If he was emerging today, he would, in current agent-speak, be hard to place. Charlie Drake was a slapstick character actor who popped up in films when there was a call for someone to be thrown out of an upstairs window.
This tendency to be the first to raise a hand when mad stunts were being handed out, led to him spending several months in the London Clinic, on the Marylebone Road. In 1961, during a live broadcast of The Charlie Drake Show, a sketch was written that had, as its payoff, a sequence where Charlie was pulled through a balsa wood bookcase and then bundled out of a sugar glass window. All went well in rehearsal and everyone left the studio for their lunch break.
...Except for a conscientious carpenter, who, noticing what he believed was shoddy workmanship, bashed in a number of nails to secure the shelves in a manner that would surely in later years have resulted in a contract with IKEA.
Unaware that they were now working with a structure as solid as Stonehenge, and remembering that this was a live broadcast, Drake was somehow pulled through the bookcase, and unconscious, thrown through the stage window. Instead of hitting the foam and mattress combination beneath, he fell awkwardly, hit his already damaged head on a stage weight and broke his skull. He didn’t work again for two years.
In late 1974 and early 1975, when I was working at Charisma Records, next door to the Algerian Coffee Shop, in Old Compton Street, Charlie Drake became a regular visitor. Still only in his forties, his showbusiness career had trickled to a bit of a standstill after some popularity in the mid ‘60s when he released a series of novelty records that were popular with very young children, but cringe-worthy to their teenage brothers and sisters.
Just about any dress code is acceptable in today’s Old Compton Street, but in 1974, Charlie was sporting a most unusual fluffy comb-over hair style, and, presumably in a sterling effort to fit in with the mood of the times, striped, open-necked shirts and denim flares. And highly-polished business shoes. And a briefcase.
In a combination that surely could only be matched if Bruce Forsyth and Jimmy Tarbuck joined up with Paul McCartney and Ringo to reform The Beatles, Charlie was courting the A&R team at Charisma with the intention of making a record with Genesis. Yes, that Genesis.
He was a kind man, bringing in Fortnum and Mason mince pies at Christmas, and champagne and whisky just about any other time. Generally he was accompanied by a teenage female partner.
Somehow, the transition was made from tentative discussion to reality, and Peter Gabriel handed over a song he had written for his first solo album.
Recorded in one session, as well as featuring Gabriel, Robert Fripp was the guitarist, Sandy Denny provided backing vocals and Phil Collins played drums.
It wasn’t a hit.
We didn’t ever see Charlie again at Charisma, but he had another go ten years later with a cash-in single "Super Punk". Once again, he didn’t bother the charts.
‘You Never Know’ is one of those 1970s songs in which Peter Gabriel specialised. Simple melody, complex arrangement, and with lyrics that would have proved a natural successor to ‘I Know What I Like’
Here’s the original demo: Peter Gabriel – You Never Know
...and with a crash helmet in place, and comprehensive insurance arranged:
