Lonnie Donegan may still be far from a household name in the United States, but he’s a legend in the United Kingdom for inventing a whole new genre—skiffle—before rock’n’roll was born. Like punk, skiffle—which incorporated jazz, blues, and folk, and was usually played using homemade or improvised instruments—made playing it a viable proposition for even the poorest of the poor, and it’s cool rhythms galvanized an entire generation of U.K. youth. The Beatles, the Stones, Van Morrison, Elton John—all were skiffle fanatics before rock’n’roll hit England, and all incorporated elements of its sound into their early music.
Born in Glasgow, Scotland, the guitarist and vocalist got his start playing trad jazz in the mid-1940s, but a military stint in Vienna turned him onto the new sounds being played by the American Forces radio station—sounds he would later incorporate into so-called “skiffle breaks” while he was with Ken Colyer’s Jazzmen. With a washboard, a tea-chest bass, and a cheap Spanish guitar, Donegan and two other musicians would play American blues and folk tunes. In July 1954 he recorded a skiffle version of Leadbelly’s “Rock Island Line,” and presto—a star was born. Before he knew it he was playing on the Perry Como show, and young adherents—including those proto-Beatles, the Quarrymen, got off on this new style of music. Which was ironic seeing as how down the road it was those very same Beatles, with their newfangled beat music, who muscled Donegan off the pop charts for good.
Over the ensuing decades he would have his moments—recordings in Nashville, reunion shows, a long stint as a record producer, and most importantly, an album with Van Morrison (The Skiffle Sessions—Live in Belfast 1998) which won him much overdue acclaim. But just as important—but less appreciated than his collaboration with Morrison—was the 1978 LP Puttin’ on the Style, on which the King of Skiffle played an iconoclastic handful of songs accompanied by many of the musicians he’d influenced and inspired over the years including Albert Lee, Rory Gallagher, Brian May, Ron Wood, Elton John, Nicky Hopkins, Ringo Starr, Mick Ralphs, Jim Keltner, Leo Sayer, Ray Cooper, Peter Banks, Michele Phillips, and numerous other lesser known musicians. Produced by Adam Faith, the LP wasn’t a hit, but it provides a unique look at a musician who generally kept it simple taking advantage of a full deck of musical aces—which had both its advantages and disadvantages.
The sidemen give Donegan a bigger, fuller sound—he generally kept things stripped down to their folk basics—and sometimes the big sounds works, and sometimes it doesn’t. Donegan, whose voice almost always dominated his primal instrumentation, has to compete on this one. For example, “Rock Island Line” opens with Donegan talking over the piano of Zoot Money, but he’s suddenly cut off when Gallagher breaks into his virtuoso’s strut. And then they do it again, the song going out of control, the band kicking it up behind Donegan as he delivers the lyrics at an amazing speed. This one’s a revelation, and I definitely intend to write about Gallagher in the future.
“Have a Drink on Me” features Ringo Starr on drums and Albert Lee on guitar, and Lee’s guitar is just as overwhelming as Gallagher’s was on the previous cut. Indeed, he plays a solo that’ll singe your eyebrows, while Donegan throws everything he has into the vocals. It’s not my favorite tune, but it’s worth hearing just for Donegan’s vocals and Lee’s guitar. The rollicking “Ham N’ Eggs” features Starr on drums and Leo Sayer on harmonica, while Donegan sings about how he has to roll because he’s in a hurry, hurry, hurry. I can’t listen to it without wanting to eat ham and eggs. Peter Banks, the original guitarist for Yes, plays a frenetic solo, and Donegan really lets loose with that big, expressive voice of his.
“I Wanna Go Home” is a loose interpretation of the Beach Boy’s “Sloop John B,” which in turn was an adaptation of an earlier West Indies folk song, and it opens well if slowly with minimal instrumentation. It’s a great tale of drinking all day and fighting all night, but this version is ruined when some strings, and I mean lots of strings, veritable tsunamis of strings, come in, swamping the song like that big wave in A Perfect Storm. Donegan’s more stripped down earlier versions are lovely in their way, and I blame Faith for bringing the strings, although they may not have been his idea. One thing I am sure of—they make sure the contributions of Lee on guitar and Ray Cooper (of the Elton John Band) on percussion are wasted.
“Diggin’ My Potatoes” is wonderful, a smoldering and frantic number on which Donegan once again excels, shouting and screaming while Queen’s Brian May contributes lots of wonderfully scratchy guitar. But Elton John owns the song with his characteristic piano sound. “EJ, sock it to me,” shouts Donegan, and John plays a ferocious solo, before the song turns into a jumping and jiving combo of May, John, and a shouting Donegan. “Nobody’s Child” joins “I Wanna Go Home” on the list of the LP’s duds; in fact, it may well be the most awful song ever recorded, outside the Police’s “Roxanne.” A slow and saccharine number about Donegan’s meeting with a blind orphan, it’s cloying in the extreme. The chorus is huge, as are the handclaps, and the little kid wishes he were in heaven where everybody can see and wails, “Nobody wants me/Because I’m nobody’s child!” What is one to say? I feel sorry for the little blind brat, but I hold him responsible for being a little sulking sop who wastes the talents of Ron Wood, Nicky Hopkins, and Jim Keltner with all his whining.
“Puttin’ on the Style” is more like it, with its rocking rhythm and Elton John going wild on the piano while Roger McKew plays some chug-a-lug guitar over Donegan’s “Yee haa!” “Frankie and Johnny” is one heavy number thanks to the guitar of Mott the Hoople/Bad Company guitarist Mick Ralphs, whose idea of guitar playing is as subtle as a demolitions expert bringing down an abandoned high-rise. Keltner plays the three drumbeats that represent Frankie shooting Johnny because he was stepping out on her, while Donegan gives it all he’s got as usual, spitting out the words at sixty syllables a second at one point and picking up the volume at others, before the song ends in a raucous racket. As for the rambunctious “Drop Down Baby” it’s as good as “Frankie and Johnny,” with Leo Sayer demonstrating his formidable harmonica skills while Donegan hits some real high notes before shouting, “Go Rory!” at which point Gallagher dishes up one hot and tasty solo.
The playful and perky “Lost John” is all Donegan, although he gets assists from Sayer on harmonica and Zoot Money on piano. Donegan sings like he has a fever, and it’s getting worse, and the only sad thing about this one is that while Gallagher is listed on the credits, he keeps his playing on the down low. And that’s all she wrote for the original 1978 release. But I’d be remiss to not mention that the 2010 reissue includes a fantastic version of the relentless and soulful “I’m Just a Rollin’ Stone,” which is better than anything on the original release. Gallagher plays the cool opening, and Donegan commences to shouting and barking out the lyrics. John’s particularly flashy on piano, and Gallagher’s guitar is like a steamroller flattening everything in its path. It blasts feedback while the John goes wild on the 88s, and the song’s momentum builds and builds, with Donegan trying to outdo Gallagher who is trying to outdo John until Donegan shouts, “Brother EJ!”, at which point John plays a solo that’ll raise the hair on the back of your neck. And he’s followed by Gallagher, who contributes one monstrous guitar solo that has turned me into an instant fan of the man. You can call it skiffle but I call it rock’n’roll as Donegan repeats the title while John hammers on the keys and the bassist throbs away, like a bomb on the verge of exploding.
Puttin’ on the Style may not sound like Donegan’s earlier work but it’s great on its own terms, and a lost classic. Indeed, other than the awful “Nobody’s Child” and the string-swamped “I Wanna Go Home” it boasts nothing but winners, and if I have any complaint it’s the fact that Donegan didn’t see fit to include “Cumberland Gap” (his version is classic), the jumping “Don’t You Rock Me Daddy-O,” and “Hit Me Across the Head with a Spoon Mama,” a song so surreal I can’t believe Bob Dylan and the Band didn’t record a version of it during their stay at Big Pink. Or maybe they did and it got lost. I’d love to think it’s out there, waiting to be discovered, the way I discovered Lonnie Donegan, the Tartan Troubadour, and the undisputed King of Skiffle.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
