Herman's Hermits
I was fourteen when I got my first guitar, and within a year I'd worked my way through all the important chords. That was around the time I fell in with a school pal, Malcolm Rowe, who was learning drums, and the two of us spent hours dissecting the sounds of the day, working out how the records we loved were put together. Eventually we formed a band — Shaun Hunter & the Falcons — and started playing local working men's clubs and pubs a couple of nights a week.
Music was all we could think about. Looking back, it was pure tunnel vision. We kept it going for about a year, but the other lads in the band were never quite as committed as Mal and me. My dad pitched in by building us speaker cabinets and the like, but we still had to hire a man with a van every time we played, since there was no way to get all the gear to a gig otherwise — and whatever we earned on the night went straight to him.
Then, in the summer of 1963, a stranger knocked on our front door asking for me. He turned out to be the bass player from Herman and the Hermits, and he'd come to ask whether I'd join the band — their lead guitarist had had enough and wanted out. I'd heard of them but never actually seen them play, so I went along to watch them at the Stamford Hall in Altrincham. Truth be told, I wasn't especially impressed with the band itself. But when they showed me their diary, it told a different story: far more gigs than we had, better money per night, and — crucially — they had a manager. What really settled it, though, was the enthusiasm. Every one of them was fully committed to making it work, in a way my own band never had been, and that was the difference. I reckoned I could always help sharpen up the playing once I was in.
By the spring of 1964 we'd had several auditions with record companies and struck out every time. Something had to change, so we broke the band up and reformed it, bringing in Lek Leckenby on lead guitar and Barry Whitwam on drums. The new line-up transformed us musically, and it was strong enough that we invited Mickie Most down to hear it. That did the trick — he liked what he heard and went off to find us a song. What he came back with was “I'm Into Something Good.” And we were off.
1965 turned into an absolute whirlwind. Our first record went top three in the US, and by Easter we'd gone from playing high schools to a nationwide tour with twelve other acts — a proper baptism of fire. There were plenty of memorable moments along the way, not least the night Barry left an auditorium through the wrong door and walked straight into a crowd of very excited girls. He jumped into a stranger's car and shouted “Drive!”
— the only trouble being he had no idea what our hotel was called…
The biggest surprise of all was “Mrs Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter.” It was a novelty track we'd almost not bothered recording, tucked away on our first album, until a Midwest DJ picked it up and demand for it spread until we had no choice but to release it properly. It put us on the map in every corner of the country.
On our long summer tours of the US, we always brought an English support band along, and over the years that meant sharing the road with the likes of Wayne Fontana & the Mindbenders, the Hollies, the Animals, and, of course, the Who. That last tour in particular threw up more than its share of memorable moments — hardly surprising when you're on the road for seven weeks with the likes of Moon and Entwistle.
At one point we started chartering our own planes to get around the States. This was a long time ago, so naturally they were all propeller driven and had clearly seen a lot of life — which showed itself in engines throwing flames on landing (apparently perfectly normal) or one of the four being switched off mid-flight because it was leaking oil, cueing a dramatic landing with the foam trucks standing by. It kept life interesting, to say the least…
Should you wish to hear more about my time in the Hermits and beyond, you can do so in my memoir
“A Hermit’s Tale” – to be found here.
Thankyou for reading,
K x