When Bill Fay's two albums were reissued on CD in 1997, the label See For Miles had no idea if their creator remained alive. Efforts to locate him had proven fruitless. He later reflected to me" "I'd long believed that the masters had been binned, so I was surprised to see them resurface. Back then, I made enough from those records to pay a few electricity and gas bills."
His debut, recorded in 1969, released in 1970, was entitled simply Bill Fay. A strangely ornate baroque masterpiece it is lush and stark in equal measure. Bill had arrived expecting to record with a band, only to find a full orchestra awaiting him in the studio, and all his songs scored by Michael Gibbs. Eloquent, defiantly English, but understated on account of Fay's deliberately fragile vocals, it received lack-lustre reviews, one comparing it to the easy listening treacle of Mantovani.
Fay by his own admission had been signed on the strength of his possessing a certain commercial potential. "I guess I kind of wrote myself out of a contract," he admitted without rancour. His second album, Time Of the Last Persecution, released in 1971, was not, despite its gloomy brilliance, what the record-buying public had in mind. Selling poorly, and now incredibly rare, it perfectly captures what later artists like Nick Cave would claim as their territory, but for years it was ignored.
After being dropped by Decca Records, he was offered a deal with Albert Grossman's Bearsville imprint. Having heard a rockabilly style song of Bill's Grossman wanted an entire album after that fashion. Bill refused. He wrote to me once: "Sometimes, when standing on the nightshift, you think perhaps an album of rockabilly songs maybe wasn't so bad an idea as it might have then seemed."
He had been signed to Deram Records, which in 1968 released "Some Good Advice" backed with Screams In Your Ears," a single with a Dylan-like swagger in its grooves but a British edge that should've troubled the airwaves but frustratingly didn't. He worked for a time with his label-mates Honeybus, and one of his songs was covered by the band Sadie's Expression.
With no record deal, and zero interest in success, Bill Fay supported himself via factory work and fruit picking, whilst continuing to write and record songs at home, purely for the love of doing what he did best. The new century saw a gathering a gradual momentum and interest. His albums were repressed, a compilation of rarities released, as well as his abandoned third album.
As his reputation grew, artists began to reference his influence and unique vision. Jeff Tweedy of Wilco being an early admirer and advocate, and when asked in the wake of the Twin Towers atrocity, what people should listen after such an event, he recommended "Be Not So Fearful" by Bill Fay. An accolade that initially rather spooked Bill, though he would eventually share the stage with the band at Shepherd's Bush Empire in 2007 and The Union Chapel in 2010. That song has also been covered by John Howard and Ed Harcourt.
Fay eventually returned to the studio, releasing three majestic albums on Dead Oceans: Life Is People (2010), Who Is The Sender (2015), and Countless Branches (2020). The reviews were extraordinary. They are tender, fragile masterpieces, part Nick Drake, Al Stewart, and early Cat Stevens, but entirely the elegant artistry of Bill Fay. His was a second chance akin to that gifted Sixto Rodrigues, another man who returned from the cold.
My connection to Bill was forged when I placed an advert in Mojo magazine in 1998 asking if anyone knew what had become of the artist known as Bill Fay. One day, the phone rang, and the caller introduced himself:
"It's Bill Fay here, Rob. I'm sorry you had to advertise for me. I'd no idea anyone was remotely bothered about where I was." That exchange resulted in a small feature, appropriately in Mojo.
He was a quiet and diligent soul who cared about the potential of others. When I introduced him to the songs of the beleaguered artist Jobriath, his response was humbling: "I don't know why there's interest in my work when stuff of this caliber is being ignored." It was an incredibly compassionate assessment of a dead performer and a fellow piano man.
One morning, a cassette arrived from Bill. He'd lovingly compiled an album of songs from the many I'd written with Steve Hywyn Jones. Frustrated that nothing had been released, it was accompanied by a note advising me to "Release this. The worst thing that can happen is someone writes to you in thirty years time asking who you were?" It appeared in 2005 as Hatter Mad by Blue Eyed Black with a liner essay by Bill. An act of altruistic kindness for which I remain humbly grateful.
Bill Fay died (age 81) in North London where he'd resided his entire life. His late flowering, the conclusion of an interruption from thirty years before.