Catching Fire

Catch a Fire

When the Wailers finished recording their new album, Bob Marley flew to London with the master tapes to present them to Blackwell. Hearing them, Blackwell knew that his gamble had paid off – big time. This was an album to make the world take notice.

His instincts vindicated, Blackwell and the Wailers signed a formal contract: from now on, Island Records would be promoting their career. But while Blackwell, an aficionado of Jamaican music, loved the recording he also knew what would appeal to the ears of the fans of underground rock he aimed to promote the band to. So, at the Island Records studios on Basing Street, Marley and Blackwell set about, as Blackwell called it, ‘sweetening’ the music for Western ears.

Keyboards player John ‘Rabbit’ Bundrick added the clavinet and synthesiser sounds to the record, their first use in reggae. But to really sweeten the record for Western ears, Blackwell needed some guitar: Wayne Perkins, from Alabama in the United States, was the man he brought in despite Perkins knowing next to nothing about reggae. But it would prove an inspired choice. Perkins got the solo on his third take. Marley was so delighted he ran into the recording studio and gave the guitarist a thanksgiving spliff.

Those present during these sessions affirm that Marley was very much part of the process involved in preparing the record for the market Blackwell had identified: this was no music-business Svengali remaking a band according to his own designs but a creative partnership, with Marley as ambitious to make it big as Blackwell.

Catch a Fire was released in Britain in December 1972 to a press fanfare and solid although not spectacular sales. To follow up the release, the Wailers went on tour in Britain, starting in April 1973. When they came off stage after their first show, the Wailers were puzzled by all the shouting from the audience: had they hated the show? They did not realise they were shouting for more. Their tour manager had to shove them back on stage for their encore. The tour ended with four nights at London’s Speakeasy club, then the hippest club in the country. The rock aristocracy turned out for the shows: Bryan Ferry, Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, various members of The Who and Deep Purple, Brian Eno. They soon realised they were watching something new and revelatory.

The Gemini Missions

Astronaut Ed White during a spacewalk from Gemini 4
The rendezvous of Gemini 6A and 7 in orbit.

The Mercury missions first put Americans into space. The Apollo missions took men to the moon. But in between were the Gemini missions, eight launches which were fundamental in establishing the principles of space flight. It was these Gemini flights that made the Apollo moon landings possible.

Unlike the solo Mercury flights and the three-man Apollo missions, Gemini were two-man rockets, using a repurposed ICBM (Intercontinental Ballistic Missile) to put the crew into orbit. During the Gemini missions, Nasa learned how to keep men alive in space for the length of time necessary to get to the moon and back, developed Extravehicular Activities (‘space walks’) and, crucially, developed the protocols necessary for two spaceship to rendezvous and dock in space.

It’s actually very difficult for two spaceships in different orbits to rendezvous. On earth, you would get on the same track as the other ship and then increase speed to catch up, slowing down as you neared the target vehicle. But in orbit in space, speeding up means the spaceship goes into a higher orbit where, being in a higher orbit, it will actually be travelling slower than the target spacecraft.

The Gemini astronauts found that the way to do it was to put the spaceship into a lower orbit, which means you will be catching up with the target spacecraft as lower orbits are faster, and then, when you have nearly caught up, slow down, thus pushing the spaceship up into the same orbit as the target vehicle.

This, and much other work, was done by the unheralded but vital Gemini missions.

Raiders and Riders

Thirty-five heavily armed men riding fast through a thinly populated land could cause devastation. They could move more quickly than the news of their advent could reach the king, raiding villages and halls and moving on, striking hard, fast and deep before returning to their own country. In most cases, a dozen trained warriors would present overwhelming numbers against any defence. While the warband attached to a king could reach substantial numbers, there would only be a handful of warriors defending an outlying hall or manse. Faced with 20 or 30 raiders, the wiser option was to withdraw rather than seek battle. Or bar the doors and hold out until the raiders move on.  

The battles remembered in the historical record are greatly skewed: for every Battle of Hatfield Chase or Winwaed, when kings and warbands died, there would have been hundreds, if not thousands of skirmishes, retreats, raids, ambushes and escapes. The great battles were remembered precisely because they were unusual, both in the nature and the number of the casualties.

The annual round of war was more mundane. In the usual cycle of raiding, cattle stealing and slave taking, warriors far more often declined to offer battle than staked everything upon a single encounter. The whole culture of small-scale, fast-moving warfare was predicated upon the attackers being able to produce overwhelming numbers in a particular area and moving out before anything could be done to stop them.

When A Fight Becomes a Battle

Raiding was the great training school of warriors, where they learned the skills, hardiness and courage necessary to their calling. Skirmishes were part of this training, but full-on pitched battles were rare enough to be recalled in record and song.

Battles only become battles retrospectively. During the fighting, the situation is pretty well always so confused that it’s impossible for the men taking part to know the full scope of what they are engaged in. However, when the combatants disengage and the survivors pick over the memories, then the story of the battle emerges.

Its precise meaning will develop according to the events that occurred but also the meaning that is placed upon them. The Battle of Stamford Bridge, when King Harold of England defeated the most feared king of his time, Harald Hardrada, would have been a key turning-point conflict, remembered in general culture if it had not been followed by another battle 19 days later.

Death Comes for the King

Although the king list of the rulers of Northumbria is subject to some considerable question, what no historian doubts is the mortality rate. Not one of the early kings of Northumbria, nor its constituent kingdoms of Bernicia and Deira, died as old men.

The kings were caught in a cycle of raid and revenge, revenge and raid. Raids to acquire the booty to give as gift to their warband. Revenge to strike back at those raiding them.

Offensive warfare has two main avenues: columns of men moving through the countryside seeking to find and destroy the enemy’s forces or smaller groups of men moving fast and setting out to cause as much damage and chaos while reaping as much plunder as possible.

The main drawback for raiders was that cattle, a frequent target for such raids, can only be moved at cow speed, which is slower than horse speed. Trying to usher enemy cattle back out of enemy territory before the enemy could concentrate enough men to cause serious trouble must have been a major headache. Decoy or simultaneous raids could have helped to scatter the response.

Bob Marley Meets Chris Blackwell

In 1972, Bob Marley, Peter Tosh and Bunny Livingstone paid a call on Chris Blackwell, the head of Island Records, at his office on Basing Street, Notting Hill.

They pointed out to Blackwell that the Wailers had never received any royalties for their recordings that Island Records had distributed in Britain. Blackwell told them that he had paid thousands to their record label in Jamaica. The Wailers had been systematically cheated.

At the news, Marley, Tosh and Livingstone went up to the roof of the building and did what the Wailers normally did when considering important matters: they smoked a spliff. Meanwhile, Blackwell was downstairs, considering what to do with this group of intense men. He had been told that the Wailers were difficult but already Blackwell was coming to respect them. So, when he joined them on the roof, Blackwell proposed a most unusual deal. He would give the Wailers £4,000 to cover the cost of recording a new record and another £4,000 on the record’s completion. What was more, at this stage there would be no contract. It was a handshake deal.

Blackwell was working on instinct. If he was wrong, there would be nothing to stop Marley and Co. walking off with the £4,000 and never coming back. There were plenty of people who told Blackwell that he was throwing his money away, that the Wailers would disappear back to Jamaica with his money and that would be it, but Blackwell trusted his instincts. He was certain that the Wailers were something special.

The World’s Oldest Ghost Story

The world’s oldest ghost story was found written on four sherds of ostraca, pottery inscribed with writing. The story is around 4,000 years old.

In the tale Khonsemhab, a high priest of the god Amun, is visited by a restless ghost, named Nebusemekh, who laments that his tomb has fallen to into ruin, that no one brings him food any longer and that, if this continues, then he will be lost, for his soul no longer has a dwelling place. Khonsemhab asks the ghost who he was and Nebusemekh tells him that he had been in charge of the treasury of Pharaoh Mentuhotep and lieutenant in his army. Nebusemekh had died in the 14th year of Mentuhotep’s reign but the pharaoh had provided his faithful servant with all the necessities for the afterlife. But now the care due to him has withered away and he is withering too.

The high priest, Khonsemhab, assures the ghost that he will see to the care of his tomb but Nebusemekh is dubious: he thinks the priest simply doesn’t have the money to build him a new tomb or to supply enough victuals to sustain him.

But Khonsemhab does not forget his promise, and sends men out to search for the tomb of Nebusemekh. They return with news of its whereabouts, at which Khonsemhab rejoices, calling an official to tell him what he has found.

Unfortunately, the end of the story is lost – although there is hope that another piece of ostraca may be unearthed with its ending – but experts believe that in the story Khonsemhab goes to the ruined tomb to tell the ghost of Nebusemekh that he will soon have a new home.

The Snare of War

Britain was once a place of little kingdoms. By the end of the fifth century, the two Roman dioceses, Britannia Inferior and Britannia Superior, had given way to a mosaic of petty princedoms. Some were the size of a county. Some were smaller: the land around a cluster of villages, perhaps demarcated by some natural features such as forest and river. Many of these tiny kingdoms have left not the slightest trace on the historical record: they disappeared with the deaths of the kings who claimed to rule them. And the reason that so many were forgotten was that the life of a king was short and ended in blood.

For the kings, the men sitting at the apex of the social pyramid, had made a deal with devils in their ascent: having reached the top of the mountain there was no way back down. They were caught as tight as a hare in a wire. It did not matter if their subjects were Britons, Angles, Saxons or any of the other peoples who lived on the land. The farmers were constrained by the rhythms of farming: ploughing, sowing, harvesting, preparing. But the kings were trapped. They were trapped more firmly than any of their subjects.

The kings were caught in the snare of war.

Warriors Born and Warriors Made

Could the son of a farmer become a warrior in Anglo-Saxon Britain? Whether the warrior caste was sufficiently open to allow such a boy to enter it is an interesting question. Certainly, the easiest way to enter the warrior caste was to be born into it. However, it might have still been possible for a farmer’s son to become a warrior and part of the king’s warband.

While the social distance between king and peasant was great, the physical distance was not. The king and his warband were personal and present; they travelled their kingdom. A young man exhibiting strength, courage and initiative could attract their attention, particularly if he had the opportunity to do something that drew attention to his abilities: taking part in a battle and distinguishing himself, alerting the warband to the presence of an enemy, acting as a scout. Any of these could bring the farmer’s boy to the king’s attention and lead to his recruitment into the warband.

Once in, it was deeds that counted. While there was a hierarchy within the warrior aristocracy and the son of a farmer was never going to be an ætheling, his son or his grandson might.

Separated by Battle, Joined by Warfare

The warriors of early medieval Britain – Angle, Saxon, Briton, Irish, Pict – shared much even when they were separated by different religions: following the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons, their cultures converged further.

The threads holding them together ran through language, the hierarchical but meritocratic organisation of the warband, the training necessary for fighting men, the broader horizons established by travel and the many outlanders among them. Indeed, perhaps a majority of warriors learned their skill far from their own mead hall.

It was a common practice for kings in Anglo-Saxon Britain to send their sons, from the age of seven and up, to be fostered as part of the retinue of an allied king. This served to broaden the experience of the growing boy, and it cemented ties between competing and allied kingdoms.