The Troubadour

Down and Scrapping by in London

Set in the late sixties and the early 70' onwards, many great, now defunct music venues are
explored in the old Dickensian capital....London
Set on Old Brompton Road, South West London, the Troubadour folk music cafe has sponsored,
with largesse, welcomed raggle taggle musical gypsys of the modern world. Post 50's, when the
folk music revival thrust it creative dulcet tones at the world.
Conjured up in 1954, by Michael and his wife, the interior is reminiscing of Dickens 'ole
curiosity shop', with shelves of bric' a brack and antique stringed musical instruments, hanging
from the rafters of the 17th century shop front. No great credentials were needed to perform in
the downstairs cellar, where a small music hall stage, with wooden floorboards, had been built
with enough space to allow four persons to stand and perform with on acoustic instruments. No
room to do a duckwalk or any extravagant maneuvers! Behind the slightly elevated stage, a
small mouse' waiting room hid behind red velvet curtains, where one could rub shoulders with
Sandy Denny, Davy Grahame or any number of musicians, awaiting their turn to perform songs
they had written or stolen.
Martin Windsor and Red Sullivan ran the whole cellar affair, on Saturday evening, as a
music hall reincarnation. Martin, a dapper thin gentleman in a pinstripe suite, sporting a goatee
beard and a curled blonde moustache, conducted himself as the master of ceremonies, having
launched onto the Troubadour stage, the likes of Richard Farina, Rick Von Schmidt and Bob
Dylan, as a folk trio, in the early 60's...pre Carnaby Street. This happened at a time when Dylan
hung in London to perform in a play for the BBC.
You name any Actor, Writer, Poet, Musician..they have been to the Troubadour. In Los
Angles, a copy of the London icon, 'the Troubadour' has been constructed, complete with
matching sign. When confronted with this plagiarism insult..Jimmy Page commented 'Imitation
is the finest form of flattery.'
Across from the Troubadour Cafe the infamous Colhurn Pub, painted firebox red, resided on
the corner. Max Jones, jazz buff and Melody Maker journalist, cadged me a job playing in the
downstairs bar, at the Pub, where I rubbed shoulders with the underworld of Londons criminal
elite. Friends of the Kray brothers, the underworld elite, and one fine gentleman artist, Francis
Bacon.
'Welcome to England, I hope you have a lovely time,' he greeted profusely, as he stood at the
oak lined bar, his round heart shaped face and slick tasseled black hair, dominating, his thinner
shorter, body, adorned in a Caranaby Street mod suit, of gabardine and ruffles. 'England is
different to America, in that if you are a member of the communist party in America, you
become a nation threat, a conspiracy. Whereas here in England, you are just an eccentric.'
On closing time, he invited us back to his studios at the Mews, an upstairs cacophony of oil
paint tubes, unfinished canvasses and other idle muses of a sullen artist. Before the war he ran a
boutique furniture design business down in Chelsea, where he created, molded plywood
furniture and Francis Bacon rugs. 'Oh...so you're from Sydney! I'm partly from over there
myself.' He explained, taking hold of a long champagne flute, taking a deep sallow.' My
grandfather and his wife, on my fathers side, they hailed from South Australia, in the 1800's.'
From under a table he pulled out a case of beer and concocted a drink a drink of Guinness Stout
with a tipple of champagne on top, this was named a 'Black Velvet, boy, takes the yeasty
marmite flavor out of the brew, raise your glass an here's to the Crown Jewels of Ireland.'
Bruce Rogerson, a tall thin articulate, casually dressed man in his early 30's managed the
Troubadour in the 70's. Standing behind a huge chromed cappuccino machine, in the upstairs

room, chess players tweaked their skills as poets argued with tourists over inner-city London bus
time tables, and the devaluation of the British pound, turning the pennies into P.
One of the quirks, of the London folk music scene, a private treaty so to speak. If one played
at the Troubadour, then you were excluded from playing at Les Cousins or Bungees, and vice
versa. Which is where Donovan go his 'act together', to go on and become the intrinsic singer of
fairytales. Another live music venue, in a pub near Putney Bridge, the Half Moon Hotel, much
larger as a venue, John Martyn played his Fylde guitar through an effects rack, and guzzled old
beer as if Beer Fest had begun. 'The grog is my first love' he confessed to me, 'It kills the time,
most forcefully.'
The best show there ever in the 'Half Moon' if called..I would say, Tim Hardin, accompanied
by Sammy Mitchell on slide guitar. 'Reason to Believe' a spellbinding version, followed by, 'If I
was a Carpenter' had the audience in limbo. 'Near a penny' could be heard to drop, as magic
unravelled. Just a singer, songwriter with his steel string guitar, holding the listener in a rapture.
Just to set it straight, Tim Hardin did not die from a drug overdose, he had a crook ticker. The
last time I saw him, walking down Fulham Road smiling, he had a sack of money in his hand,
'taking last nights till to the bank,' he said with a drawl.
Johnny Guitar Watson played a clean set of Chicago Blues, brought the house down as I sat
next to troll doll, in the front row, who at one point stepped behind a huge white broadcast
piano on stage, and pounded into the blues with Johnny Watson. That man in the immaculate
cream plaid suite was Leon Russell, rock delta blues master.
An air of apprehension filled the bar as Max Jones, introduced Sammy Mitchell to the stage.
A small man with a carved gypsy face, who had mastered, the acoustic and electric Hawaiian
slide guitar, being taught by his father at an early age, and who forbade him to pursue a career
as a professional musician. This must have egged him on, as he had gone on to record with Rod
Stewart, the Stones and many others.
Of course, Ralph McTell and Burt Janzch, appeared singing and fingerpicking guitars in their
most notable way. Maddy Prior, the north county girl who vocalized for Pentangle, and Trevor
Lucas, the antipodean renegade often sat perched at the bar in the old Half moon pub. John
Renbourne stumbled into the conversation and vocalized 'The great difference between playing
to a London crowd and one that is Stateside is the audience here, sits before you, like stuffed
dummies, where the yanks kick up a huge racket through the performance.'