Friday, December 05, 2014
RIP - Frank Lamb - A true NME Hero
I first met Frank in 1975; Frank worked on New Musical
Express, while I was in a different department at IPC Magazines. IPC decided to move all their staff into one new
building on the Southbank at Kings Reach Tower, SE1 (previously they had
numerous office addresses stretched along Long Acre (WC2) and elsewhere in
London). My colleagues moved in to the 24th floor in February 1975,
and I think that NME moved in a couple of weeks later. IPC decided to put Frank
and his manager (Mike Procter) in with all the other advert production guys
that I had worked with for some reason, much to their chagrin. Frank was obviously louder than life and
started to make new friends.
I used to go down the pub each lunchtime, and most evenings
too, for a couple of beers. Moving to a
new area, we got to try out most of the local pubs, and our favourite was the
close-by Stamford Arms, in Stamford Street. The pub had a street front Public
bar, and a side entrance Saloon bar, and was run by a guy called Geoff Davidson
(his brother Gary was a champion boxer).
I played pool in the Public bar most days, or fed the slot machine
hoping for the jackpot.
Frank, working on NME, had a distinct weekly timetable:
Wednesday was when the process would start of chasing the advert copy; Thursday
the ad dummy would be created and sent to the editorial lads (who were officed
in Carnaby Street, pretty much the only IPC staff not moved into Kings Reach
after arguing that pop stars wouldn’t like to be seen in the lifts with other
staff!); on Friday’s one of them would go over to Carnaby Street to agree the
dummy make up and most due artwork would arrive and be sent to the printer;
Monday’s were when the last adverts arrived for publication; Tuesday was press
day so Frank and Mike would go to the printers in Kettering, Northants; and
then the next day, Wednesday again, the paper would publish.
Sometimes, and regularly with one music promoter (who repaid
Frank with free entry to any of his gigs that he wanted to go to), the artwork
would be late arriving on a Monday evening, and rather than wait in the
offices, Frank would come down to the Stamford and await its arrival there.
That was probably how I got to know him better.
We would play pool, and buy each other drinks waiting for those last
adverts, and once all in hand, he could go off home to West London.
In May 1976, we knew each other fairly well through our pub
meetings, and chatting on the 24th floor; I still worked in a
different department, just around the corner in the open plan offices, but
could often hear Frank as he went about his work. One day, Frank asked me if I
wanted to go to a gig at The Roundhouse in Camden to see Patti Smith, along
with a few other colleagues. I said yes,
and musically it changed my life. We travelled up in two cars, and I remember
Frank urging the driver of the second car (John Galpin) to “bump” the back of
the front car (driven, I think, but Michelle McCamley?) as we were both sitting at traffic lights in central London. John did (gently) and Frank thought that
hilarious! We parked up and had a drink in a Camden pub, then walked up to The
Roundhouse. It was heaving, with a
massive queue down the stairs and out onto and along the street! Frank said
follow me and we duly picked our way through the complaining throng of a queue right up to
the entry door. Frank knocked hard; the
door opened and a face said “F*** off!” and the door immediately closed before
Frank could utter a word. Undeterred, Frank knocked again and when the door
opened this time he asked for the promoter, John Curd. John came to the door
and let us in, well before official doors opening. We then watched The
Stranglers, and Patti Smith, play an amazing night of music, all thanks to
Frank!
When Patti Smith returned to London that October for a gig
at Hammersmith Odeon (now Apollo), I met Frank in The Brittania pub (which has
long since been knocked down). He told
me that he had to meet up with two new NME writers, only one of which he had
met. We stood there drinking, and a girl
walked in looking a little lost; it was Julie Burchill. I bought her a drink
and soon after the other new writer arrived – Tony Parsons; Frank introduced
them to each other, and they were married within a year! Now of course they are
both famous novelists, long since divorced, but then they were just
hip-young-gunslingers!
Late in 1976, it was agreed that NME needed an extra body in
the ad make up department where Frank and Mike worked, and I was asked to take
the role. I started on 2nd
January 1977. It was great fun and the job of a life-time! Press days up at the
printers were always good. We used to have to catch the 8am train from St
Pancras to Kettering, which meant an early wake up and start from home,
arriving just after 9am. After reading all the adverts that had been typeset,
and making sure they were all pasted onto the right pages, we would have lunch
at one of the local pubs in Kettering – The Three Cocks Inn or The Peacock
usually – with some of the editorial guys.
Then it was back to the printers, and a finishing up of all the work we
had to do. Frank was by now very good friends with writers like Charles Shaar
Murray, Mick Farren, Nick Kent, Tony Tyler, who often went along to the
printers, and later would know Monty Smith, Danny Baker, Paul Morley, etc. If
all went OK during the day, we would all catch a train back to London about 5
or 6pm, and have a final beer in the Shires pub at St Pancras.
In the
summer, the trains to Kettering rarely had the carriage lights on, as they were
not needed. However, there was a tunnel between Flitwick and Bedford
which was quite long, and if the guard forgot to turn the lights on (which did
happen every now and then), it became pitch black inside and you couldn't see
your hand in front of your face for 20 seconds or so. Frank - when the
lights were off - took great delight when we emerged into the daylight
once more, of slumping in the corner of his seat, mouth wide open, eyes closed,
feigning that he'd been murdered! That always made me laugh and to this day I
still copy that when travelling with my wife if we go through a dark tunnel!
Frank showed me the ropes at NME, and we worked well and had
fun for a couple of years. Mike, our manager, was in a relationship with a nice
west-country girl called Penny, who worked upstairs in the NME ad sales
department. Frank had had a fling with Penny before Mike did, so that was
always a sense of amusement to him on the quiet!
In 1977, me and Frank, plus another NME friend called Tony
Ociepka (Tony O for short) went to the Reading Festival – we had VIP tickets
and free entry. That meant we could sit in the VIP area at the front to watch
the bands, but you were not allowed to take beer into this area. I think we
only saw one band play, as none of us wanted to go without beer for too long,
so we just hung around backstage chatting to various musicians, etc, sharing
drinks around. The photo above was taken at the station on our way home
that night.
One evening, in the Stamford, we were waiting for late
adverts, and were playing pool; I think we were about the only two people in
the Public bar. The door opened and two
young girls – one blonde and one brunette - walked in, and up to the bar and
ordered drinks. With nobody else around, we got chatting and asked if they
wanted to play pool. It was fun. The blonde was called Bernadette, and her
friend was called Andrea (“Ann-drey-a”, not “Ann-dree-a”, she kept telling me).
Frank got Bernadette’s phone number and started going out with her, and I got
nothing from Ann-drey-a…! It wasn’t long before Frank and Bernadette got
married, but I didn’t go to the wedding for some reason? It may have been a
small, quiet, affair?
Frank and Bernadette lived in a flat on the Peabody Estate
just off Blackfriars Road. It was
perfect for work, as it was just ten minutes walk from Kings Reach Tower. He was very proud when his kids came along,
and I waited around one night in the Stamford until he got back from the
hospital so we could “whet the baby’s head” together! I think I whetted each of
his four kids heads with him over the next dozen years or so…
Another gig we went to was to see The Tubes at Hammersmith Odeon
(now Apollo); Frank took Bernadette along and I came with my girlfriend Joy. We
all got in for free (thanks to John Curd again), and even had back-stage
passes. After the gig we all went to the backstage bar, and left the girls near some empty
seats while we sorted out drinks. When
we got back, a long-haired American guy had taken one of the seats and the
girls remained standing. He was most apologetic and offered to leave but we
would have none of it and sat around him, and got chatting. He was part of the bands entourage. He wanted
to make amends (for some reason) and immediately offered up a ten-pence piece
size rounded lump of oily dope. Joy
thankfully accepted, but when I looked at Bernadette, she was looking
daggers at Frank. It was made obviously plain that neither Frank nor Bernadette
would be partaking the joint Joy was now rolling that night! The next day,
Frank was very upset to have missed out, but knew he would get thumped if he
had made any attempt to join in the fun…
IPC had an annual “do” where we got a free evening meal in
the works canteen, and music and laughter of some kind. However, the middle-aged “entertainer” booked for this
function wasn’t very good, and was boring most of the predominantly young crowd
who were there. I was on a table with
Frank, and he said he could do better, so we argued for him to go up on stage
and run through some better jokes. Once it was agreed by the company
management, Frank somehow got hold of a paper bag and jumped up to the
microphone. He started by saying “I
suppose you all want to know why I have this bag with me – it’s because I’m
going to tell some sick jokes!” I can’t remember what else he did or said but
it was much funnier than the professional they had hired and he stayed on stage
for ten minutes or so (much to the chagrin of the entertainer!).
In 1979, Mike decided to leave NME, along with Penny, and
move to a new job in Bristol. For some reason, Frank was not given the manager’s
job, which hurt him I think, and a year or so later he announced he was leaving
NME too. We kept in touch and regularly met up for beers in some London pub or
another.
Another
thing Frank did was roadie with a band for a while. One of the writers on
NME (Charles Shaar Murray) had a band called Blast Furnace and the Heatwaves -
they played 12-bar blues in a rocky way, and were not bad. One night,
they were playing at The Marquee club in Wardour Street, supporting Eddie and
the Hot Rods, and Frank asked me if I would help out. It was hot, sweaty,
packed out, but a good night, so I agreed to do it again the next time they
needed an extra pair of hands. This time, around Easter 1980 I think, they were
the support for The Boomtown Rats, Bob Geldof's band, who had a few number one
hits in the late seventies/early eighties (Rat Trap, I Don't Like Mondays,
etc). I arrived at The Lyceum in London about 4.30, met Frank, and we went into
the theatre. The band had just finished their sound check, so we sorted
out a few bits and retired to the pub. Then came show time so it was back
inside, the band got ready in their changing room, and me and Frank were told
what we had to do. I was to help on the far side of the stage during the
gig, looking after the guitarist (named Blitz Kreig, or Andy to his friends!),
while Frank did the near side and kept an eye on Blast himself. When it
was time to go on stage, I had to lead the way, carrying Andy's spare guitar
across stage (I was so scared of tripping over with around 2000 punks
watching...you can imagine!), put it down for him, and then sit on the far edge
dealing with anything I needed to while they played. The gig went smoothly,
thankfully, and it then became a rush to get all the Heatwave's equipment off
stage, stacking it neatly at the side so it could be loaded into a van later,
leaving the Rats stuff in place ready for their set. I did all of my bits and
pieces and was given the nod that I had finished and could go up to the band's
changing room. I walked in, slightly sweaty, and the band were all sat
there, drinking beer out of cans, talking to Bob Geldof. A couple of minutes
later, while Geldof was speaking loudly in full flow, in walked Frank. As
he entered, in his broadest Irish accent, Frank let loose loudly how f-ing
knackered he was with a "begarra" to boot. He didn't know Irishman
Geldof was in the room. Big Bob, hearing what he thought was a mickey-taking
accent, turned and looked at Frank and if looks could kill....I'm not sure I've
seen Frank so apologetic before! We did laugh about it later though...
The band did release a couple
of singles, and Frank got name checked on one of them as Frank Fact.
In 1981, I arranged to go down
to Bristol to see Mike and Penny and also take in a pre-season football
friendly on the Saturday. On the Friday morning, I got a frantic call from
Frank saying that he was coming with me, and he would meet me at Paddington
that afternoon. When we met up, he told me he had been made redundant that
morning and he showed me the cheque for £1,500 he had been given to leave Adplates.
He was beaming, as I don’t think he had ever had that much money on him before.
We went down on the train and got a cab to a B&B near to Mike and Penny’s
house and then all went out for some food and drink in Bristol. We played golf on Saturday morning (he wasn’t
a bad player, better than me!), and went off to football in the afternoon, then
met up with Mike and Penny again that evening for more drinks. We checked out
of the B&B on Sunday morning and met Mike in his local pub at midday prior
to catching a late afternoon/early evening train home. In those days, pubs shut
at 2pm on a Sunday, so I asked Mike if I could borrow his keys, run back to his
house and watch some Ashes cricket on TV before we got the cab to the station. Mike
said yes, and off I trotted, at pace, down the street. I hadn’t gone very far
(maybe 100 yards?) when I stumbled, fell over, smashed down into the road I was
crossing, and ended up in the gutter, hurting! All I could hear was Frank
laughing….Frank and Mike soon got to me, and picked me up, but by the time we
were nearly back to Mike’s house, I knew I needed to go to the hospital. Frank
came with me in the cab, and burst out laughing again when it was confirmed I
had broken my wrist! I was put in a temporary cast, and told to come back
tomorrow (Monday) morning so they could check it out and give me a permanent
cast. We had to re-check in to our B&B, which was embarrassing… At
breakfast the next morning, I was presented with a lovely full English
breakfast, but with just one useful arm, could not hold a fork or cut anything;
Frank thought it hilarious that the waitress looked at me, took my food away
and then brought it back a minute later all cut up into little pieces so I
could eat it! While I went into the hospital, Frank tested out the local pub,
working his way along with a pint from each pump, until I returned. Luckily I
was only a couple of hours…
We went
down to Bristol again for Mike and Penny’s wedding, and in the church, Frank
took great pleasure from showing us his John Wayne and Elvis Presley
impressions - laying prone on a flagstone with his arms across his chest and
his eyes shut tight!
In about
1984, Frank came down to Devon with my cricket team on our annual tour and
stayed with us in Barnstaple and Collumpton; my colleagues knew that they could
not keep up with Frank’s drinking antics so kept their distance. One morning,
we went down to breakfast but while walking through the bar area to the
breakfast room Frank said he wasn’t hungry.
He sat on a stool at the bar, reading a newspaper (or doing the
crossword more like…), while I went and ate.
After breakfast, he told me that as he sat there, the barman came in and
started to clean the pipes ready for a new day.
He saw him pull off half a pint of this ale, and throw it away, but
Frank wouldn’t have that waste of beer!
He got him to agree to serve him any of the beer he needed to draw off –
half a pint of about 8 different types of beer - for free! All this before
10.30 in the morning!
By now,
Frank and Bernadette had split up; he never went into any details why, just
said that it hadn’t worked out.
I arranged
for a few mates to go on a beano to Hastings in the mid-eighties, and that was
the first time I met Pat. She came along
with a bunch of Frank’s other friends, and I knew he liked her.
Frank was
a great mimic, and one of his tricks in the late eighties was to mimic the
high-pitched shrill ringing sound of a mobile phone. In those days, they were like massive bricks,
and had a separate battery pack held in a shoulder bag! He had a fake phone with
which he would mimic it ringing, answer the fake phone, and then hold an
imaginary conversation with someone on the other end, just to entertain the pub
he was in!
We stayed
in touch all through the eighties, and into the nineties (I left NME in 1990).
We would often meet up after I got back from one of my overseas cricket
holidays so I could show him the photographs, which I think he liked. I went to
watch his football team in Hayes one weekend, staying with him, Pat, and their kids Jennifer and James. James was a real handful! I also went along to his
office space in that horrible concrete block that you can see from the railway
just the other side of Hayes station; he enjoyed working on Macs, updating
catalogue pages with new pricing, etc, and running his own business, but he did
spend all his earnings on beer I think.
The last
time I saw him was probably in the late nineties; he did meet my wife Rachel,
and she liked Frank and knew how much of an influence he had had on my life.
When Frank
left Hayes and moved down to Poole, we lost contact. I often thought about him, hoping he would
return one of my emails, and then about 2010, he contacted me through Facebook.
Sadly, I
never got to meet up with him again, which is a massive regret.
It looks
to me that he has four lovely, well rounded kids and grand-kids too now.
It was a
pleasure knowing Frank, and I will sorely miss him. He was a very funny
man. RIP Frankie!
Labels: Blast Furnace, Boomtown Rats, Frank Lamb, IPC, NME
