The Corries: The Parting Glass
Travelling as a group complete with sound equipment, instruments and personal kit was an undertaking not for the faint hearted. Time after time we longed for the time when we could afford a vehicle that would convey us trouble free between gigs, relieving us of the hassle of airport check-ins, endless train journeys and the inevitable arguments with airport staff about whether or not guitars should ride in the cabin or the hold. Sourcing a car with the right crowd appeal was clearly the answer. Except of course, not one of us could drive. This was a factor that we had curiously overlooked in our planning.
In due course Ronnie Browne qualified as a driver and a two-tone mark five jaguar of dubious vintage was purchased and equipped with a long roof rack boxing that threatened to slide off at every bump in the road. Soon, the jaguar had carried us on several tours without incident and was a positive asset that eased our lives for the better.
In driving rain on a tour of one very remote area of the north west of Scotland, on a secondary road and miles from the nearest garage, the jaguar suddenly stopped. Ronnie Browne and Roy Williamson both risked a soaking by peering fruitlessly under the bonnet without any promise that a repair might be found. Sitting in the rear with Paddie Bell I recall that we were both at ease, each with a generous dram and quite unconcerned with the technical disaster of titanic proportions that was unfolding around us.
Except of course that I had noticed that the clock on the dashboard had stopped. Clearly this was a battery problem. Ever the architect, and in no great rush to do very much about getting underway, with no traffic build up in either direction to worry us, I had a fairly good idea of what was required. By this time, both Ronnie and Roy were wet through and sitting in front silent and pensive having exhausted themselves peering into the recesses of a very oily engine compartment that had solidly refused to divulge its secrets to them. I hesitated before timidly suggesting that I might be allowed to help.
Borrowing Ronnie’s already wet through jacket, I opening the bonnet (which then obscured the view from inside the car), saw that one battery lead had come adrift and would only need a tap with a borrowed shoe to get us back on the road. I closed the bonnet and got back into the car. Paddie poured me another dram. I waited a minute or two before casually suggesting that we might go. As the engine roared into life the exchange of astonished glances between driver and co-pilot coupled with Paddie’s suppressed giggling and my cool indifference was somehow indicative of the way our relationships were changing.
The simple interdependency and denial of self that had bound us together as a fledgling group was being replaced by an assertiveness that made for long silences and moody introspection. Breakfasts in delightful country inns were often more akin to wakes.
Roy had never been one for engaging in long conversations although he could, on occasion, wax lyrical about the survival of the whale, life expectancy in submarines or any number of obscure subjects that entered his inventive mind. In the limited time that we had been together his talent for building guitars had become impressive. His progress on a number of instruments was even more astonishing as we continued to explore the combinations of sounds that were now available to us.
Ronnie, for his part, was obsessed with the group’s finances, the growing number of bookings, and all the minor time-consuming details of administration, while Paddie had retreated into her own private world that seemed to generate fewer giggles than before, leaving her somehow vulnerable and exposed. Early in 1965 Paddie quit the group to seek her fortune elsewhere.
Inevitably, or so it seemed, differences had begun to appear. Minor divisions that had nothing to do with the music were becoming apparent. Whilst I had always been confident that common sense and self-protection of our shared interests would ensure our survival I was now becoming increasingly aware of divided loyalties, unfair gossip and a reluctance to fully protect the unity that I had always felt was central to our unwritten agreement to prosper and sing. At the same time, we were threatened with a minor lawsuit that might have had onerous financial implications, disagreements over our recording contracts, while I had worries of my own facing a divorce and the breakup of family.
A general lack of enthusiasm was beginning to replace the energy that had so driven us forward as a group. For some time, I had been negotiating with a promoter in New York with the result than an offer to appear in two Carnegie Hall concerts was made to us. The first would be a shared bill with The Corries doing the first half, while the second show, a month later, would be a solo concert. Excitedly, I put the deal to Roy and Ronnie. The diary was consulted, and Ronnie declined on the grounds that his wife Pat had an engagement on one of the dates quoted that could not be changed. Exposure to the American folk network might have had major benefits all round.
New Year’s Eve 1965 saw the demise of the Corrie Folk Trio. After completing the Andy Stewart Hogmanay show I returned to our group wagon to find the rear seats full of large fully kitted out police pipe band members. A long overdue quarrel with Ronnie ensued and I walked. In the weeks that followed I continued to appear with the group to complete commitments. The final show ‘From Burns to the Beatles’ was a huge success. As Tom Fleming, actor and director of the Lyceum Theatre, standing in the wings, remarked;” if I could get an audience reaction to our productions such as I have witnessed here tonight, I should be well pleased”.
For myself, I had found a buyer for my Moray Place flat, had secured an offer of a job as an architect in London and had turned down a very generous offer to be the first signing for a new record label ‘Polydor’. The offer included full back up of promotion and resources and all the help I would require as a start-up act. I turned it down eventually, unaware that they were part of Deutsche Grammophon, one of the largest companies in the field of classical music worldwide at that time. I have often, in the years that followed, pondered on that decision.