Sassy & The Fishmonger


Photo by paul morris on Unsplash

In typical Liverpool fashion, our local fishmonger was known to one and all as Billy Fish. An affable bloke in his late twenties, he ran the shop alone, but whether he owned the place, or worked for someone else, I knew not, as there was no sign on the storefront. I was about fourteen when he took me on as a part-time helper.

Before school, I’d come in to help him dress the old-fashioned marble slabs with cracked ice and sprigs of parsley, and in the evenings I’d help him close up, swabbing and mopping up. Weekends, I’d spend longer hours for a little more money, although I seldom handled the merchandise.

Sarah Vaughan ~ Wikimedia Commons

Our chores were all done behind closed doors to the accompaniment of a portable Dansette record player, which he’d load with 45’s from his collection. His musical tastes were pretty sophisticated, particularly in the area of what he referred to as “the thrushes”, those classy chanteuses who were attaining post-war success on both sides of the Atlantic, and among them he held none in higher esteem than Sarah Vaughan, or “Sassy” as she was fondly nick-named.

It was the late ’50’s, and rock ‘n’ roll was already knockin’ on the door, but even as I was avid about the new music, my family’s musical background was such that I was already playing guitar in my Uncle Jack’s dance band , before my folks would let me anywhere near a beat group, and I was also working on piano and bass. Uncle Brian played violin and clarinet, and did some composition in the classical vein and my elder cousin John was a drummer. Therefore, I was no stranger to adult sophisticated music, and enjoyed a great deal of it. I loved Gershwin in particular.

Sarah Vaughan had recorded a song called “Broken Hearted Melody“, which had become popular on BBC in early 1959, so I knew her by name, but Billy was crazy about her recording of “Every Time We Say Goodbye“, a Cole Porter song (actually written in the “40’s) that had just come out in her version. He knew this record back to front, inside and out, and offered an amazingly detailed account of every nuance in the performance, which was remarkable in a fellow who played no instrument, and was basically a fan. I had no problem at all listening to the record on repeat as we did fishmongerly things and Billy pointed out musical highlights, including the exquisite melodic joke Porter makes on the line ” How strange the change from major to minor”, emphasized by Sassy’s gorgeous delivery.

My musical DNA had made me a lazy listener up to that point. I took it for granted that deciphering chord sequences and tempos, bass lines and the structural  building blocks, were just there….my gift. So, I could do a basic analysis of a composition really quickly, but I often missed the deeper nuances…..but, hey …I was fourteen! The fact that Billy could articulate such deeply sophisticated musical concepts in non-musical terms blew me away. This guy listened hard, and took nothing for granted….he worked for his musical  gratification. I picked up on that pretty quickly! By the time Ketty Lester’s epochal “Love Letters” arrived, with the Lincoln Mayorga piano part and production, I was so ready for it, thanks to Billy Fish!

As time went on, I followed what seems, in retrospect, to be a preordained path…50+ years in all aspects of the music world, but Billy Fish was an important part of my development. Ta! Billy….

The Truth About That Fine Day Randy Newman Rendered Me Mute

I Love L.A. by Sam Howzit
I Love L.A. by Sam Howzit Creative Commons license

In fifty five years of knocking around the music game I’ve been lucky enough to rub shoulders with a shipload of folks; some idols, some peers, some up and comers, and the occasional nasty, but surprisingly few of those, when I think about it. The nature of the business requires a modicum of social skills, including when and when not to impose, or insert oneself into a situation. I’ve only been completely awe-struck and dumb-struck once, and I mentally kicked myself for years because of the lost opportunity.

At the time, Randy Newman was at the early stages of his career and was probably best known in the U.K as a result of Alan Price covering several of his songs, most notably “Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear.” A friend of mine had brought me a copy of his first album back from the States, so I’d had almost a year to become completely besotted by his style in every facet….a real game changer for me. I must have become a very quick study, because by the time Randy arrived in London for his first appearances, I had already written a big hit for Alan and Georgie Fame, “Rosetta”, which owed a debt to both Randy and Fats Domino (I wasn’t yet aware of Randy’s New Orleans background, or that Fats was a huge influence on him). Alan very kindly invited me as his guest to Randy’s first concert at the Festival Hall, and lo and behold, I found myself backstage in his dressing room after the show- just him. Alan and me. Being a Liverpool/ Irish lad I’ve never been short of the gift of the gab….but Alan was a rather taciturn Geordie, and Randy wasn’t overly talkative either, except for general pleasantries. They had obviously met before, but the level of cool, as I perceived it, was such that my usual blarney was severely compromised. There was so much I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t do it. After half an hour or so, the meet came to a conclusion, and I’ve always regretted not jumping in. Years later, when I was able to link up with Van Dyke Parks, who produced that first Newman album, and became equally influential on my own musical path, I was far less reticent.

If You Liked This Post Try This One: Still Chirpin’ After All These Years

Meeting Street Out / Transcontinental Recording In

Junior Jukebox Volume 4
Cd Release Party for Junior Jukebox Volume 4 – Meeting Street


Long time, no blog. Haven’t been lazing around, however…..Papa Snow Vol 4 “Meeting Street”, was released last month via EEG, and is performing amazingly well!

I’ve now embarked on an interesting “hands across the water” project involving Irish songstress and composer Elizabeth Reed (who I produced some years ago), and the great tin whistle virtuoso Davy Spillane ( of Moving Hearts fame).

It’s quite literally an Atlantic crossing; assembling tracks here in Nashville studios using great players with Celtic music connections ( Pat McInerney, Ron DeLaVega and John Mock) to adorn Elizabeth’s vocals and compositions, performed initially to my keyboard accompaniments. Then, due to the wonders of modern technology, my stalwart engineer/mixer Joe Funderburk wafts them off in the ether to Dublin, where Davy weaves his magic before returning his contributions by the same method.

We’re well beyond the half way mark, and the results to date have been very satisfying, and not in the least “techie” sounding….it’s all beautifully recorded, and beautifully acoustic….well, I couldn’t resist sneaking a taste of Wurlitzer electric piano in here and there-so shoot me !

We should be done and dusted by mid-August, so we’ll keep everyone posted on future news !

Have YOU listened to the latest copy of Junior Jukebox? How about reviewing it on Amazon? If NOT, how about getting a copy for the kiddies in your life:)

Take Me To Junior Jukebox Volume 4 – Meeting Street on Amazon!

From the Desk: The Yellow Scream & The Purple Dream

A Tale of Two Albums

Little Richard

I first heard “Tutti Frutti” on a big, ornate Wurlitzer jukebox at Butlin’s Holiday Camp at Pwihelli, Wales, and it fried my eleven year old mind totally and permanently.  I’d already heard a few records emanating from the USA under the catch-all banner of rock ‘n’ roll and was already enamored of Fats Domino, but to my ears Fats was  a jazzy blues artist.  I came from a family of working musicians, so had already been exposed to a quite sophisticated musical landscape by age eleven.  I was exploring piano and was soon to acquire my first guitar as my reward for passing the British 11 Plus Exam – the gateway to higher education for a working-class kid.

The Butlin’s jukebox had Bill Haley and The Comets, some early Presley and Chuck Berry, and the first lukewarm bleatings of British rock music, but I could tell instantly that this record was the real thing:  100 proof, high octane.  The propulsive quality was beyond exciting, with the thick layers of synchronized saxophones driving the improbably frantic, hysterical screaming of one Richard Penniman … the quasar, the thunderbolt … Little Richard.  The B-side (yeah,sure!) was “Long Tall Sally,” and I spent hours pumping coins into the jukebox to hear those two inflammatory pieces of music.  By the time our week-long holiday was over and we returned to Liverpool, I was totally besotted and brainwashed by what had hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

No, I didn’t rush out to buy the disc when we got home.  Although there were gramophones to be found in the neighborhood and the family, my dad had opted for an early Grundig tape recorder instead so he could record classical music from the BBC.  It was expected that I would buckle down to my academic future, which did not include the rampant ravings of Little Richard.

As fate would have it, there was a shop in our part of town called Epstein & Sons, which sold electric appliances of all kinds.  It occupied a large corner lot and consequently had room for big display windows, two fronting the busy thoroughfare of County Road and a third and smaller window facing onto the side street.  This window had recently started featuring musical merchandise of a modest nature:  small Dansette record players and radios, a smattering of down-market guitars and the like, plus a display of records, including some of the new-fangled LP discs.  This side window seemed to be put together with a lot of care, and became a regular stopping place for us incipient teenagers. I lived a couple of blocks away and passed it daily as there was also a bus stop nearby.

At this point I had yet to see a photograph of Little Richard, so when Epstein’s displayed his first LP “Here’s Little Richard” in all its screamingly fluorescent yellow glory, it hit me as the visual embodiment of the music still rooted in my head. The photographic image was outrageous, and I didn’t even know that word yet.  It was a head-shot and, yes, he was screaming for sure!  Eyes closed, mouth wide and extravagantly equipped with pearly whites, a towering pompadour, and a precise toothbrush moustache, it seemed like every bead of sweat on his face was etched in diamond dust.  For grey, dreary Liverpool, in grey, dreary post -war England it was a remarkable, jolting image.  Although it was an exact facsimile of the U.S. cover on Specialty Records, one has to praise the marketing people at Decca Records, who were issuing the discs on their London-American imprint, for letting that cover loose in England untouched.

I could live without a pictureless single, but the actual album I had to have!  I had a source of pocket-money from helping out at a fishmongers, which paid half a crown a week.  At that rate it would take almost a month to save up the price of the LP, so I spent a lot of time staring in that Epstein & Sons window.  The other black face on display was that of Fats Domino, in caricature, which in hindsight was very apt.  Allen Toussaint once famously remarked “Fat’s Domino’s music never harmed man, woman or child,” whereas Little Richard’s look and sound were the diametric opposite.  Dangerous !


In retrospect, there were many extraordinary developments in this twelve-song compilation, which was essentially the A and B sides of his entire output on Specialty up to that time.  The studio cast was basically  the team who had provided Fats Domino’s genial, rolling groove on records since 1949 and the studio in New Orleans, right where it had always been, was Cosimo Mattassa’s – J & M.

Dave Bartholomew was not in charge, however. Bumps Blackwell, who came in as Art Rupe’s producer on the sessions, was initially very doubtful about Richard’s ability on the ivories, and consequently booked the New Orleans piano legend Huey Smith to handle the piano duties. Huey played on the early attempts at recording Richard at J &M, but those takes didn’t get it as far as Art was concerned.  Rupe is quoted as saying that Bumps called that one wrong: “Richard could only play in one key, but he was great in that key!”

Penniman’s relentless piano pounding and generally manic triads jack-hammering along with his over-the-top vocals, affected the way Earl Palmer was able to play the drum parts.  In his biography Backbeat Palmer stated that Richard’s rough and ready approach was as exciting in the studio as on stage, and in order to accommodate the artist’s unique perception he had to come up with an approach that is now considered to be the inventive template for rock drumming.  Palmer moved the right hand emphasis away from the ride cymbal to the hi-hat because Richard had already filled that acoustic space with those relentless triads.  To all intents and purposes, this was the beginning of rock drumming as we know it today, the looser, splashy swing of a ride cymbal replaced by the more clipped hi-hat sound, which also changed the perception of syncopation for the whole band.

Fats and the other New Orleans piano “Perfessors” were much better technicians than Richard and had the rich history of piano playing in the area on which to base their styles.  Penniman was a Georgia country boy out of Macon; he’d been knocking around on the southern circuit for quite some time and had even cut some sides with his road band, The Upsetters, so his own approach was pretty much set by the time he began working with the sophisticated musicians at J & M.  It was down to them to accommodate his way of doing it, which is probably why the studio band sounded so radically different on Richard’s records than on those of Fats and Bartholomew.  Bumps Blackwell was also a stranger to the area, a gun for hire, so he was also free of preconceptions as to how the music should turn out.

The resulting juggernaut of sound flattened everything else that  hit the record stores and airwaves.  Cosimo’s monophonic mixes are still a marvel … never listen to this stuff in stereo, by the way!  This was genuinely unhinged, wild and crazy shit.

Presley , Buddy Holly and Carl Perkins were coming out of an  established form (country and western), Chuck Berry’s music had strains of country and small combo jump blues, and Fats couldn’t have been more rooted in his hometown of New Orleans.  Only Bo Diddley was as truly iconoclastic as Little Richard Penniman, but Bo’s palate was much more limited and restricted, although no less exciting in its way.

Drop a needle anywhere on this platter, it doesn’t matter … the barn is burnin’ wherever you land.


It isn’t just the music either.  I soon realized that within the rapid-fire nonsense syllables was a cast of characters worthy of Chaucer (I’d just started reading The Canterbury Tales).  Bald‑headed Sally, Uncle John, Aunt Mary, Miss Anne, Ready Teddy, Jenny, and the narrator himself, who frequently puts himself in the thick of the action.  It also seemed that the word “ball” served equally as noun or verb; in short, I could tell these were not paeans to pure innocence.  They were nasty songs about nasty people doing nasty things … grown-up people doing grown-up stuff, and apparently having a ball ballin’, slippin’ and slidin’, peepin’ and a hidin’, and so on.  This was a big ol’ slice of black American life served pipin’ hot.  There was another subtext I couldn’t put my finger on just yet, but “Little Richard – Volume 2” was soon to clarify that for me.


When “Little Richard – Volume 2” took its place beside the Yellow Scream in the display window at Epstein & Sons, the visual contrast was extremely noticeable.  Haloed in a purple haze, the headshot was air-brushed to a svelte smoothness with the addition of what looked suspiciously like a liberal use of cosmetics.  In retrospect, it seems to have provided the template for the look that Prince took to the bank thirty years later, whether by accident or design.

The music was pretty much as explosive as before, blasting off with “Keep A Knockin'” delivered at a blistering pace, and throughout the collection there were enough incendiary performances to keep my rock ‘n’ roll heart happy.  However, Art Rupe must have been aware that Fats Domino was having a string of huge successes with rocking re-vamps of standards and evergreens, so in the mix this time were “By The Light Of The Silvery Moon” and “Baby Face.” Fats’s style was such that songs from an older generation fitted very well with his approach, whereas Richard’s take on these standards came across  as camp, although I didn’t know that word yet in its socio-sexual context.  Most disconcerting to my still-innocent sensibilities was the ending of “Ooh, My Soul” where his otherwise flame-thrower vocal dissolved into a girlish simpering giggle.  At that point in time, homosexual behavior was generally very discreet in the U.K. and especially in an über-macho environment like Liverpool, so it took awhile for the penny to drop that Richard was gay, but so what?  In hindsight, and in the historical context, there are clues scattered throughout his work, but his persona and sound were so exotic and wildly flamboyant anyway, that we just accepted it as part of the package.

Obviously, a sophisticate like Brian Epstein would have been in on the skinny; he must have got a kick displaying those subversive album covers openly in staid, Irish-Catholic North Liverpool!

What is undeniable is the fervor and pulse of the music, arguably the greatest rock ‘n’ roll ever recorded, and as scalding hot today as it was sixty years ago.  Although ostensibly a non-stop paean to rampant hedonism, most of Richard’s stylistic devices came directly out of the black Pentecostal church tradition, which was still a hidden, unknown quantity to the world at large before Richard let the genie out of the bottle.  The black church seems to have made its peace between the sacred and profane early on, making it possible for such a unique artist as Little Richard Penniman to emerge fully formed from that background.

I was lined up with rest of the Liverpool musical youth, when Richard headlined at Liverpool Empire, backed by Sounds Incorporated and a barely teenage Billy Preston on Hammond Organ, with The Beatles making their first concert appearance anywhere, ever, as the opening act.  In the late 60s, when I was deep into the Pentecostal soul scene as Doris Troy’s pianist and band‑leader(and was consequently under the Apple umbrella along with Billy Preston), I had the great pleasure of spending quite a bit of time with Billy (always a monster talent), and he had fond memories of his time with Little Richard.  He reckoned that without touring with Richard he probably would never have linked up with The Beatles or The Rolling Stones.

These two Little Richard albums are essential listening for anyone interested in the vibrant heart of rock ‘n’ roll!


As promised, this piece is dedicated to R. Stevie Moore, who knows his rock ‘n’ roll and who triggered this memory by posting a picture of The Yellow Scream on Facebook a couple of weeks ago.

The Annual BBC Berry Birthday Show

The annual BBC 4 “Berry Birthday” showing of the 1972  Stanley Dorman-produced  ” In Concert- Chuck Berry with Rockin’ Horse”  makes me realize why the Beeb has never licensed this performance out to general C.D.

Over the 43 years since we did this performance, it has become critically acclaimed as the best Chuck Berry performance on film ( Hail! Hail ! Rock an’ Roll, notwithstanding }.  This was the last show on an  extensive European  tour in which the promoter had the foresight to engage me, and my colleagues Billy Kinsley, Jimmy Campbell and Dave Harrison ( three fifths of Rockin’ Horse, the studio group}) to be his band on every date, the various T.V. shows included.

As we here hired by the promoter, we never had to deal with Chuck’s sometimes confrontational money issues, so we could just glory in playing with him, and a wonderful rapport was the result.

There was never a set list, the keys were arbitrary from show to show, but we were so tight on his ass, that he couldn’t shake us.

As soon as he copped that , he started to pop out deep cuts, like “Havana Moon” and ” You Never Can Tell” – check, Gotcha ! We stood silent for the live recording of ” My ding-a-ling”, but I sneaked in some piano licks on the similarly acappela ” South Of The Border”, which was the follow-up single on Chess.

We developed the long piece, ” The Blues” during the tour. I usually sat next to him on the plane, or bus, or whatever, and one time  I suggested that maybe I could play a Thelonius Monk type solo on this particular tune, as Monk seemed like the blues to me. Chuck, who was deep into Charlie Christian, gave me the slanted smile and said ” Let’s do it”. That became the instrumental centerpiece as the tour progressed. It was all playing, and we did play.

When he was playing serious, he was killer. We used to do ‘ A Train” to sound -check,  for Heaven’s sake !

Al these years later, it still seems like a dream !

From The Desk – The Real Jungle Room

The Jungle Room by Ed and Eddy
The Jungle Room by Ed and Eddy (Creative Commons –

At Graceland, tourists goggle at the sight of the garish room that Elvis dubbed “The Jungle Room.”

As far as I’m concerned, the real Jungle Room was in Hampstead, London, where Doris Troy resided from 1969-1972, during her time with Apple Records and her reign as doyenne of the British back-ground singer scene.  Befitting her status as a hit songwriter and esteemed performer, and newly signed to The Beatles’ label, she lived in fine style.  A spacious apartment in fashionable Hampstead, with a tennis court, and her Austin Princess limo parked in the back, it had a huge room for entertaining, which she had tastefully decorated  with African motifs and outfitted with enough banquettes and coffee tables to comfortably seat thirty or forty people.

I’d been associated with Doris since her first U.K. tour with The Rolling Stones and The Hollies in 1963, had played with her on all her subsequent European tours, and so, by the time she settled in London, I happily became her full-time pianist and musical director.  I lived reasonably close by, in Camden Town, in a nice third story flat, but because it was only accessible via a narrow, Dickensian staircase, the natural home for my Hammond B-3, when we weren’t on the road, was The Jungle Room.  Being a cool pianist herself, Doris had a fine spinet piano (Yamaha or Kawai, not sure) in there, and also an Afro-Cuban percussion setup.

In this room Doris would assemble vocal groups to rehearse for her myriad vocal session projects and it was where we brewed up the Pentecostal rave-up that became the ground-breaking live album “The Rainbow Testament.” Doris’s Jungle Room soon turned into a “Salon de Soul,” if you will.  Initially, Billy Preston was around all the time, as he was signed to Apple too, and he and Doris were writing and recording full-steam.  I got to spend so much precious time with him … what a warm and friendly man, and so generous … one could learn a lot from Billy P.

Every eminent U.S. touring star had the Troy phone number, and that was often the first call they’d make!  Doris was like the U.S Ambassador for Soul in the U.K, (or more aptly, ” Mama Soul,” as she came to be known there). Her place became a home away from home, and the amazing array of great artists I got to hang out with in that room still spins my head to this day!  Ben. E. King, affectionately called Bennie, Edwin Starr, Maxine Brown, Obie Benson of The Four Tops, Esther Phillips, Junior Walker, Solomon Burke, Rufus Thomas, and a host of others would come by.  The piano, the Hammond organ, and the percussion set-up would usually be too tempting for guests to by-pass, so many an impromptu jam would happen.

It was also ground zero for the many ex-pat Americans in Doris’s orbit:  Pat (P.P.) Arnold and Jimmy Thomas, recently of the Ike &Tina Turner Revue, Rosetta Hightower, Claudia Linnear, Jimmy Helms, and many others got it on back there. Stephen Stills was a frequent visitor and, needless to say, there was usually a sprinkling of Apple illuminati around.

When Chris White, of Zombies fame, signed on to produce “The Rainbow Testament,” he got his first taste of the Pentecostal bomb squad in that room.  By rock’n’roll standards, Chris was a low-key gentleman, arriving sedately with his new bride, but he was rapidly swept up in the contagious atmosphere, only leaving when the last Hallelujah! had been sung in the early hours.  By the time tape was rolling at the Rainbow Theatre some weeks later, Chris had his sanctified hat on for sure!

The band assembled for that live album was a juggernaut, much larger than the regular version of The Gospel Truth (which was usually a 10-piece) so the logistics were formidable .  As an ensemble rehearsal wasn’t on the cards, the great saxman Phil Kenzie, Doris, and I plotted and planned the whole shebang back there in The Jungle Room like it was the Normandy landing. Phil was in charge of the horn section, Doris had responsibility for the choir, natch, and the rhythm section was my pigeon.  Each element was rehearsed separately with the three of us in attendance, and Chris dropped by from time to time to check progress.  By show time the jigsaw fitted together perfectly, as is evident in the finished product.

But, as George Harrison, who produced records with both Doris and Billy during that time, sagely put it, “All Things Must Pass.”  Eventually Doris returned to the States; I followed soon after, as did Phil.  I sometimes wonder if subsequent occupants of that Hampstead house ever walked into that big back room and picked up a ghostly soulful vibe or two.

From The Desk…Re-Issues

Mr. Bing’s by JOtwell

There was time when re-issues (or sometimes first issues) of bygone recorded music was almost exclusively the territory of jazz or classical musicians, and I would try to imagine the feeling of hearing one’s contributions to music from one’s past. After fifty plus years of recording, I think I now know.

The advent of CDs fueled re-issues on a much larger scale, and like many musicians of a certain vintage I’ve been able to hear music I was a part of so many years ago all gussied up for both nostalgia buffs and newer ears.  Older studio recordings nowadays are almost infinitely malleable, via digital manipulation and editing, but filmed live performances from way back in the day tend to be closer to the bone, I feel, because the sound and visuals have to be in sync, so there’s not as much leeway to change or “improve” things.  To me they are the more interesting things to re-view, or re-hear, so to speak.

What I remember most about the recordings I was involved with in the 60s and early 70s in the U.K., which have been the subject of extensive re-issue, was the fact that I was shit-scared, with my heart in my mouth, most of the time, yet the re-issued records don’t convey anything but calm professionalism on my part, and on the part of everyone else involved.

The live concert records and TV performances I did  from that era, with Doris Troy and, particularly Chuck Berry, are alive with swagger and hot licks all round … living in the heady moment, I guess. Mr. Berry, in particular, used to encourage me to play looong piano solos, and he’d whip the crowd up no end, which I appreciated at the time, and still do viewing the footage today.

When I get a compliment from a younger musician about a certain track I played on, it’s a wonderful feeling, whether a studio track or a live one. My idol and dear late friend Larry Knechtel, who played on so many monster records, told me once … and I paraphrase …”The only record that matters is the next one.”  Wise words indeed, but when one has a less extensive track record than someone of his epic achievements, the opportunity to savor highlights of yesterday are something to be savored.

In Nashville there are legions of players who have played on legions of records, both old and new, and the same goes for the brotherhood in the great recording centers around the world, who all deserve the greatest respect. To my brothers and sisters in arms, I would counsel y’all to smell the faded roses whenever they’re available. They may be fresher than you remember!