One Man and his Bass

How I could never meet Paul McCartney.

It’s not often I’m starstruck.

In 2009 I was invited to Anfield for the Merseyside Supporters Club dinner. This wasn’t because I’m such a good man that there simply couldn’t be a party without me, but rather because I knew the late Ray Kennedy who had won one for their awards and the hosts thought we might be able to coax him down from the Northeast. We couldn’t, Ray was too ill to attend, but they invited me and two mates all the same.

When we arrived and had sufficiently taken the piss out of each other’s suits we were ushered through a door and headed to the bar with the rest of the throng.

‘No, lads. This way.’

Les Lawson. He’d organised the bash and was pointing in the other direction. Erm, okay.

A plush carpeted corridor later and we were sent through another door. On the other side we saw …

Alan Hansen chatting to Jimmy Case at the bar, Gary Gillespie with David Fairclough, Pepe Reina dressed in a jumper and jeans but easily the most stylish man in the room, Alan Kennedy, Stephen Darby & Jay Spearing ( who were both about to break into the first team) and, thrillingly of all, Steven Gerrard with a few rowdy mates. Minutes later Alan Hansen would be talking to him across the room while we all watched and listened. We had little choice.

This was unexpected.

George Sephton, Anfield’s veteran DJ, was there with his family too. Luckily, we knew George and he waved us over to sit with them. Gary Gillespie came over to say hello. Pints.

More pints.

Nature soon took its course, so I left the room and went to the toilet up the corridor. As I walked back the door opened and Steven Gerrard came through it. Just me and him. Liverpool’s captain. He looked at me with suspicion in a ‘are you in the right place’ fashion and then realised that I was so nodded a silent hello before rushing off to attend to his own bladder.

I took it well and spoke to the others a few minutes later after I’d stared off into space for a while, weakly trying to get a grip on the whole situation.

I was lucky in a way. Through Ray I sort of knew Jimmy Case since he knew why we were there and understood our relationship with Liverpool’s greatest number 5. We’d met Alan Kennedy too though obviously he hadn’t remembered where or when. He’d introduced me onto a stage at the launch of the Ray of Hope Appeal as ‘Karl Cormack.’ He then repeated it. My mates laughed so much that to this day some of them call me ‘Cormack.’ I suppose if you’re going to have a silly nickname it should come from a man who literally won a European Cup for your side.

But there was one man who was there who I couldn’t approach.

Tucked away in the corner was Ian Callaghan. Ian. Callaghan! A man with 857 appearances to his name. A man who played for Shankly in the old Second Division and a man who made his final appearance at Rome at Liverpool’s first European Cup win in 1977. Liverpool personified.

That was too much. Hobnobbing with Steven Gerrard in the corridor was one thing but I couldn’t handle Ian Callaghan swapping pleasantries with me and expecting a response.

To this day it’s the only time I’ve not grown the courage to talk to someone I admire.

Thinking on I would have been in the same boat with Ronnie Moran, but I never got the opportunity to go bright red in his presence. Probably a good thing.

That’s football though. You’re more than likely to cross paths with ex-footballers if you go to games regularly. John Salako once asked me if I thought the baguettes in the press room at Griffin Park were stale. I was once publicly bollocked by Ian Holloway for asking him a question he didn’t like. Fair enough.

But music is different. People in bands are usually hidden from public glare and even if you do chance upon them, they’re fairly chatty. If you can wander around backstage, you can normally corner someone or other. Damian O’Neill from the Undertones was one such and he was great. Two years ago I had a very in-depth chat with Neil from Half Man Half Biscuit about his Rickenbacker bass. His pick-up had packed up mid-gig. A reference I’m sure they’d enjoy.

I once stood behind pre-fascist Morrissey at the Virgin Megastore on Oxford Street. I worshipped Morrissey back then and to this day I’ve seen him live more than any other artist. There he was, buying Laurel & Hardy videos and wearing a preposterous hat. Taller than you’d think. Again, I was fine with that. I didn’t panic in case he wanted a chat. He didn’t. He eyed me with deep suspicion just as Gerrard would 18 years later. I chose not to say hello and he seemed happy with that. It was perfect.

I’d be fine with most people of any genre apart from one.

Being from Liverpool and with uncles who loved music just as I was at an age where there was a stack of old 45rpm singles without covers, I had to love The Beatles. You can’t and couldn’t escape them. Uncles Dave, Tony and Ricky had extensive record collections though it was mainly Rod Stewart focussed back then.

In the late 1970s my uncle Dave lent me all of his Beatles’ albums which included With the Beatles, A Hard Day’s Night, Beatles for Sale, Rubber Soul, Revolver, Pepper, Yellow Submarine and the Red and Blue albums. I was about 10 at the time and, suffice to say, I never gave them back.

There are some albums missing from that list but not to worry. My mate Chee had Abbey Road and Let It Be while Bev (male) had the White Album. I was a Beatles completist save for Magical Mystery Tour.

And I swallowed them whole. Absolutely drank them in. Then it became library books about them. If the films were on you’d have to crowbar me off the couch. While the kids in my crossover year from primary to secondary school were into Madness and Dexy’s I was listening to Help. They were then as they are now. The pinnacle. Everything comes from them.

And I get that people don’t like them. Those people are trying too hard to be different and denying their soul a chance to nourish. You’re just being silly. The Beatles are everything.

If there was an affinity there it grew stronger in September 1980 when I started at the (ahem) Liverpool Institute High School for Boys – the very same school Paul and George attended from 1953 to 1960 and 1954 to 1959 respectively. There was twenty years between Paul throwing away his green and black tie and me picking mine up, but it meant something.

(Macca back row, centre)

That sounds lofty, doesn’t it? The Liverpool Institute High School for Boys. It was a grammar rather than a comprehensive school and the Headmaster wore a gown at Assembly, but that place was feral. I grew up there. Grew up fast.

Three months into my first petrifying term, John Lennon was shot in New York. The school had to mark that tragedy as John went to the Art College next door to the ‘top yard’ so his murder became the topic of Bert ‘Blip’ Parker’s assembly the following morning. Blip taught Paul and George geography in the 1950s so you’d assume he ran into John in the early years. He also taught us 1980 lads Religious Instruction/Education. Another link.

(McCartney and Blip. Two mates of mine)

I could never speak to Paul McCartney.

From what I’ve learned he’s very chatty and if the opportunity presented itself and I could open up with talk about the Music Room or the ‘golly pit’ (don’t ask) if that was still a thing in his day, but I fear I’d just mouth emptiness like a goldfish. It’d be too much.

I’d get it wrong. I’d be too shrill or too friendly or not friendly enough. It would be too overwhelming.

There’s a school of thought that the word ‘genius’ is overused and that it should only apply to Shakespeare and Mozart. What the hell would you say to those two outside the bogs at the Glove or in a Viennese Palace. ‘I like your plays/operas, mate.’ Come on!

Genius is indeed an overused term, but there’s a third candidate.

It’s not that he wrote Yesterday at the age of 22 or For No One a year later (both of which are ludicrously mature in their outlook) and it’s not because he’s so prolific. No, it’s the bass. Well, it’s many things but at the moment it’s the bass.

I’ve been playing guitar since my Dad bought me an acoustic in 1977. He could play and appeared at the Cavern a few times. He was on nodding terms with the Beatles and knew Pete Best well. He taught me how to play the intro to ‘Shazam’ by Duane Eddy – the theme tune to Billy Butler’s radio show. I’ve been bending strings ever since.

I’m alright. I can play. I’m not Nick Drake but I can play. I can’t sing to save my life but corner me at a house party and ask me to play something and I’ll take care of the next ten minutes. A safe pair of hands.

The bass never interested me though. Too dull. A lead guitar that no one was interested in as it was too far down the mix. Merely something for us six string lads to mark time by. The moody one in the group. Apart from Bedders in Madness.

I watched a YouTube video this morning about McCartney’s relationship with the bass. It claims that his first 67 Beatles songs were a bit ploddy. Roots (the note of the chord it accompanies) and fifths (sort of the next step along to the same chord) in the main. If John played the chords of G, C and D, Paul would play the root notes of those chords and little else. Fine. Hardly spectacular but fine.

Then, in 1965, four albums in, it all changed. The lads had been on tour in America for a while and were open to all sorts of music you couldn’t get here. They got into Motown and Paul got into James Jamerson. It showed.

Not heard of him? No, nor me until this morning. James Jamerson played on pretty much every Motown hit in the 60s. You Can’t Hurry Love, For Once in my Life, Shotgun, Dancing in the Street, Reach Out and I’ll Be There and I Heard It Through The Grapevine to name just a few but there are dozens more.

(James Jamerson and ‘The Funk Machine’)

There was no root and fifth stuff with Jamerson. He knew his scales, but he played how he felt. If the studio or artist gave him a line to play he would frown at it and do his own thing. Soon McCartney was dropping in melodious lines rather than perfunctory notes to get the song along and he was doing it with genius. You can hear how on Drive My Car, Dear Prudence, Come Together and Rain.

Suddenly there was a new realm for bass playing – one that still lives today. Hardly anyone picks up a bass and wants to just do the fundamentals. Look at Nile Rodgers, the incredibly underrated Kim Deal, Mani, Bedders, Mike Mills, Flea etc. I bet they all love Jamerson and Macca.

So this week I finally took an extra step. The same city and school, geography teacher has never been enough so yesterday I bought myself a Hofner Ignition Bass. Yes, that one albeit a right-handed one. I’m not that mad.

It’s gorgeous and it plays like a dream. For some reason, Beatles bass tab books cost a fortune, so I’ll be going down the YouTube tutorial route. Dear Prudence alone is incredible. I’ll let you know how I get on.

I suppose the next step is to play with others so if you’re in Norwich and play Beatles stuff and need a bass player …

As long as you’re not actually Paul McCartney. No. No way. Practice sessions would be a nightmare for me. I wouldn’t be able to say a word.

Karl