Lee Brilleaux

by Zoe Howe

  ‘I got quite pally with Lee, Chris and Sparko,’ remembers Will. ‘Wilko was out on his own, and Figure to a certain extent, maybe because they were both married. But the single guys, they were up for the match, up for the drink and everything and anything.

  Doctor Feelgood fixing the Transit (some members working a little harder than others, you will note). Bottom left: Chris ‘Whitey’ Fenwick DJ-ing in Holland, having blagged the Feelgoods a run of shows there – the band’s first foreign tour. His fate as the band’s manager was sealed from then on.

  the boys in Holland, Wilko still in hippy mode. Images from Wilko Johnson’s personal archive.

  ‘I was an aspiring songwriter then and I used to write lyrics. It was that post-progressive era and I used to write … well, crap really, but I remember sitting with Lee at the Castle Hotel near Thorpe Bay one night having a beer – this was just before Wilko started writing songs – and I said, “Have you thought about writing your own songs yet?” And he said, “Oh no, I can’t write songs.” And I said, “Well, I’ve got some lyrics.”

  ‘This lyric was about dinosaurs or something. I was trying to work prehistoric characters into this love lyric, and Lee was like, “This is great! This is great!” He was egging me on but nothing came of it.’ At this point in their story, the Feelgoods stuck to mostly covers anyway. What was fast developing was Lee’s compelling stage persona and use of props.

  ‘I depped with them at the Haystack on Canvey,’ said Will Birch. ‘About nine people and a dog in the audience. We played “Blue Suede Shoes”. Lee was actually wearing suede boots. I don’t think they were blue but anyway, halfway through the song he took the boot off and held it in his right hand and held the microphone up to the boot, like the boot was singing. He got off the stage with the long lead and he’d go up to people with the boot, “Blue suede, blue suede shoes …” He was brilliant at improvising, which stood him in good stead.’ Similarly, during a later show, Lee was observed taking a swig from his beer bottle only for the lager to froth up into his face. After giving the bottle a quick sniff, he then sprayed it theatrically under both arms for good measure, to the great amusement of those in the audience.

  Wilko’s brother Malcolm was in the audience at one of the Haystack shows on Canvey. He was primarily there to gee up the audience – what there was of an audience anyway. ‘I went into the street trying to charm people into coming in with no luck at all,’ he remembers. Did that matter to the band? Did it hell. Most groups would either can the gig or view it as a (not very well) paid rehearsal. Not the Feelgoods. ‘God, they were good. In such an unpromising place I felt those shivers going up my back, like you know you’ve heard something extraordinary.’

  Lee’s opinion of what was happening at that time was that they were playing great music – people just didn’t want to hear it. ‘It’s all played out,’ he said. ‘But [then] we did a few colleges, and people started dancing.’

  Lee Brilleaux

  Black music is corrupting and it’s corruptible. That’s what makes it so interesting. When I had my straight job working in an office, that was my outlet.

  The Feelgoods might not have been widely appreciated on home turf just yet, but they were soon playing to new audiences thanks to former Joe Meek protégé and Tornados frontman Heinz Burt, an unusual character with an intriguing past; not only was the producer Joe Meek in love with him, but the shotgun with which Meek famously killed his landlady had actually belonged to Heinz. The bleach-blond rock’n’roller was now living in Southend and selling advertising space for local newspapers, but the early 1970s greaser revival had lured him back into playing live for nostalgia-niks, bikers and a new generation of Teddy Boys. He just needed the right backing band to go out on the road with.

  Because Dr Feelgood were known to play a hard-hitting set of classic rock’n’roll covers, the band’s local music shop put the band in touch with Heinz. There were plenty of Teddy Boy bands in Southend but, after a phone call and a brief jam in the garden, the Feelgoods got the job, even if it was given somewhat grudgingly. Heinz’s first impression of Dr Feelgood was that they were a touch rough around the edges. Collectively they looked like a scruffy bunch of troublemakers who knew how to have a good time, were quick with their fists and probably drove too fast. Most of these concerns were superseded when Heinz heard them play, of course. ‘We were good, excellent,’ says Wilko. ‘But he didn’t like it.’

  ‘We went to Heinzy’s house and knocked on the door,’ remembers the laconic Sparko. ‘And he went, “OK, come round the back.” Another one who wouldn’t let us in the house.12 He took us into this little summerhouse in the garden and we rehearsed in there. We just played about twenty seconds of “Great Balls Of Fire” and he was like, “Oh yeah, you obviously know that one then.” And that was it.’

  A few short, chaotic UK tours ensued, crucial for keeping up the post-Holland momentum, and the Feelgoods revelled in the opportunity to play ‘proper gigs’, as Lee remembers. ‘Universities and clubs, it gave us a bit of an eye-opener on how to conduct ourselves in business at a later stage. Very useful experience working with him.’

  ‘We didn’t always have hotels,’ adds Sparko. ‘We’d sleep on people’s floors, and one time we camped up on Portland Bill. Lee went fishing with Heinz and they came back with these fish and wanted to sell them to a fish and chip shop. They were all on the floor in the van, sliding about, people treading on them.’

  Night after night, the still relatively long-haired Feelgoods would play a short set to crowds of ducktail-sporting hard nuts before Lee ceremoniously announced Heinz to the stage. Heinz would then stride on to deafening cheers, Lee taking up backing vocal duties with Chris Fenwick.

  Lee and Chris were an unstoppable double act. Once they were together, the skits they came up with would leave everyone present laughing to the point of actually being in pain, so letting these two loose as ‘backing singers’ was a recipe for cheeky behaviour and ad-libs. Wilko remembers them chirpily singing ‘Heinz bakes the meanest beans!’ from the classic baked beans adverts. Had to be done, and, to be fair, Heinz was usually drunk and oblivious. In fact, during a show in Sheffield supporting Mungo Jerry, Lee announced Heinz as usual, but the singer was so pickled on barley wine he simply crashed straight through the curtain, knocking over a cymbal stand and causing the cymbal to slice through a power cable, plunging the stage into instant darkness. Quite the entrance.

  On another occasion Wilko recalls Heinz telling him to sprint up to him suddenly during the show, as if about to attack. ‘I did, and he did a sort of mock kung fu kick at me, and his foot hit my guitar and all the strings went out of tune.’ Heinz would also regularly ignore the set list and start singing a completely different song than the one the rest of the group were expecting. ‘He’d suddenly launch in and go, “One for the money!” and we’d all inevitably come in late.’

  Every night was certainly an event, but the high point of the Feelgoods’ summer with Heinz was undoubtedly the London Rock’n’Roll Show at Wembley Stadium on 5 August 1972, the first pop concert ever to be held at the stadium.

  The night before the show, the Feelgoods convened at Wilko’s house, sitting up late and trying to work through their jitters. One idea was to write a song about the festival itself – they were the first band of the day, it would kick things off nicely and, Wilko posited, their song might end up in the credits in the proposed concert film. ‘So we’re writing this song,’ remembers Wilko. ‘But Lee’s kind of slumping, he’s half asleep. At one point somebody just said the word “Wembley”, and Lee suddenly jumped up and shouted, “WEMBLEY?! WEMBLEY?!” Just panicked.’

  Nerves were understandable. Not only would Dr Feelgood suddenly be playing on a vast stage to an audience of thousands, they would be rubbing shoulders backstage with their heroes. The monster bill featured Little Richard, Chuck Berry (whom Lee recalls as being rather unfriendly), Jerry Lee Lewis and Bo Diddley among others.13 Also on the line-up was Teddy Boy band The House
shakers, who apparently rather looked down upon the Feelgoods, possibly feeling that they themselves would have been a more appropriate band to back Heinz. Wires can get crossed and manners misread, but all the same, Lee took a dim view of The Houseshakers, and one of his ‘party pieces’ was an impersonation of the band’s frontman pontificating about Heinz’s importance to rock’n’roll, much to the rest of the Feelgoods’ hilarity. (Reportedly Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood were also there, using the opportunity to sell Teddy Boy clothes to cash-rich rockers.)

  Heinz, who might well have had a few ales before hitting the stage for his broad daylight slot, swayed, slurred and spat out the words to ‘C’mon Everybody’ as punters flooded the echoing stadium and the Feelgoods paced and grooved behind him. ‘We all just look like scared little kids,’ laughs Sparko. ‘The gig before we’d probably played to about 150 people, then suddenly it was 80,000.’ Wilko observed that hitting the stage at Wembley made them feel like ‘gladiators going into the Colosseum. Just so frightening.’

  The Feelgoods’ set with Heinz seemed to flash past in a heartbeat, but they’d had a taste of what was to come. Despite the Teddy Boys’ suspicion of this comparatively hippified band, no one could deny that Dr Feelgood rocked. Heinz, the man who was initially repelled by the band, even suggested they change their name to The Tornados – he insisted the original Tornados wouldn’t mind – and back him permanently, an offer which was graciously declined.

  It was time to go home, rejig their own set and think about the future. Southend’s Esplanade was waiting, and it would welcome back a rather different Dr Feelgood; the edges had been knocked off, the nerves dissolved, and, within months, they would have a sharp new look that would better reflect their clean, hard R&B sound. This band was no longer ‘just a bit of fun’ – it was going somewhere. No one was quite sure where or how far, but, as Lee observed, if it allowed them to quit their day jobs, that was good enough for them.

  the longest legs in rock. Brilleaux looking dangerous in double denim.

  sweating it out on the pub rock scene. Images from Wilko Johnson’s personal archive.

  4.RED HOT IN (THE) ALEX

  Asked as to whether [Lee] would soon be turning professional, he replied that he had always been ‘professional’, but would no doubt be working with the band full time after Christmas.

  South East Essex News (a zine, penned in biro, by one of Lee’s childhood friends), November 1973

  The level of the Feelgoods’ musicianship and stagecraft had been dialled up considerably since their summer with Heinz and, inevitably, people were noticing the difference. Audiences no longer had to be dragged in off the street to watch them play, and they were less likely to talk through their set once they were in. Will Birch noted in his diary on 10 September 1972 that Dr Feelgood had played the Esplanade that night and were ‘very mean. Good bunce.’

  Will was living at the time at his parents’ home in the sedate area of Thorpe Bay, just east of the not so sedate Southend, and Lee, Sparko and Chris would often take the opportunity, while on the ‘mainland’, to pop in for a late-night coffee after a drinking session before roaring back to Canvey, maybe watch The Old Grey Whistle Test together, or just hang out before a Sunday evening show at the Esplanade. Many a Heinz anecdote would be shared, the fishing story being a particular favourite. (They may have sniggered about the idiosyncratic Heinz, but, as Hugo Williams observed in his essay ‘The Breeding of Dr Feelgood’, Lee owed almost as much to Heinz’s warped Elvis impersonations as he did to Howlin’ Wolf.)

  Lee was partial to watching Hawaii Five-0 with Will and the boys before a show at the Esplanade. Missing it was not an option. Lee was amused by the lingo and especially loved the central character of Steve McGarrett. An intriguing element of Lee’s personality was his penchant for taking on characters from books, films or television programmes that appealed to him and melding them into his own persona for comedy effect, sartorial purposes or otherwise. Subversive offbeats such as Yossarian, Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner, Brighton Rock’s menacing Pinkie Brown, enigmatic mavericks from pulp novels or Raymond Chandler stories … and now Detective Captain Steve McGarrett. They were all in there somewhere.

  ‘Lee was taken with the dialogue, it became part of [his parlance],’ continues Will. ‘You know, “Book ’em, Danno. Murder one, two counts. Put out an APB.” All this stuff, it all fed into it. “Put out an APB on my pint of beer.”’ Arguably, the suited-up, short-haired McGarrett played a part in informing the ultimate Brilleaux image. Up to this point, Lee would often hit the stage in denim, but it wouldn’t be long until the spivvy moustache would go, the hair would get hacked off and the visual concept gradually became more defined. Malcolm Wilkinson recalls, however, that the alteration of the collective Feelgood barnets was actually sparked by something closer to home.

  ‘As I remember it, Chris White had a part in a film of some sort that involved him filming on a Royal Naval vessel. He had to get his hair cut for the part. When the others saw it, they all thought it looked great, so all their hair was cut short too.’

  The Feelgoods started playing at the Top Alex pub on Alexandra Street, Southend, in 1973, and that, as Will Birch remembers it, ‘was when they got really hot’. The Top Alex was a haunt of the local bikers, Hell’s Angels and hippies. You couldn’t move for Afghan coats, and it was possibly the hairiest nightspot in Southend, so it was an interesting place for another key shift in Lee’s image to come into play.

  Will Birch continues: ‘My brother Howard had a cream three-button Italian jacket. He traded it with Lee upstairs at the Alex. The minute Lee put that jacket on, that was when his persona was born. Eventually he got the famous white one. But that cream jacket was the start.’

  Pete Zear also attended their shows at the Alex, and noticed the change, not just because of the attire, but because, after the best part of a year on the road, they had attitude, confidence, and musically they were so drilled they could concentrate more on working the crowd.

  ‘They were like a different band. They were tight, and there was an aggression there; there was no “Oh, I’ve got my mojo working.” No, it was “I’ve got my mojo working, you wanna argue about it?”14 The whole thing was coming, and there was that tension between the two of them [Wilko and Lee].’

  Rock’n’roll needs a sense of threat to truly excite. There arguably wasn’t much on the scene that really had that quality at the time – there were groups who could entertain, yes, but were you worried about bumping into the singer on a dark night? Did you fear that if you met the guitarist’s gaze you might inadvertently enter into some Faustian contract? Possibly not. But something dangerous had been unleashed in the Feelgoods, and it was as captivating as it was disorientating. When Lee wasn’t barking out lyrics, fist pounding the air, he was launching frenzied attacks on the gob-iron, or staring, juddering obscenely, altogether ignoring Wilko as he careered across the stage, his guitar apparently having been possessed by a malevolent spirit that was somehow steering him around.

  Rock’n’roll, of course, also needs style; it needs an image, a look. Will Birch recalls Ian Dury and the Blockheads publicist Kosmo Vinyl explaining that ‘you can have a band that looks good and plays good, a band that looks good and plays bad, but you can’t have a band that plays good and looks bad’. Admittedly, there was quite a number of bands who ‘played good and looked bad’ in the early 1970s, but Dr Feelgood were not one of them. What the Feelgoods were doing was evolving their own unique style, and the foundation of that style was the cheap suit.

  The band would walk onstage apparently wearing what they’d come from work in (bricklayer Sparko was generally in jeans, shirt and a waistcoat before adopting what he refers to as his ‘bastard suit’, a frilly-shirted wedding whistle in hospital blue). The suits-and-sunglasses look (mirror-lensed, Aviator-style) also tied in with the Feelgoods’ sleazy appeal, that of the suave baddie, the modern highwayman, Flash Harry, The Ladykillers, good guy turned bad with a top note of
white-collar-worker-gone-insane. Lee often had the crazed, undone look of a corrupt, pill-popping DI who’d been up all night on a case, grubby shirt pulled open at the neck, tie yanked loose, sweat rapidly wiped from his brow as he snarled, swaggered and pointed an accusatory finger at no one in particular.

  As the Feelgood buzz began to intensify, rumours circulated about their collective background, and excitable suspicions fizzed along the lines that, as Mick Farren salaciously noted, it was ‘possible to believe they might have come together in jail’. (They weren’t about to point out that they’d met as youngsters and had once been the pride of Canvey Carnival.) One former Canvey dweller told me that, whenever an act of vandalism was spotted on the Island, it was speculated by fevered teens that ‘the Feelgoods had done it’.

  ‘It was like The Blues Brothers before that film even came out,’ says Wilko. ‘We anticipated that. Lee looked like a very angry man indeed, and people loved it.’

  Lee was always at pains to point out that the ‘image’ was unconscious, however. ‘These are the only trousers I’ve got,’ he’d protest, adding that the jacket had been nicked ‘from a streaker in Durham [who’d] left his clothes on the stage’. But of course.

  ‘We never sat down and said, “Right, we’re going to go on looking like deranged bank clerks” or whatever,’ Lee explained (and he’s saying it like it’s a bad thing). ‘Since I was at school, I’ve dressed like this and had my hair cut this way.’ Another essential part of Lee’s stage look was the omnipresent Piccadilly or Rothmans cigarette. He’d chain-smoke through the show – it added to his hard-bitten image and coated his vocal cords in tar, ensuring that the lupine growl was always primed.