Lead obituary in today's Times (too long for one post, so split into two)....
Wild-eyed guitarist and songwriter with Dr Feelgood who paved the way for punk and defied the odds after a devastating cancer diagnosis
Eyes popping and strutting like a marionette on speed, Wilko Johnson cut a striking figure on stage, both as lead guitarist with Dr Feelgood and in a long and respected solo career.
He made his name with the band known affectionately as “the Feelgoods”, a raucous rhythm and blues outfit that helped to reinvigorate British rock music in the mid-1970s and opened the door to the insurrection that was punk. His guitar playing eschewed the self-indulgent, extended solos of his peers in favour of a stripped-down style built around frenetic, choppy chords and primal R’n’B riffs, dispatched with slashing ferocity.
Johnson and Dr Feelgood emerged from the amiable 1970s phenomenon known as “pub rock”, but there was nothing amiable about the “in yer face” style of their music or the sweaty, boozy anarchy of their live shows. They looked as threatening as they sounded, too, scowling out from beneath short haircuts and dressed in ill-fitting off-the-peg jackets — a pointed “no fashion” statement, which seemed openly to mock the theatrical garb of Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones.
Their refusal to follow fashion was in itself eye-catching and Johnson was the group’s main visual attraction, a tall, gangly man dressed in a grubby black suit that made him resemble a nightclub bouncer rather than a rock star, the anti-fashion look offset by an institutional “pudding bowl” haircut and an unsettling stare to rival Anthony Perkins in Psycho.
Yet Johnson was remarkable not just for his style and musicianship. In January 2013 he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, told it was terminal and that he had only months to live. He met the news with equanimity. “It was a surprise,” he said. “But it didn’t disturb me. I was alive and realised you are existing in the moment. You’re not worried about the tax return. And it’s a bloody good feeling being alive.”
He chose not to undergo chemotherapy and announced a farewell tour, so that he could go out doing the thing that he said had made his life “such an extraordinarily full and eventful experience’’. His attitude led to an outpouring of emotion from fans, yet he defied medical science and was still around for another tour in 2014. “I have had a brilliant year,” he declared. “I honestly didn’t know people felt about me like that. I knew they liked the music, but I’ve had so many letters full of personal affection for me, as though they were writing for a friend. I think that was the most moved I’ve ever been.”
Going Back Home, an album recorded with the Who’s singer Roger Daltrey and released in early 2014, earned him his best reviews in years. He promoted the record with a series of self-deprecating interviews in which, without a hint of self-pity, he declared: “I’m really sorry I’ve got to die because I want to do a lot more of this. But otherwise dying’s not so bad, you know.” He told The Times’s Will Hodgkinson that before his diagnosis he suffered from depression, but “now I just want to stop worrying and do as much as I can in the time left”.
Daltrey, visibly moved by his collaborator’s fortitude, noted that “our postwar rock’n’roll generation taught people how to live and enjoy their lives. Now here’s Wilko showing us how to die.”
A plan for Johnson to make an appearance at Glastonbury in June 2014 had to be cancelled due to his illness; after almost 18 months of refusing treatment, he was admitted to hospital for an operation to remove a tumour and parts of his stomach and intestines. “It was an 11-hour operation. This tumour weighed 3kg — that’s the size of a baby. Anyway, they got it all,” he said, announcing that the disease was less aggressive than originally thought. After a period of convalescence he was, astonishingly, “cancer-free” and coming to terms with the idea that he would live — which he did to the full for another eight years.
When Johnson rose to fame with Dr Feelgood in the 1970s, he insisted that the band, based on Canvey Island, played tough R’n’B, mixing covers with his own songs that cut across the decade’s prevailing trends of prog and glam-rock. There had been nothing like Dr Feelgood since the heyday of the Who and the Rolling Stones during the first British R’n’B boom a decade earlier. Their records were unsophisticated and wilfully so, a conscious attempt to revisit the raw energy that had fuelled the birth of rock’n’roll and which had, somewhere along the way, got lost in half-baked triple concept albums and drug-addled excess.
In Julien Temple’s 2009 documentary film, Oil City Confidential, Johnson and the Feelgoods were portrayed as a gang of bank robbers with guitars, dashing into town to pull off a job at one venue or another, then heading back to the badlands of Essex and their home in the shadows of the refineries on the island they renamed “Oil City”. Johnson lived in Essex all his life, later moving to Westcliff-on-Sea. “I love the Thames estuary,” he said. “This part of Essex, with the powerlines and the windmills and the industry, it makes the landscape what it is.”
The Feelgoods’ natural forte was the three-minute single — clipped, classic R’n’B tunes such as Roxette, She Does It Right and Back in the Night, all written by Johnson. When the group came to make their debut album, Down by the Jetty (1975), they recorded it live in the studio with no overdubs and released it in mono, an act of defiance at a time when making a record for most groups involved months of multi-tracking and studio trickery. It was followed by the equally earthy and strident Malpractice. Both albums sold reasonably but it was their third release, Stupidity, that was their breakthrough. Recorded live, it brilliantly captured the guts and gore of their club performances, with storming covers of songs by the likes of Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley.
The album made its way to the top of the British charts in the first week of its release in 1976, just as the first wave of punk groups was noisily starting to kick over the traces. It briefly made Johnson and his colleagues the biggest new band in Britain. They were not punks in the accepted fashion, but were a crucial influence on the revolution. “John the Baptists to the Sex Pistols’ savage messiahs, an advance guard for the havoc that followed,” as the Melody Maker editor Allan Jones later put it.
Yet Johnson did not hang around to enjoy the kudos. During the making of Dr Feelgood’s fourth album, he fell out acrimoniously with the group’s singer Lee Brilleaux and walked out, never to return. He subsequently claimed he had been fired, although the rest of the group said he had walked. Relations had soured on a disappointing American tour (not helped, perhaps, by Johnson being teetotal at the time, unlike his hard-drinking bandmates), but he later said that he was at a loss to explain why he had fallen out with them. “It grew into this great animosity between Lee and myself,” he said. “As far as I know, I never did him any wrong, and I know he never did me any wrong. So what that bad feeling was based on, I do not know. But it was certainly strong.” The pair remained unreconciled when Brilleaux died of cancer in 1994........