MITCH MITCHELL
In 1985, when I was 16, I agreed to play drums in my mate’s band. The fact I’d never even so much as touched a drumstick before meant nothing. I promptly gathered as many Who, Hollies and Hendrix records and videos (not an easy commodity to come by in those bygone days) as I could, in order to learn from the three masters. Mitch Mitchell’s drumming became
my favourite and has remained so through a further 20-odd years of musical discovery. He had both Moonie’s flamboyance and Bobby Elliott’s precision, but outshone both of them with his sense of adventure and freedom. My band started playing ‘Stone Free’ and ‘Spanish Castle Magic’ and I spent countless hours trying to get Mitch’s iconic intros to ‘Little Miss Lover’ and ‘She’s So Fine’ down. I don’t think I ever have. I marvelled at the Jimi At Monterey
video – it looked like they’d sped up the footage of Mitch attacking his kit at the end of ‘Wild Thing’. To this day I never watch Jimi burning his Strat – I watch Mitch’s blurred limbs in the background and it never fails to dazzle me whilst simultaneously belittling my every attempt to play the drums. When my friend Vic Templar
(another of Mitch’s most ardent admirers) met the great man a year ago at a press junket for the DVD release of that self-same Monterey film he was too shy to talk to him. I’d have been the same. I’ve never spoken to any of my true musical heroes and I kinda want it to stay that way. When we ran Vic’s Q&A session with Mitch in Shindig! #2, I realised the magazine had arrived. But now he’s gone and the
Experience are re-united once more. The greatest band in heaven? For sure. Andy Morten
14
I was 18 years old in ’89 and still a kid really. My world had been opened-up to sounds from a golden age. I’d started to sport period ’67 clothing, candy-striped bellbottoms, military jackets, granny glasses and love beads. I looked a sight as I marched around a boot fair in my hometown with the bassist from my band, and fellow bead-wearer. Both of us hungry and on the lookout for obscure psychedelic delights. Mainly 45s, since they seemed to be “where the gold is”. I had the good fortune of picking up an original UK, albeit scratched, copy of Are You Experienced? for 25p. A bargain ’cos the cover’s worth that alone! So, there’s me and there’s Paul, there’s a guy selling a box of 45s, and then there’s a little “older guy” taking all the time in the world, pawing through this box: flick, flick, pause, man: “Frankie Vaughan? We used to make ashtrays and plant pots with his singles”, flick, pause, flick – you get the picture. So, not being very patient and with a youthful exuberance (not to mention something we smoked earlier that day) we decided to hurry this guy up – elbows at the ready! I got one side of him, Paul the other, and together we used an “elbow to rib” technique to deter him from pursuing his wearisome quest. At this point, I entered a surreal
dream state, spinning I was. Maybe it was the shock? Maybe it was the smoke? You see, as we soldiered on with our rib- nudging, a lady standing to our side, spied the album under my arm and exclaimed, “Ooooh, look Mitch”, and pointed directly to the shaggy threesome of hippy types emblazoned across the Track Records’ sleeve. His reaction was to turn to me and make some half-arsed attempt at a
greeting; his slight “turning of the mouth” gave the rest away. Mitch Mitchell was standing there beside me! I hastily tucked my elbows back in, thrust the album cover towards him, and asked the greatest drummer in the world, if he would sign my album – double-neat! He signed it “all the best, Mitch Mitchell”. All the best? All the best what? All the best drummers come to the Oval, Bohemia Road Boot Sale? All the best albums are on Track Records? Jeez, was he trying to send me a subliminal message?
Paul: “No, you stupid stoned
pillock, that’s what people sign when they’re rock-stars.” From that day to his death, I
inadvertently turned into a “Mitch Spotter”, clocking him in junk shops, supermarkets and even takeaway restaurants (Mitch used to buy his fish’n’chips from the Lifeboat Restaurant on Hastings Seafront). He even came into a shop where I used to work (for a roll of parcel tape) and I scared him off by saying “you’re Mitch Mitchell” (you see it, you say it, dumbass!). He was an unassuming figure, sort of scurrying about, boot sales, boxes, knick knacks, always on the move. A head-fuck when you think of him in the context of Jimi’s drummer, his right hand man, the under-pinner, a machine gun fire assault and battery with all that finesse to boot! We’re all too aware of his work
and you’re probably sick of reading CNN style obituaries that list every aspect of his recording career. I said it all; about two thirds of the way through my second paragraph, and meant it. Rest in peace Mitch. Louis Wigget
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