IN MEMORIAM: GARY BROOKER

Another of my personal mighty fell at the top end of the year, one of those pillars of my teenaged infatuation with rock and prog, namely Mr Gary Brooker, lynchpin, leader and singer of the wondrous Procol Harum, one of the first bands I ever saw, aged 17 in 1974, with then a massive gap until catching them again, 43 years later. (Here's what I thought that second time, even if my maths had got the better of me.) 

The original premise of the band seemed bonkers, at least to a ten year old, with the combination of churchy organ to the wail of soulful vocal. I should add, as a treble in the school choir, all organ was churchy. Thankfully I was too young to clock the lyrics, let alone understand them. (Understand them? Can anyone now?) Drugs, said my parents knowingly and I nodded back, remembering how funny my thoughts had got, when I too had been given an aspirin to quell a raging fever.

Of course the band went on, issuing a quite stellar run of initial singles. The plaintive piano melancholy of Homburg and the spooky A Salty Dog, with all the, in my mind, Lovecraftian imagery evoked; at 12 I was a precocious reader and already familiar with Cthulhu. The orchestral heft of Conquistador neither failed to delight, so, by the time I was ready for LPs, putting singles behind me, the band too were ready, Grand Hotel and Exotic Birds And Fruit firm favourites. Which takes us much to when I went to see them. At Brighton’s famous Dome theatre, which I have never actually visited since.

I sort of lost touch thereafter: the pomp of their performance no longer met my circumstance, and I was exploring other musical avenues. But the love never faded fully, the old songs still striking chords of joy into my battle-hardened heart. So it was a joy to finally get that opportunity to visit. Sure, no-one, Brooker apart, from their glory days, but it didn’t matter, as the posessor of the undiminished gritty voice, it all sounded right. And so it was. The version of Whiter Shade offered that night cast aside the decades and I was again 10, awestruck and, mindful of the years, not a little tearful. 

(Not that night, but a not dissimilar vintage)

Thanks, Gary, for making a small boy and a then much older man very happy. Let’s end with a smile, with two of the barmier versions of ‘your’ song, ignoring all the hullabaloos and hubris around who else might have staked and gained a subsequent claim.

Anton Ellis

Willie Nelson

(This is my last post for Star Maker Machine. I have hugely enjoyed the challenges and opportunities offered by a tight schedule, sometimes easier to fulfil than others. All praise to my fellow writers who have buoyed me and helped bring up the distinct average of my quality: it’s been a great few years, even if I still quite mastered how to keep my font size constant.... Thanks, too, to those readers, if you have graced me with any of the moments from your precious time. See you in the ether.)

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