‘Another thing I know Nick played on was a musical I wrote, which was never released … A guy had got a lot of money, and had a friend who wrote lyrics, and they needed twelve songs to go with them, which I wrote and linked them together. We had this grand design, it was going to be the new Hair. Nick came in and played acoustic guitar on that. I was trying to turn it into a medieval Mystery Play – it started with birth and ended with death … It never got as far as having a title.’
As a teenager, Nick grew up listening to the pirate radio stations, particularly Caroline and London, both of which first went on air in 1964, broadcasting offshore from ships outside territorial waters, to escape stringent government regulations. As a performer, though, Nick came too late for pirate radio, which was finally forced off the air by the Labour government in 1967. That same year saw the launch of BBC’s Radio 1, which was the only national channel playing pop music. Exposure on Radio 1 was crucial for any act hoping to happen. If you lived in Kirkcaldy or Bodmin Moor, you might be able to read all about the latest pop sensations in the music press, but likely as not, the only way you would ever get to hear them was on Radio 1.
To ensure that only music of the highest quality would be heard over BBC airwaves, acts had to submit to a trial by jury. The panel of BBC producers could approve a new act in two ways: either by assessing a recording by a producer who felt strongly enough about a new act to book them for an inaugural session; or by listening to a tape sent in by the artist concerned when they applied for a BBC session. Nick Drake’s BBC audition was his Radio 1 debut, which he recorded on 5 August 1969. Three of the four songs broadcast were then submitted to the BBC panel on 14 October, and six days later received a unanimous pass.
The panel’s report on Nick stated the obvious (‘sings his own songs and accompanies himself on guitar’), noted his ‘professional behaviour’ and ‘attractive vocal quality, somewhat reminiscent of Donovan’. Another anonymous producer saw Nick as ‘the type of artist who would appear on a John Peel record label’, finding the music ‘good of its kind, but limited appeal’. The report concludes: ‘At last, something that holds one’s interest from the start.’ Nick fared considerably better than David Bowie, who four years before had been rejected by the BBC panel as ‘a singer devoid of personality’.
Radio 1 was essential for disseminating your name if you were just starting out. The newly formed folk supergroup Pentangle, for example, played eight Radio 1 sessions for John Peel in 1968 alone. Not that there were that many opportunities for a left-field, album-orientated act like Nick, for while the name of producer Joe Boyd and the cachet of Island records guaranteed some press interest, that interest just didn’t translate into those all-important airplays.
Despite the listening panel’s approval, Nick’s radio debut remained a one-off, something with which Ralph McTell could sympathize: ‘We didn’t get any radio play. I got one play on my first album, and that was John Peel. I remember sitting at home and it came on the radio, and I went: “That’s me.” I was so excited.’
David Sandison shared the artists’ sense of frustration: ‘Nick wasn’t being played on the radio, because he wasn’t releasing singles. There may have been the odd John Peel play, but I think Bob Harris is playing Nick Drake more now than Nick Drake was ever played when those albums were out. How were people going to hear about him?’
In the early days of Radio 1, stringent Musicians’ Union regulations limited the amount of airplay which could be devoted to playing records, and what little needle-time there was, had to be shared with easy-listening Radio 2. To fill the remaining hours and ensure that the new sounds were heard, live sessions became the lifeblood of the new network. As marked as the split between Radio 1 and Radio 2 was the division on Radio 1 between the daytime Top Forty pop fodder – purveyed by Dave Lee Travis, Tony Blackburn and Noel Edmonds – and the underground sounds, as relayed by John Peel, Pete Drummond and Stuart Henry.
During the afternoon of 5 August 1969 Nick Drake made his way to the BBC’s Maida Vale Studios. The studios, where the bulk of Radio 1’s sessions were recorded, were only a few hundred yards from EMI’s Abbey Road Studios, where, that same day, The Beatles were recording ‘You Never Give Me Your Money’ and ‘Because’ for what proved to be their final album together, Abbey Road. Nick spent a couple of hours at Maida Vale’s Studio 5, recording four songs for broadcast on John Peel’s Radio 1 programme. Sitting alone, and accompanied only by his own guitar, he performed ‘Time Of No Reply’, ‘Cello Song’, ‘River Man’ and ‘Three Hours’ – the last three from his debut album, Five Leaves Left. When the session was broadcast the following night, 6 August 1969, it was the last time ‘Time Of No Reply’ would be officially heard until it became the title track of Nick’s posthumous fourth album.
Pete Ritzema was the BBC Radio staff producer who booked Nick for his radio debut: ‘I thought the Five Leaves Left album was amazing, so I booked him on the strength of that. I remember being slightly disappointed by the session because rather than come in and do free-flowing spontaneous versions of the songs, he just did the arrangements as they were on the record. So he left gaps for the string arrangements, while he’d just strum away. He was very concerned that he didn’t have the strings, he wanted to do it like the record, which is understandable, but I thought he would be a folkie, and come in and improvise, but he wasn’t up for that.
‘It was just him and an acoustic guitar. I was pleased that he did it, because his voice was so fantastic, but funnily enough I did have that feeling of disappointment at the end of it … I didn’t realize he’d never done another session. I hope I didn’t put him off. He was a gloomy fellow, very, very quiet. I don’t know of the whereabouts of any tape – I haven’t got one.’
Long after Nick’s death, rumours persisted that the Radio 1 tape still existed, and was to be made available on record. Certainly the Strange Fruit label were allowed access to the BBC’s archives during the 1980s, and began releasing half-remembered and legendary sessions on disc. Cult figures and contemporaries of Nick, such as Syd Barrett and Tim Buckley, had their Radio 1 sessions made available. Not the Nick Drake session, however. Radio 1 archivist Phil Lawton told me: ‘The Nick Drake tape doesn’t exist. The tapes were junked. Very few artists have a complete archive, not just Nick, but Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Led Zeppelin … Corporation policy in those days was to reuse tape – they were very concerned about storage space. You have to remember, in those days, and in their eyes, pop was very disposable. Radio 1 started in 1967, and I think that the BBC mandarins rather hoped that in two years they could go back to the Light Programme.
‘Some producers in the sixties and seventies didn’t agree with the BBC policy of reusing tape, so rather than junk sessions, they kept them, and they are filtering back to me. There is also the possibility that somebody could have a tape of the Nick Drake session which they taped off the radio at the time.’
Witchseason’s Anthea Joseph, who was still ‘nannying’ Nick as and when required, recalls him recording another Radio 1 session, which appears never to have been broadcast: ‘Joe said to me: “We’ve got Nick in the John Peel prog. You’ve got to take him down there.” It was at the Paris Studio, in Regent Street… I got Nick there, took him out, gave him dinner, and we went down there and he said: “I don’t want to do this.” I don’t want to do it. I’m not playing. It was just in the studio, there wasn’t an audience – but because it was going to be on the radio, in his mind that was like being in the Albert Hall.
‘It took hours to get this twenty-minute session. Bernie Andrews and John were wonderful … endless patience, the kindness – and every now and again Nick would get up and say: “I’m going now”, and head for the door, and I was like a whipper-in. I’d crack the whip on the door, going: “Back, back”, and he went back. We did actually finish it, but it was absolutely exhausting. I had to take him home too, because I wasn’t sure that he’d actually get there if I let him loose.’
For nearly th
irty years that August 1969 John Peel session was believed to be Nick Drake’s only radio appearance – by the time independent local radio was introduced to the UK in 1973, Nick was in no fit state even to consider any radio work. Then, in 1997, Iain Cameron contacted me with details of a radio session he had undertaken, accompanying his old Cambridge contemporary: ‘I started doing sessions for Radio 2. Alec Reid had all these funny folkie types coming in … I said to Alec: “There’s a guy called Nick Drake, you should get hold of his record”, so that’s how Nick got the session, and because I’d made the lead, Alec said do you want to play on it?
‘So I went to his flat on Haverstock Hill. I guess it’s summer, so it might be a year after the May Ball, May or June 1970 … I found him much harder to work with in London. There was a … stranger atmosphere around. It’s the sort of thing that’s hard to put into words, but when you’re trying to work like that, you detect quite readily. He wasn’t giving anything …
‘In the studio was a celeste, a little keyboard. Nick saw this, and started fiddling about with it. And he did a version of “Saturday Sun” on this celeste. I didn’t know he played the keyboard, so that was quite a surprise. He had the song down as well on piano as he had on guitar … We did maybe four to eight songs. My impression is that Alec didn’t find him unbearably difficult to work with. He was a bit more communicative in the studio than he was at Haverstock Hill. I sensed that drugs could have been a factor there. That was the climate of the time; it may have been contributory in his decline.’
On 23 March 1970 Iain Cameron and Nick Drake spent most of the day in Studio S2 at Broadcasting House. The session was then cut up and broadcast between midnight and 2a.m. on the night of 13 April 1970. Disc jockey Jon Cruyer hosted that night’s edition of Night Ride, which was broadcast simultaneously on Radio 1 and Radio 2. As with the Radio 1 session, the tapes have long since been scrapped by the BBC, and producer Alec Reid told me he certainly has no copy of the session himself. BBC mandarins at the time were very strict with producers who wanted to keep sessions, reminding them of the illegality of the act.
Nick’s perception of his own failure was a lacerating wound, but with so few people actually getting to hear his music there was little that anyone could do about it. Island themselves, from Chris Blackwell down, were always strongly supportive of Nick, but they were also slightly baffled about what to do with the quiet young man who loathed performing. Blackwell told me: ‘He was very introverted … I liked him very much and also liked his music, although other than John Martyn, Island had never handled his style of music and I told him I was unsure that Island could do a good job for him.’
Tim Clark, Island’s production manager at the time of Bryter Layter, summed up the label’s feel at the time Nick was struggling to gain a foothold: ‘Marketing then was servicing stores with cardboard cut-outs of your acts, advertising in Melody Maker and so on. We knew the market. We knew who was going to buy the stuff, most of all we knew which shops they were going to buy it in … The independent shops were a lot more important then, back before the megastores and chains. There were some extremely good independent shops that stocked this new music; they were very enthusiastic. There were always pockets, London obviously, and university towns played a very important part. The university circuit was very important in those days …’
Meanwhile Nick Drake’s records sold in tiny, tiny numbers to people probably more attracted by the producer’s name than that of the artist. Pete Frame remembers how much cachet attached to the name of Joe Boyd: ‘He was the ultimate in taste and cool. Everything he touched, I thought, was fantastic. I loved The Purple Gang. Elektra Records was the best label ever … The Incredible String Band’s The 5000 Spirits, that was another of those instances of “Where have these songs come from?”, “How do people write these songs?” They were just so original and unique. Fabulous songs, and so off the wall instrumentally. You thought the guy was a genius, everything he had his name attached to you thought was brilliant.’
Chapter 11
Respectful reviews, a tiny, loyal audience, but gnawing at Nick Drake following the release of Bryter Layter in November 1970 was a tangible sense of failure.
Looking back, it wasn’t simply that he had failed – it was as much to do with what he had to compete with. Even as an introspective singer-songwriter, Nick was beaten on his own turf. With Bob Dylan in mysterious, self-imposed exile between 1970 and 1973, and the search on for ‘new Dylans’, the beginning of the seventies was the very time to be a singer-songwriter.
American James Taylor had broken big in 1970 with Sweet Baby James, an album whose sweet melancholy found such a warm reception that it stayed on the US album charts for over two years. Following its release in 1971, Carole King’s Tapestry went on to shift over ten million copies, making it the most successful rock album by a woman up to that date. After his Warlock Music session of 1970, Elton John had conquered the world with Tumbleweed Connection and Madman Across The Water. Cat Stevens, having dispatched the chirpy pop image of ‘I’m Gonna Get Me A Gun’ to the dustbin of pop history, was reborn as the sensitive, bearded soul, staring from the sleeve of Mona Bone Jakon. His subsequent Tea For The Tillerman and Teaser & The Firecat helped Island’s profits soar.
Paul Simon had shaken off the cosy, easy-listening image of Bridge Over Troubled Water with his eclectic, eponymous 1972 solo debut. Leonard Cohen became enshrined in a generation’s hearts as the emotional surgeon, using his songs as sensitively as a scalpel. Phil Ochs, Tim Hardin, Van Morrison and Tim Buckley, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell – all were appealing to their own devoted audiences. By 1973 Bruce Springsteen, John Prine, David Blue, Loudon Wainwright III, Jackson Browne, Tom Waits, Kris Kristofferson, John Prine and David Ackles had all released their debut albums.
Undeniably part of the singer-songwriter’s appeal was a fascination with the private made public. There was a definite confessional element to the best-selling albums of the period – everyone knew of James Taylor’s roller-coaster emotional state and his heroin addiction; but success soon removed the American singer-songwriters from anything approaching reality. Leaving their teenage bedsits far behind, they were installed in luxury hotel rooms, perpetually on the road promoting hit albums.
Nick Drake’s British contemporaries like John Martyn, Al Stewart, Richard Thompson, Cat Stevens, Sandy Denny and Ralph McTell were also out gigging to promote their new albums. If ever there was a time for Nick to break through, this was it.
Anthea Joseph: ‘I don’t think Joe realized how paranoid Nick was about gigging. I don’t think any of us did in fact. He knew Nick was difficult … Whatever the damage that Nick had done to himself at some point, I don’t know, but something happened. By the time we met him … it was almost as though he was bricked up. There was a wall round him. I don’t know whether Nick had some bad trips that turned him over or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Certainly his drug habits were considerable. Not just smoking … I don’t think he was a junkie, but I mean there was an awful lot of Mogadon around and things like that, you know. But he was never straight – you knew – you could always tell when someone was stoned. I don’t know, but it may even have been prescribed by that time.
‘Nick didn’t twitch – he was always very still. And isolated. That’s what I mean about being bricked up, he could be in a room, and there’d be Fairport there, String Band, all sorts of people falling in and out of the building, and Nick would be still, completely on his own, surrounded by people … shrieking with laughter … sitting on the floor and saying: “Here, what do you think of this?”, and playing a verse of something. And Nick would be there – but he was always over there – he was not part of it.’
Around the time of Bryter Layter, Island Records recognized that Nick Drake was never going to reach the wide audience of Cat Stevens. Tim Clark, production manager at Island, recalls a meeting to discuss the second album’s sleeve: ‘We met in Joe Boyd’s office, in Charlotte Street, Joe, Anthea, myself, Kei
th [Morris] and Nick. Nick sat there looking down, barely looking up. All his answers were monosyllabic – occasionally not even monosyllabic, sometimes just grunts. We were all trying to coax replies out of Nick. Ideas came up, were discussed, and Nick sat there, and we tried hard … “What do you think?” It was difficult to get him to do more than grunt to say yes.
‘There was absolutely no heaviness … Everybody was very sensitive to Nick … And Joe, who was a fairly quiet man himself … certainly never raised his voice or anything like that. We all thought Nick had potential … and that Nick was a very important artist. A lot of the time, decisions weren’t terribly commercial, and that’s why we staggered from one disaster to another. We did spend too much on sleeves, we did spend too much on advertising, and we did spend too much on the artists that we absolutely believed in ourselves. If we had stood back I suppose we would have recognized that actually to sell huge amounts of Nick Drake records, Nick had to get out and tour to promote those records.’
Nick’s state of mind during 1970 and 1971 could best be described as delicate, though Gabrielle points out that at one point his problems seem to have stemmed from a physical source: ‘There wasn’t a sea change in Nick. It was a gradual thing … I think the crux came around the time he produced Bryter Layter, and he was quite ill, he had kidney stones, which caused my parents terrific concern. He would disappear in London, and nobody would know where he was. That was the first time I came in touch with Island. We were trying to find out where Nick was.’
Nick Drake Page 19
