‘Tea Chest Tapes’: the amazing lost recordings of producer Joe Meek
The idea of a super-producer isn’t a notion reserved for the 21st century. Though such a term may instantly draw the image of Dr Dre, Timbaland, Jack Antonoff or Mark Ronson, the truth is a magical mixer behind the desk has been a critical component in almost every landmark album ever made. Of course, there are the greats like George Martin, who famously turned The Beatles into the world-beaters they became, Phil Spector, who developed his ‘Wall of Sound’ method which would circumvent the sonic globe, or indeed Rick Rubin, whose inescapable ear would lead the way for a new century of recordings. But, there’s another whose rich legacy is too often forgotten: Joe Meek.
There’s good reason for his comparative omission from pop music history books. Like such a unwantedly high number of geniuses, he was deeply troubled, and, on February 3rd, 1967, committed a murder-suicide. The English producer, whose real name was Robert George Meek, was one of the pioneers of pop music, delivering a unique take on the rock ‘n’ roll sound and transforming it from something greasy and grimy into a clean, space-age sonic experience. It was within Meek that the birth of pop music as we know it can be traced back to.
That, of course, does not disqualify the heinous act he committed on that February night, murdering his landlady Violet Shenton before turning the gun on himself. Much like Phil Spector, his American counterpart who also committed murder, albeit much later and with a far greater history of violence behind him, his legacy will forever be tarnished. His criminal actions will always outweigh his contribution to music.
During his troubled life, Meek wasn’t precisely the swashbuckling super-producer we may think of today. Rather than flagrantly directing the band from behind the glass of a starry studio, Meek was more concerned with the almost indistinguishable nuances of sonic competency. As session drummer Clem Cattini recalls: “Sound-wise, he was a genius; musically, he was a moron.” So rather than leading bands on arrangements and production, he would meticulously perfect the way their sound was delivered to the listeners.
He devoted himself to sound and spent most of his life rattling around his fateful bedsit, simply trying to enact the perfect compression or produce a timpani roll with a crisp din. From this dark image of awaiting destiny, Meek would lend his unique skills to ‘Telstar’ and gain the first-ever US number one for a UK act, The Tornados. While such a setting might be the dream of bands of the age, attempting to escape the hysteria that pop music was beginning to achieve, Meek had created himself an inescapable prison. His consistent musings on the fractions of audio perfection would, eventually, send him into a downward spiral. His landlady would often complain of the noise, and while, previously, Meek had replied with jovial speaker directions, soon he would snap and enact brutal revenge, leaving behind his life’s work.
Soon, a treasure trove of recordings were unearthed. Known as ‘The Tea Chest Tapes’, Meek’s unheard recordings represented one of the greatest finds of ‘lost’ tapes ever. Among the myriad of master tapes discovered following his death were discarded works with David Bowie, Richie Blackmore and around 1,850 more. Cliff Cooper was the man who picked up the valuable item and, when speaking to the BBC, noted their value: “I soon realised that I was the custodian of this incredible collection, but that I could not do anything with them, other than to play and learn Joe’s genius techniques,” says Cooper. “The responsibility also fell on me to store them in dry and temperate conditions, so that the tapes would not deteriorate. There were so many famous recordings, and so many unreleased tracks by now known artists, that I felt it important to keep the tapes in a collection, and not to break it up.”
The tapes are now with Cherry Red Records, who also released Meek’s 1959 concept album I Hear A New World and represent one of the most interesting finds in modern memory. The tapes are now in the hands of John Reed, the labels Catalogue Director and a contributor to Record Collector who said of the recordings: “This cult netherworld of mythical ‘Tea Chest Tapes’ had been talked about in hushed tones for decades. Cliff kept these things for half a century, and now our job is to go through them methodically and work out how we bring them blinking into the light.”
As Reed confirmed to the BBC, however, the real value of such a find is yet to be discovered: “It’s like a proper treasure hunt, where you have to search everywhere, and you really don’t know what’s there…” As they work to restore the 2500kg of tapes to their best, the real value of these huge recordings is yet to be realised. However, we now have the routine updates from Cherry Red Records as the perfect antidote.
