Pentangle vocalist Jacqui McShee was part of the original 1960s line-up with Bert Jansch and John Renbourn, and has subsequently become the longest-serving member, continuing their musical legacy as Jacqui McShee’s Pentangle. In 2020 she told Prog about how she found a career in music, even though she hadn’t planned on it.
People have known you as a vocalist for well over 50 years. Was it something you always wanted to pursue?
No! I had music in the house all the time, growing up, and my dad used to play the piano – Fats Waller stuff. My mum liked some classical music, and her favourite was Swan Lake.
Article continues belowShe said when she was younger you could get cheap seats to see opera and she used to love Madame Butterfly. So there was always music being played, but I had no idea what I wanted to be. I knew I wanted to travel and see the world.
But clearly, records and artists had the ability to move you from early on.
I just love music. My first love is jazz, to be honest, it really is. Music is very emotional. Bert Jansch said to me once, “Don’t put so much emotion into it.” I said, “Well, I’m feeling emotional about this song!”
In my late teens I heard Miles Davis’ Porgy And Bess for the first time. I cried; I just thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. I don’t think I ever cried over rock’n’roll!
But once I got to 14 or 15, I was allowed to go to this youth club, and there’d be table tennis and all that stuff. At the end they’d be playing records. I heard Jerry Lee Lewis and The Everly Brothers and Fats Domino and I thought they were all wonderful. It was so different.
So how did that lead you to performing?
I was going to jazz clubs, and my sister and I were going up to [jazz trumpeter] Ken Colyer’s on a Saturday night. We were walking though Trafalgar Square and there was the end of a CND march. These two guys came up to us and said, “Come down to the crypt in St Martin’s,” so we went down, and there were lots of horrific photographs of Hiroshima. So we joined CND. We didn’t mean to, but people asked us to lead the singing on the marches, because they liked our voices.
And that led to gigs?
I met a 12-string guitar player called Chris Ayliffe, who nurtured me in a way. He used to be ever so rude to me onstage, and people threatened to hit him, but it was just his stage persona – he was a lovely chap. He worked in Watkins Electric Music shop in Balham High Road. He met John Renbourn and Bert, and he used to give them strings.
Chris said to me about Bert, “You’re going to love this bloke; all the women fall for him.” We met in Collett’s record shop in New Oxford Street. I was determined not to like him, because of what Chris had said, but he was so sweet – very quiet.
Chris and I used to be the resident pair at the Red Lion in Sutton [now called The Winning Post], and I used to book a lot of the other acts. I managed to get hold of the Malcolm Price Trio and Gerry Lockran. We never did get Martin Carthy, but we got John and Bert. They got paid £8, which was the top money then. Bert’s first album [self-titled, from 1965] was out.
Chris used to go off busking every summer, but I didn’t go. John came down and played at the club and he said, “Would you come and sing on my next album?” I said yes. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing! And that was Another Monday [1966].
I started doing gigs with John. He said to me, “I’m forming a group – you’re going to be the girl singer.” It was as simple as that. “Oh, okay!” We were on the train out of Charing Cross when it stopped, and you could just see the Festival Hall. John said, “We’ll be playing there soon!” and I went, “Oh yeah.” And he was right.
How were the five points of Pentangle completed?
The group was formed at the end of ’66, but at that point it was just John, Bert and myself. We were rehearsing with another bass played and another drummer. John was doing a TV programme called Gadzooks and he met Danny Thompson, who I think was playing with Julie Felix. John said, “I’m forming this group, do you fancy coming down and having a listen?” Danny said, “Yeah, I’ll bring my mate, drumme Terry Cox.”
Bert was convinced I fell asleep once, during one of Danny’s very long solos – which were always brilliant
They’d both been playing with Alexis Korner. They were a great rhythm section, they I just felt like a little girl being dragged along by it all. We were sort of almost there in ’66, but hadn’t actually played in front of anybody.
From those early days, it seemed as though Pentangle’s timeline was very similar to Fairport Convention’s.
John and Bert probably knew Simon Nicol and Richard Thompson. I didn’t; I lived out of town. They were all in London. I never used to go and see the other bands, really. The manager, Jo Lustig, said, “I’m going to keep you very low-profile – you’re going to be a mystery!”
All the same, not many bands could give their first public show at the Royal Festival Hall and sell it out. You seemed to be covered in Melody Maker practically every week, and of course by late 1969 you had a UK Top Five album with Basket Of Light.
Yes, it was all a bit of a shock! I was so terrified going onstage. Somebody wrote I was like the ice queen, because I just used to not move – I was scared. I loved what I was doing, but I didn’t have much of a stage presence.
It’s not my thing. I was too terrified to open my mouth; I very rarely introduced any songs. I would actually just close my eyes and go for it, and breathe a huge sigh of relief when it was all over.
The musicianship within the original Pentangle was breathtaking. I’d sit in my chair, bow my head and listen. Bert was convinced I fell asleep once, during one of Danny’s very long solos – which were always brilliant – but I didn’t!
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