"Now I'm adrift, Beloved,
upon the waters of your eyes,
In his book, Bodgie Dada and the Cult of Cool, in context of his Tully critique, John Clare concludes, "...but saxophonist and flautist Richard Lockwood renounced drugs and moved through various soft and simple folky projects in which he played flute and piano, getting softer and simpler until he faded right out of music."
This statement, while indicative of a sense of humour, needs clarification. John's appraisal of Tully is positive and original and shows some insight. We must assume, though, that the "soft and simple folky projects" he refers to have nothing to do with Tully, for the group that recorded Sea of Joy, while it could be called folky, was far from soft and simple: it was folk transcendent and as such possibly beyond the grasp of someone whose hearing at the time began and ended with jazz... and that's fine. It's true that Richard renounced drugs, publicly in 1969 at the height of Tully-the-first's flight into the empyrean of musical fancy and not upon the group's demise as implied. He didn't fade out of music, however. Yet eventually he side-stepped the spotlight and bowed out of the big top of public performance. Why? On the stream of life the raft of his song had reached the ocean, its source and goal, and he was adrift. His song had brought him thus far in response to his perception of beauty. Now, through the direct intervention of Beauty, he could hear its song calling him, and all he wanted was to respond as best he could.
In 1968 Richard was a musician; he still is. In 'sixty eight, however, music was his sole artistic vehicle. He played saxophones, acoustic and electric clarinets and flutes with the enigmatic Tully. He was far out and travelling fast. Then he had an accident: he hit a wall of light. Its brightness blinded him to all but itself and its bliss robbed him of reason for a while... yet certitude of the formless being of Eternal Beauty and Its contemporary Personification as Avatar Meher Baba was etched onto the mirror of his soul.
While that experience imparted to him the answer to his question of the meaning of life, beyond words and outside of religion, and stopped him taking drugs because he had found what he had erroneously thought could be found through taking them, he overlooked that it was entirely personal and still believed the tale of his experience, told with the force of perfect conviction, would answer the question for others.
Having paid his dues on the modern jazz road to Tully, with Tully he had blown himself into the icy, snow-capped regions of modern art, rated "Master-of-freedom" by Music Maker magazine. Now he desired to write, to make a new song, a song with words, and had to learn to use a new set of tools. So he was kicked out of his bleak mountain hermitage, tagged post-modern ("getting-softer-and-simpler") and placed in the driver's seat of wheels-for-hire to eke out a living on the teeming flood-plain among the people... where the heart is.
But he had only the conviction of an indelible imprint and a few entirely inadequate words to back him up, words clinging to a flotsam of self-wreckage that had washed to shore off a piddle-puddle of hallucinogens.
Then in Sydney, in 1969, Richard met the Australian poet Francis Brabazon when he returned from his ten year stay with Meher Baba in India. He was in transit to Avatar's Abode, a property so named by Meher Baba near Nambour in Southern Queensland. Named "The Poet of the Age" by Meher Baba, Francis' writing, especially Stay With God, The Word At World's End and In Dust I Sing, his book of English ghazals, when it was published in 1974 deeply impressed him. These were a subsequent, almost sole, inspiration. Above all, though, he believed, and trusted, he needed no other inspiration than the Eternal Beloved.
When Richard first played at Avatar's Abode most of the small audience of about thirty were bewildered by his performance. But at its conclusion Francis leapt to his feet and exclaimed, "At last! A musician." He had done what he was good at... musical impressionism... a free-form acoustic improvisation in three movements lasting about thirty minutes; a short solo for alto saxophone, violin and B flat clarinet.
Francis was a consummate artist akin in spirit to Beethoven whom he admired as the ideal artist: he had painted in his youth and studied piano with little success (to his credit he stopped taking lessons after hearing Arthur Schnabel play) before choosing poetry as his chief expression. In his quest for Beauty he had listened extensively to all forms of Western music, including blues, folk, flamenco, ethnic and classical; and as a Sufi Murshid or Shaikh, a role he renounced when he met Meher Baba whom he described as "the very personification of truth and the very embodiment of beauty", he had no doubt read Hazrat Inayat Khan's The Sufi Message, and his revelations in volume two regarding The Mysticism of Sound and Music, and probably understood what Richard was doing better than Richard himself did at the time. But considering his love of form, it's not surprising that he desired to educate him regarding J. S. Bach and Beethoven. To this end, on one occasion he gave him a test, having him listen to recordings of, first, Bach then Beethoven before asking the pertinent question, "What do you think of that, eh?"
Previously of no interest to him (he had barely scratched the surface of it during his saxophone, flute and clarinet training), western classical music was dawning on Richard's musical horizon due, in particular, to his enthusiasm for Gyorgy Ligeti's and Katchaturian's music used for the soundtrack of the film 2001: A Space Odyssey (see Reminiscences), and something he had chanced upon at a second-hand record store, the Arthur Rubinstein-Guarneri Quartet recording of the piano quintet by Brahams, Op.34, in F minor (the same that renowned pianist Glenn Gould, not known for his effusive praise of fellow artists, famously proclaimed the greatest chamber music performance he had ever heard). The Scherzo[mp3] captured his imagination because of its grandeur and rhythmic power. But the music of both Bach and Beethoven was essentially outside his experience except for a few melodies gleaned from the fields of his childhood. So having only his impressionistic, free-form viewpoint to answer from, "Beethoven," he replied, "is more whimsical than Bach." He's not sure if his answer astounded or affronted Francis, for he exploded, "Bach was never whimsical!" In retospect, Richard now concedes had he been more aware at the time of the subtleties of language, considering Francis-the-writer and the possible negative connotations of "whimsical", he might have used "unpredictable" or "mercurial" instead.
Francis Brabazon heard Tully in concert at the Sydney Town Hall and his response to the music is best summed up by a couple of lines of his poetry:
"The dawn-light sings
up from the wells of lovers' eyes,
and gladness springs in wild new melodies..."
Richard received no formal writing instruction from Francis. "It was enough," he says, "to be within the orbit of his genius and sense of humour... the Zen of him: when I played him my song Love Can Make You, recorded on the Tully album Loving Is Hard, he didn't say it was good or bad but offered to write new lyrics at a dollar a word! Song-writing wasn't his forte, nonetheless I wish I'd taken him up on the offer even if just to see what he came up with. About the English ghazal, which he had forged in India in the smithy of his heart at Meher Baba's behest and with his divine help, he told me only that it is a free form... something I could understand."
Richard's first poem, Paradise of Perfect Silence, and songs were written for, performed and recorded by Tully (and Extradition on their sole album, Hush, which featured the genius of Colin Campbell and beautiful voice of Shayna Karlin). While these are musically sound, the lyrics, sometimes zealous and elemental, illustrate a naive, almost child-like ineptitude. But he never relinquished the quest to better his song. The following quote and ghazal... the lyrics to one of his more recent songs... explain him well:
"Love has accepted my song, this I know. Still, I have labored long to become somewhat eloquent, to make my heart intelligible to others and, above all, to make a song fit for the Beloved's ears."
Far from the reach of the fingers of the world...
from love in disguise.
Life's flow is carrying me towards eternity
beyond your silent lips.
At days end into the scented night of your hair
my derelict vessel slips.
When storms do not prevail I lie in your cool arms
and admire Dream's jewel encrusted dome,
But mostly I lie alone and know I am far,
far from my home.
This morning dawn stood up
a dreadful and menacing Cyclops,
And all day an organist raved atonal,
using only brass stops.
In the evening fascists of thirst beat on my door
Then it rained and I picked myself up off the floor
And poured out, in tears and song, pure joy, Beloved,
In praise of your grace and loveliness rediscovered.
Now I drift at the whim of the waters of your eyes
And my heart is sure, and my eyes,
of what the world denies."
Odysseus Richardson, Melbourne, 2007.
Copyright ©Richard Lockwood 2007. All rights reserved.
Sketch of Richard Lockwood - pencil on paper, Kyoto, Japan. Copyright ©Jiro 2007. All rights reserved.
Back to the top of the page
The Tamam Shud and Albatross Connection
Tamam Shud, circa 1972, featuring Richard Lockwood, flute:
Two clips from the surfing film, Morning of the Earth,
Winter In Oahu and The First Uluwatu Afternoon.
Back to the top of the page
Woodwinds On My Mind
My earliest musical influence was the radio... popular songs of the mid-to-late-forties, which my mother also sang to me cradled in her loving arms. Later, the short-wave Voice of America Jazz Hour was staple fare in the paternal environment of our family home, a program that shared equal importance with the BBC's Goon Show, something not-to-be-missed: at each broadcast the whole family was glued to the set.
When I was about fourteen, my parents, to whom I am truly grateful, bought me a tenor saxophone, an old silver Buescher, and I was told to play it. He was by no means a perfectionist, but my father had an incredible, almost asinine, belief in his ability to do anything well, not least to sire a chip off the old block, so it was simply assumed that because I was his son I would easily learn the saxophone. Luckily, I had an aptitude for it. I took some lessons with a local alcoholic gentleman who managed to impart a rudimentary understanding of the instrument to me. Then when I had learned enough, I played weddings, Buffalo Lodge and Masonic dinner functions and Saturday night dances with my father throughout the South Coast district of NSW, where we lived. He was a self-taught pianist whose group, until I came along, invariably consisted of himself on piano accompanied by a brush drummer (later in life, long after I had flown the coop, he humorously named them "The Outpatients"). An important handicap I had to work hard to overcome was the fact that my father played in D flat and G flat exclusively, keys he always referred to as C sharp and F sharp. Just why he played the piano in these abominable keys is still a mystery to me. But I suspect that when he learned to play, because he was too proud, too insecure to be taught by anyone, bizzare as it may sound because the black keys were higher than the white keys he just assumed you played on them. Unless he was just trying to be different, for he did receive some instruction from his mother who was a classically trained singer and composer. It served him well, though, at least initially: he and my mother met at a party, aged sixteen or so. Acknowledged by her friends as a pretty good singer, she was asked to sing. Happy to oblige she asked the pianist for a certain song in a certain key. Accustomed to professional accompanists, she was taken aback at being told she'd have to sing in either C sharp or F sharp. Annoyed and confused, she refused to sing insisting that the pianist was incompetent, while the self-assertive yet charming pianist played on into the night, undaunted, after declaring that the singer couldn't sing! Naturally, they decided to consummate their mutual attraction by marrying... a sure way of keeping an argument alive. Anyway, he simply couldn't play in any other key, and as a consequence, while he was generally popular with his audience, he was the bane of singers and front-liners; saxophonists and trumpeters gave him a wide berth. So when I was old enough to pass for someone older, and because I was family and could not refuse, I was recruited as resident saxophonist. In retrospect it's plain to see I had always been encouraged towards tenor sax because that's what my father wanted. He wanted his own Ben Webster, whose breathy style of playing he considered superior to anyone else.
Understandably then, Ben Webster - [mp3] was my first direct saxophonic influence. But because my parents were lovers of their generation's popular music, which included some of the best songs ever written by some of the best song writers ever, the likes of the great Cole Porter, Hoagy Carmichael and Fats Waller - [mp3], whose stride-bass piano playing style my father loved and fancied he emulated, from my early childhood I heard it all, or thereabouts, played by just about everyone, including Brother Bones and His Shadows - [mp3]. He did a version of Sweet Georgia Brown that was a favourite of my uncle, my father's younger brother, also a pianist who doubled on trombone, and a trad-jazzist (he played in written keys). Then from the mid fifties I listened to my own generation's music as well.
But due to my obsession with the Voice of America Jazz Hour, it wasn't long before I was caught up in the paddle-wheels of Mingus - [mp3], Monk - [mp3], Coltrane - [mp3] [mp3] - Eric Dolphy  [8a] - [youtube] and Co., and carried away on the river-boat of their collective song, a journey that would soon bring me to the parting of ways and the coracle of my own unique expression.
Back in Wollongong, as well as playing dance standards with my dad, I also played in sax-oriented rock bands. Then a breath of fresh air arrived on the scene, Frank, a thirtysomething American tenor saxophonist. He was a good player after the style of Benny Golson - [youtube]. Frank was a dynamic personality and in no time had organized a gig for himself at a well-situated coffee shop down town. It became the hub of the local jazz scene. I took lessons from Frank after proving myself worthy of his tutor-ship sitting in at his gig.
When I first moved to Sydney, at seventeen, I got my arse kicked and returned home. That only made me love it more, however, and I soon moved there permanently. I lived in the Kings Cross side of Darlinghurst in what had once been the hay-loft of the Cobb&Co. stage coach depot, near El Rocco, then mecca of Australian jazz. Over the next few years, as well as holding down a day job, I studied clarinet with Neville Thomas, flute with the Sydney Conservatorium of Music's renowned Victor McMahon and saxophone with Graham Lyall. During this time, among sundry other similar gigs, I endured a wedding factory in Kensington and Billy Watson's big band at the Kogarah RSL.
I was desperate to become professional. So when my manager told me a club in Tahiti was looking for a musical director and that he could get me the job if I wanted, I accepted. As it turned out, "Musical Director" was a trumped-up title for someone who could augment the local band and also act as go-between for it and English speaking acts from New Zealand and America... invariably a couple of GoGo girls.
I was contracted for three months and came back after eighteen, a bit more worldly wise than the naive young man who left... by the time my visa expired I was attached to the place and stayed on until I was found out and deported.
Back in Sydney, doss-housed and stone broke, after a little while I landed The Levi Smiths Clefs Whisky' gig, downstairs, playing six nights a week, six hours a night (plenty of practice). From the 'Clefs Tully was born.
In Tully, as a contemporary of the saxophonists inspired by Coltrane, I found my unique saxophonic voice[mp3] (tenor - 1969) and [mp3] (alto - 1996). But I wanted something more, something jazz transcendent, something that had not been done, in fact. I discovered it through the electric application of the B Flat clarinet. By the late sixties electric guitar was a formidable and appealing voice, one not easy to emulate with a clarinet, but I wanted the added freedom of sustain and amplified feedback enjoyed by guitarists.
Mine was a fundamental but effective device, a Maestro for reeds that employed a pick-up on the barrel to bring the instrument's tone-signal, via a simple tone and octave converter (so-called oboe and bassoon sounds) to a Lenard high-end-modified bass-guitar amplifier.
Maestro was the name used by Gibson to market its innovative line of guitar effects boxes during the 1970's. Their tone converter for reeds didn't catch on: it's purpose, I suppose, was to give saxophonists the same volume advantage as rock guitarists without having to be rooted to the spot in front of a microphone. But it didn't sound like an acoustic saxophone which limited its appeal to saxophonists and their listeners. My experience was that it didn't work well with the saxophone, for whatever reason... whether because of the conical shape, impure tone and pitch instability of the saxophone or the fact that the pickup was on the mouthpiece supplied by Maestro... another reason it was rejected by saxophonists: I used a metal Otto Link mouthpiece (as many of us then did). There was no way I would have tampered with my Otto Link and had a pickup fitted to it, and the Maestro mouthpiece was infinitely inferior.
The Maestro suited me, however, because I was looking for something else. Fortunately I played clarinet and the machine, in addition to tenor and alto sax mouthpieces, also came supplied with a standard 66 mm plastic B flat clarinet barrel that had the pickup fitted to it. So you could use your own mouthpiece, and the pure tone produced by the clarinet made it estimably more suitable to amplification. So to the Maestro I connected a guitar wah-pedal and one that allowed me to switch octaves or switch between a bass or contra bass sound (one or two octaves down) and the actual register of the clarinet, and a volume pedal: it was a room-shaking, monster of an instrument with a range of about seven octaves, including harmonics and freak notes, and screams and squeals effected by biting the reed.
Aside from the testimony of those who heard it, the following anecdote might help to describe the sound of it in context of the overall sound of Tully. When we played in Broken Hill in the far west of New South Wales, at the beginning of the performance while we were playing our freely improvised introduction "Coming In From the Beyond", typically a fifteen to twenty minute double piano to triple forte piece, a terrified child ran from the hall shouting and screaming that ghosts were coming. Unfortunately is was little recorded, but a couple of good examples have survived:
Tully-the-First: "You Realize You Realize", circa 1969 Tully-the-Second: "Follow Me", circa 1971
In Bodgie Dada and the Cult of Cool John Clare states, quote, "Lockwood was actually a very good saxophonist... and a particularly interesting clarinet player... but there were no yardsticks for what he did in a free situation. It simply worked!" Unquote. But there is also no yardstick for my electric application of the clarinet, except, perhaps, the innovative use Hendriks and Co. made of the guitar.
An example of my flute playing with Tully[mp3]
Richard Lockwood, Melbourne, 2008.
Copyright ©Richard Lockwood 2007. All rights reserved.
More Jazz... Hitherto of Obsessive Interest
Back to the top of the page
Sonny Rollins St Thomas - Ornette Coleman Love Words - Chico Hamilton September_Song
Bill Evans Danny Boy - Paul Desmond Strange Meadow Lark
The History of Jazz: Ted Gioia - allaboutjazz.com - The Oxford Companion to Jazz - Jazz Discography
Kind of Blue - The Miles Davis Sextet: the quintessential jazz album.
It brought together the best instrumentalists of the day...
all brilliant and stylistically unique 
1. So What - 2. Freddie Freeloader - 3. Blue In Green - 4. All Blues
5. Flamenco Sketches
kohit - [Downloads.nl] - beemp3
History of Rock Music: Piero Scaruffi
The Golden Age)
It's too bad that most rock historians exclude Tully from their work (it's not their fault; the band is yet so little known). But Lillian Roxon's Rock Encyclopedia does. She heard the band in Sydney early in 1969 at Adams Apple, their resident gig.
Some Musical Alcoves
Ave Maria from Otello by Guiseppe Verdi 
Casta diva from Norma by Vincenzo Bellini
Vissi d'arte from Tosca by Giacomo Puccini
Senza mamma from Suor Angelica by Giacomo Puccini
String Quartet Op. 131.1 Adagio ma non troppo e molto espressivo
String Quartet Op. 135.3 Lento assai, cantante e tranquillo
Personally, I prefer the interpretations of the Amadeus Quartet (given above).
Download the complete Late Quartets - Search BitTorrent Isohunt
pdf of Op. 135 score
Piano Sonata No. 14 - Adagio sostenuto
Aside from essential technique,
an intuitive grasp of the spiritual essence of a work of art
distinguishes the interpretation of an outstanding musician
from a mediocre one. Judge the difference for yourself:
Piano Sonata No. 8 - Adagio cantabile - [23a]
Pianist Radu Lupu.
Beethoven's complete piano sonatas at the Piano Society
Recital-lectures by Andre Schiff of Beethoven's piano sonatas:
Sonata no.8 in C-minor Op.13 (the so-called "Pathetique")
Sonata no.14 in C-sharp minor Op.27 No.2 (the so-called "Moonlight")
Link to all Andra Schiff's recital-lectures on Beethoven's piano sonatas
Adagio from the ballet, Gayaneh - Aram Khachaturian
Thus Spake Zarathustra - Richard Strauss
The Blue Danube - Johann Strauss II
Lux Aeterna - Gyorgy Ligeti