George: A Memory of George Michael

4
Executive Decisions

Yog was surprisingly coy about his musical talents. He was dismissive about his abilities, perhaps as a result of being teased. He always seemed concerned that the instrument was uncool in some way, even though he was comfortably the best violinist in Bushey Meads and played lead violin throughout his school career. He impressed the new music teacher, Joy Mendelsohn, when he was a fourteen-year-old O-level student: ‘He was very good, although it wasn’t his favourite instrument. He probably wanted to give it up but I wouldn’t let him.’ The young musicians weren’t playing Beethoven or Bruch; Joy would arrange popular tunes like ‘Trains and Boats and Planes’ and ‘King of the Road’ as well as many old Beatles hits to suit their capabilities. They would perform at end-of-term and Christmas concerts in the big school hall. ‘Now, I wish he’d done the arrangements,’ laughs Joy. She was, nevertheless, pleased with her interpretation one year of Slade’s perennial favourite, ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’.

Yog would lead about six first violins and six second violins, depending on who was available. He made an impression on Joy because he could play so many instruments and was a quick learner: ‘He had a natural talent. The others would have to work at it. He could be quite self-deprecating, though.’

He much preferred the drums to the violin and had proper percussion lessons at school that led to that enthusiastic drum solo at one of the concerts. He also played some guitar, another ability he also kept hidden. Joy’s job was to try and get Yog to overcome a natural shyness: ‘He would never show off his talent,’ she recalls simply.

Not many students took music seriously at Bushey Meads; Andrew, for instance, was never interested. Yog was one of just four pupils in Joy’s first O-level class, which, in the 1970s, consisted of exclusively classical set works. He would spend a lot of time in the new music block taking advantage of the individual practice rooms. He had a superb ear for music: ‘He excelled at anything to do with listening to music and he was able to write out rhythms,’ Joy remembers. ‘If I played him something, he could sing it back to me or write it down and notate. He was lazy about his homework, but then he was a boy.’

Yog was one of only two students who went on to study music theory at A-level. Unfortunately that small number meant that the school could not justify Joy continuing to teach them, so he would join Ruth Woodhead, who played the flute, for lessons twice a week at the Watford School of Music in Nascot Wood Road. Ruth was another student who had grown up in Bushey and knew everyone from primary-school days. In fact, Andrew Ridgeley proposed to her at Ashfield Junior School when she was eight. She turned him down, considering him to be a particularly naughty boy: ‘I always remember him being at the back of the class and being called to sit at the front and behave himself.’

For their trips to Watford, Yog’s mum Lesley would pick them both up from school and drive them the four miles to their lessons. Ruth was as shy as Yog in company and was quite in awe of his smartly dressed mother with the nice hair. Neither of the two teenagers enjoyed their music theory, which was very heavy going, and conducted by an elderly, old-fashioned teacher. There was the occasional laugh: Yog, in particular, had a fit of the giggles when they were discussing the pheasant-plucking song in class.

After struggling through it for a year, Yog gave up music theory. He realised it had no place in his future plans. But, like many other things in his life, he kept his accomplishments and intellect hidden. That did not mean he did not have confidence in his abilities. He knew he was good and was certain that he could have a career in music. ‘It was always just music,’ observed his father, Jack.

He did have one last hurrah for Joy, when he starred in the Christmas pantomime – her version of Aladdin containing lots of in-jokes about teachers and students. It was all good fun and instantly forgettable, except that it gave everyone at school the first opportunity to hear Yog sing, although the songs would never feature in the George Michael back catalogue.

He played a character called Wazir. ‘He really came into his own,’ says Joy, fondly. ‘I wrote him awful songs to sing. It was all very corny. “Wazir was here” – and all that sort of thing. But I think everyone thought he was good, both as an actor and a singer.’

Bushey Meads may have been slow to realise he could sing, but commuters outside Green Park Tube station in Central London already knew. From the age of fifteen, Yog would bunk off school, usually on a Friday, to meet up with his childhood pal David Mortimer to try their luck in the bustling world of busking.

Even though Andrew was now his best buddy, he still saw David regularly and they would rendezvous at his house in Burnt Oak before heading off into the West End with a microphone and David’s twelve-string guitar. While Andrew dabbled a little with guitar, David took his music seriously and was a more than useful musician.

Yog and David were not the most successful busking duo; it wasn’t as simple as merely choosing a spot and getting on with it. No sooner had they found a promising place than the police would appear out of nowhere and move them on, so it was very difficult to make any money. Green Park was their favourite station because they might manage twenty minutes before uniform showed up. ‘We were actually very good,’ maintained Yog. ‘We just got crap money because to make money you had to get these pitches where the police would leave you alone. But to have those you had to arrive at 5.30 in the morning, which was beyond the call of duty for me, even at fifteen. Sometimes the little money we made would be nicked.’

It was good practice to sing in public. They would perform a selection of very middle-of-the-road standards by The Beatles, Elton John and Queen and try and sneak in a few bits and pieces they had tentatively written together, although that would generally mean people turning round, wondering what on earth they were listening to.

Busking was an adventure and far better than school. On one occasion, however, they were alarmed to see a large skinhead wearing a bright red Fred Perry jumper careering down the escalator. He was obviously fleeing the long arm of the law. Yog recalled how funny it was: ‘There was no one else about and there’s me and Dave singing “Hey Jude” and he comes charging over and says to me, “Give us your fucking jumper.” And I’m like, “This is my favourite jumper actually.” “Give us your fucking jumper!” So I am standing there, taking off my best jumper and thinking, “This is so humiliating.” I am thinking, “Dave, hit him with your guitar.” But eventually I have to swap it.’ Poor Yog then had the humiliating ride on the Tube home wearing a red jumper three sizes too big for him; he had to wear it because it was a freezing cold day. David, naturally, was laughing his head off at his friend’s embarrassment even though Yog muttered unconvincingly, ‘I quite like it, actually.’

At least they usually made enough for a night out. It became their Friday routine: Yog would keep his fashionable clothes at David’s house and change into what he assumed was the latest trendy outfit before heading out clubbing. As usual, he never had trouble getting into places because he looked older than he was.

Georgios Panayiotou was a different person away from Bushey Meads. From an early age he could keep different aspects of his life entirely separate; he could compartmentalise. His friends outside school had no idea that he was enthusiastically embracing pantomimes, reading books and playing the violin. While, for their part, his classmates little realised that he was at last making a start on the music career he wanted for himself.

Andrew had been pushing for them to start a band from almost the first day they met. ‘Let’s get a band together’ would be his daily refrain. Yog kept putting him off and being sensible about it, telling him he wasn’t going to do anything about it until after O-levels, all of which he passed comfortably. After that, he delayed even more by saying he wanted to take his A-levels first.

A further obstacle was that Andrew was hardly ever around after he left Bushey Meads. He enrolled at Cassio College in Langley Road, Watford, met a new circle of friends and revelled in the environment of a sixth-form college where he was treated as an adult. Yog was unimpressed: ‘Suddenly, he was a serious fashion victim. He was wearing really outrageous clothes that looked absolutely terrible and taking drugs and stuff.’ George Michael later confided that he was put off trying LSD after learning that Andrew had a very bad experience after trying the hallucinogenic drug for the first time. Andrew subsequently avoided a drug-influenced lifestyle, much preferring alcohol as the stimulant of choice.

Although it was still great to dance to, the allure of disco was fading for the two suburban soul boys. They had never embraced punk in any shape or form so they were looking for a new direction to spark their interest. They found it in a relatively short-lived revival of ska music, a variation of reggae that originated in Jamaica in the late fifties and early sixties. It was pioneered by the legendary Prince Buster, a former boxer and gang leader who made the new sound popular throughout the world and had a breakthrough hit in 1967 in the UK with his song ‘Al Capone’.

The new take on ska became known as 2 Tone, an edgier sound masterminded by Jerry Dammers, the songwriter and keyboard player with The Specials, a collective from Coventry. He wanted to create something that could represent harmony at a time when racial conflict and the exploits of National Front extremists were gathering far too many headlines. He started his own label, 2 Tone Records, which featured a logo that defined the style and fashion of the movement: a figure sporting a black suit with a white shirt, black tie, white socks, black loafers and sunglasses, all topped off with a porkpie hat. This uniform would be the basis for much of what George Michael wore throughout his professional career. The enterprising Dammers signed many of the bands that became synonymous with 2 Tone, including The Selecter, Bad Manners, The Beat and, most famously, Madness with the ‘nutty sound’ of Camden Town.

For Andrew and Yog, 2 Tone was a winning combination of music and fashion. It also seemed to be a gateway to instant success for this raft of previously unheard-of groups. In 1979, The Specials reached the top ten with ‘Gangsters’, a reworking of ‘Al Capone’, and ‘A Message to You, Rudy’. Madness changed their name from Morris and the Minors to Madness in honour of Prince Buster’s song ‘Madness is Gladness’. Their first hit was called ‘Prince’ and their second a reworking of his song ‘One Step Beyond’.

Andrew and Yog were fans of both bands, but they needed to jump on the bandwagon or miss out altogether. Eventually Andrew had had enough of his friend’s hesitation and insisted they have a rehearsal the following night. Yog finally relented, but only if David Mortimer came up from Edgware. Fortunately, he could make it, and their first tentative steps towards stardom were made in the living room in Oakridge Avenue.

They made quite a noise; luckily, Jack was working in the restaurant that Saturday night. Yog’s mother Lesley tactfully suggested that perhaps in future, if they were going to continue, they might alternate rehearsals between Radlett and Andrew’s home in Bushey.

They came up with their signature tune at the very first rehearsal. ‘Rude Boy’ was their idea of a 2 Tone anthem. Yog scrawled the lyrics on a scrap of paper. Basically, it consisted of Andrew and Yog chanting the title and it was very catchy.

Rude boy rude boy rude boy rude boy

Rude boy rude boy rude boy rude boy

Rude boy rude boy rude boy rude boy

This ain’t your party

No one invited you …

The boys started rehearsing more seriously in preparation for their first live gig. They recruited Andrew’s younger brother Paul on drums and classmate Andy Leaver on guitar. Their first choice as bassist dropped out, but the Ridgeleys used to live across the road from another Bushey Meads old boy, Jamie Gould, who was a few years older, owned a Rickenbacker bass and was already playing in a band. He enjoyed reggae, so was happy to join them. They were now six in number, which may have seemed an extravagance, but Madness too were a sextet.

Andrew and Yog had equal standing as leaders of the group. They were both singers and the intention was for them to share the vocals. Jamie gives a surprising verdict on their capabilities: ‘I would have said that Andrew was actually the better singer at the time. It was obvious that Yog was quite focused on everything. He worked at it. He had an exceptional voice but Andrew was the one whose voice rang out over the top of everything. He had a more powerful voice.’

The two singers would bicker constantly like an old married couple in a television sitcom. The rest of the boys would let them get on with it. Andy Leaver was very popular: ‘He was really bubbly and happy. Just a lovely chap,’ recalls Jamie, who used to spend most of rehearsals jamming with Paul. The younger Ridgeley had developed into an excellent drummer, modelling his technique on Stewart Copeland, the virtuoso drummer with The Police. He had provided the distinctive beat on their many hits that included two number ones in 1979: ‘Message in a Bottle’ and ‘Walking on the Moon’.

Sometimes Yog would sit down and play the drums, always good for getting rid of some frustrations. Rehearsals were a bit of a trial for everyone. Jamie observes, ‘It often got to the point where you thought it was pointless. You would come in and rehearse for two hours and had played just two three-minute songs!’

By November 1979, despite the constant arguments, they were ready for their first gig. They played a very short set after the fireworks on Bonfire Night at the St Andrew’s Methodist Church Hall in Bushey Heath, known to all locally as the Scout Hut. The hall, which was about ten years old, was a typical village space in that it played host to all sorts of activities, including a youth club, Sunday school and a bridge club; the boys wondered what the mysteriously named ‘Wives Club’ might be. The dark wooden floor was laid out as a badminton court with a stage at one end where the band set up.

An exuberant and noisy rendition of ‘Rude Boy’ was the highlight of the night. They did well enough to be asked back. The band were also given permission to practise from time to time at the hall, which gave their parents a rest. Prospects looked even brighter when a young A&R man called Michael Burdett came to watch them rehearse. Michael had been taken on as a talent scout by Sparta Florida Music Group, a small music publishing company based in Knightsbridge. His job was to find the next big thing, although that was proving quite difficult. His bosses had already passed on one unsigned band he was keen on: they were from Dublin and called U2.

The history of pop music is, of course, littered with missed opportunities, so Michael continued to see new bands practically every night. His girlfriend’s younger sister knew Paul Ridgeley, so he agreed to drift over to the Scout Hut one evening, have a listen and maybe offer some advice. He was happy to do that even though he was only nineteen and still a novice himself.

Michael immediately liked the band who, as yet, didn’t have a name: ‘The two singers immediately impressed me. There was something about their commitment to performance that I’d only seen before in well-known, more successful bands. Andrew was warm, intelligent, good-looking and great company. He already looked like a terrific performer and had a good voice. The other singer, who seemed slightly more serious but just as committed, was introduced to me as Yoghurt. Together they had real chemistry. They weren’t the finished product by any means, but I couldn’t get “Rude Boy” out of my head.’

Michael thought the band had real potential, but he also enjoyed spending time with them. Andy Leaver had a knack of keeping spirits up with what Michael describes as his ‘comedic, self-deprecating manner’. Yog was the most serious: ‘He seemed to prefer one-to-one conversations to being in a large group. In those one-to-one chats, he was just delightful and had a certain empathetic quality to him.’

Michael started going to more rehearsals, usually at Radlett or at Andrew’s parents’ new house in Bushey, and recorded them: ‘I wanted to listen back so I could hear where they were going wrong, or more importantly, where they were going right.’ He played these very early recordings to his bosses at Sparta Florida, but they passed on the band. He had been hoping they would provide a little seed money so that the band could make a proper demo, but they could not be persuaded.

Plan B was for everyone to share the expense of recording time at a real studio. They each put in £12 to pay for it, and soon after New Year 1980 Michael found a sixteen-track facility in the picturesque village of Wheathampstead, just north of St Albans. He was able to book the time at the Profile Recording Studios under the band’s chosen name. They had written a song called ‘The Executive’ and decided to call themselves that. Michael wasn’t so sure: ‘I wasn’t a fan of the name and expressed disappointment. I can see that Andrew was probably already imagining them in bowler hats, looking quite dapper and, of course, that might have worked.’

Yog’s very first day in a recording studio began in an exciting fashion. The boys had piled into a van driven by saxophonist Noel Castelle, another local musician, who had agreed to play sax at the session. The van skidded across the road and narrowly missed traffic before swerving back amid much shouting and honking of horns. It could have been a disaster. Everyone arrived for the big day thoroughly shaken.

Fortunately, things improved after that near disaster. Michael brought a friend, Simon Hanhart, along to help with engineering and song structures. He was a trainee engineer at the Marquee Studios behind Wardour Street. He would subsequently become one of the most respected producers in the business, working with David Bowie, Marillion and the London Symphony Orchestra, as well as producing the acclaimed BBC charity record ‘Perfect Day’, which featured an all-star cast, including Elton John, U2 and the song’s composer, Lou Reed.

Here he was helping his mate on a chilly morning in the middle of the Hertfordshire countryside. They decided to record two songs. ‘Rude Boy’ was the first. Andrew and Yog set about laying down their harmonies like seasoned professionals. ‘They weren’t fazed at all,’ recalls Michael. At the end, everyone gathered behind the microphone and made party sounds, shouting and whooping and clinking bottles.

Unusually, the second track was an instrumental version of Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’, featuring David on lead guitar and Yog and Andrew vocally improvising and chanting on the off-beat, which was the style with ska music at the time. On the day, the version ends memorably with David making a small mistake and exclaiming, ‘Oh, shit!’

Michael observes, ‘It was a good fun day and none of them seemed overwhelmed. I remember Yog in particular asking questions about recording techniques. The only downside of the experience was the facilities at the studio. The reverb would only work on one side of the stereo, so they were never fully mixed.’

Simon and Michael were not unhappy, however, because the two tracks clearly showed The Executive’s potential. Afterwards, everyone adjourned to The Cherry Tree pub in Wheathampstead to unwind and discuss the day. All agreed it was a good experience. Now all they had to do was persuade a record company to sign them.