by Zoe Howe
But a ‘terrible falling out’ was looming, a row that would leave considerable psychic scars on both sides, a row that would be impossible to come back from. Although it wouldn’t be the worst falling out in the Feelgood camp, it would be, in Lee’s opinion, ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’.
‘Lew Lewis had a song called “Lucky Seven”,’ said Shirley. ‘Lew was Lee’s protégé, and Lew … well, Lew is Lew. Very talented guy, but to try and have a conversation with him … You ask a closed-ended question and he’d flick his hand and crack his knuckles and go, “Oh! Oh! Snap dragon in half!” And it was like, “What?” It was like he was speaking another language. And he was! He was speaking fluent Lew Lewis. But he wrote brilliantly.’
Lee perused the lyrics to ‘Lucky Seven’ and knew instantly this was a very Feelgood-appropriate song – all trains, alleyways, boogying in hot basements, sex with ‘high-headed honeys’ … It had just the right balance of energy and sleaze, Lee could imagine himself singing it, and he also thought the use of ‘Lucky Seven’ would ‘temporarily relieve Wilko’. To say it would have the opposite effect would be an understatement.
Rockfield awaited, cosy and bucolic, the perfect juxtaposition to the heavy black clouds that would soon be descending once the full complement of Feelgoods were in situ – Wilko turning up several days later than the rest of the band. United Artists, well aware of how fragile the situation had become, had wisely decided to introduce an outsider into the group, session pianist Tim Hinkley. Lee had long been open to the idea of adding keyboards, even as a permanent fixture, not just to add an extra dimension musically but also to take off the heat and allow the rest of the band to ‘lay back a bit’ live. But the introduction of an extra, if temporary, member would also supposedly ensure good behaviour. This theory was unfortunately not Feelgood-proof.
Hinkley had never met the Feelgoods before, but his initial impression that they were ‘beer-drinking pub yobbos’ was quickly dissipated. After a hearty meal and some alcoholic refreshment at the Punch House, Tim realised at the end of the evening that he would be billeted with Lee in Rockfield’s farmhouse. As he unpacked his bags and wound down for the night, he was intrigued to observe Lee reading a book by the Irish writer Brendan Behan. ‘I thought, hang on a minute, this is a bit different,’ said Tim. ‘Every now and then he’d say, “Let me read you this passage.” We’d laugh about it and talk about literature and music. He was a smart guy. He was different.’
The atmosphere at Rockfield for those first few days was friendly and relaxed. Bert de Coteaux was charming, they were jamming in the studio, listening to music … ‘Then Wilko arrives on the third day, and the vibe turns,’ said Tim. ‘He had a cottage, and I don’t think I met him before he had locked himself in and wouldn’t come out.’
After another night at the Punch House, the collective, sans Wilko, were in the mood to expend a bit of energy in the studio. Bert de Coteaux had secretly told the engineer to press record whenever there was any playing in the studio, even if it was just a jam. Tim picked up the guitar, Bert sat down at the piano and the band played around with ‘Lucky Seven’ before lurching off to bed. The next morning they assembled in the kitchen for breakfast, but there was still no sign of Wilko. Sparko, as Shirley recalls, ‘would just laugh at the whole thing’, but Lee in particular was starting to get agitated. Fortunately Bert had the secret recording of the previous night’s jam – a dynamic, driving blues – to distract them.
When Wilko eventually emerged, they played him the recording, but he dismissed the track, telling the group flatly that it just didn’t sound like Dr Feelgood. ‘I didn’t want to discourage them from writing [but] the way they’d done it, I didn’t like it,’ said Wilko. ‘It wasn’t R&B. When I write songs, I used to think, can I imagine Bo Diddley singing this? This song failed that test altogether.’
As Wilko returned to his cottage, the rest of the group took solace in the pub. That night, back at the house, Lee ‘just exploded,’ said Tim. ‘I mean, it was a really vehement tirade.’ By this stage, as Shirley recalled, Lee had become so aggravated by the situation with Wilko ‘it became almost impossible for him to concentrate on anything else’.
The Feelgoods would get through a few more days of recording despite the ill feeling, although Hinkley observed they were keener to get back to the pub than to bother recording extra takes. There was also some discomfort around the fact that Wilko had, at one stage, both his wife Irene and son Matthew and also his girlfriend present at the sessions, and he’d proposed the inclusion of the song ‘Paradise’, which made reference to both women. (The lyrics have since been changed so that the only woman in the song is Irene.) Wilko had also written a ballad, unusual territory for the Feelgoods. Both songs left Lee cold, but Wilko believes the band were also searching for a scapegoat to get rid of him. Creating a stink over Wilko’s song choices seemed like a surefire flashpoint, although it wouldn’t quite work out that way. That night, Lee banged on the door of Wilko’s cottage and told him he didn’t want to sing the ballad. Contrary to the reaction he’d expected, Wilko shrugged and told him to forget about it.
‘They were expecting an argument over this, but there wasn’t one,’ he said. ‘I thought, they’re trying to provoke something. The next night, I hear them screeching back from the pub, they’re slamming the doors, and I knew something was going to happen.’ Sure enough, moments later there was a knock on the door. Lee, Chris and Sparko came in and ‘the row started’.
‘We’re in this row and I’m saying, “While we’re at it, I don’t like that fucking song!” [‘Lucky Seven’]. I said, “There’s always been this unwritten rule, if one guy don’t like something, we blow it out.” Lee [said] he didn’t like the ballad. I said, “Don’t do it. But you’re now arguing with me that you want to do this fucking thing and I don’t like it.’ It started hinging on this but it wasn’t really about the song. This went on into the night. At one point, Lee banged on the table and said, “Why is it that whenever you argue about anything you sound like you’re fucking right?!”’
By the following morning, Wilko was no longer in the band. He says he was pushed; they say he jumped. It’s not difficult to believe that a situation was engineered to precipitate a drastic change, as Wilko suspected. As Shirley remembers, ‘they were not on good terms in any respect, and I think they used that [‘Lucky Seven’]. Had it not been that, it would have been something else.’
‘There was other things going on there,’ adds Lew Lewis. ‘They weren’t getting on, but unfortunately they used “Lucky Seven” as the reason for Wilko leaving. It was a scapegoat. Well out of order – it was nothing to do with me! It upset me terribly. Wilko years later said that too; that it wasn’t fair to use [the song] like that. Wilko still hates that song … brings back bad memories, I guess.’
On being asked, repeatedly, about those final moments, Lee would later recount the story to journalists with characteristic diplomacy. Wilko had a huge following, after all. This needed careful handling, something Lee was skilled at. ‘We split up,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a question of kicking people out. That’s how I see it. Wilko might see it differently. [But] Wilko is a very big personality, he needs to be on his own.’
Wilko insists the ‘Lucky Seven’ argument was an aside, albeit a significant one, but Lee would counter that this was actually at the heart of the fight, prompting Wilko to give the band an ultimatum, although Lee later conceded that ‘there were many other reasons as well. That was just the last thing. He more or less said, “If you want to do it this way, then I’m going to leave.” And we said, “Well, OK, old son. Go.” Obviously he was probably the most important single member of the group, [but] he’d made us all so unhappy, and himself unhappy. It was a relief to say goodbye to him.’
The negativity which had mushroomed within the group had turned into a poisonous boil, which, as Lee explained to Wilko’s brother Malcolm in later years, ‘had to be lanced for everybody’s sake and sanity’. Even
so, as the shell-shocked guitarist walked away from his old bandmates for the last time, Lee must have felt a flicker of conflict; this might have been a much needed change on a personal level, but he knew even then that they had lost ‘not just a guitarist – probably the most gifted of his generation – but somehow the soul of Dr Feelgood’.
‘What it boiled down to was that Wilko didn’t fit in with the rest of us,’ Brilleaux said in an interview with Blues Bag in 1990. ‘Looking back on it, poor old Wilko must have been very miserable and depressed.’
Dr Feelgood storm ahead with new guitarist Gypie Mayo. He came in with a roar, no two ways about that.
12.AND THEN THERE WERE THREE. BRIEFLY
Occasionally onstage, I get this flutter inside … I turn around suddenly and think, God, where’s Wilko? I miss him a lot.
Lee Brilleaux to Nick Kent, NME
The loss of Wilko was viewed as potentially disastrous by record company and fan alike, and speculation was swirling. Did Wilko really leave of his own accord? Would Mick Green be replacing Wilko, his protégé, in the line-up? Or would Lee Brilleaux leave the band and join the Pirates? There was even a petition, signed by well-meaning Wilko fans unaware of the angsty fullness of the situation, to ‘bring back Wilko’, but it wasn’t to be.32 Lee and the rest of the band’s priority now was to plan the immediate future, find a suitable replacement, and get out on the road as quickly as possible to show the outside world that everything was as it should be.
‘We were all in a state of panic because many people were quite rightly saying that Wilko was a very important part of the band,’ Lee said. ‘Some people were even going so far as saying that Dr Feelgood would collapse without him, and a lot of people lost interest after he left. You accept that as an inevitability.’
Guitarist Chris Spedding would cover a couple of shows for the Feelgoods, as would Henry McCullough (although as Lee recalled they couldn’t afford him long term). Their dream guitarist was Mo Witham, who played with Mickey Jupp. Witham was a musician long admired by Wilko, and Lee was ready to offer him the job ‘unconditionally’, but he’d been working with a songwriter and had just signed a deal. The idea of potentially splitting up a partnership didn’t sit right with Brilleaux and the idea was dropped.
The inevitable ad was placed in the Melody Maker, inviting hopefuls to send in cassettes of their playing before holding auditions at Feelgood House on Canvey, but the right person was just a recommendation away. American musician George Hatcher, one of the Feelgoods’ UA cousins, had happened upon a gifted Harlow-based guitarist called John Cawthra – soon to be more widely known as Gypie Mayo (yet another Lee Brilleaux christening, inspired by the fact that Cawthra always had a cold, a bad back, always had ‘the gyp’ – and also to cut down on the number of Johns in the Feelgood operation). Hatcher urged the band to try him out. Trying to find him was the first challenge. ‘He was sofa surfing at the time,’ Sparko remembers.
‘They left a trail of messages all over the place,’ said Gypie. ‘Finally I spoke to Lee and he explained the situation, which I’d read about anyway. He said, “Forget all you’ve seen in the papers and just be yourself. Don’t try doing Wilko, don’t try to play like him. Nobody can do that. Just do what you do.” It was tense for all concerned. They didn’t know if it was all over for them.’
The Big Figure drove to Harlow to pick up Gypie for a try-out, brought him back to Canvey and ‘he fitted the bill perfectly’. He was accomplished and musical, and his inclusion would take the Feelgoods from raw ‘beat’ territory into a thicker blues sound. It didn’t hurt that Gypie also looked cool – tall, lean and with a resplendent rock star haircut – and he also liked a drink and was enthusiastic and funny. The Feelgoods were anxious to get this right, but needn’t have worried; they would enjoy considerable chart success with Gypie, Lee later referring to him as their ‘winning lottery ticket’. For Gypie, joining the Feelgoods was like being absorbed into a warm, supportive, if slightly loopy, family.
‘Lee was such an unusual character,’ observed Gypie. ‘Very hyperactive and quick-tempered. He was about three or four different personality types in one. He could seem very angry and uptight, and then five minutes later everybody would be rolling around laughing because he’s saying all these funny things. I’ve never met anybody like him. In fact, I’ve never met anybody like the Feelgoods.’
With Gypie aboard, the new guitarist would, as Lee put it, ‘be applying for citizenship of the dominion’ (relocating to Canvey) and moving in with Sparko after something of a domestic reshuffle. As we know, the Feelgoods liked to keep things in house, and that went for property too, where possible. Lee’s grandfather’s old bungalow had been fine for one travelling man and his record collection, but now there was a second person to accommodate, and it was time to upsize.
The bungalow would be bought by Sparko, while Lee and Shirley moved into a larger property previously belonging to Chris Fenwick’s parents on Kellington Road on the quieter end of Canvey, moments from the house Lee had grown up in during the 1960s. It was an upside-down house – bedrooms downstairs, kitchen and living room upstairs – and it had a balcony with a romantic view north over the Estuary towards the lush green hills of Hadleigh and its ruined castle.
‘That castle’s the only bit of culture Canvey’s got, and that’s on the mainland,’ Lee observed wryly to Melody Maker’s in-house Feelgood comrade Allan Jones.33 ‘All those people in posh houses up there, what do they get to look at? Us and these crummy little houses. We get the view of them. Funny really.’ The new house was called ‘Borde Del Mar’ (‘Beside The Sea’) – nothing to do with Lee, I probably don’t need to add.
Aside from its natural charms, it would take a while for Lee and Shirley to make Borde Del Mar their own, and not only because Lee was away for much of the time. Lee’s previous home was full of old furniture that had belonged to his grandfather, and the future Mr and Mrs Brilleaux were more than happy to get rid of it. As a result, when they moved to Kellington Road, they had little more than a bed, a pool table and a custom-made cabinet for Lee’s vinyl.
‘We did eventually have some rudimentary lounge furniture so you could actually sit down,’ said Shirley. ‘But Lee was gone a lot of the time, I was working at the pub34 not earning very much. It didn’t seem to be a huge priority to me to feather the nest. We were young.’ Sparko, in the meantime, set to work fixing up Lee’s old bungalow which was ‘a nice enough place,’ he told Jones, ‘except for the holes in the walls.’ ‘Holes in the walls?’ snapped Lee. ‘They were serving hatches. Did them myself. With a hammer.’
Part of the media’s ongoing fascination with the Feelgoods was their resolute determination, at this point at least, to remain on Canvey. Most artists felt compelled to move to London, but just like Canvey itself, the Feelgoods had their own thing going on and it worked. London could – and would – come to them. The excitement of the capital was one thing, but Canvey had its ‘own brand of madness,’ said Lee. ‘Much more fun …’
The band rehearsed the live set with Gypie, preparing to unveil him officially at the album launch at Advision studio before an intimate set at Bardot’s and the ensuing promotional tour for Sneakin’ Suspicion. In the meantime, Lee found he was not only taking on more of a father-figure status, he was now the sole mouthpiece for the band, and it was his responsibility to prime the press for the coming changes. He’d have little to worry about – the presence of Gypie would be roundly embraced.
Sneakin’ Suspicion would be released in May 1977, and while it still obviously rang with Wilko’s songs and guitar playing, the album artwork would be necessarily different to the preceding Feelgood albums.
The cover is more theatrical than previous affairs, and obviously couldn’t feature a band shot, of either line-up. Instead, we have a dimly lit tableau with a furtive Brilleaux in the foreground, clad in his sheepskin and lighting his ever-present cigarette while a brassy-looking couple canoodle behind him in the doorway of ‘The Alibi Club�
� (actually the Canvey Club). The only evidence of Wilko is the neon pink Dr Feelgood logo, designed by the guitarist, behind Lee’s shoulder.
Regarding the record itself, it would peak at number 10 in the UK album chart, possibly assisted by the much reported upon circumstances, and the lead single ‘Sneakin’ Suspicion’ would be the band’s first to enter the singles chart. On being asked as to why Mayo hadn’t been overdubbed onto the album, Brilleaux was aghast – ‘that’d be a desecration’ – while the suggestion that Mayo might dress in black onstage, à la Johnson, was ‘hideous’. Brilleaux still respected Wilko, and he was rightly reluctant to criticise the guitarist publicly, least of all at such a sensitive time. Several songs would also be dropped from the set, not least ‘I’m A Hog For You’. ‘We can’t ask [Gypie] to play that solo. It’d be an insult, and if we changed it, it’d lose all the magic.’
Mayo had plenty of magic of his own, and his public debut with the band at Bardot’s was as much an introduction as it was a positive statement of intent. The Feelgoods knew they had to work hard to prove themselves. ‘We were eager to get over that lump in our career, if you like,’ explained Figure. ‘We all felt the pressure, but Lee, being at the front, all the more.’
Still, amid the eddying rumours, get over it they would, and the talented Mayo, with his mischievous eyes, striped matelot T-shirts and legs-akimbo rock god stance, would win over the audience and allow the Feelgoods to soar straight into a promotional tour with confidence and no small amount of relief. Lee would often physically push Mayo forward for a solo, aware of the delicate psychology of making this new situation work for everyone involved, fans included. If Mayo himself was to charge forward too soon, the crowd, all of whom naturally still loved Wilko too, might resent him. But if Brilleaux urged him to take centre stage, then that would be respected.
