Jake's thing

by Johnny Bull
March 3rd, 2009

Somebody whose image I wanted to get into Speak The Culture GB, but probably won’t be lucky, was the unbelievably talented Jake Thackray. He died on Christmas Eve in 2002. I saw him live in London in the 70s; the pre-punk days, when Jake was part of the cool fun that could still be had if you weren’t particularly into Bowie and the GlamThang (Roxy Music being the brilliant exception), or Yes and the Pomp Thing.

He belonged to the pub circuit mainly (music that is sadly in danger of giving up and just dying, thanks to the brutal legislation threatened) where noisy pubsters (Kilburn and the Highroads, Doctor Feelgood) rubbed denim shoulders with the subterranean jazz of Solid Gold Cadillac or John Stevens or Barbara Thompson. But he could play, and very comfortably, command bigger venues.

So, occasionally when he came down to the smoke (sadly, etc…) and treated us to his brilliant, funny, perfect singing and guitar playing, you were a fool to let it pass by; he always offered an evening of pure gold.

His voice, always Yorkshire-accented, but so deeply, darkly deadpan, that when the jokes hit, as you knew they would, the laughter was a delayed blast of disbelief. How could he be so funny and fast, AND not drop a note on that delicate little guitar, AND not let a hint of a smirk spoil that stern, frowning and very nice face? In fact when he did occasionally smile there was always a slightly nervous chuckle from the audience, like, it’s ok if we laugh now.

Like really clever people, like Randy Newman for instance, he couldn’t choose his audience; and it was painfully embarrassing to hear a few poor souls laugh at grossly inappropriate moments. The subtlety and skill that underpins their music can get ignored by a few, and it’s sad, almost horrific when you can sense their scorn and humiliation.

Anyway, for whatever reason they say he just fell out of love with performing; in fact just wouldn’t get on a stage again. They also say that drink got the better of him. I think he was 64. I know he was a genius.

I don’t know why today I’m writing this; I just miss him big time. Here’s why, if you never saw him:

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=QmSezwugtd8

Comments (2)

On my first day in full-time work, as a Soho runner and junior print monkey, after a wasted year as official beer taster at Portsmouth Polytechnic, my boss Laurel Wade, a lovely sardonic chap 10 years my senior, thumbed out one of the three Jake compilations he had in his slim selection. I had already quickly vetted the stack, Wainwright III, Baez, not even any Bob Dylan, Oh Christ, I thought, I’m not going to last long here. “Ever heard this bloke Chris?”, a vague and innacurate memory of Braden’s Beat, an early progeny of “That’s Life” was my only experience of the Thackster so, by association it was tainted by the sanctimonious teeth of Esther Rantzen. “er…no I don’t think so” I lied.

Forty two minutes later my life had changed forever and over the next eighteen months as I spun the wheel of the dry mounting press as if I was piloting a Routemaster round Picadilly Circus, Jake Thackray became the daily commentator in that birds nest of cork and carpet high above Berwick Street, Laural and I would exchange wry glances at the risque bits and we collectively but privately enjoyed the disdain of the steady stream of hip customers who probably thought Iggy or The Clash were more appropriate to the times.

Jake’s music was unique, feisty, timeless and best of all slightly taboo, and I never tired of it. When Laurel sold the business, he took his records with him and I never saw him again , in fact it wasn’t until Christmas Eve 2002, when Newsnight ended with a valedictory “Last Will and Testament..” that I was reminded of the phenomena. Of course now , thanks to semi-legal downloads I own the entire canon and I am transported back to the autumn of 1978 every time, though, sadly, I find myself the sole occupant of the room seconds after pressing play.

A few years ago, a mate said he had recieved an email from Laural. he was still a photographer and doing a brisk trade out in the sticks, tasteful still lifes and rustic reportage. “Any kids ?”…. Yes, they were grown up, the eldest, a son, was named Jake.

Posted by chris dorley-brown • 30 March 2009, 21:36

Brilliant, Chris; I must confess you could have fooled me! I think I went to the office you mentioned and felt really impressed that you were on first name terms with Glen Matlock and Viv Westwood. I would have been stunned to hear the Jakester on your system at work. I might do a blog on taking Escalator Over The Hill to work in Camden in ’72 the mad scramble among the finished artists to be the first to land a Cow gum rubber on the stylus.

What was there not to like?

Plenty, it would seem…

Posted by Johnny Bull • 31 March 2009, 10:13