneath the stage on some gymnasium mats and just passed out.’

  Frank Murray, watching from the wings, went to investigate. ‘I was asking him to go back on to finish the set. I said, “Look, you can leave tomorrow, you can leave in the morning.” I was pleading with him. He kept going on to me about a bottle of Guinness for some reason.’

  Most of those present remember Bell returning for one song, his guitar out of tune and his mind even more so. ‘I can’t remember,’ he says. ‘I don’t remember what happened. It’s just a blank.’ He was eventually spirited away in a taxi and dumped outside his parents’ house, before being summoned to the band’s hotel the following morning. ‘Philip and Brian were there, all the roadies, and they all completely ignored me. They just looked the other way.’

  Chris Morrison called from London, and by the end of the short conversation Bell’s spell in Thin Lizzy, the band formed under his initial impetus, was over. Bell says he left. Others who were there say he was fired by Lynott. ‘I don’t think Phil had much faith in him after that,’ says Brian Downey. ‘The day after the show he called a meeting and threw a really big wobbler. Eric was will
ing to come back, but Phil said, “That’s it, as far as I’m concerned he’s out.”’

  In the press, Bell’s departure was ascribed to ‘nervous exhaustion’, an industry euphemism which for once wasn’t far from the truth. ‘I think things were definitely travelling a bit too fast for him,’ says Murray.

  It could have ended the band. For a short while it did. In the long run, it presented an opportunity, which Lynott took by the scruff of the neck. ‘They became a new group, changed their sound,’ says Brian Tuite, who was still maintaining an interest from the side-lines. ‘I remember saying to Philip when Brian Robertson and Scott Gorham joined, “What’s with the two guitars?” Philip said, “The next time one of those cunts walks out there will be another one there. I’m not going to be caught out again.” Those were his exact words.’

  It was as though he’d already had a premonition that guitarists were going to be both a blessing and a curse.

  Dublin, 1969. (Roy Esmonde)

  Lynott’s father, Cecil Parris, pictured in his twenties. (Courtesy of Barry Keevins)

  The fledgling Black Eagles, circa 1964, rehearsing at the Smith residence, 15 Leighlin Road, Crumlin. Back row, left to right: Danny Smith, bass; Michael Higgins, drums; Philip Lynott, vocals. Front, left to right: Frankie Smith, Hugh Feighery, guitars. (Courtesy of Hugh Feighery)

  Scenes from the life of a budding pop star. (Courtesy of Carole Stephen)

  The first incarnation of Skid Row, 1968. Left to right: Noel Bridgeman, Brush Shiels, Bernard Cheevers, Philip Lynott. (Courtesy of Michael O’Flanagan)