A street performer through and through, this enigmatic maverick was spotted in the mid-sixties busking outside a London cinema by a record producer and taken into a studio. He had his band with him: that is, he had a bass drum strapped to his back, a tambourine belted under his arm and a cymbal seemingly hidden miraculously out of sight. To complete the one-man-band rigmarole he wore a harmonica harness to carry mouth organ and kazoo. Oh, and he had voice to go with it all. And what a beautiful noise he made.
'Rosie', his own composition, smashed into the charts at number 4 in March 1968. Three months later he followed it up with a number 3 hit, 'Blue Eyes'. They were two of the most memorable records of the day, and all this at a time when pop music was at its peak. Raw talent . . . you can't beat it.
But Don Partridge was more, much more than a sixties hit maker. His restless spirit transcended all the trappings of the mad mod times and quite frankly he was happier busking on the streets. His manager said he was unmanagable: he just did what he wanted to do. This included grabbing a handful of fivers and throwing them onto the fire. Money, he declared, was not going to take over his life. Money came and money went. Don nearly went too, one day, when he decided to jump off Hammersmith Bridge dressed and billed as the 'Birdman of Ealing'. Here was a character to be reckoned with, if not managed. Thankfully, he was a born survivor.
Inevitably, Don Partridge and stardom gradually parted company. He said he had always made good money on the streets, and he took the voluntary steps from appearing on Top of the Pops (a memorable performance of Blue Eyes is available on You Tube) to drifting across Europe and back to Britain as a street performer.
I first saw Don Partridge at a Folk night at Broughton Astley Village Hall, some five years after his time in the TV spotlight. It was an event organised by a friend of mine, who had come across Don in other folk clubs in Leicester; I rather impertinently enquired of my friend out of curiosity about Don's fee for his appearance. All Don had asked for was a bottle of whisky. Now that's what I call style.
The next time I came across him, Don was performing with a couple of pals in Leicester Market, dressed as a highwayman. Never had a three-cornered hat sat so suitably on a head of wild brown curls.
I finally got a chance to talk to the man himself in 1987. He was back in Leicestershire at the time after a spell in Stockholm. He was living on a canal boat somewhere not too far from Gilmorton, and for several weeks Don graced the lounge of the Crown Inn with a Saturday night turn. By this time, he had taken to playing sitting down, leaning against a wall and using the drum at his feet. One night I waited for my chance and followed him to the bar during his break.
He was very approachable. Softly spoken, polite, he was certainly not playing on past glories. Among other things he told me that his back couldn't take the strain of having the drum strapped to it any more. It seemed to make sense. After all, he wasn't twenty-five any more!
He would always acknowledge me during those few happy weeks at the Crown. But I knew when to back off: he was there to do a job, and not get hassled by people wanting to hear 'Rosie'. That song, for some reason, was a sore point. He never played that song, anywhere, anytime. Every week some well-meaning person kept shouting for it, and in the end he just said, very gently, 'I haven't got the voice for it any more.' He had got the voice, of course, but it was his choice and finally the message got through. No 'Rosie', no asking why. Fair play.
Don Partridge was a man who stayed true to himself, as much as any man can. He eschewed fame and fortune and a steady regular life and instead opted to live as a free spirit. In many ways, that is what the spirit of the sixties was supposed to be about; but this individual actually played the cards of the game where so many others fumbled and dropped them so readily.
Don Partridge was sixty-eight when he died of a coronary attack. He had sung his heart out for the people of the streets, here and all over the world.
