"Return To Holloway Road" (YouTube capture)><i.>
What hasn't already been said about Joe Meek (1929-67), and the legend of his home studio at 304 Holloway Road? For casual fans, he's simply "The Telstar Man," who created, produced and recorded the Tornadoes' monster #1 US/UK chart-topper of 1962, which inspired the Con O'Neil-fronted biopic (Telstar, 2008).
Yet even in abbreviated form, his resume is impressive, going strictly on the string of big hits that he helmed there, from "Johnny Remember Me," by John Leyton (#1 UK, 1961), and its equally inspired follow-up, "Wild Wind" (#2 UK), to "Just Like Eddie" (Heinz, #5 UK, 1963), "Globetrotter" (The Tornados, #5 UK, 1963), and his last major blockbuster, "Have I The Right" (The Honeycombs, #1 Australia, Canada, UK, Sweden; #5 US; #2 Holland, 1964).
Mind you, those are only the greatest hits. We're not even counting the quirkier fare that didn't chart, like David John & The Mood's three classic singles, or The Syndicats' "Crawdaddy Simone," which made no impression on its 1965 release, but has since gained its rightful recognition as a greasy, gritty slab of tough-minded R&B-driven rock (a status confirmed by its position as the closing number over the credits in Telstar).
In fact, it's no exaggeration to view Joe Meek as a one-man game changer, starting with his status as Britain's first major independent producer. Try and imagine the British Invasion happening, for instance, without the transatlantic success of "Telstar" to kick-start it (coming a full year before the Beatles took the nation by storm). Reams of print have been devoted to Meek's production techniques, from his liberal use of compression, echo, and phasing, incorporation of found sounds, and old school workarounds (like speeding up recordings, to make up for his vocally-challenged artists' shortcomings).
And, while his methods are justly celebrated, let's not forget how far ahead of his time he reached as a songwriter, too. One of the more notable examples is "Do You Come Here Often?", an organ-driven, largely instrumental wink-wink, nudge-nudge nod to Meek's own repressed homosexuality -- still an official no-no, when he allegedly shot his landlady, and then committed suicide, on February 3, 1967 -- and is generally considered the first overtly gay pop record.
I could go on and on, but don't want to lose us in the weeds, so why not check out the first time we celebrated the essence of Joe's genius, and one of his major proteges, Screaming Lord Sutch, right at this link -- you'll get the idea quickly enough:
<Left to right: Honey Lantree (The Honeycombs), John Repsch, Roger LaVern and Clem Cattini (The Tornados)revisit
the finer points of recording in the Beat Boom era,
in this scene from "Return To 304...">
<ii.>
Needless to say, I didn't know any of these things when I bought John Repsch's groundbreaking biography, The Legendary Joe Meek: The Telstar Man, in 1989. If I recall correctly, I did so on the strength of reviews in Time Out, or some music-/hipster-oriented rag along those lines. I'm fairly sure that the cartoonishly sensational cover -- a closeup shot of Joe, surrounded by the Grim Reaper and a bevy of 45s, circling him like so many UFOs -- helped to seal the deal. It certainly stood out a mile on the book rack at Tower Records' Piccadilly Circus outlet.
So imagine my surprise at finding this half hour film, "Return To 304 Holloway Road," on YouTube! It's an amazing document, essentially a celebration of the space that served as Joe's creative home, featuring many of the principals who recorded there -- as you'll see in these screenshots accompanying this post. The heavier hitters present include Tornados drummer Clem Cattini, and keyboardist Roger LaVern; Honeycombs drummer-vocalist Honey Lantree, and rhythm guitarist Martin Murray; and His Lordship himself, David (Screaming Lord) Sutch.
You also see members of lesser-rung bands like The Moontrekkers, and the Puppets, plus others whose recognition came long, long after the fact. Notable examples of the latter phenomenon include Danny Rivers, since documented on Cherry Red's Tea Chest Tapes reissue series, and the late Kim Roberts, who recorded a dozen unreleased tracks -- of which two graced Joe Meek's Girls (1997), a CD dedicated to some of the notable female artists he recorded.
Yet "Return To 304 Holloway Road" is a film without a backstory, it seems, judging from my online attempts to pin one down. It doesn't feature on the Internet Movie Database (IMDB), where the strangest, most obscure movies march happily on -- such as the one I saw last night, Encounter With The Unknown (1972), a B-grade horror anthology narrated by Rod Serling. Nor did I find any online references to it, however fleeting, a real oddity in a virtual era where exhaustive documentation is now the norm.
The one area of inquiry seemed most fruitful -- searching the respective company and director/producer, SPA Films Limited and Bob Frost, credited with the film -- also comes up short, beyond a listing on Companies House, the corporate UK tracking site. I did find a blog obituary, penned by a colleague on Frost's passing in 2016, that makes no mention of "Return To 304." (In any event, we know the date, which rolls out onscreen, right at the beginning, for reasons that will become apparent shortly.)
Searches for further information on SPA Films Ltd. yielded little, beyond basic details posted on Companies House, the UK's corporate tracking website. I found that SPA Films Ltd. got up and running on 10/2/90. Prior to that time, a different company, River Bounty Ltd. -- credited with post-production -- had been operating since December 1990. SPA Films itself dissolved in October 2020, four years after its founder's passing, which seems like a decent run, all things considered.
<"Not just now!" Honey Lantree
and Martin Murray remember
that moment on the stairs...>
<iii.>
Whatever you want to say about "Return To 304," it's definitely not a slick affair. How else to explain the filmmakers' curious decision not to start on the interviews or storytelling until we roughly reach the 12- or 13-minute mark? Until then, we're treated to the sounds of the guests milling around, in various configurations, gabbling like ducks at a pond (which isn't a criticism, or a putdown, just a realistic take on what we're seeing there).
I'm guessing that the filmmakers included these moments in the spirit of cinema verite, but for viewers, it's a deadly choice. Far better to skip over to that near-halfway point, and see what kinds of stories emerge, once Repsch finally gets down to business with his guests. But once he does, the results are fairly insightful, and rewarding to hear, from the parties involved.
Clem Cattini -- remarkably, still with us, at 88 -- comments about the casual nature of Joe's setup, which certainly came across as an radical one for musicians used to the acoustically soundproofed walls and tiled ceilings that prevailed in more formal studio settings. Workarounds were the norm, since the outside world itself interfered more often than not, Cattini recalls: "We had to stop recording, to let lorries go past."
As Cattini notes, landlady Violet Shenton insisted on having the music stop by 10:00 p.m., and she was never shy about telling Joe if she felt that the proceedings were getting too loud for comfort. His disclosure prompts Repsch to ask, "He didn't ever say, 'Look, Clem, can you drum quietly?'" Cattini smiles, zinger at the ready: "They knew that would be impossible."
Such comments only hint of Joe's reputation as a moody, unpredictable taskmaster, though some express this view more bluntly than others -- such as Roger LaVern, credited with additional keyboards on "Telstar". "I remember so many problems with Joe," he chuckles, with a wicked smile.
It's an observation that draws a hearty round of laughter from the gathering, which becomes a pivotal midpoint for the film, as Murray recounts -- when Joe drafted him and his fellow Honeycombs to lay down the insistent foot stomping beat that plays such a prominent role in their signature hit, "Have I The Right."
Getting that task done meant lining them everyone up on the stairs, and having them pound mightily together, over and over, until Joe finally felt satisfied -- a process that wound on throughout the night, and into the wee hours, when the cleaning woman arrived, at 6:00 a.m.
Now came the hard part, as Murray elaborates: "She was very anxious to sweep the stairs." He pauses, and delivers the punchline. "I think she thought the stairs were falling in, because she was underneath them: 'Joe! I'd like to do the stairs!' And he got really angry, and said, 'Not just now!' Anyway, she didn't say too much. She might have sworn under her breath..."
"Was he pleased with the end product?" Repsch inquires.
"Oh, thrilled," Murray responds. "Absolutely thrilled."
"Yeah, he would be," Honey nods, looking -- well, absolutely fabulous, positively smashing, or insert whatever phrase works for you here -- in her royal blue pant suit and blazer.
But then, again, five million worldwide sales of a hit single will do that, right? "Have I The Right" had legs, as they say in "da biz," to the point of inspiring a German-language cover ("Hab Ich Das Recht") for the Deutsch teenbeat market. The Honeycombs soon found themselves packed off on an early template for those never-ending world tours that accompany some unexpected success or other (which is how they became the first pop group to play Thailand, for instance, as Repsch's bio details).
It's not hard to imagine Joe bopping his head whenever "Have I The Right" boomed out from his radio, or the jukebox at the pub, losing himself in daydream after daydream: Yeah, see, that's how it's done, you bastards! I showed you with "Telstar," I'm showing you again with "Have I The Right," and I'll keep on showing you...once I get the next "Telstar" down, that is!
But that unexpected tonic of major success marked the last time that Joe would ever experience such a phenomenon, for a sustained period. Three years later, his own bright, shining star of success that he never stopped pursuing so avidly, would come crashing down to Earth, in a welter of tragedy, one that left numerous unanswered questions. But that's another story, for another time.
<Above: Lord Sutch palms off one of his infamous "Loony Money" notes on Clem Cattini, who's fully in on the joke.
<Below: Honey Lantree and Martin Murray look on with amusement, as Lord Sutch prepares to lead the visitors on a singalong for his birthday.>
<iv.>
The film takes yet another left turn around the 20-minute mark, as Screaming Lord Sutch -- or David Sutch, perhaps, to his inner circle -- chugs boisterously up the stairs, eager to do his part in promoting the Meek legacy as someone who recorded several notable singles with him between 1961 and 1965.
The best-known is "Jack The Ripper" (1963), which naturally prompts Sutch to lead a bawdy singalong of lyrics that likely wouldn't pass muster in today's climate: ""Well, he walks down the street/Every girl he meets, he asks, "Is your name Mary Kelly?'"
Sutch and Meek both shared a well-documented love of horror and sci-fi, which makes itself felt in some of their other singles, like "Till The Following Night" (1961), "Monster In Black Tights" (1963), and "Dracula's Daughter."
I remember playing some of these songs for a support group, whom I'd persuaded to do a presentation about these two particular gents. I went in, thinking, "Ah, these records will sound pretty tame to their ears, won't they? I bet they don't even tap their feet!"
To my great surprise, and enduring amusement, I saw a few people shrink back in their chairs! One person, if I recall correctly, practically jumped out of their seat after I pulled out the Moontrekkers' moody 1961 instrumental, "Night Of The Vampire" -- which opens with a full minute of howls, shrieks, and moans, amid a sonic backdrop of gusty winds, before the song actually kicks in. (Joe apparently is among those shrieking their lungs out; go figure, eh?)
Not surprisingly, perhaps, the BBC promptly banned the single as "unsuitable for persons of a nervous disposition," though not before it had climbed to #50 on the UK charts. When I asked for comments about the music, it didn't take long for a consensus to form: "Definitely someone who's obsessed with the dark side!" (At this point, perhaps, you may feel fully entitled to ask, "Well, what did you expect?")
His grand entrance made, all eyes rapidly shift to Sutch in full-on promo mode, as he shamelessly plugs his latest effort, The Screaming Lord Sutch Story (EMI), which prompts him to drop a sardonic observation: "I don't give 'em away, any records out, 'cause I'm still trying to get some royalties!"
It's an understandable comment from a man whose status owed much to his knack for endless, yet inventive self-promotion, and his over the top live act -- necessities for an artist who never achieved major success, even as he hired numerous musicians who later became famous in their own right. (Legendary guitarists Jimmy Page and Ritchie Blackmore are just two examples of this phenomenon.)
It's the reason, perhaps, when Murray innocently asks Sutch what he's been up to lately, His Lordship replies a tad defensively: "Some us still do gigs!" That unerring combination of self-promotion and self-deprecation also lent itself well to Sutch's satirical political forays -- including 39 campaigns for Parliament, between 1963 and 1997 -- most commonly as the face of the Official Monster Raving Loony Party (which he co-founded, and still exists).
As part of the satire, Sutch produced his own brand of "Loony Notes" (signed by the "Chief Shyster"). Naturally, he doesn't miss the opportunity to palm one off on Cattini, his vastly more successful peer (who holds a world of playing on at least 44 #1 hits, the most of any session musician).
"This is worth more than Joe's royalties!" Cattini cracks, which prompts an equally gentle jab from Sutch: "Don't spend it all at once."
Amid all the good-natured tomfoolery, Sutch announces that it's his birthday, which provides the cue for Murray to lead an appropriately rowdy singalong of the old standard. A cake is duly wheeled out, with a black coffin as the centerpiece -- which prompts a slight face from Murray: "Just a nice thing to put on the table, isn't it? A coffin..."
Though served up to burnish Sutch's horror rock image, that coffin offers a poignant and unsettling sight, in light of his own suicide, seven years later. As Sutch's biographer has observed: who cheers up the man who sees his job as cheering everybody else up?
Of course, Lord Sutch wasn't the only musician in Meek's orbit to die prematurely. Kim Roberts, seen briefly here and there, also passed away, of heart problems, at age 55. Cattini's example aside, many of the participants here are long gone, though Sutch's birthday announcement provides an important clue -- in terms of sussing out one major reason for filming "Return To 304."
A quick search discerns the date of Sutch's birthday as November 10, when His Lordship turned 51; reason enough, it seems, for rounding up the principals featured here, and celebrate him, at the same time as Joe Meek. I also suspect that John Repsch played a major part in this project, since he's the one we see working the room, chatting up this person here, firing off a question or two at somebody else over there. In other words, he not only lent his face to this film, but probably had a hand in its creation behind the scenes, as well.
After all, it's touted as a VHS issue on YouTube, which suggests either a local or regional release, even if it didn't hit UK cinemas nationwide. Put another way, I doubt the producers would have devoted nearly half the contents to the social aspect of the night, if they didn't think that someone might sit through it all. In any event, further details behind "Return To 304"'s creation and release would be most welcome.
<A couple of young fans treat the filmmakers
to a chorus or two of "Have I The Right,"
in the bathroom, which also doubled
as Joe's echo chamber...>
>Coda<
Fittingly, "Return To 304" closes with an excerpt from "Telstar," the song that launched Joe Meek -- and indeed, so many of the musicians that he drew into his orbit -- for that brief, yet exhilarating rocket ride to the proverbial "toppermost of the poppermost," to coin a phrase from his Merseybeat rivals, the Beatles.
Because, in the end, "Return To 304 Holloway Road" reminds us that Joe Meek was much a metaphor, as a flesh and blood person -- as someone dedicated to breaking the sound barrier, figuratively and literally, in every sense of the term. Watching Telstar, amid its one glaring factual error -- Joe Meek and Heinz did not sleep with one another -- makes me think, "If only someone had gotten to this guy faster, made feel better in his own skin, reassure him that others really did love him, and that his future would turn out, in the end, how much more music would we have gotten?"
Because, in a sense, that is what happened. Shortly after Joe's suicide, a higher court freed up a mountain of "Telstar" royalties that had been frozen by a plagiarism suit, which also got dismissed. Cherry Red Records is busily reissuing the cream of the so-called "Tea Chest Tapes," some 600 trunks of reel to reel spools from Joe's many, many sessions, ensuring that new discoveries about his methods will continue for years to come.
Bands continue to cover "Telstar," and other notable Meek-related songs, while others reference some aspects of his production that strike their fancy. How appropriate, for instance, that Muse frontman Matt Bellamy happens to be the son of George Bellamy, who played rhythm guitar on "Telstar" -- proof positive, for those needing it, that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
The homosexuality that Meek spent so much time repressing became legal for Britons in July 1967, only five months after his death -- news that might finally have healed the various fissures tearing and grinding at his psyche, which caused him to self-medicate it via a vicious cycle of uppers and downers.
As Repsch notes, people buy the most trivial of records associated with Joe Meek, simply because he produced them. In 60 years, he's gone from someone who died broke and embittered, whose name has never been pervasive than today. What a shame he didn't live to see any of it, and yet, what a remarkable outcome it is, to see so many people still finding something worth celebrating as a synonym for sonic exploration.
And that's the chief appeal of this quirky little piece of film, however obscure it may be. And oh, yes, while we're about it? Happy Halloween. --The Reckoner
Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, Take
The Last Train To Meeksville):
Islington Tribune: The Life And Violent Death
Journal On The Art Of Record Production:
