Nick Drake (38 page)

Before compact discs diminished the imagery of rock ‘n' roll, album sleeves were truly wonderful things. The sleeves of favourite records were as much part of their appeal as the music they protected. You were drawn to them, to the minutiae, and the strange, hypnotic power the pictures exerted. The images are so enduring, because when they were released, there was nothing else to look at. There were no long discourses on how the albums were made, or lavish coffee-table books celebrating the rock photographer's craft. There was a record inside, and as it played you studied the sleeve. The covers of favourite albums became so familiar that it is dislocating to find an out-take from the session detailed on the sleeve – like coming home and finding the furniture rearranged.

The iconography of a sleeve became integral to the music's appeal, and rarely was that iconography more powerful than on the record sleeves of the late Nick Drake. On
Five Leaves Left
, a black-and-white picture, perfectly clear and focused, had Nick nonchalantly leaning against a brick wall, quizzical and faintly baffled, while to his right a man dashes past, blurred by his hurry to be somewhere else.

Keith Morris is the man who did more than anyone to preserve the image of Nick Drake and present it to the world. Still snapping after all these years, Keith doesn't do much music stuff now. After his work with Nick, he went on to shoot some classic images: John Cale's
Fear
, Elvis Costello's
My Aim Is True …
, but left rock ‘n' roll imagery behind him in the mid-eighties. Keith still gets calls from fans all around the world, at all hours of the day and night. They all want to know about Nick Drake. He smiles at the incongruity of it all: two or three photo sessions, barely totalling a day's work, nearly thirty years before, loom large over anything he has undertaken since.

We spoke in Keith's flat in Little Venice, passing contact sheets across the battered wooden table – ‘That's where Nick used to sit, if he dropped in … Sometimes didn't say a word for hours.' Because these shots form the bulk of the very few images of Nick which are left to us, you are struck by their familiarity. And as I looked at a life in miniature, Keith told me about the first time he met Nick: ‘It was in the Witchseason office in Charlotte Street. At that time, I was doing a lot of work for
Oz
and we had a thing about The Incredible String Band, and I had managed to wangle my way into Sound Techniques to take a roll of pictures which they really liked, and so I was summoned to meet this callow youth who Joe had just signed – I
think he was still at Cambridge, and just about to begin work on the album.'

There is indeed something faintly familiar about the table from which Keith and I drink our tea, for this is where he photographed Nick for the shots used for the
Bryter Layter
advertisements; the table Nick is seated at on the cover of the
Brittle Days
tribute album. Wooden and gnarled, in the end it is still only a table.

And then that photo slides across the table: the ‘running man' shot from
Five Leaves Left.
And seeing the whole contact sheet, you appreciate it as part of a sequence, with a whole series of shots either side of that particular photo. (The complete sequence can be seen in the booklet accompanying 1994's compilation
Way To Blue.)
Ian MacDonald felt this was the image that captured the essence of the man he had encountered in Cambridge: ‘The back cover of
Five Leaves Left
, with him leaning up against the wall with the man running, that is absolutely Nick Drake. That is such a brilliant expression of who he was, except that it makes him appear a little more solid than he actually was in person. He was a little bit fading out himself, even though he was very still.'

The photos weren't taken off Charlotte Street as Joe Boyd remembered, but by a wall outside a factory called Morgan Crucible, in Battersea, south-west London. Neither the factory nor the wall is any longer there. The running man sequence was taken at the end of a working day, and the staff had begun flooding out of the factory gates, streaming homewards: ‘The guy in the photo we ended up using was just running because he was late for his bus,' Keith remembered. Simple as that. Like the man who stopped to tie his shoe in Paris a century and a half before …

Flicking through the sequence, you can see Nick and his faintly bemused self, leaning against the wall that late afternoon in 1969, and all around him flock the factory workers, keen to get away, unaware that, at random, one of them will be plucked, and his fleeting, blurred image will endure on a record sleeve which will be pored over for years and years to come.

Keith Morris: ‘One of the good things about Joe is that if he sees something he likes, he goes with it – there's none of this “Have you done an album before?” I'd never done an album sleeve before … It was “This is Nick Drake. Listen to the tape. Will you do the sleeve?” So that was
Five Leaves Left.
Nick and I went off and had a nonalcoholic extended lunch, and I said, have you got any ideas you want to do? … I always work better bouncing ideas off people, and
between us we came up with a number of ideas that we then shot. So the actual session ranged from my studio over a lot of south London. The cover shot – the one looking out the window – was in a deserted house just off Wimbledon Common …'

Because of what we know is to come, perhaps there is a temptation to read too much into the front sleeve of
Five Leaves Left.
What you see is simply a young man looking out of a window, surrounded by a border of Lincoln green. For the many who have come to Nick long after his death,
Five Leaves Left
is an emblematic treasure, an icon. Taken three-quarters on, Nick is gazing hazily out, a half-smile playing on his lips. The black jacket would be familiar to Nick's Cambridge friends. Behind him, a half-open window looks out on to a shed (with a man in it?) Below the window, what looks like a carpenter's bench stands, empty save for wood shavings. It is the mundane transmuted into the iconographic.

Nigel Waymouth, who shot the front cover for
Bryter Layter
, was a co-founder of the Swinging London boutique Granny Takes A Trip. He came up through the English underground of the late sixties with his partner Michael English. As Hapshash & The Coloured Coat, they created psychedelic posters to promote albums by The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown, Soft Machine and events staged at Brian Epstein's Saville Theatre. English and Waymouth's posters have come to be regarded as definitive artefacts of the era, and examples were included in the Barbican's 1993 exhibition of ‘The London Art Scene In The Sixties'.

Keith Morris: ‘We did a few things for
Bryter Layter
, but we still hadn't got a front, and Nigel Waymouth, who I've got a lot of time for as a designer – I think I was out of town – and at the last minute they decided they had to get this thing done, so Nick was dragged in the studio for the front cover.

‘The one on the back, on the motorway, was the one I did, on the Westway. It is Nick standing there, I've heard people say it wasn't him, but it was taken one evening … We did a whole series of ideas, which is why we'd never got on with the front… double exposures, shots looking out over a desolate city, which we did in black and white. I suppose that back shot is like the one on
Five Leaves Left…
Nick always cast himself as an observer, this solitary figure, a very romanticized idea of himself. I think that was how Nick thought of himself …'

During the time he spent with Nick in the studio and on location, Keith Morris got as close to him as anyone, and had the opportunity
to observe him, and the cultivation of his image. Nick's surprisingly acute image-consciousness was something which friends from school and university had commented on, and Keith likewise noticed that Nick was quite astute in casting himself as the sensitive outsider: ‘He was very shy … but he really wanted to be famous, which was quite bizarre, given how laid-back about his career he was. But he was very shy and diffident.

‘He used to come round occasionally, sit at this table, have a cup of coffee. If he was up, yeah, you could have a conversation with him. He wasn't … an Elvis Costello, giving it all that all the time, but yeah, you could have a normal conversation with him. He'd play the guitar while I was setting up. If he was down … there'd be a knock on the door, I'd let him in, he'd sit there, have a cup of tea, and he wouldn't have said a word before leaving.

‘ “Vain” is a bit strong, but he knew what he wanted to look like, and I think one of the reasons he quite liked working with me was because I never tried to force things on him. I was quite happy to go with what he threw at me, try and work it different ways. You didn't have smiling pictures, but occasionally he would laugh if something funny happened on the set, and you'd be quick to get that. He was very much the sucked-in cheeks. He … posed naturally. I used to photograph Marc Bolan a lot, and Marc once said to me: “I'm not the greatest guitarist in the world, but I've got great movements because I practised in front of the mirror for years.” I think in a funny sort of way, Nick knew what he was doing visually.'

Annie Sullivan's career was as vivid and colourful as the sixties themselves by the time she arrived at Island in 1970 to become Art Director. Annie had been a house dancer at
Ready, Steady, Go;
helped coordinate the infamous legalize marijuana advert in
The Times
in 1967; and worked on the backstage organization of the Woodstock Festival in 1969 – she still has the correspondence detailing Janis Joplin's requirements (‘a case of Southern Comfort!')

Annie Sullivan: ‘I bumped into Guy Stevens at Marine Ices opposite the Roundhouse, and he said come to work for me on Monday at Island … At the time Island had King Crimson, Free, Traffic, Spooky Tooth, Cat Stevens, Jethro Tull, Fairport, Sandy Denny … The sleeves were very much the lingua franca of the time. I always felt the artwork should be an extension of the contents, reflect it in some way.'

As Nick became more and more withdrawn, the likelihood of a third album grew ever more remote. Then, to Island's surprise,
Pink
Moon
appeared out of nowhere. Nick never stated that he didn't want his picture on the cover, but as with much of his communication at the time, it was just understood, and the album did appear with no portrait of the artist visible. Annie Sullivan worked with Nick for the first and last time on
Pink Moon:
‘I'd been warned beforehand. Chris Blackwell said to me you're going to do the album sleeve for Nick Drake, but it's going to be difficult. And I thought, well, I've got a quite good, sensitive manner. But it was difficult.

‘I remember going to talk to him, and he just sat there, hunched up, and even though he didn't speak, I knew the album was called
Pink Moon
, and I can't remember how he conveyed it, whether he wrote it down … he wanted a pink moon. He couldn't tell me what he wanted, but I had
Pink Moon
to go on. So I went to the Radio Times Hulton Picture Library and got lots and lots of pictures of moons. I got someone to photograph the moon and put a pink light over it. I got historic old pictures of the moon. And I commissioned an artist called Michael Trevithick – I'd seen his work and liked it, and he wasn't someone I'd used before.

‘He was a painter, and I remembered his folio, quite surreal, which at that time was very unusual – nowadays, of course, everything is surreal. It was very different, very strange. I'm pretty certain he hadn't done any album sleeves before. I just had the feeling that he might come up with something, and he came up with the artwork. I would have given him the album to listen to. I went and showed Nick the different ideas – “Do you like this?” – and the best I could get was “Mm” … But at the same time I sensed he knew what he wanted. It was a challenge, I quite liked trying to find something that reflected him. I don't remember him talking about “Pink Moon”, the song or the sleeve. I know he liked it. I don't remember him talking about anything.'

The Keith Morris photo used for the posthumous
Time Of No Reply
album is symptomatic of the time. The setting is Regent's Park, one spring day in 1969, with Nick seated beneath a tree. He is captured as the eternal student and nascent songwriter, with his bulky book, Chelsea boots and trusty guitar never far from his side. The
Time Of No Reply
inlay, the photo actually underneath the CD itself, is a familiar cropped shot from another Morris session. The three-quarter-face shot was taken on a day when the two men were trawling south London for locations. It was taken overlooking the urban desolation of New Cross, squeezed between Deptford and Peckham, with the green, leafy spread of Greenwich just round a curl of the Thames.

It has come to be believed that the striped blanket in which Nick is enveloped on the cover of
Way To Blue
was Nick's own special blanket, the blanket he wrapped himself in to keep warm while living so frugally in Hampstead. And over the years Joe Boyd has had patiently to point out that perhaps Nick's fans shouldn't take everything quite so … literally. ‘The wrapped in a blanket shot,' he explained to Kevin Ring in
Zip Code
, ‘was not because he lived wrapped in a blanket, it was just a blanket the photographer happened to have with him.'

But that blanket just won't go away. Early in 1997, following the appearance in
Mojo
of a feature I had written on Nick Drake, Gary Hill wrote in from Smile records in Dublin: ‘Many thanks for … having the consummate good taste to put Nick on your cover. That very same photo was taken by a friend of mine, Julian Lloyd, and when he told me he still possessed the rug that Nick wrapped around him in that glorious shot, I was obviously fascinated. Julian kindly allowed me to hang the rug on the wall of my shop where it has attracted much attention and comment. Please find enclosed photographic evidence that a small corner of Dublin will forever be Tanworth-in-Arden! '