Christopher Huston is a Grammy-award-winning producer/engineer who has worked with Led Zeppelin, The Who, War, The Rascals, Todd Rundgren, Van Morrison, Blood, Sweat & Tears, Mitch Ryder, Ben E. King,The Drifters, Patti La Belle, Solomon Burke, Mary Wells, Wilson Pickett, Ben E. King, Eric Burden, and many others.
He currently is Vice President – Acoustical Engineering – for Rives Audio, Inc.
But long before that, he was a musician in a popular Merseybeat band called The Undertakers, with Jackie Lomax. Whom he shot. Chris gives us the story:
The Daily Mail – July 6th, 1964 – Undertakers’ Guitarist Shot In The Head
“Jackie Lomax, 19 year old bass guitarist and lead vocalist with the Liverpool beat group The Undertakers, was reported to have been shot in the head last night. The group were in a Glasgow hotel room preparing for their £250 appearance at the city’s La Cave club.”
Scottish Daily Express – July 6th, 1964 – Mersey Pop Boy Shot At Fun-fair
Daily Herald – July 7th, 1964 – ‘I shot Jackie’, says Beat Star
“Beat star Chris Huston, 20, told yesterday how he shot his best friend – and put the Undertakers pop group out of action.”
CHRISTOPHER HUSTON: As you can see, the accounts are totally different as if each newspaper wanted to get something in print and to hell with the details. All the major British papers covered the story but I only have these press clippings, after all these years.
What really happened?
It was a beautiful Summers day, July 5th, 1964, and we were at the end of a two week tour of Scotland. We were on our way across the equally beautiful Scottish countryside to play our very last gig at La Cave club, in Glasgow.
We had stopped in a little village and found the village store, intending to buy sandwiches and soda. The village store was like nothing we had ever seen before: one end was a butchers shop cum grocery store while the other end was a hardware store. As you walked in, facing you, was a post office and to top it all off, in the middle of the store was a huge round display stand with, amongst other things, bicycles and air rifles on it.
We asked about buying the really heavy-duty air rifles and were told that you needed a license. “Oh!” we said. But the helpful clerk was quick to explain that the licenses could be obtained from the post office, “…right over there!” “Oh!” we said and bought three of them for me, Brian and Bugs.
The next thing was to find somewhere to try them out. After continuing on our journey towards Glasgow we decided to stop off at Loch Killarney and test out our new guns. Loch Killarney is a beautiful place, being a wide lake, and we wasted no time in looking for suitable targets, floating in the vast expanse of clear water.
We had been at it for maybe 20 minutes when I moved along the top of the hillside overlooking the loch and set my sights on a big log floating a little way out from the bank. As I pulled the trigger on my rifle I saw something move across my line of sight, in a blur of movement.
I looked up from my position of squinting down the sights and saw Jackie. I just didn’t know what had happened. He was about 30 feet in front of me, down the hillside at the edge of the water. Blood was already flowing from the area behind his right ear.
I remember he said, “Why did you hit me?”
Although I was 25-30 feet away, he at first thought that I had poked him with the rifle barrel. I guess the mind will do weird things at times like those, magnifying the distance between us, as if I was right next to him.
I ran down the hill towards him as he was starting to stagger and I didn’t know where he’d been hit. All I knew that there was blood and he was in danger of collapsing. I reached him and started to half carry and pull him up the hill at the same time shouting to Johnny Booker – our roadie – to get the Commer van started. Everyone was in shock of course – just standing there. It ended up with Bugs and me, with Jackie in between us, and Booker driving.
By this time Jackie’s bare chest was covered with blood and I was holding a handkerchief over the profusely bleeding hole behind his ear, trying to staunch the flow.
We were speeding along the country roads, heading in the general direction of where we thought the next big city or town would be. We were doing at least 70 mph on an open stretch of road we saw a police car parked on the side of the road with the trunk open.
By way of explanation: In those days radar systems were primitive, still in their 15th-century incarnation. The way they set up the speed traps back then was that car with the radar equipment was parked at the side of the road waiting for victims. Once a speeding car passed the parked radar unit, a second chase car came into the picture. By law, the speeder had to be paced for a distance of a quarter of mile for the ticket to stick.
We passed the radar unit at around 70 mph and continued down the road. A little ways down we saw a charabanc (a tour bus) pulled over, with a police car parked in front of it. We slowed down as a policeman walked into the road and waved us down. We pointed at Jackie, who was by this time was in shock and not looking too good, and explained that there had been an accident and we needed to know were the nearest hospital was.
The policeman waved us on and a few seconds later over took us and led us into Paisley, to the nearest hospital.
We must have looked funny speeding along behind this silly little police car with its little brass bell clanking away, our van covered in lipstick messages from girls which our roadie had to clean enough to see out of the windows, daily.
Upon arrival, Jackie was taken into the emergency room and Bugs and I sat around waiting. Around 45 minutes later, Jackie, lying on his side on a gurney and looking very pale was wheeled out. He was conscious and they had given him a local anesthetic. They had cut a quarter-sized hole behind his ear in a vain attempt to locate the slug which apparently had deflected off the mastoid and migrated down into his neck. Further surgery, we were told, was scheduled for early the following morning to retrieve the missile.
Jackie asked Bugs for a ciggie and Bugs lit one and put into Jackie’s mouth. I felt so bad at seeing Jackie still shaking and looking so small on the gurney. All the ramifications of what had happened started to set in. I remember being chastised by a nurse for allowing Jackie to smoke.
Both Bugs and I were camera buffs and Bugs asked me for my micro lens attachment so that he could take some close-ups of the hole in Jackie’s head.
Johnny Booker, our intrepid roadie, had gone back to retrieve the other members of the group and after he had called our manager, Ralph Webster, he took us all (minus Jackie, of course) to the airport in Glasgow, where tickets had been quickly organized to fly us home – a rare luxury in those days.
Upon arrival at Speke airport later that evening, Ralph took us all home in his flash American car, a bright blue American Motors 1963 Rambler Classic. I was amazed at the sight as we pulled up to my house: Even though it was raining, about 14-15 people, mostly girls, were standing around talking and crying. The news had already been on the radio and the TV.
When I went in the house my mum had 7-8 fans sitting down in the front room, drinking tea. My parents were – understandably – very concerned and wanted to know what had happened. Next day several newspaper reporters came by, unannounced, and wanted to know what had happened.
Jackie has fully recovered but still to this day, whenever we’re together at a party, or meet somebody whatever, he jokingly warns them to watch out for me while pulling back his long hair to show the scar down the back of his neck, behind his ear.
© 2012 Christopher Huston
Jackie Lomax; Home Is In My Head: