Patto - Kissed by (mis)fortune

Ollie may not have been the best guitarist in the world, but he was definitely in the top two.
(John Halsey, Patto drummer)

By the mid-Sixties, London is the nerve centre of world music: Beatles, Rolling Stones, Who, Kinks. These are the years of the British Invasion, but also of the blues revival led by Alexis Korner and John Mayall. Amid these names destined for musical Olympus, the saga of the little-known Patto also begins, active since 1965 first as Take Five and later under the name Timebox. They are a small band of scant commercial success, noticed mainly for their thunderous live shows, which have little in common with the performances of their English contemporaries. Their guitarist, the left-handed Peter “Ollie” Halsall, stands out for his singular way of playing the six-string: lightning-fast, flamboyant and utterly unpredictable. Having started out as a drummer and thus accustomed to staying behind the scenes, Ollie is a shy, insecure lad off stage, but ready to turn into an overwhelming entertainer the moment he picks up his Gibson. To shape his style, Halsall also decided not to buy a single record, so as to reject the influence wielded at the time by two giants like Jimi Hendrix and Jeff Beck. In order to achieve as distinctive a sound as possible, he instead drew inspiration from certain saxophonists (Ornette Coleman, Eric Dolphy) and guitarists (Django Reinhardt) from the jazz world. It was a revolutionary approach, one that wouldn’t be enough, however, to earn him a place today among the most acclaimed rankings of the greatest guitarists in rock history. Even “Guitar Player” magazine – the bible for guitar nerds – mentions him only in passing, across just two issues, when Mike Keneally and Andy Partridge bring up his name during an interview.

Timebox’s evolution follows a trajectory very similar to that of other British outfits of the era: after releasing a series of fairly radio-friendly singles (including “Soul Sauce” and “Girl Don’t Make Me Wait”), they become increasingly experimental and improvisational. Having reached breaking point, in 1970 keyboardist Chris Holmes quits and the other members, in the midst of an identity crisis, rename the band after the vocalist, Mike Patto (born Michael Thomas McCarthy). The latter had begun his career in 1965 with the Bo Street Runners, an r&b band that also featured Mick Fleetwood, the longtime Fleetwood Mac drummer. The singer had also found time to record a single with the Chicago Line Blues Band (“Shimmy Shimmy Ko Ko Bop”) and a solo one (“Can’t Stop Talkin’ About My Baby”) before joining Timebox, whose lineup comprised bassist Clive Griffiths, drummer John “Admiral” Halsey and the aforementioned multi-instrumentalist Ollie Halsall.

After just two years and eight 45s, Deram drops the group. In 1970 the quartet signs to Vertigo and releases three albums in as many years, all of which go spectacularly unnoticed and achieve scant commercial results, but which are destined to remain landmarks of the underground for their jazz-prog originality, in which Mike Patto’s raspy, bluesy voice is held in check by an excellent rhythm section and by the fluidity of factotum Ollie Halsall’s guitar and keyboards.

The first album (Patto, 1970), despite Muff Winwood’s solid production – ed.: Steve’s brother, from Traffic – ends up selling just 5,000 copies, not helped by poor promotion from the label itself, which at the time was still little known. In the liner notes, written by the band themselves, you can read their curious self-description: “Jazz fused with rock isn’t anything new, many bands do it by means of horns, but not Patto. There are four of them, and they use the rhythm section to shift moods, tempo nuances and change musical keys”. Despite their clear allegiance to British progressive rock – as is also clear from these liner notes – it should nonetheless be kept in mind that, compared to other contemporary outfits (e.g. Colosseum), Patto draw more heavily from the vast reservoir of black music, an influence that strongly shaped the approach to music of this “only horn-less jazz-rock band” (to dust off the fine phrase coined by the English press of the time). The harmony they speak of, moreover, becomes clear once you actually listen: Mike Patto’s sandpaper voice blends perfectly with Ollie Halsall’s flowing guitar, while frequent tempo changes and lyrics steeped in social cynicism lend the songs an even more distinctive sheen. The album’s production also captures the band in the raw state of its creation, letting the listener perceive every single nuance of this sensational alchemy.

The splendid opening aria “The Man” begins in Mike Patto’s slow, moaning blues and ends up unexpectedly leading us towards a sonic trip in odd time signatures, where Ollie’s legendary vibraphone can also be heard. Mike Patto instead seems to turn into the schizoid man pictured on the cover amid the sonic hard rock of “Hold Me Back“, with Halsall’s flowing guitar weaving riffs, solos and overdubs into the perfect backdrop for his hysterical scream. “Time To Die“ shifts the axis back to the acoustic side and into a generally more balanced mood, where the guitar and delicate rhythm section work once again underline Mike’s immense vocal gifts.
Halsall’s solos then shake up “Red Glow“, while “San Antone”, which starts out as a fusion number, later derails into an unexpected boogie-rock parade. Calm returns with the sublime “Government Man“, another moment of subtle jazz-pop, which is perhaps the clearest indicator of the band’s fondness for combining catchy choruses with progressive digressions. “Money Bag” finally captures the band in a moment of free-form divertissement, whose bipolar nature is extended into the abrasive blues of “Sittin’ Back Easy”, which swings from calm to storm so abruptly it almost makes your head spin.

On tracks like “Air Raid Shelter” his guitar plays such imaginative melodies, not the usual standard blues everyone else was doing, that cut-rate copy of Clapton. Ollie didn’t play like that. He was more like Albert Ayler or John Coltrane, a sort of fluid pianist. When I first heard him I said to myself: “Oh, I really have to play like that!”
(Andy Partridge, Xtc)

After the first, self-titled album, in 1971 Patto confirmed their distinctive hybrid style of jazz, prog and r&b on their second record, with trusty Muff Winwood once again at the helm. Starting with its cover, Hold Your Fire is in itself a small, perishable gem: conceived by the band and executed by a young Roger Dean (known in the prog world as the man behind Yes’ most beautiful covers), the image is made up of three figures on as many moving strips, which combine to form a series of imaginary characters. Here too – as with the first album’s granulated cardboard sleeve – original vinyl copies now fetch dizzying prices.

The “ceasefire” announced by the title is actually a misleading warning: the title track in fact sets the incendiary tone of the whole album, with Mike Patto’s distinctive voice à-la Roger Chapman and Ollie Halsall’s filigree guitars, which he handles just as skilfully on piano. With a touch of sarcasm, the naivety of hippie culture is also targeted in the docile protest ballad “You, You Point Your Finger”, one of the record’s highlights alongside “How’s Your Father”, where, on top of his usual guitar, Halsall also adds an uninhibited piano, while Patto, in a subdued tone, vents his social grievances (“we started to move in the wrong direction/ they didn’t understand that we need protection”). Next, there’s room for more supple rock'n'roll in the fetching “See You At The Dance Tonight“, inspired by a party at the British Embassy where the band had been invited to play. While in “Give It All Away” it’s the swing side that stirs the melody up to the apotheosis of Halsall’s extraordinary solo, “Air-Raid Shelter”, on the other hand, exudes all the dynamism of jazz, which forcefully bubbles up thanks to the perfect rhythmic symbiosis between Halsey and Griffiths, who at times seem ready to take off from this tense “air-raid shelter”. The album closes with two ballads steeped in euphoria and frustration: the adulterous rock of “Tell Me Where You’ve Been” and the aphrodisiac heavy-jazz of “Magic Door“, in which Halsall leaves his guitar in the back seat in favour of piano and vibraphone.

After two long tours supporting Joe Cocker and Ten Years After, in 1972 Patto moved to Island, releasing in October the harder-edged Roll 'Em Smoke 'Em Put Another Line Out, which featured two standout tracks: the funky "Singing The Blues On Reds" and, above all, the proto-grunge anarchy of "Loud Green Song", scarred by what, according to Nick Saloman of Bevis Frond, is the finest solo in the entire history of rock ("the Pistols jamming with Hendrix on amphetamines"). It's a song that perfectly exemplifies Ollie's guitar style, whose vibrato seems to anticipate sounds that wouldn't fully emerge until the metal scenes of at least a decade later.
It was during this period that the band recorded their only live album, at the "Black Swan" in Sheffield (Warts And All, 1999), right around the time John Halsey brushed against fame as the drummer on Lou Reed's "Transformer". Still, Patto never quite managed to find the recipe for success: compared to the other English progressive bands, their realistic and openly political lyrics simply didn't match the public's taste. Still without any commercial payoff, in 1974 the band decided to split, leaving the recordings for their fourth LP unfinished; it was released posthumously under the title Monkey's Bum (1995), with Ollie replaced by Mel Collins's sax after he walked out of the studio halfway through the sessions to record two instrumental tracks under the pseudonym Rusty Strings ("Can't Help Lovin' That Man / Medium Twist"). Patto reunited one last time for three sold-out shows in July 1975, organized solely to raise funds for the family of former roadie Eric Swain, who had been robbed and killed in Pakistan.

In the 1970s, Ollie Halsall replaced Allan Holdsworth in Jon Hiseman's Tempest for "Living In Fear" (1974). For a couple of weeks, Halsall and Holdsworth even found themselves playing their Gibsons together on the same stage, as documented on the spectacular "Live In London '74", which circulates among collectors as a bootleg. During this period, Ollie also made numerous live and studio appearances with artists of the caliber of Kevin Ayers, John Cale, Lady June, Julie Felix, Michael d'Albuquerque, Vivian Stanshall, John Otway and Robert Fripp. It's Fripp himself who still holds Ollie's unreleased 1972 recordings with the Blue Traffs (which also included saxophonist Gary Windo), material that was meant to come out on E.G. Records. Ollie was so thrilled at the idea of working with Fripp that around that time he marked his guitar with an indelible pen reading "Blue Traff". These aren't the only tapes still gathering dust in an attic, though: it's rumored that the late Alvin Lee also had recordings made while Patto were on tour with Ten Years After.

Ironically, Halsall never received any official credit for some of his best-known work either — hardly surprising, given that the guitarist was known as the classic humble, quiet type, the kind who'd wake up his bandmates at night not because of giggling groupies, but because he was practicing his scales. While much has been speculated about his supposed guitar part on the Donovan track "Hurdy Gurdy Man", what is confirmed, on the other hand, is his presence in the late 1970s in the Rutles (the Beatles parody), alongside John Halsey. While his former bandmate played the role of Ringo Starr, Ollie played guitar, keyboards and bass, and also sang the vocal parts inspired by Paul McCartney, which were then sped up and credited to Eric Idle. So the only time Ollie actually made the charts was as an uncredited member of the Rutles. As a bitter footnote, in the mock documentary "All You Need Is Cash" (1978) his role was, fittingly enough, that of the hapless Leppo, the fifth Rutle lost forever in Hamburg. As consolation, Ollie became something of a minor celebrity in Spain alongside his inseparable friend Kevin Ayers and his future partner Claudia Puyò. In the 1980s he sealed his reputation there with Cinemaspop and Radio Futura, also composing a number of film scores: it's even said that his "Hace Mucho Calor Para Un Ingles", written for the film "Sal Gorda" (1984), was one of the first rap songs ever recorded in Spanish.

At the end of 1975, fresh off a long string of collaborations (Centipede, Grimms, Spooky Tooth, Steve York's Camelo Pardalis), Mike Patto and Ollie Halsall decided to try again with Boxer, whose music nevertheless strayed light years from what Patto had done, veering instead toward a far more conventional, straight-ahead hard rock, in the vein of what the far more successful Bad Company were offering at the time. Their new band — initially formed with drummer Tony Newman (May Blitz, David Bowie) and bassist Keith Ellis (Van Der Graaf Generator, Juicy Lucy) — signed a five-album deal with Virgin, but despite the promising start, this venture too was dogged by bad luck, thanks to the anarchic temperament of the two former Patto members. Their debut album (Below The Belt, 1975) was in fact withdrawn over its controversial cover, depicting a naked woman covered only by a boxing glove; the second didn't even reach record shops before 1979 (Bloodletting), while the third (Absolutely, 1977) suffered from Halsall's absence, even though by then Boxer had taken on the shape of a supergroup: playing alongside Mike Patto were Tim Bogert (Vanilla Fudge), Adrian Fisher (Sparks), Chris Stainton (Joe Cocker) and Eddie Tuduri (Wha-Koo). In its remarkable cohesion, Absolutely had all the right ingredients to break through, but it ran into an insurmountable obstacle: punk exploded in those very months of 1977, and their music suddenly sounded anachronistic.
Meanwhile, Ollie Halsall reunited with drummer John Halsey to record some songs, later released posthumously on the album Abbots Langley (2007). It's a record full of lightness and humor, as shown by the three "Marietta's Pizza" jingles and the playful "Bum Love", a track that also found a home on Morgan Fisher's ambitious compilation "Miniatures" (1980). Despite plans for a new band with Halsey, the project never materialized, and Ollie decided to carry on his career as a session musician, eventually joining Kevin Ayers's band for good. It's worth noting that a very deep friendship formed between the two almost immediately: the former Patto man became the only person Kevin Ayers trusted, both on and off stage. The two shared an unusual sense of humor, so much so that it was Kevin who coined the nickname "Hassle" for Ollie, poking fun at his knack for always stirring up trouble.

One day, Ollie said to me: "I can't understand why I don't get any work — I'm not a bad guitarist". I had to explain to him that without a guitar, a driving licence or a phone, things were bound to be something of an uphill struggle. The fact that he hadn't paid his mortgage or his bills for a year, and was afraid to open the curtains or answer the door, wasn't exactly a favorable state of affairs either.
(John Halsey)

With Halsall's departure from Boxer, manager Nigel Thomas confiscated all his amplifiers and guitars — including his iconic white Gibson SG Custom — to cover financial losses. Left penniless, Halsall recorded, using borrowed equipment, the songs that would end up on Caves (released posthumously in 1999), on which he deftly handles vocals, guitar, piano, synthesizer, drums, bass and saxophone in a superb display of technical versatility. At this point, with Ollie broke and the band now in pieces, 1979 brought the first of a long series of tragedies destined to seal the band's fate once and for all: Mike Patto died after a long battle with chronic lymphocytic leukemia, at just 36 years old. His friend Jim Capaldi, drummer of Traffic, would go on to write "Bright Fighter" in his memory. But more than a song, what was really needed was almost a purification rite; the singer's death, after all, was only the tip of the iceberg of the inescapable curse that had struck Patto.

At the end of the 1980s, Clive Griffiths and John Halsey were involved in a serious car accident while on tour with Joe Brown. The consequences would be disastrous for both of them: Halsey came out of it with a limp and spent most of the following decade selling fish before opening the "Castle Inn Pub" in Cambridge, which he still runs today with his wife. Griffiths fell into a coma after the impact and woke up two months later with irreparable physical and neurological damage: partly paralyzed, he wouldn't even remember having been in a band. Returning to Madrid from an English tour, Ollie Halsall died in 1992, killed by an accidental heroin overdose in his apartment on Calle de la Amargura ("street of bitterness"). Although he was never averse to drowning his sorrows in alcohol, Ollie had, paradoxically, first gotten close to the drug only to help one of the members of Radio Futura get clean. When he died, the shock was enormous for everyone, but especially for Kevin Ayers, who would never recover from the grief. When Ayers himself passed away in 2013, the former Soft Machine member was buried right next to his old friend in Deià, on the island of Mallorca, a village that for years had been their hideaway from the outside world. On Ollie's stone headstone, the artist Michael Kane set a jack input and two volume knobs: during that work, as if bad luck hadn't already done enough damage, the gravestone even cracked in two. Over the years, despite their extraordinary talent, Patto too ended up in rock music's graveyard, becoming a small cult concern for a very select few connoisseurs.

Special thanks to The Ollie Halsall Archive, Barry Monks, Marziano Fontana, Andrea Cavallo and Zanna Gregmar.

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