'The Drive'
Biography by Gus McFarlane
I could simply say that 'The Drive' was born in early 1977 and died of natural causes seven months later. A minor comi-tragedy. But the short story of the band's birth, life and death might interest someone.
In May, 1977, “God Save the Queen” kicked down the doors of perception about what rock music should be. But it came with a myth – the myth that three chords and a sneer could make you famous and a millionaire. The myth got big, too big to resist. Respectable record companies sent scouts to pubs and clubs, looking for new talent. I met one once; Jeremy Ensor, he worked for CBS. Nice guy, but tough. He didn't believe the myth. Three chords and a sneer wasn't enough for him. Maybe for the NME (New Musical Express) or Sounds, but not for the A&R department at CBS in London.
I was in Dundee, Scotland at the time. But even though Dundee is as far north as Moscow, Punk blasted through speakers there just the same as it did in London 381 miles away – 613 kilometers. Most of the kids in Britain were punked-up and punked-out by 'The Sex Pistols'.
Anyway, for me, the three chord myth was blown away when a guitarist showed me the tabs for “God Save the Queen.” Wow!, tricky stuff. Steve Jones was a very good guitarist. And that gutsy Gibson Les Paul sound on Pistol's records was perfect for Punk.
That's when an idea to put together a punk rock band started. But not only that. Dundee didn't have an Indie record label. Could be a first for someone, I thought.
But, first up, new material. I wrote 'Jerkin'' in under 15 minutes one Saturday afternoon on a beat up Eko ranger 6 with Gibson medium strings. Sounds like it, you say? Well, that's what punk's about. Simplicity! But finding guys to join a punk rock band was a challenge. They mustn't be too good, 'cos they would misunderstand punk's simplicity. And they couldn't be complete beginners, 'cos punk is about simplicity, but not lack of ability. Listen to 'Walk on the Wild Side' by Lou Reed. Two chords! But the musical arrangement and the quality of the playing are supreme. 'Wild Side' combines simplicity, discipline and imagination.
Eventually, a line up somehow fell into place; Ronnie Neish and Bobby Phillips on guitars, Ronnie Jack on drums, Bruce Money on bass, and myself. It was very provisional.
I booked a studio in Edinburgh - called REL - because there wasn't one in Dundee. The day in the studio was hilarious. I think the sound engineer had only ever recorded Scottish country dance music. He hated us! But, to be honest, he did a very professional job. He spent hours miking up the drums and our beat-up Marshall speakers. Finally, around four frustrating hours after we arrived, he said we could play.
When we opened up with a bombardment of 'Jerkin'', he looked horrified as the needles on his console swept into the red zone. We told him that was OK, that's what we wanted. He looked at us like we were crazy! By the end of the afternoon when the recording and production were over, he left with a migraine, slamming the door of the studio on his way out.
The studio owner appeared, looking puzzled. A fifty-something guy called Neil who wore a black, French beret. He played the tape as we were packing up, but said nothing. Then he slid it into a cardboard package and handed it to me like it was infected with leprosy, or something. Anyway, the first part of the job was done.
Then Elvis Presley died. Very inconvenient for him - and us! It meant that pressing plants all over Britain were working 24/7 trying to keep up with the sudden public demand for the dead King's records. Our master tape was put on hold. Ironic. The rancid corpse of the 'King of rock'n roll' was blocking progress for the next wave of rock. Why couldn't they have put Elvis in a freezer for a week and delayed announcing his death? It's the least anyone could have done to help 'The Drive' conquer the world!
Anyway, I ordered a pressing of 1,000 singles. Way too many! Other bands were pressing 250 or 300, at most. This naïve, crazy decision started a rollercoaster ride.
At first, I approached “Bruce's Record Shop”, a chain of record shops throughout Scotland run by a helpful guy called Bruce Findlay and his brother. He said he would take 250 singles on a 'sale or return' basis. That left 750 singles in two cardboard boxes stashed under my bed at home.
A week later I visited the shop in Dundee. How many singles have we sold? I asked. Around 35, was the answer. I did a quick calculation. So, around 30 weeks to sell them all?!
Clearly, it wasn't going to happen. We had pressed too many. Way too many. Financial disaster appeared on the horizon, followed by panic. But what to do? The desperate situation forced me into marketing our 'product' like a bar of chocolate. Now I had to think like the big record companies. Return on investment became the number one priority. Punk was suddenly a business, not an ideal. That was a shock! I was on a steep learning curve!
I decided to contact the newspapers that published scandalous stories. One of them, 'The Mail', asked me to visit their head office in Glasgow the next day, a Saturday. I practiced my sales pitch on the train all the way to Glasgow.
But I did not have to try hard. The media generally portrayed Punk as a danger to the fabric of society. We were all going to be murdered in our beds by kids with Mohican hair styles, apparently. I left the 'The Mail' offices with the promise that the story would be in the 'Sunday Mail' the following day. It was. “Banned Punks Cut Own Sex Single” covered most of the third page. I was delighted! Guaranteed sales in return for zero marketing costs. And over the next 2 weeks, Jerkin' sold 1,000 copies in Bruce's record shops.
But there was a price to pay!
Parents and relatives of some of the guys in the band were furious, some in tears. The roof caved in. But I had learned the first principle of the record industry; that is, murdering your ideals in exchange for success is the first and only golden rule!
Hardened and more determined by the storm of scandal around us, I wrote more material and we played some gigs – one supporting 'Penetration'. The line up changed, a new bass player (Roger Paterson) and a new drummer (Colin Letham). We went back to REL in Edinburgh and recorded more material. Beggar's Banquet got in touch and asked to put 'Jerkin'' on a compilation LP called 'Streets'. I said 'Yes'. We seemed to be on the way up.
Then I made a really dumb decision. Our bass player, Roger, worked for a Taxi company at night. He worked all night and slept a few hours during the day. I never saw him eat food. Never. He lived on Coca-Cola and smoked a lot. Although a good bass player, he was a liability, I thought. Bobby Phillips, our only guitarist by this time, had met another bass player called Derek High. They played a few jam sessions and got on well musically and personally. So, I decided to dump Roger and bring in Derek. Bad timing? The worst!
We were invited to play in Glasgow in a 'showcase' evening shortly after Derek joined 'The Drive.' It was too soon. CBS in London sent their talent scout, Jeremy Ensor, to check out all the bands. Our set was a shambles, a disaster. Remember, Punk is about simplicity, not lack of ability. Jeremy Ensor didn't even look at us as we left the stage. At that moment, 'The Drive' died. We didn't know it, but it was all over. One mistake at a crucial moment finished us.
We played a few more gigs, then split. The tragi-comedy was over. The curtain fell and the troup went their different ways. At the beginning of June, 1977, I had dreams of fame and fortune, but by the end of September '77, I was buried alive in a local government office, working 9 to 5.
©Detour Records