Bad Company circa 1999 (from left) Boz Burrell, Paul Rodgers, Mick Ralphs and Simon Kirke. Photo courtesy Elektra Records.

By Mike Greenblatt

Simon Kirke has rocked stages for decades as drummer for Free and Bad Company. On his new solo album, “Filling The Void,” he plays piano, bass, guitar and drums. He also sings his own songs (quite nicely, thank you) — songs filled with regret and humor, blunt honesty and wistful ruminations of the lessons he’s learned. Don’t expect any macho blustering. He doesn’t ‘Feel Like Makin’ Love.’ Not right now, anyway.

The last time I saw you was at Yankee Stadium when you and I went with [musician] Ricky Byrd. It was your first baseball game!
Simon Kirke: Yeah, I remember that. I play a lot of golf, but that was my first and only time seeing baseball. I seem to remember yelling at the umpire a lot that night.

“Filling The Void” is beautiful. There’s blues, jazz and rock ’n’ roll, but a majority of it is in the serious singer-songwriter confessional zone. When did you turn into Joni Mitchell?
Kirke: Hey, Duke Ellington said there’s only two types of music: good and bad. I like all styles. I’ve been singing and playing guitar for 45 years and have always written songs. It’s just something most people don’t associate with me. I’ve contributed the odd song with Free and Bad Company. I co-wrote the song “Bad Company” with Paul Rodgers, in fact. A lot of my songs were not suited to that style, and they’d get put on the back burner. I love James Taylor. I love Joni. Dylan, too. I love Jackson Browne and Leonard Cohen. I’ve accumulated over 30 songs.

This album has exorcized some of your demons, hasn’t it? Lyrically, you’ve dug deep and personal. The title track, about your addiction, is quite profound.
Kirke: Well, yeah, I don’t mind saying I’ve been in several rehabs. I’ve had trouble with substance abuse over the years. One of the counselors recommended I write songs about it as part of my therapy. It’s not meant to be embarrassing or make people squirm. It’s just telling it like it is. Addiction doesn’t carry the stigma that it used to. If I can help someone by telling them about it, then all well and good.

You’re right in line with many recovering addicts and alcoholics who want to take the anonymous part away from people in recovery. They say disclosure will do more good.
Kirke: I agree. Look, the guy who started me and a lot of other people down the road to sobriety is Eric Clapton, whether he knows it or not. He was one of the first guys to go public. Elton John and Alice Cooper, too. Alice, actually, might’ve been the very first guy in our business who threw up his hands and said, “I’m a drunk and I’m trying to get better.” Had they kept it secret, I think a lot of people might not have realized it about themselves.

Wasn’t it, ultimately, the rock-star lifestyle? Or is that too simplistic?
Kirke: It’s a case of growing up. Some people have addictive personalities, and they cannot stop. There are friends of mine who shall remain nameless who gave it all up. They had their 10 years of frolicking and carousing, and now they lead normal lives. Others don’t make it. They can’t stop. They die. Period. My drug use and drinking was highest when Bad Company was at its highest. We could do no wrong! When you bathe yourself in that applause night after night, and women are hurling themselves at you, and men are offering you all sorts of substances, and you’re getting first-class treatment wherever you go, you develop a false sense of grandiosity and self-worth. It’s a dream/nightmare. You never want it to end. I’m lucky to be alive.

“Message From The Lost” recounts your experiences as a driver for the Red Cross in New York City for six weeks after 9/11.
Kirke: You never forget. I saw relatives of those who were killed, and those images stayed with me ever since.

I had no idea you were such a good singer.
Kirke: When you’re in a band with Paul Rodgers, you don’t really have much of a chance. He’s so wonderful. The whole Bad Company sound was based around his singing, so the limited vocals I did were back-up harmony. I’ve always loved to sing. Now, I do shows where I play piano and guitar and get to sing for an hour and a half and I love it!

By Todd Whitesel

Music collectors and audiophiles have long looked to the Land of the Rising Sun for hard-to-find LPs, CDs and exotic stereo gear that was unavailable elsewhere. Some record collectors are obsessed with Japanese pressings, seeking them out for the quality of the vinyl and the cool extras that we don’t get with our North American platters, such as the coveted OBI strip and perhaps a poster or lyrics printed in the beautiful but complicated Japanese script. For the new year, I’ll be “going Japanese” to satisfy my craving for some long-overdue high-resolution reissues.

I’ve lamented the near halt in production of rock and jazz SACDs over the last couple years. It seems the record labels committed to SACD are concentrating almost solely on classical music. I love classical music and have put together a nice collection of high-resolution discs as such, but there are countless other non-classical albums that I wish would find their home on SACD. I can’t imagine going back to a non-SACD disc of Bob Dylan’s “Blood On The Tracks” — listen to “If You See Her, Say Hello” in 5.1 surround and you’ll know what I mean. Incidentally, that SACD is now out of print and still-sealed copies can go for $50 and up — and it’s worth it. Now, and in the coming weeks, several truly classic albums are being reissued on SACD by Universal Japan. Each is a limited edition and likely to become very collectible, very soon. Get ’em now before they’re gone!

1. Stevie Wonder, “Songs In The Key Of Life” — From 1972 up to the release of “Songs In The Key Of Life” found Stevie Wonder on a path of unbridled creativity. In fact, two LPs weren’t enough to contain all the material Wonder wanted to put on “Songs,” so a four-song EP was included in the package. All this after the triumphs of “Music Of My Mind,” “Talking Book,” “Innervisions” and “Fulfillingness’ First Finale!” I can’t remember a song that got more radio play in the 1970s than “Sir Duke,” Wonder’s tribute to the great Duke Ellington. It’s bound to sound even better here.

2. Asia, “Asia” — The 1982 debut of Asia brought together four of progressive rock’s biggest names — bassist/vocalist John Wetton, guitarist Steve Howe, keyboardist Geoff Downes and drummer Carl Palmer — into the much-maligned “supergroup” arena. The surprise, though, was that instead of 10-minute jams and ventures into the cosmos, Asia delivered a set of nine radio-friendly songs, none of which broached six minutes. The album, with its classic Roger Dean artwork, was a huge success and remains the group’s finest effort.

3. Rainbow, “Long Live Rock ‘ N’ Roll” — Ritchie Blackmore and the vocalists he’s worked with have always been something of an oil-and-water mixture, never really settling down for long. Rainbow fans can argue whether Graham Bonnett had better pipes than Joe Lynn Turner, but we wouldn’t be talking for long if it wasn’t for Ronnie James Dio and his inimitable delivery on records such as “Rising” and 1978’s “Long Live Rock ’N’ Roll.” I can’t wait to revisit the great title track on SACD.

4. Kiss, Destroyer — I would never associate Kiss with audiophile-quality recordings, but I love the band’s early ’70s output, and I can’t imagine an album that was more influential or popular at its time than “Destroyer.” Although the record contains the even-for-Kiss overblown “Great Expectations,” the foursome never hit harder than with cuts such as “Detroit Rock City” and “God Of Thunder.” I welcome this reissue and am very curious to hear the “hottest band in the world” in high-res.

5. Gentle Giant, Octopus – Wow! Gentle Giant on SACD? If any band deserves such treatment, it’s Gentle Giant. I’ve spent the last couple months digging into the Giant’s complete back catalog and have come away with a newfound respect that borders on awe. Octopus is probably the first album I’d recommend to those wanting to investigate this unique band, and it features everything from the tricky time signatures and arrangements of tunes like “Advent Of Panurge” to the graceful beauty of “Think Of Me With Kindness.” And, yes, this features the original Roger Dean cover art with the cephalopod rising from the waters instead of the original reissue, where the mighty mollusk is trapped inside a jar. Who would do such a thing?

6. Fairport Convention, “Liege & Lief” — This is British folk-rock at its best. Sandy Denny’s vocals are unmatched and for my money this record betters Unhalfbricking all around. “Matty Groves” remains the measuring stick.

7. Caravan, “In The Land Of Grey And Pink” — If the “Canterbury Sound” could be distilled into one album, this would be it. From the humorous “Golf Girl” and the hippie-esque title track to the sprawling “Nine Feet Underground,” this is essential British prog.

8. Wishbone Ash, “Argus” — I already have three copies of this often-overlooked classic. The original recording is pretty good, but I’m guessing the sparkle and energy of Andy Powell and Ted Turner’s guitar playing will sound even better this time around. “Time was” when I couldn’t get this LP on SACD and I was sad (inside lyrical joke to those who know the tune).

9. The Rolling Stones, “Beggars Banquet” — Man did I miss the boat in 2002, when ABKCO reissued a set of early Stones’ classics on SACD. “Beggars Banquet,” along with “Let It Bleed,” were two that I should have jumped on immediately. To quote Pete Townshend, I won’t get fooled again.

10. Free, “Fire & Water” — I would buy this just to hear “Mr. Big” in high-resolution. For my money, no band has wrapped more attitude around a riff than Free on that track. Paul Kossoff erects a fortress from a three-note phrase as Andy Fraser runs through the grounds with his endlessly imaginative and looping bass lines. Paul Rodgers struts like a peacock finally freed from prison. Meat and potatoes rock was never tastier.

JIMI HENDRIX’S performance at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival came just a month before his untimely death. Courtesy Laurens Van Houten/Frank White Photo Agency

By Dave Thompson

With the exception of Woodstock, the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival is the most visible classic concert ever held. Full performances by many of the week-long event’s performers are now readily available on DVD… Jimi Hendrix, Leonard Cohen, The Who (a career-best outing), Miles Davis, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Jethro Tull, Free and, most recently, The Moody Blues among them; while director Murray Lerner’s cameras were also responsible for a two-hour-plus documentary of the entire event, “Message to Love.” Taken together, they add up to an essential souvenir of a truly legendary event.

Located just off the south coast of England, the Isle of Wight was no stranger to festivals. Events had been staged there in 1968 and 1969, although the 1970 event was to be the biggest of them all — in fact, at the time, it was the largest festival ever staged. Running from Aug. 26-31, 1970, at Afton Down, the attendance has been estimated at anywhere between 600,000 and 800,000 people.

The fact that many of these visitors entered the grounds for free, breaking down the fences around the festival, was material only to the venue’s organizers, Fiery Creations. But Ron Foulks (one half, with brother Raymond, of that team) was adamant. “This is the last festival. Enough is enough. It began as a beautiful dream but it has got out of control and become a monster.”
The Isle of Wight’s residents agreed with him. Reeling from an unprecedented invasion of long-haired pop fans, it would be 2002 before the authorities again opened up their island to a pop festival.

Putting the festival wheels in motion in the first place, Fiery Creations knew they had a hard act to follow. The previous year, Bob Dylan broke a three-year concert silence to play the festival, and when the first plans were laid, it was hoped that The Beatles might be tempted to break their own live embargo to perform.

Of course they wouldn’t — the band broke up in February 1970. But Jimi Hendrix made a fabulous substitute, and with him on board, other artists were quick to add their own cachet to the bill. (See the sidebar for the list of performers.)

“Message To Love” paints a very thorough portrait of the festival itself, both the good (the majority of the featured performers) and the ugly. We see the audience booing Kris Kristofferson after his performance was reduced to sludge by sound difficulties; The Doors performing in near darkness after Jim Morrison refused to allow spotlights on the stage; and, most memorably of all, promoter Gary Farr attempting to restore order by taking the stage and howling the audience down. “We put this festival on, you bastards, with a lot of love! We worked for one year for you pigs! And you wanna tear down our walls and you wanna destroy it? Well, you go to hell!”

 By Peter Lindblad

AFTER FREE Simon Kirke went on to drum for Bad Company. Island Records photo

Formed two years earlier, Free — comprised of singer Paul Rodgers, guitarist Paul Kossoff, bassist Andy Fraser and drummer Simon Kirke — had spun the raw, organic dirt of its proto-metal sound into gold with the smash-hit single “All Right Now.”

The album that spawned “All Right Now,” Fire And Water, hitched a ride up the charts, and Free was a worldwide sensation. By the end of 1970, however, Free was coming apart, and with the March 23 release of the two-DVD collection “Forever Free” from Eagle Rock Entertainment reviving interest in the band, Kirke tells Goldmine how it all unraveled.

1970 was such an amazing year for Free, with the breakout single “All Right Now.” How did that year begin for the band?

Simon Kirke: Oh … well, in 1970, we were in the middle of endless touring. We had a little transit van, which was the stock automobile or van of the time to go around in. And we were bombing up and down the freeways of England. I think there was two — the M1 and the M4. That’s all there was in England.

But we managed to cover many, many cities and towns, but we had a bad gig if I remember ’round about March or April of ’70. We had this sort of loping beat, sort of middle-paced signature-time way of playing. It was very ponderous, if the truth be known.

It was very dynamic, but it could be a bit ponderous, so we had a very sort of lackluster reception from one crowd in Durham (England), and we came off saying we really need an up-tempo song — something lighthearted, something we can bop around to. And I remember Andy Fraser just sort of singing, “All right now,” and Paul Rodgers sort of joining in, and pretty much the bare bones of that song were written as a knee-jerk reaction to that crowd response, or lack of response.

And then Andy and Paul went away, and within a couple of weeks, they’d written the whole thing. And we recorded it in Island [Records] studios. I believe it was in May or early June in ’70, and it was released the next month, and it went all the way to #2 [on the U.K. singles chart]. We were held off by [U.K. folk act] Mungo Jerry (laughs).

That’s kind of hard to believe nowadays.

SK: Oh, I could believe it. A bloody jug band held us off, yeah (laughs).

Did the LP Fire And Water feel like a progression for you guys, or did it feel different from your previous albums?

SK: Well, yeah. For me it did, and I can’t really speak for the others, but I had a breakthrough in my drumming style.

The first two records or albums … well, the first record, Tons Of Sobs, was basically just a re-creation of our club set. And the second one, Free, which I still think is a marvelous album — it was a lot more countrified. The Band, Music From Big Pink, were on the scene, and they were knocking everyone out.

And I remember Paul Rodgers and Andy were quite enamored of them, and I think it influenced their writing to a degree. So Free was a little bit not quite as raw bluesy, although I still think it stood out as one of our best albums

Fire And Water was a sort of return to that raw, bluesy sound, opening up with “Fire And Water” and then … I don’t have the list in front of me, but I just remember it was much more gutsy, ballsy album, and then we topped it off with “All Right Now,” which was about six minutes. There was an extra verse in, and I remember the engineer calling up [Island Records founder] Chris Blackwell, who was living in his apartment above the studio, and it was about midnight. And he said, “Chris has got to hear this, man. Chris has got to hear this.” And we said, “Ah, don’t wake him up. He’s the boss.”

And anyway, we did, and Chris came down and he listened to it, and the first words out of his mouth when the track stopped were, “This is a hit.” The other few words he said were, “By the way, it’s too long. We’re going to have to edit it.” And we were going, “Oh, no,” because in those days, you used a razor blade. You didn’t have hard drives. You didn’t have cut and paste. You had to use a razor blade. And we hated it, because he cut out an entire verse, but it came in around three minutes. And the edit wasn’t even a very good one.

Did the success of the song and the album take you by surprise, or did you feel that you’d been working toward that?

SK: Well, it did take us a bit by surprise, but we’d been struggling all around England and bits of Europe, laying down a good, solid fan base, so we were ready for the work when it came along.

What we were unprepared for was the traveling we were doing now. Instead of playing a different town every night, we were playing a different country. We went all over Europe, and we had this great set. We were a blues band, but we had this kind of actually almost poppy sounding anthemic song that brought people on their feet and brought the house down. We usually finished the set with it.

So I guess for about the first tour, or maybe two tours, we had a blast. We were up to the task. And then a couple of things happened. Island Records wanted a followup. You know, we didn’t want to be classified as a pop band. We were a hard-rock, bluesy, soulful, R&B-sounding band and that’s what we wanted to stay as. And Island Records was saying, “Well, we’ve got you all these shows, and we need another album.” And we were just getting over making Fire And Water, and they wanted another one. And then our relationship with the record company got a little bit strained.

We eventually did Highway, which had the worst cover. It was a terrible cover. And we were so disappointed in them. No. 1, they pressured us into doing this album that we were a little bit unprepared to do, but we did it. And No. 2, they’d gone ahead and put together one of the worst covers ever without even consulting us. It was bad.

What do you remember about Free’s Isle Of Wight performance in 1970?

Simon Kirke: Well, I remember flying in to the place, which was unbelievable, because we flew in on helicopter from the other end of the island. And I remember the pilot pointing down, and we saw this rolling mass of humanity going over all these fields and this tiny little stage at the end of it. And that was my first impression.

We were going to play on a Saturday night, if I remember. And we got there in good time. I think we got there around 6 o’clock, so it was still very light. And we were kept waiting and waiting and waiting, because bands ran over time. I remember ELP ran over time, and then I believe Sly And The Family Stone ran over time. But the bottom line is: We didn’t get to go on.

Our spot got later and later, because I guess we were the new kids on the block. And our manager, Chris Blackwell, came into our dressing room at about 10 in the evening and said, “You’re not going on tonight. No way. I’m not allowing you to be pushed around like this.” You can go on as one of the first acts the next morning, on a Sunday morning.

And that was a very good act on his part, because we were a little bit drunk. We’d been sipping beer all day, you know, a bit nervous, and smoking the odd joint. So we were a little bit … and we were tired. We’d been there all day.

So it worked out well. I think we went on about midday on a Sunday, and people were sort of stretching and yawning and getting out of their sleeping bags, and it was a lovely sunny day. I remember that.

Going back to Highway, you didn’t have any say at all in the cover?

SK: No. Well, no, we didn’t. We were too busy doing gigs. And our other album covers had been pretty good, you know. Free was beautiful — the second album was a beautiful cover. The first one was an original. And the third one, Fire And Water, had a very good front cover. The back wasn’t too good, but it wasn’t bad.

But when Highway came out … ugh, it was so bad. And we were sort of on this merry-go-round of tour — a four- or five-week tour — one week off, three weeks on, one week off, and quite honestly, we were very tired. And then we released the followup to “All Right Now,” called “The Stealer.” And that was a flop, and that was the writing on the wall for us.

Basically, we were very young. We were very, very young, and we weren’t equipped to handle this popularity, this worldwide popularity on such a scale. And we had a bad relationship at that time with the record company, and we tended to isolate ourselves and just get on with the job at hand, and resentment started to build up until Paul and Andy said, we want to break up the band. And that was a killer for us, for me and Koss. We never really got over that.

It’s incredible what happened to Free just in that year’s time. It all started off with such promise and ended with such disappointment. 

SK: Well, the other thing that was starting to happen was Paul Kossoff was starting to get into drugs, and I’ll tell you what happened.

We were in the final mixing sessions of Highway, and I’ll never forget. I think it was one of the last sessions, and me and Koss walked in, and I was living with Koss at the time.

We only lived around the corner from Island Records. We walked in and Andy and Paul were already there, doing some mixes. And I remember the engineer looking at me and Koss and sort of rolling his eyes, and I remember Andy saying, “Listen, we’ve got talk. After this tour and this album, me and Paul want to go our own ways.”

And I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was just like unbelievable. And that was it really. We thought maybe it was just something they were going through. We’ll get Chris Blackwell in on it, and we’d sit down around a table and talk about it like grown men. But it never happened.

And that’s exactly what happened — a big shame. That’s really when Koss went in a downward spiral, because he lived for the band. He loved Paul’s voice. I don’t think he saw himself working with any other band. And quite frankly, neither did I. 

We were committed to doing a Japanese tour, which we did, and Australia, and we did these two tours and everyone was so tense and uptight, it was a terrible atmosphere. And we broke up after the Australian tour.

What do you remember about hearing when Koss died?

SK: Well, I was on tour with Bad Company. We were in New Orleans. March 19 — I remember the date. And I remember Peter Grant came on. He called me and he said, “Simon, I’ve got some bad news.” And I knew straightaway. He said, “I don’t want to tell you over the phone.”

He was in the hotel, and he said he’d come right down. And he told me that Koss had died, and we didn’t tell Paul. We were just about to go down to the show in New Orleans, and one of the songs is “Shooting Star,” dealing with “ … Johnny died one night, died in his bed.” And I lost it. I had to bow my head and I cried. And Paul noticed this. And at the end of the show, he said, “What’s going on?” And Peter Grant said, “Listen, Koss died tonight.” And that was that, the end of an era.