In early 2015 the great folk guitarist John Renbourn died. Along with Bert Jansch and Davey Graham, Renbourn was at the very forefront of the 60s acoustic folk blues revolution, a movement which influenced a entire generation of guitarists, in rock as well as folk.
Back on the old blog I wrote the piece below, which sadly disappeared into the ether following the big Afterword crash. With the first anniversary of Renbourn’s death not too far away, I hope you don’t mind if I present a slightly re-worked version of that essay.
Come with me now as we travel back in time and re-visit… (Get on with it! Ed)
http://i.imgur.com/4KbaUEr.jpg
Johnny Concheroo says
Today the M1 motorway cuts a 193 mile (311 km) swathe along the backbone of England, linking London with the major cities of the industrial north and midlands. But back when the road was first built in 1959, it only extended a piddling 70 miles or so, petering out just before Birmingham. That meant journeying to London from anywhere north of the midlands was a tiresome, all-day exercise, especially if you were hitch-hiking.
This story takes place in 1968 and although by then the motorway had pushed a little further north, almost as far as Leicester in fact, it still required a trek across country to reach the miraculous New Road (as The League Of Gentlemen might call it).
But first a few words on hitch-hiking. I’ve noticed that people don’t seem to hitch-hike very much anymore. I’m not quite sure why, but at a guess I’d say it’s probably because the likelihood of picking up (or being picked up by) a deranged serial killer, rapist or just a common or garden, all-purpose nutter have increased greatly with each passing decade. But back in the 60s such niggling unpleasantries weren’t too much of a consideration and almost everyone hitch-hiked. Rain or shine every motorway slip road and major junction was packed with hopefuls trying to thumb a free ride to somewhere or other.
If there were squaddies in uniform, or car delivery men returning to base with trade plates tucked under their arms trying for a lift, they would always get picked up before you and the wait could be long. But generally you’d get a ride eventually.
And so it was that early on a Sunday evening in 1968 I found myself stranded in the middle of nowhere – Burton-on-Trent to be exact – dropped off by an asthmatic, chain-smoking lorry driver who had given me a ride from just outside Sheffield. At this rate I’d not reach London until late into the night, or possibly even the next day.
Wondering what to do next I walked the streets considering the options. The motorway was still 20 miles away and with traffic bound to be light on a Sunday evening I guessed the chances of getting a lift would be slim. Then I passed a pub and noticed a hand-written chalk sign sitting out on the pavement: “Folk Club Tonight – John Renbourn” it read. This looked more promising.
Along with his musical partner Bert Jansch, Renbourn was already part of the UK folk blues aristocracy by 1968. His guitar playing was legendary and other than perhaps the brilliant but wayward Davy Graham no one came close to matching his knuckle-busting virtuosity.
Folk music was still a long way from crossing over into the mainstream, however. Renbourn and Jansch may have been like rock stars to us young folkies, but your average record buyer wouldn’t have had the first idea who these people were. When they weren’t playing the trendy London folk clubs or prestigious university circuit, guys like Jansch, Renbourn, John Martyn, Roy Harper, Ralph McTell and the rest made a living on the endless treadmill of tiny provincial pub gigs.
As was often the case back then the Burton-on-Trent folk club was basically just an austere upstairs room above a pub with lino on the floor and maybe 20 tables seating less than 100 people. I took a seat near the front and sat nursing a half pint of shandy for most of the night. I vaguely knew John Renbourn to speak to, having seen him play several times in the space of a year or two, most recently at Sheffield University only a couple of weeks before.
Part of Renbourn’s on-stage patter back then was to take the piss out of Donovan, who had leap-frogged all the other folkies to become a world-famous pop star of some magnitude. As a blind devotee of the Scottish troubadour I’d (only partially) jokingly taken John to task about his Donovan-baiting previously so when he saw me after the gig he said “Bloody hell, it’s the Donovan fan, what are you doing here?” I explained my predicament and wondered if he was driving back to London after the gig, hoping for a lift. He said he’d come by train and in any case was staying the night with the guy who ran the folk club (I hesitate to call him ‘the promoter’ but for the sake of this tale, let’s do that). A quick introduction to ‘the promoter’ went something like this. Me: “I need somewhere to stay tonight”. Promoter: “Sure, any friend of John’s is welcome to stay at my place.” What he forgot to mention was that he’d organised an aftershow party for Renbourn and, seemingly, anyone else who cared to attend.
Back at the promoter’s house in the Burton-on-Trent suburbs the party was already in full swing when we arrived. There were maybe 20 well-refreshed people there with more arriving all the time. Tables groaned under the weight of all manner of food and drink and the air was heavy with the aroma of dope. Incomprehensible modern jazz records were played, folk songs were sung and amid the hubbub, amateur guitarists took to the floor one by one, most of them much too earnest and self-conscious for their own good.
As the night progressed events started to take a surreal turn. The booze flowed, joints were passed around freely and a few couples seemed to be getting, ahem, intimate over in the corner. Then one guy became so wasted and/or drunk he removed all his clothes, stood stark-bollock naked on the coffee table and began to read aloud from a book by one of the Beat Poets (Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti, I forget which). I’d never seen anything quite like it but no one else appeared to bat an eyelid. For a 17 year-old high school drop-out like me it was exhilarating to be in such hedonistic company but it was also a little scary as well.
Finally in the small hours I found an empty bedroom and crept away for some sleep. Just as I was drifting off the door opened and amid much ‘shushing’ and giggling a couple stumbled in. It was John Renbourn and he had a young lady in tow. Now, Renbourn was only 22 when he made his first LP and at the time of this story he was possibly just 24. Yet he always looked old and crusty to me. It was the trademark beard I think. It made him look like Billy Connolly’s dishevelled, older brother.
Nevertheless fame is a powerful aphrodisiac and Renbourn’s complete lack of fashion sense was no deterrent when it came to pulling the folk groupies it seemed. I should really draw a discreet veil over what happened next, so let’s just say that pretending to be asleep in the corner while your folk guitar hero and an attractive young woman explored every page of the Kama Sutra (including the glossary) twice in a single bed not two feet away is an experience that never leaves you.
The next morning while the house was still quiet I crept out into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Then I remembered something – the previous night Renbourn had stashed his guitar case in a cupboard under the stairs.
As brazenly as you like I removed the battered case, undid the clasps (unlocked, mercifully) and took out the wondrous instrument. It was a Gibson J50 with a blonde finish and it carried all the dings and scars of a hard life on the road. It’s the guitar Renbourn used on all but the first of his solo LPs up to The Hermit in 1976 and right though the first incarnation of Pentangle. Most notably it’s the Gibson pictured on the cover of Another Monday, his 1967 second album (pictured above). A precious object indeed, that guitar was very much a part of the soundtrack of my life.
I don’t mind admitting I quite fancied myself as a guitarist back then, but the idea of owning an instrument as fine as this was out of the question at the time. The J50 played like a dream and all those Jansch and John Martyn pieces I’d agonised and fumbled over at home seemed to come flying from my fingers easily.
Lost in a reverie as I attempted the tricky counterpoint of Bert’s Running From Home I failed to notice a figure standing behind me. “Not bad, but you’re doing that alternating bass line wrong” a voice said. Bloody hell! It was John Renbourn. He’d been standing there listening for a while. But instead of the expected bollocking for using his guitar without asking, I received a surprisingly charitable reaction. Taking the Gibson from me, he played the Jansch tune perfectly, pointing out where I was going wrong, then handed it back. We ran through a few other pieces before more people drifted into the kitchen and the impromptu guitar lesson ended.
Around lunchtime we packed up and a few of us, including Renbourn, repaired to the local pub. These folk guys were serious drinkers and the expensive rounds soon began to be ordered. I had little or no money and still a long way to travel, so after a swift half I said goodbye and took my leave. For one thing I still had to reach that bloody elusive M1.
http://i.imgur.com/qYkB9Hx.jpg
On John Renbourn’s website he says this about the Gibson J50:
In the mid sixties my guitar idol was Davey Graham. Davey had an LP out called ‘The Guitar Player’ and he was holding a Gibson on the cover. I heard through the grapevine that an American serviceman on an airbase had one for sale and I had to have it. It was a J-50, nearly the same as Davey’s and that was it for the old Scarth (the guitar used on Renbourn’s 1st LP) – musical considerations overruled by blind fanaticism. I found out later that Davey wasn’t playing his by choice, he had owned a very nice Martin, gone to a party and come away with the Gibson, possibly without realising it! However, for me, it was a transformation. From ‘Another Monday’ right through into Pentangle it did the job – both acoustic and amplified.
The J-50 has lasted well, only one major repair as I recall. The back was smashed, courtesy of an airline – guitars into Airlines do not go as I have learned (to my cost) over the years! A friend of mine, James Flynn of the Flynn Brothers, has it at the moment and I heard it in action at the Troubadour in London recently and it still sounds good.
The J-50 was my main guitar on the solo Transatlantic records up to ‘The Hermit’, by which time it was ready for a re-fret and a rest. The recording studio can be a cruel judge of things that go unnoticed on the road.
garyjohn says
Absolutely brilliant JC. Loved it.
Johnny Concheroo says
Cheers Gary. I wasn’t posting here when Renbourn died, so I thought it was overdue.
Feedback_File says
That’s a superb story – can you now play the Jansch tune correctly?
Johnny Concheroo says
Thanks FF. From that moment on I practised Running From Home daily and can still do it as well as I ever did following Renbourn’s tips.
That’s adequate, but not nearly as well as Bert did it.
Kaisfatdad says
Your recycling of some of your previous contributions is a brilliant idea, JC.
Your Renbourn piece was talked about warmly during your time in exile. But I don’t remember the naked bloke reading Ginsberg or the extraordinary experience of trying to sleep while the guitar maestro practiced his arpeggios. But I certainly do remember that breakfast encounter and his great generosity of spirit to a fellow guitarist.
Time for a tune from him.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iS0DqzxYQjg
Johnny Concheroo says
I just listened to that KFD and it’s stunning. Renbourn is using an open tuning of some description and it sounds like two guitars in places.
He really was an amazing player.
Johnny Concheroo says
Thanks KFD. How about a lovey piece from the main protagonists, Bert and John, both men now sadly gone.
It’s from much more recent times, so the Renbourn here is no longer the rakish crumpeteer of my essay.
Yes, I’ve used the word crumpeteer twice in two days now.
Johnny Concheroo says
Not so much a “lovey” piece as a “lovely” piece.
Kaisfatdad says
Damn right! No thespians with guitars on this thread please!
I’m impressed by your one-man campaign to save the word crumpeteer from extinction.
Very much of its time. But, if the Urban Dictionary is to be believed, it has changed its meaning and is now a synonym with Anglophile.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Crumpeteer
Johnny Concheroo says
Renbourn on the cover of Folk Roots in 1993. The picture dates from the 1965 photo shoot for his first LP. Did bohemian folk chic ever look cooler than this?
http://i.imgur.com/EyZgFQD.jpg
Kaisfatdad says
Mark Ellen uses it to describe Rod the Mod in his Rockstars…..
https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=dx5RAgAAQBAJ&pg=PT208&lpg=PT208&dq=crumpeteer+musician&source=bl&ots=IuzhQ5CuOf&sig=DR1Pg68SyHnANathiAnGLgFVxXw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi6jNXRo5fKAhXk8nIKHfcCA3cQ6AEIKzAC#v=onepage&q=crumpeteer%20musician&f=false
Johnny Concheroo says
I’m sticking with Ellen’s definition.
Twang says
Splendid piece JC. I saw the great man twice over the last few years – once with the reunion tour of Pentangle, which was an absolute joy, and again at Hitchin Folk Club with Wizz Jones. Again, a terrific night of dry humour and great playing. I also won the raffle and scored Wizz’s latest album for my trouble.
I was a regular hit her back in the day, and remember it with great affection. I never had a bad experience – everyone I met was fun and interesting – the hippies in the old ambulance, the arch Edwardiana clad auctioneer in Devon, the man with the big beard who was restoring the Bala small gauge steam railway, boxer Tommy Farr’s widow who took us home for a cuppa and to see his trophies, the posh management consultant who said “I’m in a bit of a hurry, do you mind if I drive fast” then did Birmingham to London in what seemed like 25 minutes. The only bummer was the rain, where you could repair to a phone box for a roll up. Oh and the bastards who would stop 20 yards down the road and drive off when you ran up. One of them tried it on a mate of mine, went round a roundabout a mile up the road and came back for more amusement. This time he drove off with a half brick through the back window for company. My best lift was just outside Plymouth to Birmingham, but a mate of mine did Rome to Macclesfield!
Twang says
For fucks sake. HITCHER not “hit her” for crying out loud.
Johnny Concheroo says
I thought perhaps you were trying to channel Donald Fagen?
What?
Too soon?
Johnny Concheroo says
Thanks Twang, great memories of hitch-hiking.
Did you see Renbourn and Wizz on the last tour of 2014/15? That would have been great.
I’m a huge fan of Wizz Jones too. Most other 60s acoustic players eventually went with guitars made by modern luthiers, but Wizz always stuck with his 60s Epiphone Texan.
I have a 1964 Epiphone Texan just like him.
Twang says
Yes the last tour. They did a set each and a set together.
mikethep says
Yes, JC, top stuff. Most of my formative folkie experiences were in the room above the Blue Boar pub in Southend. There were an awful lot of beards, fishermen’s sweaters and fingers in ears for my liking, but every so often some quality turned up. Such as Renbourne – I was in complete awe of him, I couldn’t imagine – as a guitarist who was beginning to fancy himself a bit – how he did all that stuff. Champion Jack Dupree was another highlight, pounding the joanna like it was going out of style.
A mate and I hitchhiked to the South of France after O-levels. Had a great time getting there – including getting arrested for busking in Paris – but we couldn’t be arsed to hitch all the way back again, so we blew all our remaining money on beer and threw ourselves on the mercy of the British consul in Marseilles. He wasn’t best pleased (‘besmirching the flag’ may have been mentioned), but he did undertake to ‘wire’ (as it was then) our parents to send money. They weren’t best pleased either, but we got to go all the way home by train.
I used to spend a lot of time hanging about at the bottom of the M1 at Staples Corner trying to get to Coventry when I was at uni. Decided life was too short in the end and got the bus instead.
Johnny Concheroo says
Cheers, Mike. I always thought Renbourn was a better guitarist than Bert Jansch, but Bert had the songs. And the image.
Twang says
I thought JR was much better as a finger picker – never thought much of his lead guitar playing – pretty generic pentatonic noodling, it seemed to me.
Johnny Concheroo says
I kind of drifted away from Renbourn when he began exploring all that baroque, Elizabethan music on his solo albums. It was always beautifully played but didn’t hold as much interest for me as the early folk blues material.
Lodestone of Wrongness says
Christ, that brings back so many (admittedly hazy) memories of both folk-clubs and hitching.
In the end, one too many fingers-in-the-ear bores droning on about authenticity drove me away from folk (Dylan going electric was the final push).
In the end, one too many “Cardiff isn’t too far from London, is it?” experiences of hitching pushed me in to buying a Morris Marina (which I bought from a policeman, couldn’t go wrong could I? I spent the next year watching it rust away in front of me).
Lovely piece, JC, lovely
Johnny Concheroo says
Thanks hen, you’re too kind.
Eventually the folk we were listening to (Jansch, Renbourn, John Martyn, Fairport, Steeleye, Roy Harper etc) merged into prog and it all later became indistinguishable from rock to a certain extent.
I later went back and rediscovered the more trad arr. artists like Martin Carthy, Anne Briggs, the Watersons, Young Tradition, Albion Band etc.
Feedback_File says
Ah the joys of hitch-hiking back in the early 70s’ . As you say everyone did it without a thought to what kind of lunatic might be ready to pick you up. My most memorable ‘hikes were from Rotherham to Edinburgh where I got a lift up in the wilds of Northumbria from an old chap who then took me off on a sight seeing tour and dropped me at ‘a really good place to get a lift’ – about 3 hrs later the first car appeared absolutely full to the gunnels but at least I managed to escape Arundel. Then in a turkey truck in the height of the ’76 summer in Lincolnshire – the smell was overpoweringly stupendous and in the absolute middle of nowhere I said ‘Im here you can drop me right here – please !’. Finally with a girlfriend (who of course got the lift) picked up in an open topped sports job by a flash young lord of the manor type with an actual shotgun in the back – a bit like Twang we made London to Canterbury about 15 minutes or so it seemed.
Johnny Concheroo says
Great stuff FF.
I remember hitching with a girlfriend a few times. On those occasions I usually kept out of sight while she stood there looking forlorn. One time a soft-top Triumph TR5 pulled up, whereupon I stepped out of the shadows and we both got in.
The driver looked a bit pissed-off at first and it was a bit cramped with the two of us sharing the solitary passenger seat (seatbelts? who needs ’em?) but by the time we got to London he was inviting us to stay at his Maida Vale flat.
It all seemed a bit creepy, so we declined.
Junior Wells says
I used to hitch hike to and from university.
Being short, quite slim,errr..at the time and having shoulder length black wavy hair, err …at the time, cars would regularly stop assuming I was a “chick”. “Oh well” I’d say as I hopped in.
Johnny Concheroo says
Back when men with long hair on men were practically social lepers, cars would often slow down as we were hitching, then the drivers would glare at us while tugging their own hair, making it clear that was the reason we weren’t getting a lift.
Bastards.
Johnny Concheroo says
“men with long hair on men”?? Typos are reaching new heights of absurdity,
garyjohn says
Bet you’re glad one of the drivers didn’t say, ‘G’day my dear, the name’s Milat. But you can call me Ivan…’
Johnny Concheroo says
*shudders*
poolhallrichard says
Same happy memories as a prisoner of the white lines on the freeway. In my case Macclesfield to Newton Abbot to see my girlfriend via the M6 and M5. Always tried to beat my time and get there quicker than the train or Bostocks coaches would have done. only really dodgy moment was when I was dropped off in the middle of the M4/M5 junction as the driver sped off eastwards leaving me to negotiate the crash barriers, embankments, fences and fields in my greatcoat and rucksack hoping the cops wouldn’t find me before I reached the relative safety of Junction 16 . Was she worth it? Reader I married her…
Johnny Concheroo says
Great story Richard, with a romantic ending. That reminds me of a similar tale with a less happy ending.
I was picked up by a driver who asked “Where you off to mate?”
“London, eventually, but the M1 will do”
“No problem”
What I didn’t expect was to be dropped off on a bridge crossing OVER the M1, meaning I had to climb the fence and walk along the motorway embankment for a mile or so before reaching the next junction, where I could start hitching.
You guessed it. Halfway there the cops arrived and I was charged with trespass, resulting a hefty £2 fine at Loughborough magistrates some months later. I didn’t attend.
Johnny Concheroo says
The penny has just dropped re. your opening line. Joni’s Coyote
Lodestone of Wrongness says
Ah, Martin…a folk evening in a small room above the Caley Hotel in Aberdeen circa 1965. He had obviously just broken up with the love of his life and it was apparent he was pissed as soon as he perched on his tiny stool on the tiny stage.
An hour later and after more copious amounts of alcohol he sat there strumming and sobbing before sliding slowly to the floor.
Over the next few years it was amazing how many revered folk artists you could catch in such venues with a maximum fifty people (48 of whom wore brown corduroy jackets) watching.
garyjohn says
One of the great things about JC’s threads are the tangents they consistently provoke, in this case, tales of hitchhiking. There’s definitely a correlation between music and hitchhiking – this for instance:
Johnny Concheroo says
CCR knew a thing or two about hitch-hikers.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DOPD7bB_0A
garyjohn says
And this of course:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOUQf0WNIwE
Johnny Concheroo says
I say, Patrick’s awfully posh, isn’t he?
Doing the interview there is the avuncular Keith Fordyce who I mentioned gave the Beach Boys such a hard time in my Pet Sounds thread.
garyjohn says
Posh and more than a bit camp.
Johnny Concheroo says
How about some lightweight pop?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8i3oGMY1bc
garyjohn says
Same title – different song
Johnny Concheroo says
A roomful of Renbourn, yesterday
http://i.imgur.com/7qaSAS2.jpg
Johnny Concheroo says
This was a big hit in Australia for Bobby & Laurie in 1966.
The spoken section is delivered in a strange American accent for some reason, even though the boys were from Melbourne and Adelaide respectively.
garyjohn says
I can say from personal experience that in Country Australia at least, hitchhiking is still very much alive and well. However the technique is slightly different and a raised index finger rather than the standard thumb is the method used to attract passing motorists.
I’m not sure why this is but it means that, in the unlikely event of Sir Paul Macca hoping for a lift across the Nullabor, he’d be well and and truly f****d.
Johnny Concheroo says
Yes, the Aussie index finger pointing at the road method of hitch hiking has long bamboozled me. It makes a complete mockery of the entire concept of thumbing a ride.
Sniffity says
Obviously the Beach Boys’ influence had reached Renbourn’s record company – there’s that Cooper Black font as seen on “Pet Sounds” being used on “Another Monday.”
Johnny Concheroo says
Oh yeah, well spotted. Must have been a popular Letraset font back then.
Twang says
Yes in Greece they favour the finger pointing at the road technique. It’s important to know this as a waved erect thumb is an insulting gesture. I had some good lifts in Greece – not so many cars, but by dint of that they do (did then) pick people up – but you tend to be sitting in the back of a pickup in full sun, frequently with a farm animal or two. One farmer invited us to sleep in his barn as it was getting late and we stopped by a field full of lovely bunny rabbits, hippety hopping over each other in the setting sun. He asked my girlfriend which one looked nicest. She laughed and point one out….he went into the field, grabbed it and broke its neck with one move, chucked the corpse in the back with us, and that was dinner sorted. “I feel like a murderer”, she sobbed.