With a gifted keyboardist and songwriter who could match musical wits with Ray, we needed a versatile guitarist who could captivate a crowd with unusual riffs, chords, and time signatures. We put an ad in the Melody Maker, which drew hundreds of responses. In the weeks that followed, about 120 guitarists came to rehearsal space we rented for these auditions in Tottenham Court Road, London. One of them was a big Jamaican Rastafarian guy. We told him to come over for an audition, and he walked in smoking a huge pipe. We started talking to him about the adventurous, anything goes spirit we wanted to inject into our music, and he suggested we consider playing reggae instead. Ray showed him the unconventional chord structures for ‘Peel The Paint.’ As soon as we began the song, he ignored Ray’s direction and played an upbeat reggae passing that clashed horribly with what the rest of us were playing. It was excruciating. NEXT!
We were feeling pretty pessimistic when Gary Green showed up with his older brother, Jeff, who was a roadie for Soft Machine. Gary was three years younger than me, and he played mandolin and recorder as well as guitar. As soon as he stepped onstage with us, he wowed us by doing something none of the other prospects had even considered.
‘Hey guys, do you mind if I tune up?’ Gary asked.
After dealing with 100 or so hopeless guitarists who thought they were the next Jeff Beck, it was great to hear someone who cared enough about being in tune before trying to impress us with his playing. Gary had great timing and could play unusual tempos and nail abrupt rhythm shifts, but he was more of a blues-based player than Kerry or Ray, so he was as good at locking into a groove as he was at playing straight melodic or textural parts. We were feeling pretty good about him. Then, in the middle of a song, his brother grabbed him by the arm and whispered in his ear, and Gary blanched.
We later learned that Jeff had seen the words ‘Simon Dupree & Big Sound’ in big letters on Martin Smith’s bass drum, and after mentioning it to Gary, he almost packed up and fled to the train station. A while after we hired him, he told us what went through his mind when he saw our logo: ‘Oh, no. Not that band?’ Let’s just say he wasn’t a fan. He didn’t want to play pop music any more than we did.
Thankfully, instead of following his instincts to leave, Gary stuck around and continued to wow us with his skills. We launched into something Kerry had written, and Gary followed the rhythmic shifts and improvised licks that complemented the song. As far as we were concerned, he was in the band.
Drummer Martin Smith was the only leftover from Simon Dupree & The Big Sound, and we had hired him toward the end of the band to replace Tony Ransley, who lacked flair and chops. Martin played with us in our new band for two albums, but, ultimately, he was the wrong guy for us. Finding the right man for the job is always a Herculean task. There are lots of good drummers but very few great ones.
We have Gerry Bron to thank for more than just our Gentle Giant label deal. Indirectly, he also led us to our band name. Every month or two, Gerry sent one of his staffers to our practice space to check in on us and listen to what we were doing. One of these people was Colin Richardson, who came to see us while we were working on a pile of incomplete but solid music that Kerry and Ray had come up with. We started practicing ‘Alucard,’ a six-minute-long track that would later become a staple of our set and the name of our future reissue label. As we played, Colin smiled and bobbed his head along with the complex rhythm as best he could.
‘What do you think?’ I asked him after rehearsal.
‘Boy, you know, it’s heavy and it’s quiet,’ he said. ‘It’s gentle and then there’s just this giant sound. It’s like a gentle giant.’
BINGO! It had been a productive day. Colin went back to Gerry with a glowing progress report, and we had our new band name. Plus, we had worked ‘Alucard’ to the point where it was almost ready to record—the back and forth between the spacy keyboards and the horns sounded especially good.
We sat in band meetings and came up with all these crazy ideas. One time, we were working on combining some of the different parts of ‘Alucard.’ Suddenly, Kerry jumped up. ‘Let me score this and I’ll see if I can make it work.’ he said. He started scribbling notes on music sheets before we disbanded, and by the next time we got together he had composed several versions that allowed us to merge different parts in clever ways without sounding forced or pretentious.
Back in Simon Dupree, I had helped compose and shape the simple, straightforward songs. In Gentle Giant, I willingly took a back seat to Kerry and Ray and allowed them to handle eighty to ninety percent of the songwriting. Gary contributed to the guitar parts, but he had great respect for Ray and Kerry as well, and he worked closely with them to write passages that contrasted with what they were playing yet complemented the music. For me, the challenge was finding vocal melodies and arrangements that shined alongside all this wild stuff. It was a major challenge. This was unorthodox, unusual music that could easily have remained instrumental, so it would only benefit from the right kinds of vocals. This was anxiety-provoking for me, but at the same time, finding ways to fit my voice to this strange music was interesting and enlightening, and I enjoyed pushing myself to make it work—to rise to the challenge. I had to. Maybe it was because of my competitive nature, but I felt that I had to step up to the plate and keep in musical stride with everyone else, because if I couldn’t, I was an idiot, and I didn’t deserve to be the singer.
Phil and I both worked on the lyrics, which were more literate and analytical than anything we had done in Simon Dupree. He loved to read and was influenced by existentialists like Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre, and I was more interested in making observations about what was going on in the world around us. We were both so excited about the new band that, in the beginning at least, we were a good songwriting team. Sometimes we argued about which lyrics to use, but we knew we were a part of something bigger than ourselves.
We wrote and finessed around twenty songs, then scheduled some shows to see how audiences reacted to the new music, figuring a trial by fire was the best way to test our skills and up our game. I can’t remember anything about the first Gentle Giant gig, but a bit of research revealed that we performed for hometown fans at the Fairfield Parlour, Portsmouth Polytechnic’s student union, on May 9, 1970. The promo text on the flyer mentioned the band would be ‘featuring ace singer Simon Dupree.’ This must have excited fans of the Big Sound—but maybe not enough. A local paper reported a ‘disappointing turnout,’ though it added, ‘Despite the [attendance] letdown, the band impressed with what many described as a brilliant debut performance.’ I’ll take that.
I think the reason I can’t remember the show is because nothing earth-shattering happened, so in that respect, I’ll chalk it up as a good Gentle Giant show, and there were so many of them. For those in the know, there was a buzz about Gentle Giant from the start. Gerry Bron got us a deal with Vertigo Records, which was a new label founded by Olav Wyper, who had been the marketing manager at Philips/Phonogram. He and his team were interested in signing experimental bands, and they liked what we were doing. So did the critics.
Since we had road-tested most of our new songs in and around London before we entered the studio, we knew which ones the crowds liked most and which one we played best. We whittled our set down to eight songs before we entered the studio, and since we were so well rehearsed, we were confident that we’d be able to record an album that would earn us a brand new fanbase while expanding those who appreciated the more eccentric side of Simon Dupree.