I was born in 1947 into a Jewish family. My father’s side were from Poland (the Kosiminskis) and my mother’s side were from Odessa in the Ukraine (The Yaroshevskis).
We were market workers and lived in two rooms above our hardware store in Queens Road market, East London. This is just up the road from the West Ham football ground. I regularly attended synagogue on Saturdays until my Barmitvah and then transferred my attention to West Ham United.
Although my parents were unmusical, two uncles on my father’s side played the piano, one professionally. I was taking piano lessons from quite an early age and began performing at my local Jewish youth club at the earliest opportunity.
Christmas time was rather confusing. Although we were taught at Hebrew classes that “Jesus was a con man” we nevertheless received presents on Christmas day. As an adult I’ve always hated Christmas, and the photo below offers clear evidence as to why the festival season took a sudden downward turn.
In Green Street there was just one departmental store and here we are in Santa’s grotto. The sad-faced Santa must have been the only applicant for the job, although the fact that he is clearly Jewish could reflect the store’s policy of non-discrimination. There’s me, front right, trying to remember how to smile. My brother is clearly making less effort. The backdrop behind my cousin is anyone’s guess but looks like soft porn.
For me, music continued outside school, as I played in a little dance band and listened to Ray Charles and James Brown records. Music in school must have been disastrous as it was the one GCE that I failed.
These days, if a new piano student asks me about my qualifications I point them to the certificate displayed on the wall of my music studio (as shown further down). If they’re not happy with my achievement of 100 yards breast stroke, they are welcome to look elsewhere for a piano teacher.
I was still living at home when I left school. By day I worked as a tax officer and by night I played in a series of bands. Here I am, aged about 17. I can’t explain the Union Jack but I don’t recollect any allegiance with The National Front.
There was a simple reason why I was still living at home. My father said I could become a pro musician if I wished – but not while I lived in his house! I don’t think my mother was so bothered, but her secret ambition for me was to become manager of a Marks & Spencer store. Perhaps I could work in Santa’s grotto each Christmas.
And then suddenly dad changed his mind. He phoned me from round the corner, telling me how he’d wasted his life and that I should do what I wanted. He never mentioned it face to face but that was enough for me to put an ad in the Melody Maker the next day. I passed an audition and within a month we were playing a residency at the Star Club in Hamburg. That was in 1967.
My main memory of this residency is being ejected from the dressing room of a visiting band called ‘The Vanilla Fudge.’ I was so taken by their musical approach that I had to tell their organ player, Mark Stein, that they had “gone beyond music.” His reply was something like “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I recently won the Leonard Bernstein award.” I’d still like the opportunity to explain to him what I meant, but I fear that the moment has passed.
I was living in Bournemouth with a band called The Bunch. We were getting by but not earning much and the van would usually break down to and from every gig. So our agent suggested that we ditch our singer, move back to London and back one of his ‘artists’: Joe Brown. Now, Joe had gone to my school (where I’d completed my 100 yards breast stroke) and since had a few hits. He was currently playing the variety club and cabaret circuit and needed some extra musicians. We were instructed to get out hair cut (my chosen look at that time was Jimi Hendrix in hurricane).