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going to sit?” We all looked around the room and there was only one space, next to me.
    “He can sit right here,” I piped up.
    One of the best moves I ever made. Harold Clarke, who later called himself Allan, became my instant best friend. Right away I recognized that he was me, the same. I’d start to say something and he’d know what it was before I got halfway through the sentence. We liked the same football teams, the same girls. We’d grease our hair the same way, with Brylcreem, so we looked like Tony Curtis. And music—that really joined us at the hip.
    In the mornings, before school started, Clarkie and I were part of a group that sang the Lord’s Prayer at assembly. The other kids droned on with the familiar melody, but Clarkie and I broke off and hit two fabulous harmonies, totally naturally. We just fell into it and played off each other. Allan had a great set of pipes and a tone in his voice that was undeniable; even then it was rich and powerful, with great control and an arcing falsetto.
    Singing harmony became a passion of ours. I have no idea where we picked it up. No one ever taught us how to do it or put it into words. It was just a gift we had, and it gave us so much pleasure. We sang everywhere—in school and in each other’s houses, but especially in front of mirrors, where we would pantomime being our favorite artists. I imagined how Elvis would do it. So I made myself a guitar out of an old piece of plywood, painted it red, and shook my bony ass in that mirror, pretending to be the King. Later, when theEverly Brothers came along, we tried to be them, as well. And theLouvin Brothers, Ira and Charlie. We were soaking it all up and churning it out our way.
    On Saturdays, we’d walk up to Trafford Road and stare into the window of the local music store. There’d be maracas and harmonicas and ocarinas, as well as an array of classical guitars. Eventually, an electric cutaway appeared in their midst, with a spotlight on it, which would hypnotize me for hours. I’d just stand there, staring, hoping one day, by some miracle, I could afford one of those babies. But I knew that day was a long way off.
    Guitars intrigued me much more than school. It seems odd, when I think about it now, because as an adult I consume all the information I can get my hands on. And my friends are some of the most brilliant minds of the day. Nothing stimulates me more than a discussion with a scholar, or a book that lays out some illuminating aspect of life. But when I was in school, nothing seemed to spark my interest. I was an indifferent student at best—never studied, never read. Who knows why? Maybe I can lay some blame on apathetic teachers or my circumstances at home. But really I was off in a world of my own.
    Even from a very young age, I’ve always been a bit of a loner. People are great, they fascinate me no end, but sometimes all that chatter is difficult to bear. I’ve always looked for places where I could shut out the world and just groove on the solitude that fueled my dreams. At the Ordsall Board school, my options were few. There was no cafeteria there, so we had to use a building in the adjoining park to get lunch. My friend Fred Moore and I would take off running to get there first, ahead of the crowd. But after lunch, instead of socializing, I always ducked out of that scene. I used to sit in the branches of a small tree in the park. It was safe there, no one to bother me. I can still feel the movement of the swaying branches. Just me and a tree. Away from it all. Perfect.
    Back at home, I kept busy with another solitary passion, photography. My dad was something of an amateur photographer, and from the time I was little he would set up his darkroom in my bedroom. He’d whip the blanket off my bed, tack it up against the window to block out the light, and lay out trays of chemicals todevelop and print pictures. So from the beginning, I was hooked on the magic of photography. Imagine the