JACK & SOUTHERN:

At the end of another night on Jack & Southern Comfort
we would stagger out into the day clutching a reel of
tape filled with fresh songs. Edited down these would be
the next batch bound for the Guru, sent in the hope that
this time he would phone us enthusing,
“These are great, I’ve played them to the label & they
want to sign you – get down to London now!”
Things had changed, the band back home had folded, a night
of awkward conversation about musical differences fuelled
on demijohns of home made wine had finally finished us off.
I moved South to Cardiff, joined a cabaret band for the
Christmas season & having earned enough money to drink my
way through winter, left to join forces with a local
songwriter who turned up one night at my Butetown flat
(the one with mushrooms growing on the kitchen walls)
clutching a 335. I’d never seen one in the flesh & was
impressed enough to let him play me his songs. He had a
beautiful voice, could harmonise like angels & pick guitar
like Appellation moonshine was running through his veins.
Ross introduced me to Neil Young, Little Feat, Dylan &
The Band & got me hooked on the thrill of lock-in’s –
after-hour shopping for basement bootlegs.
“This guys alright, he’s with me” he’d say smiling, slipping
in a joke about the English, “…but this one’s ok.”
At the end of every Jack-n-Comfort session, the spiders would
crawl the walls as we wrapped our demo-tape in tinfoil &
brown paper, slipped between the ruby lips of the corner postbox
(recorded delivery).  

(K)