#NOISE15: Benchill Boys ... remembering Paul Young.
On what would have been Paul Young's 78th birthday, a few thoughts about a Benchill boy who made good, then came unstuck ... but bounced back bigger than ever.
My Gran absolutely loved Paul Young.
He and I grew up a few hundred yards from each other on Hollyhedge Road in the Benchill area of the vast Wythenshawe council estate in Manchester. His mum, Blanche, had known my mum, Mary, since they were girls, which is why she was one of the few who still referred to Mary by her teenage nickname of Molly. Blanche worked as a shop assistant in the local grocer’s on Haveley Circle, and in those pre-supermarket days that’s where our family shopped, so Blanche was a familiar face behind the bacon slicer when I was growing up.
Paul was six years older than me, so we never actually palled around together as kids, but he had acquired saintly status in our household. When my Gran lost her purse one day, it was a pre-teen Paul who found it lying on the pavement on Hollyhedge Road. Spurning any temptation he might have felt to pocket the few shillings it contained, young Paul brought it round to our house and returned it to Gran. Hence the canonization. From then on, Paul was simply that “lovely lad.”
He was still in his mid-teens when he became the lead singer with The Toggery Five, a local band who took their name from a Stockport clothing store.
I was probably only 9 or 10 at the time so it didn’t really register with me, other than I knew he was now a local celebrity. Well, I say that … I knew he was definitely a celebrity on Hollyhedge Road.
If I’m honest, by my late teens I’d pretty much lost track of what he was up to. I vaguely recall that he teamed up with Frank Renshaw from The Toggery Five as The Young Brothers and apparently they were the first artists to record an Elton John song. They subsequently released some material as Young and Renshaw.
None of this was really on my radar … or frankly, was my cup of tea musically … but I’d see Paul’s name pop up in the weekly Wythenshawe Express from time to time. By then he was married to local girl Pat Thompson and they were living near The Royal Oak in Baguley, so I’d occasionally run into him knocking about Wythenshawe and its pubs.
By 1973 I was dating a girl from Brooklands and on Sunday nights we’d go to Brooklands Trades and Labour Club, where they would have variety acts in the big room and the beer was cheap. Some acts were a bit run of the mill … the girl singer was always called something like Vicky St Clare, unless she was from Nottingham, in which case she would undoubtedly be Vicky Sherwood … but other acts were top notch. I remember seeing comedians like Roy “Kinnell” Jay there and they’d bring the house down. Without a doubt, the best live act I saw there was local showman Dougie James. He’d do storming versions of tracks like “Stand By Me” and “Aquarius,” and finish big on “Hey Jude,” patrolling the entire room while the punters were on their feet, clapping along and belting out the “na na na na na” refrain. The first time I saw him he had a couple of backing musicians and halfway through the set, I realised it was Paul Young on congas!
The more I got involved with the music scene, the more Paul and I would run in to each other and, as the age gap no longer really mattered, we began to strike up more of a genuine friendship.
In 1976, remnants of Paul’s band Gyro and peers Mandalaband had morphed into Sad Cafe. When Rob Gretton and Vini Faal began promoting shows at The Oaks in Chorlton, I used to design all their flyers for them. Sad Cafe played there in early 1977, not long after signing to RCA. That was the first time I saw the band live. A few weeks later, they played Rafters. Everyone was convinced that they were about to be huge. The debut album, “Fanx Ta Ra,” spearheaded by the first single “Black Rose,” seemed a nailed on certainty. Until, in August, a couple of weeks before the album release, Elvis died and RCA shunted everything off to one side to press as much Presley vinyl as possible. Sad Cafe would have to wait their turn.
To promote their second album, they toured the States with Santana, Rush and Toto. I remember they all came back sporting these little lapel pins that lit up. I ran into them at some event one night and I think it was Paul, or maybe guitarist Ian Wilson, whose pin was a little plane with alternating landing lights on its wings. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen! Funny the things that stay with you.
When they played the Apollo in May of 1979, their support act was Shann Lee Parker. She was married to drummer Clem Lee, and he and I were partners in a commercial production venture. I was mates enough with Paul that he would always stick me on the guest list if I asked … but that night I was there to film Shann’s set from a platform onstage, so I was actually backstage all day. I spotted the pay phone and made a note of the number. In those pre-cellphone and email days, the only way to communicate with a band playing the Apollo was via that phone … so that number came in handy over the years if I ever wanted to blag my way on a guest list.
Speaking of phone numbers, I’ve lived in Wythenshawe, Cheadle Hulme, Devon, Huntington Beach and Costa Mesa. I’ve had studios in Didsbury, London and Manchester City centre. Consequently, I’ve lost count of the number of phone numbers I’ve had over the years and, for the life of me, I couldn't tell you what any of them were. But I remember that Paul’s home phone number in Baguley ended in 1947. Of course, that was the year he was born so it’s not like I’m Marvo the Memory Man or anything. But, still, funny the things that stay with you.
Eventually, it was the third album that gave them their breakthrough. “Everyday Hurts” was a Top 3 single in Britain in late 1979, boosted by “Top of the Pops” performances. Youngy was now a bona fide pop star!
Unfortunately, the wheels came off Sad Cafe and the band endured management wrangles and tax and VAT woes. Paul eventually bounced back, joining Mike + The Mechanics and enjoying huge worldwide success.
Ours was a friendship with a foot in two worlds. He invited me over to Strawberry Studios when they were recording the fourth album. We’d run into each other at shows or maybe in the Rabid Records office. One night, a gang of us ended up in Fagin’s, the big club above Rafters, where Dougie James was performing. Dougie dragged Tony Wilson up onstage to perform a number with him, much to everyone’s amusement. I think he gave him a tambourine or something. That same night, Ugli Ray Teret, with two young women in tow, made a brazen pass at my girl, Debs, in front of me … and she completely, contemptuously blanked him, which pleased me no end. It was all very rock & roll … but still somehow still very Benchill. For instance, there was an afterparty at a club in Didsbury following one Sad Cafe show and, having been on a day long cavort, as you do, I was very much the worse for wear. I found myself in the middle of this quintessential music biz event sat with his concerned mum, Blanche, asking how Molly and my Gran were these days and insisting I try to eat something and get my head together.
And maybe that was part of the reason why I liked Paul so much. If you mentioned his name in any of the local pubs … The Royal Oak, The Lantern, The Red Rose … everyone knew Paul and nobody had a bad word to say about him. Wythenshawe being Wythenshawe, there were a lot of hard men who knew him and, to a man, they all had a soft spot for him. He was a worldwide pop star but still a Benchill boy at heart.
In the summer of 1989, I’d just moved out to California with my family and Mike + The Mechanics were coming to town. to play The Pacific Amphitheater, an open-air venue in Costa Mesa. I’d featured the band in my newspaper comic, “Biography,” which was syndicated to 100 or so U.S. papers and I asked Paul if he wanted the original artwork. I’d previously featured Paul in my daily comic strip, ”The Diary of Rock & Pop,” and had given him the original art from that. He said that, as he already had one of my originals, he thought Mike Rutherford would really appreciate it. So, Paul sorted out the all access passes and I presented Mike with the art backstage before the gig, got the band to sign a copy and we all lined up for a photo.
After the show, Paul and I were chatting together, just the two of us, sipping drinks and enjoying the balmy Southern California air. There was a few moments pause, before he turned to me, gestured at our surroundings and started to laugh.
“It’s a fucking long way from Hollyhedge Road, eh?.”
Paul was barely 53 when he passed away in 2000. Ridiculously young. As always, when you think of friends or family you’ve lost along the way, it’s funny the things that stay with you. As I write this, I suddenly remembered that Paul had a tattoo on his forearm and I could swear he told me he was once in a band called The Tigers and all the members decided it would be a cool gimmick to get tiger tattoos. Or maybe I’ve got that wrong. I remember Debs and I calling round at his and Pat’s house in Hale before we all went to dinner at a local wine bar and Paul playing me a mix of The Mechanics doing a version of The Beatles track “Revolution.” By then he was an international superstar but he couldn’t have been more excited to share it. I remember things like the flashing lapel pins, or his tale of a scuffle with a promoter in Blackpool whose toupee came off in Paul’s hand. Funny how you tend to forget the big stuff and remember the inconsequential.
He did tell me one story that has always stayed with me and illustrates how down to earth he was. After Sad Cafe had gone pear shaped, he was really struggling for money, heading towards 40 and no idea what to do next. He got a phone call one day and a very posh and plummy voice enquired:
“Is that Paul Young? Mike Rutherford here.”
Thinking it was some sort of prank , Paul snapped “Fuck off” into the phone and hung up. A few moments later, the phone rang once more and Paul answered, the caller identifying himself as Mike Rutherford from Genesis, before going on to explain that he was working on a solo project, needed a vocalist and his producer had recommended him. Paul was still a bit dubious, but the more the caller talked the more plausible it sounded. The conversation ended with Paul agreeing to travel down from Manchester to Surrey to record some tracks.
The problem was that Paul was so skint, he had to borrow the train fare from his mother-in-law. He told me that as he sat on the train he began to fret that this was all too good to be true and by the time he arrived at London Euston, he had convinced himself it was a cruel hoax and was all set to turn round and head back home, with no idea how he’d repay the cost of the ticket. Imagine his absolute relief, when he got off that train and there at the gate was a driver in a Genesis tour jacket holding a sign saying “Mr Young.”
