Archive | May, 2013

Messages (the reissue, 2009). Sleeve Notes By Steve Swindells.

22 May

Messages (the reissue, 2009).


Sleeve Notes By Steve Swindells


You know how so often we think that ‘life is like a movie’, whether it might be horror, fantasy, musical, action, thriller, Sci-fi, or even romantic comedy? Who claps the metaphoric clapper board, apart from our objective selves?

 It all started when I persuaded my fellow (avowedly heterosexual) members of the Bristol ‘classical rock’ band Squidd to perform for nothing at a Gay Liberation Front benefit in Fulham Town Hall in, erm, I think, 1972.  If so, I was twenty years-old.  That’s nearly thirty-seven years ago.

A Gandalf-like man approached me backstage after our performance to suggest that he’d be interested in managing and producing me – but not the band.  Maybe it was because I’d performed in a green, satin dress, afro-wig and football boots.  Or maybe it was that he fancied me.  The latter was the unfortunate truth.  His name was (or is, if he’s still alive), Mark Edwards.

He was a posh, gay hippy from Dorset with a pretentious beard that featured double plaits.

 On paper, at least,  Mark looked like a good bet: he’d produced the million-selling, debut album by Curved Air and seemed to have excellent connections.

 In 1973 I moved  from Bristol to London  to live in a squat in Camden.  I had the whole ground floor of a perfect little Georgian house all to myself.  There was, alas, no bathroom, but at least there was a large communal kitchen in the basement where everyone lived on brown rice,  home-made chapatis, lentils and carrots. There were hundreds of squatters living in this attractive enclave of several ‘blocks’ between Mornington Crescent and St Pancras. I was having a bit of a thing with a wannabe dealer who was squatting in a house a few doors down with a delightfully eccentric young red-head called Nell, amongst others.  She went on to host her fantastic,  eponymous nightclub in NYC in the 70/80s.  I went several times.  It was of the inspirations for one of my later incarnations as a club promoter in the 80s.

 My younger brother Frank, an able guitarist and violinist, came to live with me for a while, and I formed a band with him and various fellow-squatters, including Bruce Knapp, who later played guitar on Messages. It was, to be frank, all a bit hippy;  freewheeling our way around the free festivals in a large truck which I’d borrowed from my elder brother Rob, and using the roof of a giant marquee that I’d dubiously acquired, as a makeshift Bedouin tent.  I’d lived at the Glastonbury festival site at Worthy Farm for several months in the 40-foot-long marquee-roof (complete with carpets, cushions and my  own sleeping area with double lilo) for several months in 1971 and had helped build the first Pyramid stage, before being invaded by all my old friends from my short sojourn at art college in Bristol, who ‘crashed’ in the tent during the festival itself.  I really do recall it as being a fantastic, mystical and magical time, both before and after the festival.  And Lady Arabella Churchill often used to let me sleep in her four poster bed in her room at Worthy Farm when she was away.   See if you can spot me in the ‘Glastonbury Fayre’ film, ‘doing a Pied Piper’ in purple loon pants and a trilby with an ostrich feather in it, whilst playing a treble recorder.  Deliciously embarrassing!


Me aged 19 at Glastonbury in 1971 (my brother Frank found the pic online).

 Moving to the squat in London had been somewhat influenced by the fact that I’d been ‘busted’ in Bristol, having been set-up by a jealous, homophobic wannabe ‘girlfriend’ called Lois, for possession of THREE ROACHES – and fined the astonishing sum of £150!  My lovely mum later paid this ridiculous fine for me and I was soon to be swept into the music business by Mark Edwards, who was, unfortunately,  to turn-out to be completely psychotic and sexually obsessed with me, and to become increasingly violent and abusive as he realised he couldn’t ‘have’ me.

 I was twenty-one.  It was all a curious mixture of bewildering, besotted, beguiling, baffling, bullshit and brazen.  What a horrendous way to kick-off  one’s career in the music industry!

 First-up came the King Crimson/ELP  connection.  ELP were at the height of their success and had a ‘rock-star-vanity’ record label  called Manticore.  I recall Mark Edwards taking me to meet a well-known lyricist in his large, impressively arty and funky house in Battersea Park Road in South London.  Having heard my demos, he apparently wanted to produce my album and assembled a band that was essentially Bob Dylan’s backing group to rehearse with me in Manticore’s ludicrously extravagant rehearsal space in Fulham Broadway – a huge, atmospheric  former cinema draped in floaty white parachutes.  Both the building and the band overwhelmed me, but I was decidedly underwhelmed, even deflated, by the lyricist’s production skills and the revelation, when I’d first met him in the Manticore offices,  that he was writing a song based on ‘an orange’s osmosis into a crystal’, or something along those lines. It all seemed totally surreal, pretentious and self-indulgently narcissistic to me.  And there was more nonsense to come.

 A massively successful rock-star, who shall remain nameless, invited me to his tasteless,  bland, piss-elegant. wood-panelled rock-star mansion in South Kensington for a bit of ‘male bonding’ involving a hand-tooled, antique box containing about twenty different  ‘stashes’ of premium hash in small compartments.  His trophy wife, a blond Scandinavian ex-model, naturally, who appeared to be little more than his servant, brought us drinks and then made herself scarce as my new ‘best rock-star mate’ tested my ability to get completely wrecked and not pass out.  Of course, I passed with flying colours… not that I cared.  This was just macho, rock-star bullshit.  At this stage I realised that he was so patronising and egotistical that the mooted record deal was unlikely to go through, as it was all about… him. I was soon to be proved correct.

 Meanwhile, I had to deal with Gandalf, AKA Mark Edwards, my erstwhile manager/producer (who would later violently attack me with depressing regularity in public and private and make my life hell), making sure that I was housed in his flat on Cromwell Road in Earl’s Court  (hence ‘The Earl’s Court Case’ on Messages) which in the early seventies was London’s first ‘gay village’.  He was totally obsessed with me and I was soon to discover that he was a junkie, an alcoholic and a psychopath.

 The whole fiasco with Manticore had come to nothing, but Mark did at least secure me my first publishing deal with Chappell Music.  I believe the advance was something pathetic like £100, along with a ludicrously mean 50/50 split, and my first record deal, with RCA, again with some pitiful advance, much of which found its way into his pockets.


 Having spent all his royalties from Curved Air on drugs, eating-out, booze and rent boys; suddenly I was Mark Edwards’ only potential meal-ticket.  He moved us into a tiny, two-bed flat in Silverthorne Road, Battersea, where the he used to shout abuse at the working-class neighbours when they complained about the noise, throwing open the window in the kitchen and ranting at them about the fact that OWNED the flat.  Grotesque.  They later chased him down the street with meat cleavers, as most of them worked at Smithfield meat market.  I recall that he jumped into a cab to escape.  He also obtained a large bank loan using my record deal with RCA as collateral.   I later had to take on this loan in order to escape his evil clutches.

 On the other hand, suddenly I was actually making my first album on a major label, with fantastic, famous musicians in fabulous recording studios,  and I even had a full orchestra on some of the tracks.  It was an extraordinary mix of joy and horror; a dream-come-true and a nightmare.  Mark would sit at the mixing desk with a bottle of scotch on one side and a pile of cocaine on the other, talking complete nonsense and threatening and embarrassing me, and everyone else, with his totally-out-of-it incompetence.  Talk about a baptism of fire!  My first album was basically a tight-rope walk into insanity with him getting out of it,  whilst  I was working-out how to get out of it, without… getting out of it, if you get my drift?

On one particular Messages recording session at The Who’s Ramport Studios in Battersea (I don’t recall the particular song, but it was basically Elton John’s backing band playing with me), I was playing a beautiful Bosendorfer piano in the booth when ‘Gandalf’ drunkenly/druggily accused me of being out of time and physically threatened to hit me over the head, hovering over me with his whisky bottle, demanding that I record to the track WITHOUT HEADPHONES.  Luckily, my natural timing was excellent, and the band was able to follow.  Can you even imagine how downhearted, depressed, truamatised and betrayed I felt?

On a happier note, I was later recording in the big studio upstairs at what was Island Studios in Basing Street in Notting Hill (now Trevor Horn’s Sarm Studios): it must have been a track for Swallow in 1975, I don’t remember.  A period of extreme trauma creates selective amnesia, even when there are good bits.

 I went downstairs to get a coffee and a sandwich from the basement  cafe and heard this wonderful changa changa guitar noise coming out of the open door of the smaller Studio 2.  Then a bloke who looked strangely familiar walked into the studio carrying a guitar case.

 I poked my head around the studio door, explained that I was working in the studio upstairs,  and congratulated the first person I saw regarding the track, saying it sounded fantastic.  He had really long dreadlocks, smiled a lovely smile and shook my hand, thanked me sincerely and  handed me a big fat joint.  It was Bob Marley.   The guitarist was Eric Clapton. We later had a great game of table football too  – I recall that Eric and I won!  And the big studio upstairs was where ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’ was recorded many years later, with John Moss  (and Phil Collins) on Drums.  Jon Moss and I would record a double album together, as DanMingo, in 2003. A much happier recording process altogether!

To say that the recording  of  Messages and Swallow  was challenging and difficult for me would be a gross understatement.  Edwards was a complete bastard and treated me with utter contempt, presumably due to my sexual rejection of him.  It was only when my mother came to London and met with a solicitor who declared his management contract ‘null and void’ that I was literally kidnapped from the flat where he had me virtually imprisoned in Battersea by my dear friend Caroline Guinness and her then boyfriend, the late, great Tim Clark. And I lost everything  including a piano, stereo, and an early ARP monophonic synthesizer, all of which he’d ‘blagged’, using my name.  The ARP synth, the same model that Stevie Wonder used, had featured heavily on both albums. Like Stevie, I’d multi-tracked all the parts, as polyphonic synths hadn’t yet been invented.  This is especially apparent on the track ‘I Can’t See Where The Light Switch Is’, featuring the legendary Danny Thompson on double bass, on Messages.


Me performing my first single ‘Shake Up Your Soul’ on a TV show which was filmed in Birmingham. I forget the name of it, but I clearly remember having lunch with David Essex, who was also on the show, in the studio canteen. He was charming and funny, and his eyes were the bluest I’ve ever seen – apart from Roger Daltrey’s – who (geddit?) was to record four of my songs – with me on keyboards – many years later.

 I remember writing the lyrics of the title track of Messages in the squat in Camden straight into in a notebook in 1973, sitting by my period, open fire (the only heating, of course).  It was probably my first experience of what is known as ‘automatic writing’.  And, strangely, the lyrics are about precisely that.  Messages From Heaven. It was a total dream-come-true recording the eleven-minute track totally LIVE with a full orchestra, and King Crimson’s Mike Giles on drums, in George Martin’s Air Studio 1, high above Oxford Circus.  And, for once. Mark Edwards was almost well-behaved.  Somewhere,  there’s a somewhat arty, full-length film of the track, featuring me in a hot-air balloon in a white robe and all sorts of  other flighty stuff, scripted by me and directed by ‘Gandalf’. I certainly don’t have a copy, and I doubt whether Mark Edwards’ family or friends (if he has any) know about it either, but I hope that it still exists.  Just for the record.

 The Messages  album cover was my concept.  It was a very skillful photo-montage from a record company-sponsored shoot in a stately home in the Home Counties.  I wanted to satirise not only the concept of ‘pop image’, but also the pathetic, public perception of gay stereotypes.  Did you notice that they’re actually all me, including the metaphoric ‘judge’?  I have to point out (so many years years before Photo Shop) that my legs as ‘a drag queen’ were indeed air-brushed – they were not that thin!  And the ‘pretty boy’ picture on the back cover was RCA’s attempt to present me as some sort of pop star.  Hah!

I guess that the somewhat whimsical quality of Messages is almost as a result of me trying to convince myself that everything was okay, and that I wasn’t in some kind of nightmare with an obsessive, psychotic, junkie alcoholic who was trying to control me, not only in a business sense, but in the delusional belief that he could ‘have me’ as a boyfriend.  Yeah, I was pretty, but I was also pretty strong.  He never succeeded.  But I was still kind of scared, or indeed scarred by the experience… for a long, long time.

 We recorded the follow-up album Swallow and things were looking better.  Maybe Mark had dropped the heroin or boozing, I don’t recall.   I’m afraid the only musician I can remember playing on it was the excellent drummer Roy Dyke, who later went on to marry Hawkwind’s  notoriously naked dancer Stacia, who then changed her name to Stacia Gay to match his ‘lesbian’ moniker.  Very droll!  Little did I know that I would end-up joining Hawkwind/lords just a few years later, in 1978.

 And in the end, the clapper board clapped and no-one… clapped. I was left out in the cold after ‘Gandalf’ swept everything off the Managing Director’s desk at RCA in a drunken, druggy rage.   End of deal.  An unthinkably terrible situation for me at the time.

These two albums are a testament to that struggle and the horror of being betrayed, abused and exploited by a posh hippy with no scruples or morals… and a stupid beard.

Messages From Heaven?  You bet.  I couldn’t have made-up the bizarre tie-ins that happened subsequently in my strange and interesting life. There was only one thing missing –  and that was Mark Edwards, thank God.

 Messages:   can you Swallow it?  I just hope that when you listen, you’ll find some hope, joy and spirituality shining through.

 PS  I recently discovered, much to my surprise, that the Messages album sleeve is on display in London’s Hard Rock Cafe, back-lit on a pillar near the bar.  I can only assume it’s been there for over thirty years!


 These two albums are dedicated to my wonderful mother Audrey, the awesome Caroline Guinness and to the memories of the late Tim Clark and my late, first proper lover (and erstwhile Hawklords roadie) Millar.  And to V.E,  D.H, S.M and A.K.A.

With special thanks to Ian Abrahams.

 Steve Swindells.  London NW10. 9.09pm.  9.9.09.

Footnote:  I only discovered that Mark Edwards had died when someone ‘in-boxed’ me on Facebook, asking if I was Steve Swindells the singer-songwriter and, if I was, could I get back to him? Curious, I did so, and he told me that his mother had bought a cottage in Corfe Castle in Dorset, from the estate an old lady who’d died; a Mrs Edwards. The loft had been full of junk and bric-a-brac, but there was also a large trunk full of reel-to-reel tapes, some quarter-inch, some one-inch and two-inch.  Mark Edwards was listed as producer on all of them – and, along with Curved Air, the main artist on them was Steve Swindells. Would I like them?  Absolutely yes, I replied, thanking him for being so thoughtful in tracking me down. Rob, my elder brother, who lives in Bristol, very kindly picked them up for me and brought them to London.  I still haven’t got around to checking whether one of the unmarked two-inch tapes is the missing film of Messages From Heaven.

 My new, double compilation album New Crescent Yard, featuring home recording and demos from the late 80s until 2012, is available to download for just $10 – for a limited period – from

My 2012 release, the double CD The Lost Albums is available on iTunes, online record stores and

Messages is not on iTunes (thanks, R.C.A) but is available on and, amongst others.


Fresh Blood (the re-issue, 2009). Sleeve Notes.

21 May

Fresh Blood (the reissue, 2009). Sleeve Notes.


Sleeve Notes by Steve Swindells.

What does the title ‘Fresh Blood’  evoke for you?  I guess there are two very different main options or possibilities.  Have a think about it.

Let’s rewind to late 1978 and early ’79.  I’d really enjoyed recording the 25 Years On album with The Hawklords (Hawkwind in all but name, ‘for contractual reasons’), and the massive – in both scale and production  – tour which followed.  Then we found ourselves out on a limb, housed in a lovely riverside mansion location,  rehearsing and recording in the attached chapel, but seriously broke and without a record deal.  Robert Calvert  (whom I’d grown very close to) had left the band after another bout of severe depression and Dave Brock had asked me to be the lead singer.  I declined, and left the band, as there seemed little hope of a swift recovery from barely having enough to eat, along with various other problems, most of which have been well-documented.

I was living in a dingy, basement room in St Luke’s Road in London’s Notting Hill . The rest of the ‘flat’ contained all the seriously deranged landlord’s useless junk, had no hot water and only an outside toilet. I seem to recall the rent was £7 a week!  Luckily, I had a key to the upstairs part, where my best friend Caroline Guinness rented my old first-floor flat, with her husband Tim  Clark, so I could use the bathroom on the half-landing.  She had kindly and enthusiastically recommended me for the keyboard-playing job in Hawkwind/lords earlier in ’78, as she basically ran The Hawklords’ management offices, whose roster also included Motorhead.

Post-Hawklords, I was hanging out with a rich, Italian Count who had befriended me through other friends and used to regularly take me out to dinner (which was handy for someone suffering from post-Hawklords malnourishment).   He offered to pay for me to record some demos.  I gratefully accepted and asked Simon King, Huw Lloyd-Langton and Nic Potter to play on the demos for mere expenses, which they did, on the understanding that should I get a deal, they’d get payed a proper session fee. And, indeed, they did.

The demos turned out to be most excellent and the Italian Count suddenly – apropos of nothing –  offered to take me to New York, which was my my first-ever visit.  It was autumn (or should I say ‘Fall’?) 1979, when NYC seemed to be bathed in a golden glow. I was utterly enchanted with the city and felt completely at home.  The lyrics of the song ‘I Feel Alive’ were written in NYC, and later recorded at Sawmills Studios for Fresh Blood.

The Italian Count was pretty well-connected in NYC on the nightlife front.  He was swished into all the VIP-within-VIP rooms (with me in tow) and we were actually invited to the infamous management office at Studio 54 – and yes: it was everything it was rumoured to be.  Then there was the basement, where group sex was the order of the night, in a maze of dark, basement rooms.  Naturally, one was merely playing the role of the observant songwriter (‘Don’t Wait On The Stairs’?), as opposed to joining-in, although it’s at this point that my memory banks go a bit blank.

On my second day in NYC I called Bill Curbishley, the manager of The Who, in London.  Caroline Guinness now ran the office of his and his wife Jackie’s company Trinifold.  I knew Bill vaguely and correctly figured he’d speak to me, if only out of curiosity, if I was calling from New York.  I was right.  I told him I had some seriously hot demos and asked if I could use his name to open a few doors.  He said that that would be fine, providing he had first refusal on managing me.  I agreed and he put me onto a few major players in the industry, including Doug Morris, the President of Atco Records, which was a part of WEA.  Doug is now President of  Universal Records (update 2013 – now Sony Music), so he must have had something going for him!

Atco’s office was on the 23rd floor of The Rockerfeller Plaza.  Doug had agreed to see me immediately… in person.  This was all boding well.  I played a couple of the demos.  He was on the phone to his A&R people straight away, yelling things like: ‘This Brit guy just walked-in off the fuckin’ street and he’s the NEW SPRINGSTEEN!’.

I was trying desperately to contain my excitement and retain a cool composure.

Within two days, I had a deal worth £80K (on paper) with Atco/WEA and was soon to be signed to Trinifold Management, and Warner Chappell Music.  To say I was on a high would have been an understatement.

Suddenly offers from major producers started flying-in, Jim Steinman (Meatloaf), Jimmy Iovine (Springsteen) and David Bowie (himself) most notable amongst them.  But I guess the advance  – although sizable for the time – didn’t cover their huge fees,  so I ended-up producing the album myself at Sawmills Studio in Cornwall; a beautiful, live-in recording complex that was only accessible by boat, or by walking along a railway track.  I chose it because I wanted to be fresh and healthy and away from urban distractions and temptations.  This was potentially my big break, and I wasn’t about to blow it.

Bowie Fax

A fax from David Bowie about him listening to both my albums (for the first time) in 1998

As it turned-out, the best thing about Sawmills Studio was the cooking. It was Michelin Stars as far as I was concerned, but I wasn’t recording a lifestyle, I was recording an edgy, urban album.  And Simon the sound engineer was very, very laid back.    He required at least an hour or even two to recover from the culinary delights of the gourmet dinners, whilst I –  the eternal night-person –  was itching to get on with what I considered to be a potential masterpiece.  The musicians played brilliantly, the atmosphere in the studio was great.  But the equipment was badly-maintained.  Several channels on the mixer didn’t work.  One night, we were recording live.  There was a huge thunder storm.  The  power went (what – no back-up generator?) and the multi-track  tape recorder did a quasi-comical audio slow down to… nothing, and we lost the take, which had been perfect.

Bill Price, who’d worked extensively with my fave band The Clash, was brought-in to remix the album at Wessex Studios  in North London.  He had a job on his hands, because some of the album had been quite badly recorded at Sawmills.  I re-sang a couple of the vocals (‘Is it Over Now’  and ‘Low Life Joe’, as I recall) and Huw added some beautiful, multi-layered acoustic guitars, which are particularly apparent on ‘Down On Love Street’.

I still think the album could have been better mixed and mastered, as it’s lacking in bass-end and high top in particular, but it’s also an album I’m very proud of – mostly because of the passion, poetry, anger and commitment in the songs and the excellent playing by the guys who accompanied me, particularly Simon King’s typically hypnotic,  powerhouse drumming.

Fresh Blood made its debut at #3 in the American Airplay Charts in the second week of its release, with little or no promotion. Forty-Seven top ‘add-ons’ in Billboard Magazine, as I recall!  My request to do coast-to-coast radio  interviews in the US was inexplicably ignored by both management and record companies, despite this unheard-of promotional boost.  Neither had realised or checked that the following week was the US radio ratings period.  So Fresh Blood dropped out of site forever – until, perhaps, now.


And no-one seems to know where the the master tapes of 21 songs that I recorded at Eel Pie Studios for the potential follow-up album (with Simon Townsend and Steve Mann on guitars and the Big Country Rythmn section (who later went on to perform that role at Live Aid) are.  I’m definitely Bitter And Twisted about that (now re-issued as The Lost Albums on Flicknife Records).

Fresh Blood?  No, it was never really about the red stuff (apart from perhaps metaphorically, along with sweat and tears).  I was, and still am, looking for new talent (including, perhaps, my own) and love – and, I’m glad to say, still succeeding in finding and nurturing it!

I hope you enjoy this slice of history, and realise how much it meant to me at the time.  I hope its genuine passion still manages to move you as the Noughties draw to a close.  What next? The Teens?  Fresh Blood indeed.

SS in 1980.

SS in 1980.

This album re-issue is dedicated to my great friend Caroline Guinness and my mother Audrey Swindells, for their never-failing belief,  and also to the abiding memories of Tim Clark and Millar Ogilvie. Cover versions from the album that I’m aware of so far include ‘Bitter And Twisted’ and ‘Don’t Wait On The Stairs’ by Roger Daltrey and ‘Shot Down In The Night’ by Hawkwind.

Steve Swindells.  London NW10. 1.07.09.

Rolling Stone Review.1980

‘… and boy can this guy write lyrics. A glittering first effort’. Review in Rolling Stone Magazine.  1980

Fresh Blood is available on iTunes and all the major online record stores.

The opening track of the album is Turn It On Turn It Off. Here’s the original demo (featuring Dave Brock, Harvey Bainbridge and Simon King).

The closing track of Fresh Blood is ‘Shot Down In the Night‘. Here’s the original demo with the same line-up.


My 2012 double CD The Lost Albums is also available from

My double compilation album New Crescent Yard, featuring home recording and demos from the late 80s until 2012, is available to download for just $10. Streaming is free.

The same applies to my rocking 2015 collaboration album ‘The Hanging Baskets Of Babylon’

In 2017 I finally released my classic, all-star double download album ‘DanMingo‘ which features Jon (Culture Club) Moss on drums, Winston (Massive Attack) Blissett and Dale (Amy Winehouse) Davis on bass and Jerry (Hawkwind) Richards and Kit (Jethro Tull) Morgan on guitars. Click the link above to stream it on Spotify, then why not add a review to the Eleven five-star reviews it’s already garnered on Amazon?

Also in 2017, I released two deep, progressive house EPs ‘Chrystal Mesh, The Findike Mixes’ and ‘Only Love Will Win’. Feat Bianca Kinane. Both are available on Spotify (just search for Steve Swindells), iTunes etc etc, as are all the aformentioned recordings.

Coming soon is my new double album ‘The Unplanned Obsolescence Of Thom Topham’ which is currently free to hear as part of the narrative of ‘My Unplanned Obsolescence’, the world’s first #multimediaebook ‘by’ my alter-ego… you guessed it, Thom Topham!

A financial footnote.  When I was dumped by Trinifold management (coincidentally – NOT! – at the same time as ATCO terminated my contract) I was informed in a meeting that I owed Trinifold something in the region of £15K, which were expenses that had been incurred ‘on my behalf’. I was ‘encouraged’ (i.e TOLD) to cross-collaterise these expenses as ‘an advance’, or debit, into the Publishing company Eton Music, which subsequently published the two further songs of mine which Roger Daltrey recorded (with me on keyboards, for which I didn’t get paid, of course).  The songs were ‘Martyrs And Madmen’ and ‘Treachery’. These were featured on Roger’s ‘Best Bits’ compilation album, released in 1983 (I believe) and they then re-appeared on the reissue of his ‘One Of The Boys’ compilation as bonus tracks, in the early noughties.  Daltrey also recorded a cover of my song ‘Abandoning Ship’ but wasn’t happy with his vocal, so it was never released. Somewhere, in a dusty vault, that might still exist.  My original versions of all three songs are featured on my double CD The Lost Albums.  Revenue from MCPS never put my account with Eton Music into the black, but at least the publishing rights of the songs reverted to me in 2009, after Eton Music was wound up.


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