George Gallacher

As the Store Keys packed our
As the Store Keys packed our gear away after our first and, so sadly, last recording session with George, we looked at each other across the studio floor, in a proper case of “I know what you’re thinking.”
Perhaps it was Stevie who blurted it out: “Can you believe that? Can you believe what just took place?”

We were delighted just to be in a room with George. Honoured to have supported the Poets at Stereo for the Eyes Wide Open Club last December and somewhat bewildered that George and Fraser Watson had taken time to tell us they dug our sound.


The Stereo show started with George on stage, clad commandingly in black as Poets and Thanes assembled for him, bottle of water in his hand. Eager to get on with it but calm in the eye of the storm. Fresh from a session on Radio Scotland that showcased a voice, astoundingly young.

The show was spine-tingling. Somehow now we were cutting a single with the great man. To have him singing with us in the studio made
every detour I’d ever taken worth it to be there at that moment.


At the session, it wasn’t the legend which mattered.
Sure, we knew those peerless Poets records, the otherworldly archive footage of the Shindig! TV performance, and George’s deliciously wry recollections in Andrew Loog Oldham’s 2Stoned.

But what mattered and practically shattered the speakers was the power of that voice. We had wondered what we could collectively add to George’s choices of songs to record: Louie Louie and Got My Mojo Workin’? We soon found out. George, at 68 years old, gave it laldy, and gave us everything.

That night, the lads in our band, in our thirties and forties, were rejuvenated and reassessing our notions of what time really meant, courtesy of a handsome man’s style, force and utter commitment to the moment.


This wasn’t the tail end of greatness. His last few months saw George at his zenith. For us, he turned Louie Louie into Little Richard singing Smells Like Teen Spirit but way better. Mojo Workin’? Really, he played us. All our preconceived riffs were gladly tossed in the Banchory studio bin. He led us to a groove that was Sun rockabilly meets 65 Dylan. Jiving down some rain-swept Partick alley with some go-go dancer off Ready, Steady, Go.

Glad you heard those mastered mixes from Marco, George. I’m bitter-sweetly happy that in your last week on earth, you were excited about your forthcoming Starla 45.


After the session was over, George sat in the control room, picked an acoustic and produced the evening’s end with perfect aplomb, bringing us gently back to earth with an intimate rendition of Tim Hardin’s Lady Came From Baltimore.


George Gallacher’s genius was utterly intact. When, after the Olympics opening ceremony, the press grumbled about McCartney’s ravaged delivery of Hey Jude, putting it forth as proof that the years inevitably wither power, I caught myself thinking, “Ah, they wouldn’t think that if they could hear George”.

We wanted to hear so much more. To us 60s freaks in the studio, you generously offered, “Anything you want to ask, lads…” Me, I just enquired about your meeting Marvin Gaye. One wee glimpse into the time capsule, enough for now. None of the lads wanted to overplay the moment. Plenty time for an in-depth natter later. Later never came.

And that gig in the capital we had planned. Postponed forever. You told us how the east coast girls were hip and gorgeous back in the day, how the Gamp club was wild but there was never trouble. Now we have to play Edinburgh without you.

But I tell you, man, we’ll play it with you. With you, George, all the way.

I met you four or five times. I know so many fortunate individuals knew you so much better. But each time we met meant so much.
George, we absolutely loved you.

God bless you, man.