Happy doing what we’re doing, Happy that we’re doing it right. Happy doing what we’re doing, Happy that the feeling is right.*

For Brinsley Schwarz, the feeling vanished about February. They had spent six years together, both as the Brinsleys and their predecessors Kippington Lodge, and were in a rut. They had plans to move to America and try to make it there, but were having difficulty finding a record company willing to finance the venture. (They had long since parted company with the Stateside division of United Artists, their British home.) Finally, Nick Lowe, bassist, main singer, and on-the-surface leader, decided to call it a day. He was bored, internal squabbling was becoming prevalent, and he didn’t fancy another two years slogging around the States in a repetition of their British existence. After all, he was the group’s major songwriter, was well praised by those-whocould-tell for his way with words, and saw an opportunity to write for other people. If a Canadian group could rip off one of his songs and have a Top Ten hit with it, there must be others who could do the same, only this time with royalties.

So, we are now without Britain’s finest exponent of ‘real music,’ a godawful term felt necessary by the denims and beard crowd to differentiate their bands, playing for the sake of joyful music, from the Bowie - Genesis - public school - theatrical crowd and the Top of the Pops lot, especially since a majority of the latter’s current forte is redredged Fifties and early Sixties pastiches, which is the same source point for the ‘real music’ bands, only they do it more, ummm, real. Me, I just figured it was great rock music, the type that has you jumping around with a stupid grin plastered on your kisser. On a good night the Brinsleys would hit that plane about the third number and never drop it.

A lot of their later problems stemmed from one of the British rock biz’s legendary hypes. In early ’71 the Brinsleys were to open at Fillmore East, so UA chartered a plane and flew over every journalist and freeloader they could find, a trip which in itself became legend. The Brinsleys, of course, died the death, and were duly slammed in their homeland. As a result, the band shied away from publicity and the hype to the big time, figuring that the music would out.

They brought out their second album, appropriately titled Despite It All, and started gigging up and down the country in every club, dance hall and nitery that would take them. But they were still on the rebound, to the point where their third album, Silver Pistol, was recorded “on 8 track at home,” and initially sounds laid back to the point where you figyre they did it in bed, until you actually pay attention. Rather than nodding out in terminal mandrax torpor, they were building a new foundation.

In early ’72 they discovered a pub in Kentish Town that would let them play live once a week, and ‘pub rock’ was born. To see them in a place like this was the best. Enough time to stretch out, try new numbers, whip out a few oldies; the energy level seemed to climb with the amount of booze consumed (by both band and audience) and by the end of an evening a room jammed with freaks would be leaping and screaming as the band seemed to dissect your skull with razor honed interplay of guitars and piano. Just the sight of Bob Andrews’ right leg jumping up and down as he tried to fragment the piano keys was enough to get you going.

The albums began to speak as though they meant business and their following grew, but they still seemed to be recoiling from The Hype. In the spring of ’73 they played a benefit at the Hard Rock Cafe, a hip entrepreneur’s idea of an American drug store-eatery of the 20s-30s that slides between a rock biz - Yankee - expatriate - yearning - for - Chile hangout and the American teen tourist’s idea of a London hotspot. Also on the bill was Wings, and McCartney subsequently asked them to support his British tour. It was perfect timing: there was quite a bit of interest, they had just released a rather amazing album, and they were actually getting interested in the prospect of fame.

They blew it. They figured that if McCartney wanted a support band and he was willing to pay them $250 a night, they’d deliver what was wanted. Subsequently, where they should have had Macca shitting himself with the prospect of having to follow them (and they were more than capable), they played it cool and mellow. Watching them on a couple of other tours, this seems to have been a fault of theirs; they just couldn’t get the idea that you leave the crowd gaping in amazement.

In 1974 they were still trying, but the interest was ebbing. Even so, they produced their high point, teaming with Dave Edmunds to produce “Love, Peace and Understanding,” one of the primal singles of the 70s, and British radio shall never be forgiven for so callously disregarding it. Edmunds had actually revived all the feel and excitement of mid60s Beatles, the lyrics were tremendous, the riffs and hooks were perfect - it was everything a jaded music fan in Britain wishes would make it on the radio. After it failed, I think the Brinsleys began to lose interest. Their last single was Tommy Roe’s “Everybody,” revamped with Glitter Band drums, bass & handclaps. It was an obvious attempt to get that hit single and reeked of desperation. Perhaps their mistake was in taking the Glitter Band’s moronic clumping and actually making it interesting, at least the horrified response of ‘real music’ fans provided light relief.

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It doesn’t really come across on records, but watching them one night it struck me that they were a British equivalent of the Grateful Dead. The same wild guitar interplay, the same roots in country, soul, and classic rock and roll, the same traditional overview. The Brinsleys just put it into three minutes. Also, they could sing - their harmonies were terrific.

Nick Lowe has also developed the art of pastiches to a high degree. He can fit a song to any period, with all the appropriate instrumentation and inflections. “Hooked on Love,” for instance, is a dead ringer for a Sam Cooke number whose title you can’t quite remember. Similarly, as the Hitters they released Bob Marley’s “Hypocrite,” which was the perfect synthesis of black and white reggae the Wailers are striving so hard for. It’s another classic single.

Now that they have dissolved, drummer Billy Rankin and Bob Andrews are doing session work while considering offers from other bands, guitarist and latent saxist Brinsley Schwarz (yes, Virginia . . .) is working on a guest basis with Ducks Deluxe, and Ian Gomm has joined Lowe in the songwriting stakes. Nick is also planning to record as a solo artist, and there are “loose plans” for the band to record and play outside Britain when the spirit moves them.

In the long run, and in the history books, they weren’t terribly important, but their musical enthusiasm was highly infectious and they provided some of my finest moments at a concert. I’m going to miss them,

'Lyrics Copyright 1972, Wellchart Music. _ _ __