In the black heart of Wiltshire, on a serpentine stretch of road known as Rowden Hill, madness and mortality intertwine in the cool April night air. Here, under the blighted shadow of Eddie Cochran’s tragedy, the music of the road takes a spectral turn. Our tale dances with the ghostly silhouette of an American rock 'n' roll god, forever in transit to Heathrow after a resounding Bristol gig, forever tethered to the fateful location of his premature swan song.
Eddie Cochran, our transatlantic rock 'n' roll brother, drew his last breath here twenty years ago. Fresh from setting the Colston Hall alight with his last ever passionate performance, his life snuffed out on this very stretch of asphalt, while safeguarding his sweetheart Sharon Sheeley from the gnashing teeth of their impending car wreck.
Now, his spirit has taken up residence on that highway, it seems. The latest account comes from one Mick Harris, a factory cog from Devizes. This man of routine and rubber was spinning a dance with fatigue behind the wheel, the midnight hour gnawing at his resolve, when he found himself careening towards the same chilling fate as Cochran.
Enter stage right: the spectral figure of Cochran himself, pompadour eternal and eyes alight with the fierce flame of survival. With a desperate gesture, Cochran’s ghost yanked Harris back from his vehicular plunge into the abyss, the phantom troubadour's warning still hanging in the air as Harris swerved his Ford Cortina back on track.
Now, as anyone with me at Watchfield in ‘75 knows, I'm no stranger to mind-bending phenomena, but the outpouring of tales since this story broke in the WGH back in April has made even my seasoned psyche pause. Ghostly hitchhikers, spectral warnings, phantom figures - all bearing the unmistakable visage of Cochran, appearing at the crucial crossroads between life and the Final Curtain, around the mournful anniversary of his departure.
Is it a communal hallucination, our minds amplifying a lonely roadside ghost story? Or is it proof that the heroes of rock 'n' roll never truly leave the stage? In Cochran's case, it appears he's committed to an eternal encore, saving those who dare to dance too close to the edge of the A4's deadly stage.
Harris, a self-confessed disciple of Cochran's rock 'n' roll sermon, has found his faith deepened by his ghostly encounter. "His music always resonated with me," he admits. "But this... It’s like Eddie's out there, still doing his thing, still saving souls. Amidst the chaos, it brings an odd kind of comfort."
Welcome to Wiltshire, fellow voyagers, where the spirit of rock 'n' roll doesn't bow to the mortal curtain call. Where Eddie Cochran’s legend strums through the ether, striking chords in the souls he saves. The melody of life, death, and music echoes along the spectral highways of this blessed county - the timeless testament to one man's unyielding spirit, forever on the road, forever saving lives.
Albie Morris
First published in the July 1980 edition of “The Delirium Curiosum” a now defunct, Wiltshire based underground cultural newspaper which started in 1971 and was dedicated to avante garde poetry, wyrd folklore, ghost stories , hippy philosophy, Eastern mysticism and other ideas associated with the counterculture at the time.
Footnotes:
WGH is, I believe, the Wiltshire Gazette and Herald, a local paper still going strong today.
Watchfield refers to the free festival in Watchfield, Oxfordshire in 1975, where Hawkwind played for over 2 hours and there were rumours of a Frenchman on the loose with Rabies, which turned out to be a false alarm.
Author of the article, Albie Morris, was a “face” on the scene around Wiltshire in the 60s, 70s and 80s.
Mainly known for being a dealer who specialised in particularly strong LSD - those in the know claimed it was “up there with Purple Owsley”.
No one ever knew the source of the Acid, whether Morris made it himself or had friends in the Pharmaceutical industry.
On one occasion, Police raided his Melksham flat and Morris, fearing arrest, ingested a freshly blotted sheet of tabs, thus hiding the evidence, but severely debilitating himself in the process.
After a spell in Roundway Hospital’s Secure unit in Devizes, and with ambitions to become a writer, Morris quit his job at Melksham’s Avon Rubber Factory in 1971 and started The “DC” as it became know, with fellow “head”, Vic Carter.
It flourished throughout the 70s and did surprisingly well in the 80s, until eventually calling it a day in July 1985.
Morris became an expert on Crop Circles and was often seen at Honey Street’s Barge Inn, regaling anyone who would listen with tales of the 70s music and counter cultural scene, UFO abductions and general strangeness in the Wiltshire vicinity.
His current whereabouts are unknown...