Freddie! Freddie! Freddie!
One of the more unusual people I got to know when I lived in London was Freddie Gregory, a Ukranian Jew, who had skipped the USSR through the back door in Georgia I believe, back in the 60s. He was a world renowned craftsman who travelled all over the western world, restoring Saxophones and crafting mouthpieces for some of the world's greatest players.
Many a night we sat in his workshop at the rear of his musical instrument emporium in NW6, talking, telling jokes and what not. I lived in a first floor flat almost opposite and we'd often have dinner together at Mario & Nico's Greek next door. He drank like a Ukranian, unscrewing the top off a fresh litre bottle of vodka and stamping it flat underfoot, you knew you were in trouble. He recalled snippets of his life with tear-filled eyes and told joke after joke which would literally squeeze the last remaining tears from my face aching at the jaw.
When I first met him he was on his own a lot and it didn't suit him. I encouraged him to advertise in a lonely hearts column (remember, this was long before match.com or plenty of fish) and even helped him to market himself. I kept out of it from there on in, but I do know that he had a few dates in the weeks that followed and I am not sure if he had any success but I hope he had some fun.
One of Fred's regular customers/mates - I was never sure, was a sax player whose name escapes me, with the Ram Jam Band which was fronted by Geno Washington, the British mod's only authentic, home reared Soul man. (His first album, on Pye Record’s Piccadilly label, stayed in the charts for 48 weeks in 1966, becoming the third-biggest-selling album in Britain of the year. The Beatles masterpiece Revolver was not even in the top three). In 1985, for my 30th Birthday Freddie organised a private party in Geno's restaurant up the other end of West End Lane, where I had a party of 10 wined, dined and finally entertained by the man himself. Great night.
One time, on a visit to Freddie at his home in Northern Spain, he took me to a Jazz Club where Robert Fripp was playing that very night to a sell out crowd. Jumping the queue, we walked straight to the door, where the doorman recognising Freddie waved him in, holding a hand out to my chest to halt my entry at which point Fred turns and with stone-cold seriousness said "Do you know who this man is? This is Blah Blah: Miles Davis' bass player." The hand dropped and bade me in like a matador waving his Capote de Brega with a look of extreme deference, Spanish... I love em.
I saw less and less of Freddie over the following years but we never lost contact, I went to visit him in Asturia with my buddy Pussy on a few occasions, as it was only a 5 hour drive from where I was living at the time. The one thing of which he was so proud, was his beautiful daughter Joanna*, I remember her arriving in the world and the joy he felt at that time. She was the angel sent to love him in the end, and finally, it made him happy.
Its been three years since he blew, he was a unique talent and a heartbreakingly funny fella. I miss him.
Listen to Dexy's Geno here.
*Joanna, Freddie's daughter, is a writer, poetess & love-activist; passionate about elevating collective consciousness, heart-based living, compassion & inner peace. @smileyjoforever You go girl!
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