last leaf of autumn

How I wish I could return to those summers once again
How I wish I could just sit in the presence of a friend
Making music or just listening to the birds so far from sight
Watching as the dark shades of evening turn to night
Gone the sun...

I was away in Wales the other week when the sudden, unexpected, news of Michael Chapman's death came through. Okay, he was 80 and that's not a bad innings.

Whilst Michael wasn't a household name, and his passing was fairly ignored by much of the media, I feel I need to comment. I have written before about him both in relation to the passing of Derek Brimstone and in my re-review of his album Deal Gone Down. The fact that he has been a major influence on me means I want to note his passing but, also, I think it's important to remind anyone with even a vague interest in music how influential he had been.

You can, of course, look up the obvious biographical details on Wikipedia and I do not want to reiterate that here. What I'm interested in noting is a few points about his influence and maybe an anecdote or two.

I became aware of Michael initially through Derek Brimstone who had recorded March Rain on one of his albums (and he later recorded Michael's Shuffleboat River Farewell on another album with Mr Chapman himself on lead guitar) and whilst not thinking too much of it at the time, I came haphazardly on an MC album. During a wander through Soho in 1972, at the tender age of 16, I saw a Cube Records display in Berwick Street, the albums were the first T. Rex album and a few compilations such as Procul Harum and an interesting looking one called Michael Chapman Lived Here 1968-1972. For some unknown reason, I was quite taken with it. And not long afterwards, I bought it.

I have no intention to say too much about it but the point is made that musically I loved his stuff. What I really want to mention is how influential he was. And I don't mean on me. His first two albums were produced by Gus Dudgeon and strings were arranged by Paul Buckmaster. The fact that Elton John and David Bowie were both heavily influenced by those two albums alone suggests that the mid-1970s owed much to our intrepid hero. Elton John asked him to become his guitarist (Chapman suggested Davey Johnstone instead) and the future Thin White Duke ripped him off Lock, Stock and Barrel. 

Because both Elton John and Bowie were enamoured with Chapman's first two albums they both decided to utilise a similar modus operandi: they both used Gus Dudgeon as Producer, Paul Buckmaster as orchestral arranger and the former Mr Jones even took Chapman's guitarist. Yes, it was MC who introduced the World to Mick Ronson's guitar playing on record. Bowie took Ronson and his band the Rats and turned them into the Spiders From Mars. The rest is history. 

Over the years I managed to see Michael Chapman in various guises. I remember a ridiculous gig in London where he played a gig in some god-awful disco with a keyboard player with an occasional extra musician, none other than Phil Palmer who is best known for being a) Ray & Dave Davis of the Kinks' nephew or b) a Pink Floyd guitarist.  Also, he played late last Century at a tiny pub in Woodbridge in Suffolk. I went up to see that one Sunday before work on the Monday. Fabulous: a lone long distance guitarist at the height of his powers. He played a gig (can't remember the band - do forgive me Mr Clements if you were the bassist in Suffolk called the Suffolk'n'Good Festival (read it again, slowly). But best of all was in 1977 at the Chorley Festival where Chapman played in a three piece with Keith Hartley on drums and the wonderful Rod Clements (Lindisfarne) on bass. That was one of those gigs I will put as one of the most memorable ever. Not least because my girlfriend and I hitched up to it and were given a lift in a refrigerated lorry - guess where the driver put our tent. Yep, it didn't thaw out until we got home the following week. . . anyway, it was well worth the agony & angst. Having a lot of friends in those days helped! 

In more recent years, he has been influential on many young American guitar slingers - I have been introduced to the music of Steve Gunn because of this. 

Anyway, I just wanted to mark the passing of an important artist because he has been important to me. Just one more thing: you will read of his dour personality. A gruff Yorkshire man who didn't suffer fools gladly, or waste money*. However . . .  however, one last story. I went to see him appear at a tiny pub in Manningtree where he was appearing on the same bill as the aforementioned Derek Brimstone. Evidently they had never actually appeared on the same bill despite being great friends. I still maintain that Michael had borrowed the "banjo from a friend" from Derek. It was a great gig and I got to have quite a long chat with the great man himself. I mentioned that I had seen him many years before on BBC 2's Sight and Sound concert on a Saturday evening around 7 pm. I said I would love to have had a recording of that programme. Do you know what? He gave me his address and said send me an sae (cf the point about being a tight Yorkshire man*) which I did, of course. A week or so later, a cassette of the gig, recorded through the mixer so not a crap off-tv recording turned up. I've still got it. Okay, I haven't got a cassette player anymore but the point still stands.

I sincerely hope that Michael and Derek have met up again and that Mr C has had the banjo fixed and was able to hand it back. 

Michael Chapman 1941-2021 R.I.P.

we're all doomed!

Hear the trumpets hear the pipers

One hundred million angels singin'

Multitudes are marchin' to the big kettledrum

Voices callin', voices cryin'

Some are born and some are dyin'

It's alpha and omega's kingdome come . . .

We jumped into the car and headed off further up the coast; Mrs Dave said she had forgotten to take any anti-histamine but it wasn't the end of the World. Actually, it could be I told her. We were heading up to look at a Medieval Armageddon scenario after all, so it was possible.

With all the cuts and everything, the First Horseman of the Apocalypse© seems to have taken over the pestilence of Roadworks and House Building, so the journey of a mere 35 miles would take about an hour. Coming back . . . Ha! Just wait . . . 

Anyway, it being a blistering late Summer day (mini Indian Summer?) meant getting up reasonably early and travelling to the wilds of Suffolk where all the best-tasting pigs come from (or kale for those faux-vegans amongst us). Mrs Dave had read a book about The Doom at the church in a tiny village called Wenhaston* and it seemed like a good opportunity to visit it. Whilst we were there, an even better idea occurred to us that we could take in the "Cathedral of Suffolk©" at Blythburgh and - even more exciting - have lunch at the White Horse in the same village. Ah well, the best laid plans and all that . . .

So, we reached the church car park at Blythburgh, put on our walking boots and off we set. The plan was to have a pleasant stroll by the river, poke about the Doom church, head back and have lunch at the aforementioned pub followed by a look around Suffolk's finest Cathedral-in-all-but-name. 

It's a lovely village and we have walked around the area a few times before. However, the first fly in the ointment was a red sign - quite prominent - that said the the river path was no longer open. Evidently, a part of the "wall" had been flood-damaged and walkers should keep away. Nearby was a lone fisherman so I decided he was probably local so we should check with him. We approached him as a possible catch seemed to be getting away from him. I thought I should see what he was hoping to catch. Interestingly enough, he was fishing for mullet. Given the length of the white pony-tailed hair poking out of the back of his baseball cap, I thought he already had one. Anyhow, he informed us that the sign had been left up for years and the path was certainly "fine." We wished him a good day's fishing and off we went. As we wandered off, another white fisherman of the bank rose up into the air. We had disturbed an egret and he haughtily flew off to start his vigil for lunch elsewhere.

Now, many of the books of local walks we have collected over the years we've lived here could actually be re-printed in a sort-of Best Of omnibus. It could be called, for example, "How To Get Lost In Suffolk."  Given this was the second time this week alone rather badly worded instructions had meant a retracing of our footprints, I'm guessing that some bad language can be forgiven. Of course, being savvy technically minded silver surfers, we also have the OS App on our phones. So, after wandering off in completely the wrong direction far half an hour, we looked at the App.

After retracing our footprints, we certainly got onto the correct path. I'm assuming that the aforementioned sign telling Walkers that the path was closed has meant that the path hasn't really been walked for possibly a few years. The reeds were overgrown so it wasn't that easy to see the river. Along with the overgrowth of reeds, grasses, thistles and nettles were in total abundance. It just so happened that Mrs Dave had decided that today was a good day to try out her new walking shorts. After an hour of redecorating her lower legs in little red bumps she asked whether I had remembered to pack the First Aid kit. So that was a negative. Well, we're only wandering along a river locally; surely we don't need a full First Aid kit, do we? Well, honestly, the language!

Anyway, we continued on a while longer with me wishing I would actually fall into the river to escape the agony of causing her so much pain. Nothing compared to the agony she was suffering of course but we're nearly there now.

Once we had turned away from the "path" by the river, we walked across fields and into the village of Wenhaston fairly quickly. Although, to be honest, the idea that we were going to get back to where the car was parked and get lunch in the local pub was beginning to look rather remote. As we entered the village, we discovered they had a Post Office with a meaningless sign announcing a café. Obviously they didn't. So we wandered off to see The Doom. The whole point of the walk. I'd heard much about it and we were finally going to witness it. When I was told about the "amazing" church at Huntingfield**, I was unsure what to expect but was blown away with how spectacular it is. This is on a completely different level. Whereas the Huntingfield church has a spectacular ceiling full of beautifully painted Victorian art and decorated angels made by a Norfolk shipwright, this church had eleven planks of wood painted by an amateur in about 1489 that had been damaged over the years - some bits cut away to allow various pipes to be fitted into the church. Now, the fact these painted planks of wood have survived many years - quite a few whitewashed over since the Reformation - is historically exciting. However, it is a little underwhelming. I may have been a little less than charitable after stumbling through what seemed rather jungle-like, and it was, after all, great to see such a striking piece of Religious Art that has stood the test of Time.  In fact, it is now considered to be the finest Doom painting of its type in England.

Doom paintings were produced to give a visual document of the End of Time to essentially illiterate working class people. Blythburgh Church was built from the proceeds of the wealthy who wished to buy their way into Heaven. I must admit, looking at the lower right-hand part of the Doom - the weighing of the souls - would have put the frighteners on anyone staring at it whilst the priest ranted and raved and damned them all to Hell (I think that's what they did). Some of it is missing: possibly the nice bits or more hopeful pictures of Angels playing trumpets. But, generally the concept it was trying to get over still get their point across. Modern congregations may have even more realistic and frightening visions of what eternal damnation may hold for all Sinners from modern CGI effect-laden films and box-sets but I think our Baldric-like ancestors had a fairly good idea of where it was all going (Hell in a hand-cart, I believe) just from the vivid pictures from these artefacts. They may have been painted by amateurs (some may have been painted by Journeyman-wandering-Netherlanders) but the point was made. Sitting in the congregation looking at these visions whilst being berated by the local priest would have been quite a thought-provoking part of Sunday morning whilst trying to remember exactly it was they got up to after last night's carousing was anything to go by. Especially if they had tried the local Scrumpy.

Having managed to take far longer than planned, we ended up for lunch at the local hostelry, The Star Inn. I'm very glad we tarried too. It was a great find - I had never heard of it before, let alone been there. A couple of pints of Green Jack Brewery's Trawlerman Bitter (4.6% in case you're asking Martyn & John) and an excellent ham and mustard roll and I was happy to wander off towards Blythburgh - as long as I didn't have to walk by that bloody river again. Mrs Dave tried the local cider (I didn't ask the landlord for the abv as I had no intention of driving home - she only had a half) and we walked it all off. Not quite following our book's instructions meant that, yes, we had missed the path but we did manage to get to the car park. A quick look at the self-proclaimed Cathedral of Suffolk© - okay but a little underwhelming - meant we had to go and spend about two hours travelling back. Given that my usual Navigator was now driving and I (not that good at Navigation to be perfectly honest - I had an argument with the Google Sat Nav. That's how bad I am at it) we managed to take an even longer route back home through the wilds of Suffolk. 

Given the First Horseman of the Apocalypse seemed quite prevalent today, I was surprised that none of the horsey-types were represented on the old Doom painting. Lots of St Michael, demons and naked souls but no horses. Maybe it's more to do with the fact that even good artists can't draw horses. Ah well: that's for another time.

*Wenhaston is, according to the landlord of the Star Inn, pronounced' "Wenaston", as in the h is silent. So definitely not pronounced like the fromer "dolly bird" hostess of The Golden Shot in the early 1970s.

**I honestly though I'd written about it but obviously haven't: apologies - another time.