Wilko: I was meant to die in October...that didn’t happen

But he’s still here. He’s still making records. He’s just come back from touring Japan. He still makes time for his thousands of fans in Southend and across the world. And he can still often be seen propping up the bar in his favourite pub, the Railway Hotel, in Clifftown Road, Southend.

I was privileged to be invited to his house on Monday, just before he went off to sign records at Fives record store in Leigh – the day of the UK release of his album Going Back Home, with the Who’s Roger Daltry.

For the next half an hour, he answered every question fully, peppered with warmth, colour and a lot of laughter.

KB: How do you think the local music scene compares to how it was back in your heyday?

WJ: Well I don’t know really, because to me, the Southend music scene is down the Railway. Music scene – Railway scene – same scene. I don’t go out a lot to music things, but I suppose it goes on and on.

But I’m no different to most old folks, you know, I just still dig the stuff we used to dig years ago.

KB: You’ve always had a real rock’n’roll image, but I wondered if when you had kids, you found yourself turning into how your parents might’ve been, saying things such as “what’s this you’re listening to? This ain’t music!”

WJ: No. Well, one of my sons has got a band, Eight Rounds Rapid. They’re very good. It’s been there all their lives. They grew up around musicians and bands and that, so it was a fairly natural thing for him to do. 

I suppose in my parents’ time it was a nuisance, which was one of the really good things about it.

KB: Since you found out you were ill, did you make changes to your lifestyle at all?

WJ: Not really. If somebody tells you got ten months to live or whatever, what do you? Start running around in circles saying “help me!”. (Laughs) There’s nothing you can do.

I do love Japan, so I did go straight out there when I got diagnosed. I like it there. It’s funny, I did a lot of emotional goodbyes, you know, (hams up some emotion), “goodbye, goodbye”. Then two months later I was back again, then two months later back again...it’s all getting a bit embarrassing now, so I don’t bother going through that again. I’ve just now got back from Japan, again.

KB: Was it good?

WJ: Yes. It was fantastic, all sold out, a very, very successful tour. We played the Fuji rock festival – that was last year now. Whether we’ll be doing that again I don’t know, you see, because I can no longer plan my life. When you plan these tours and things, you got to plan your lives six months in advance, and of course I can’t do that any more. I was supposed to be dead in October, but...that didn’t happen. (Laughs).

KB: Have you had to become more spontaneous in your ways than perhaps you were?

WJ: Well, I just do what I do. People tell me I smile more these days. (laughs).

KB: Do you think you do?

WJ: I probably do, yeah. I mean, it’s quite a giggle.

When you think I was supposed to be dead four to five months ago, it’s enough to give you a little smile, innit? (laughs)

KB: Well yeah, it is. You’re still here – that’s a good thing! You guys did a lot of good PR for Canvey, and I wondered how it feels now when you hear bands from around the estuary area using terms like coming from the Thames Delta, which you came up with.

WJ: Yeah, well, I think Dr Feelgood left a little legend if you like, behind it. I mean a legend which we did a great deal to create ourselves, you know, out of just our own fantasies. (Laughs).

Canvey Island was involved in that, so Canvey Island has become a place on the rock ’n’ roll map now.

It’s rather nice to see some of these very young bands that are taking up the same music we were doing long before they born.

You know, you got your Stripes and your 45s, and they’re doing the same thing and that’s pretty nice.

They should all move down to Canvey Island and find out what it’s really like.

KB: I loved it when in the film Oil City Confidential you were talking about your wife, because I love a bit of love. When you were talking about the first kiss and everything, that was romantic. Would you say you were quite a romantic man?

WJ: (Almost a little coy) I would describe myself as affectionate...yes. (A pause then laughter, then a pause). I loved her.

What more can I say? I loved her like nothing else in this universe.

To me, she was the most beautiful person who ever lived. I mean, we were together for 40 years, you know, from teenagers up until she died (Irene died of cancer in 2004) and...I loved her.

KB: That’s gorgeous. And yeah, how more romantic can you be than that?

WJ: Yeah!

KB: What would you say now to your 25-year-old self?

WJ: You idiot! (Laughter).

KB: If you hadn’t become a successful musician and songwriter, out of the other things you like to do – painting, writing and astronomy – which one would have been next on your list?

WJ: Sometimes I sort of harbour these fantasies that I wish I had stayed in university and become an academic, and by now I would be a professor of medieval literature. I’d be sitting in a room in Oxford with mullion windows with sunlight slanting through on all these leather-bound volumes, and all the young folks would come to me, and then, you know, I’d be so wise, and they'd say these things like that guy’s so wise”.
I always had this idea that when I grew old, I would acquire wisdom...but neither one is gonna happen now. (Laughs).

KB: I like that you have said, that you used to like to purposely drop your letters, and say ‘bo’le’ instead of ‘bottle’, and ‘wa’er’ instead of water. I liked that because you are obviously intelligent and have a very good vocabulary, and I think people can judge us because of the way we speak.
WJ: I’ve never been ashamed of the way I talk. I love everything about this area. I like the way people talk, I like the way people are, you know, and I think if we all started sounding our T’s and H’s it wouldn’t be quite the same.

KB: I make you right! Regarding your on-stage dancing, you know, your zipping up and down, did you practise that? Did you hone those moves?
WJ: No, no, no – not at all. In fact, Dr Feelgood, we never rehearsed the performance at all. You know, if you go down to the disco and hear a sound you like and get on the floor, then you just start moving about, and you don’t care what kind of idiot you look like, you’re just moving with the music, you know, and that’s exactly the same thing happening. If I see it on film, it often looks quite idiotic to me, but that’s the way it made me feel, so just do it like you feel!

KB: And with your stare that everyone talks about, did you ever find that people used to think, ‘oh he’s a bit scary’ and maybe they were a bit afraid to go and talk to you?
WJ: Oh yeah, certainly at first, and this is a tremendous advantage because it can get you a little privacy. Also, if people came up to me and just talked about the weather and I was talking back, being nice and that, and I wasn’t you know, giving them that (does the stare), they were a bit disappointed really, because they wanted that.

KB: Do you ever get fed up with it at all, people wanting to ask the same old questions?
WJ: Oh man, well actually this last year or so, it’s been more so than ever I think. You know I can’t walk through London without getting stopped about ten times, and they do say the same things, but I tell you what. They mean it every time, and oh man, it’s touching. You know, people come up and shake your hand and say, “oh, I first saw you in 1978 and thank you for the music” and all that. I mean, it’s nice man. It’s nice.

KB: Well, that brings me nicely to some questions from locals. Adrian Green, a poet from Southend, asked: “I know he was interested in poetry while at university – has he been writing any during the past year?”
WJ: I gave up poetry many, many, many years ago. Writing lyrics for songs is a different thing from poetry. Poetry is a gift that very few people possess to any great degree, and I tried my best and no, I didn’t really possess it. I wrote a couple of fairly good poems when I was a student. When you’re about 20 you’re allowed to write bad poetry, you know. It can’t be held against you. Well, that’s my excuse.

KB: Mick Laurenson West, who works in the Railway, said: “Wilko and I went to the same school as Gary Brooker from Procol Harum. Has he ever played along with Gary?”
WJ: I never have actually, although my first experience of rhythm and blues was when one day I was walking along the corridor of Westcliff High School (where Wilko was a pupil), and they used to have an old grand piano parked at the end of the corridor.
Gary Brooker – I think he was a year or two above me in the school, he was a fourth year or something – was playing What’d I Say? on this old piano. I didn’t know anything about music then, but I was absolutely transfixed by this song!
And the lyrics! You know, “tell your ma, tell your pa, gonna send you back to Arkansas”, wow! This is better than “I love you baby!” The power of it. So yes, Gary Brooker and the first time I met the blues!

KB: What a great story. OK, so Micky Denny, asked what you meant by “rock’n’roll is not about the Hobbit and things like that’”.
WJ: Did I say that?

KB: I think he is referring to a clip in Oil City Confidential. I think it was taken from way back and you were speaking to a journalist about your music versus what was on trend at the time, and you were saying about synths being girls’ music or something.
WJ: Oh! (Laughs), Oh, that just sounds like me giving a bit of attitude there. (Laughs).

KB: Daniel Newman asks what would you do to improve Canvey?
WJ: Well, I’ll tell you what. I was born, of course, and grew up on Canvey . I can remember the flood in 1953. I also know that when they built the London flood barrier they built up the Canvey defences, and so now, half of Canvey, some of the most picturesque places in the world, it looks like the bloody Berlin wall is there – this horrible concrete fortification that you can’t see over, and this is one of the most beautiful sights to be seen in England, right?
The Thames Estuary is a beautiful thing. And they’ve got this great concrete wall that you have to jump up to look over. I think it’s an absolute disgrace and I think they should build the footpath up so that people can once again see over the wall and appreciate the magnificent view. That’s my improvement.

KB: Paul Hughes says he knows your main influence was Mick Green, but what other guitarists would you say influenced your style?
WJ: Oh, there are so many guitarists, but Mick Green, he was my hero when I was 16. I tried to copy him. I wanted to be like him in every single way. I remember going to see him play at a gig once, me and my Mrs, or my girlfriend as she was then, and I was even getting her to check out his shoes and trousers so I could even dress the same.
I tried to copy him, and it’s still very obvious in my style, but there were so many other guitarists I loved, from John Lee Hooker to Steve Cropper. I think if you love what they do and the noise they make really turns you on, some way or another it comes out in your own playing.

KB: Ruth Hazel asks about contemporary acts. Is there anybody now who you rate?
WJ: My son Simon. He’s the best.

KB: Dave Collins says: “Wilko has always said seeing Wayne Kramer with the MC5 changed his life. So how was it, after 41 years, to finally meet and record with Wayne last year?”
WJ: Oh, this was absolutely fantastic! And it is true, he did change my life! I’d just quit being a schoolteacher actually.
There was this gig at Wembley Stadium. It was this fantastic show, they had everybody, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bo Diddley, Bill Haley, you name ’em.
About half way up the bill was MC5. I remember walking up the front, and clocking Wayne Kramer, and...phew...what can I say but I dug his style. He was painted all gold. He was wearing a black suit, and he was gold, like Tutankhamun, wearing black shades. And he was, pow! Flying across the stage, and I was just knocked out.
I’d heard the MC5’s records but it was the first time I’d seen them, and it really did show me the way. It’s remained as one of the great moments in my life, so then meeting him last year, well it was just great, because he is a really nice guy too.

KB: Were you a little bit starstruck in a way?
WJ: No, because I’ve become a star too! (Laughs).
I’d always been very open about what an influence he’d been on me, so it was just great to meet as friends.
KB: Paul Cooper asks: “Who would be your dream team band line-up to play with? Either musicians who are still with us or who have shuffled off this mortal coil.”
WJ: I would crawl across broken glass to play one song with Bob Dylan.
I tell you what though, I’ve got Norman Watt-Roy on the bass, and Dylan Howe on the drums now, so I’ve got my favourite musicians. I’m just so lucky. Yeah all right, things are coming to an end now, but I’ve ended up with the best band I’ve ever had. That’s not just me bigging them up. They’re great man! I could just walk on stage and wave me arms in the air and it’d sound great because of those two, brilliant musicians – and we’re all chums as well.

KB: Gary Rushman wants to know what it was like recording with Roger Daltry.
WJ: Well, it was fantastic. When I was a teenager I was a big fan of the Who. So after seeing them on the television and everything, who’d have thought then, one day I will end up recording with Roger? It was a marvellous thing. He is a perfectionist though – he works so hard. I sat back and watched him.

KB: OK, I don’t understand this next question, so I’m hoping you can explain. Dave Dulake, landlord of the Railway, asks if you still have Paul McCartney’s eye.
WJ: (Laughs). Do you remember by the top of the pier there was a replica of the Golden Hind, and there was a waxworks on it? One of the waxworks was the Beatles.
One night, we’d come home from a gig, I think it was my birthday or something, and there was this box on the floor. I was like, ‘oh look, it’s a present’. We opened it up and there was this head inside. So I grabbed the head and picked it up and it was a waxwork head of Paul McCartney! My wife screamed. She wouldn’t have it in the house, so we kept it in the garage – it was quite gruesome.
After a while, it did creep back into the house. Over the years, the wax dried out. It just disintegrated, leaving only Paul’s eye, which yes, I do believe is somewhere still about the place.

KB: Robert Hall wanted to know if you ever met the Beatles.
WJ: I saw the Beatles, in Southend Odeon in 1963. I say I saw, you couldn’t hear them, it was just screaming, coming from me as well! Everybody jumped up and started waving their arms about. Because they only had little amplifiers in those days, singing through the house PA and that, you could just about make out what song they were singing. It was absolute pandemonium and so exciting.

KB: Pat Moriarty asks, with your trademark stare, did you ever misjudge the edge of the stage?
WJ: Oh yeah! On more than one occasion I’ve fallen flat on my back. I nearly did it the other night actually with Roger Daltry. We were playing for Suggs’ (Madness frontman) cancer charity in Porchester Hall. He was wielding his microphone stand about, and I was walking backwards, and I did just manage to save myself.
But I have fallen off the stage, flat on my back, and I’m proud to say I never missed a beat. I’d lie there and let the roadie pick me up, and I’d still be playing!

With that last line pretty much summing up the essence of this willful, spirited man, I thanked him for his time and left, saying I hoped to see him in the Railway soon so I could buy him a drink.
“Yes, please do,” he said. “Come and say hello.”