Biographie de Charlie par lui même...

*Récupéré sur www.charliewinston.com

Mister Winston, My life as a publican
At the age of two, I decided to move from Cornwall and buy a hotel in Suffolk which I then encouraged my former folk singing, and free-spirited parents to manage, while I sat in the front bar drinking quality single malt coke, (straight from the bottle) and people watched.

Within a few years I’d learned to talk and the hotel soon built up a strong network of local drunks who were mostly called John. That included Papa John who taught me the importance of always offering a salt & vinegar crisp to someone, before stuffing ya face.

Also, there was John who turned up religiously, every Wednesday evening, with his roll-up lino chessboard to systematically and mercilessly win every game, while pretending to teach me the art of chess. I soon realised that chess is the same as life; to win, you need to move forward.

The Hotel held events of all kinds, including bands playing most weekends in the well-named Charlie’s Bar or up in the Ball Room; there were also comedy nights, touring theatre companies, classic car club, monthly reborn Christian and Free Mason meetings.

I didn’t attend everything, but I did see some bizarre shit. It was all good food for my life on the stage.

At eight, I was given a drum kit. I learned the basics and gave up, which left me with a terminal disease I call The Beats – like Parkinson’s, but you can’t stop tapping rhythms (a lot of drummers get it).

At eleven years old I decided to sell the Hotel and live by the sea for a slower pace of life. I needed some space; things had become chaotic at the King’s Head, with my family life always on public display; Brother Jo was stealing money from the till to play arcade games in the greasy spoon, brother Tom made himself ill every weekend from too much booze, my little sister Vashti refused school, Mum was so thin she couldn’t sit down and Dad forgot who he was.

Mr Winston, My life as a home boy
Life by the sea was good. I’d wake up at six, every morning before school, go for a walk with my old friend Harry (who’s since passed away) and come back to Mahler’s Adagio for Strings and a bacon sandwich with home-made bread. Although Harry didn’t talk much he taught me a lot, including that there’s no music without silence. It was only when he wouldn’t stop barking at me to throw the stick that I found his company irritating.

I started learning the old joanna, having Beatles sing-alongs with a vicar’s daughter and blues jams with my next-door neighbour, Henry Platt (who plays keys with me now). I began to write songs and short classical/jazz pieces, mixing up Galliano, Dave Brubeck and Bach, and I experimented recording on a 4-track. With more time Dad and I would drive through country lanes in his MGA scatting along to The Mills Brothers and The Ink Spots. My friends called me ‘home boy’ because I hardly went out; standing on Southwold pier freezing my nuts off just didn’t appeal.

My teens went by without much to tell, except for forming my first band, “Body Clock”: basically a bad acid jazz outfit with the obligatory hint of Nirvana, Rage Against The Machine and Chilli Peppers. However, it got me into writing more and doing brass arrangements. I’ve had the horn ever since.

As soon as I could leave school I was determined to get out of Suffolk and move to London. My teachers called me a daydreamer and I agreed with them.

Mr Winston, My life as a piano
At seventeen I went to Brunel University to do a two-year music course. The day I was awarded a grant, I took my mates to the pub. We got trousered on Black Russians. I knicked Laz’s bike and had a head on collision with another Charlie. I still have the scar and a chipped front tooth.

At college the piano was my girlfriend. Each morning I caressed her scales in a room of glass and watched the sun rise. Sometimes I’d jam with musicians on my course, including harmonica player Ben Edwards (who plays with me now).

There was a Ballet School on my campus, so I thought it would only be rude not to go meet some nice young dancers and show them what I could do with my instrument – as a composer, you understand.

I left college, pianoless, penniless and sharing a bed with my brother. Every morning we woke up to Keith Jarret, playing in Klon – a perfect alarm clock.

Without too much thought I started playing bass guitar and I bleached my hair. My brother and I formed a band and we rocked out for three years, mixing up influences like Buckley, LTJ Bukem and Bob Marley. Although I didn’t do a degree, I look back on it as one, learning the ropes about making shit happen in the real world; stuff you can’t learn in institutions.

I worked in the Premises Studio café, making bacon butties for the likes of David Grey, The London Community Gospel Choir and Jamie Oliver (I taught him all he knows). It became my second home, where I ate, played, recorded and painted walls - had myself my own little painting & decorating business called ‘Paint Innit’.

Around the same time I was singing in the National Youth Reggae Ensemble (aka NIRE) with my flatmate, Ross Hughes, playing sax (who now plays double bass with me). It was pretty much a group of eight useless musicians that could never get past the first track in rehearsals because we’d soon forget how to stop playing – we kept trying herbal remedies but it just made it worse. However, live, we got the crowd pumping; it gave me a good chance to work an audience without hiding behind any instruments, plus, get into the likes of Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, Horace Andy and Junior Murvin, among others.

Mr Winston, My life as a YesMan
Although things started to look good for the band I had begun to sink into a shadow, disillusioned and dissatisfied. For my twenty first birthday I needed to be alone and regain the inner powers, so I went to India, learnt Tabla, and got busy one time with an Israeli chick. Returning to Gotham City, I left the band to save the world from poverty – my poverty.

And I became YESMAN!!

Whatever I could do, I did. I knew the kids out there needed me, so I started writing music and performing for theatre companies; composing for short films; multi-sensory work for people with learning disabilities; song writing workshops; sang, played percussion, bass, piano, arranged and/or produced with whoever needed the super powers of YesMan.

Despite any connotations of the name, being YesMan was exactly why I came to Gotham. I got to explore every avenue of what I do and put into practice the things I’d learnt, innit.

With this bouillabaisse of projects bubbling away, I was inspired to concoct my own dish with a crazy little Ozzy bird, called Miranda Barber. One day, we sat down on a chair in Camden and, not long after that the band Ruby Kane was born (and my old nextdoor neighbour, Henry Platt, played keys). Ruby was the kind of girl who often thought, ‘life’s a bitch’. Episode One saw the moral battle she had when going for a job in corporate finance, while in Episode Two she skydived to challenge her fear of heights and ended up meeting Hector Fish. He thought, ‘OK, so “Life’s a bitch” but don’t let it stitch you up’. The stage was their reality; the songs were their thought bubbles – a bit like the Matrix, but entirely different.

Incidentally, Ruby Kane’s parachute failed and she died in the same year she was born. It was all very dramatic.

It was around this time that my brother called upon YesMan. Since I had taken a different flight path, he’d been busy building a new machine, which people were starting to take notice of. Consequently, he was in need of a bass player to pump his engine. Having played together in the past and knowing the effect of that kin synergy we create on stage, it was unavoidable that my input would make a significant difference to the way his cradle rocked.

A reality was dawning, however, for I had begun to grow out of the cape and cowl. It was becoming more and more apparent that YesMan’s days were numbered; something profound had been stirring within the depths of my ridiculous existence; my voice. I expressed this to my big bruiser. He understood and we made a deal that I be involved to help get his vehicle off the ground and see it go airborne.

So, with my four-pegged friend help was at hand, once more! Of course it had nothing to do with the fact he was going to pay me to play bass in his band (ho, ho!).

Nonetheless, I knew that this was to be YesMan’s final chapter.

Mr Winston, My life as C.Dubya
Just before forming Ruby Kane I had rescued a poor little guitar and took it under my wing. Over the years, it kept coming to me for a strum and, being the dappy super-hero type, I often gave in. It’s true what they say – 'a guitar is not just for Christmas'.

However, I’d been looking for a new approach to writing and this appeared to be it! I could take it anywhere and my lack of technique helped me get back to the beauty and simplicity of melody, lyrics and the way they marry.

For six months, I wrote and played the acoustic gigs around London to rediscover the strength of song, while looking for the voice of Charlie Winston. It didn’t take long to realise I wanted a band.

In that summer, through a chance meeting in the street, I’d got my old college friend, Ben, to play harmonica/percussion/dulcimer in a big open-air theatre production I was composer for and musically directing. The music sounded so good in the show, we decided to keep playing together and so he joined me on my acoustic spree, like a good little boy.

A few months later, we both ended up catching the final song of a band playing in Shoreditch, which Jamie Morrison was bashing away at his skins in. We met after the gig and soon drew to the conclusion that getting together for a jam was a must. It took place the following week and all was swell. Three rehearsals and a bass player later (Elf Lord Taylor), we headlined Bush Hall.

The year continued with a healthy momentum of gigs around the Big Smoke, from Ronnie Scott’s to The Others (an unusual night which resulted in me doing a really bad impersonation of Freddy Mercury singing call & answer with the audience). We also got special support from dem Frenchies, the Raison D’Etre crew; their night became a regular spot to play and a live version of ‘My Life As A Duck’ went on their compilation.

Alongside all that, the big bruiser machine was moving on swiftly and my commitment hadn’t waned. We went into the studio to record the first album, where the Mungai family was born.

The Mungai Family is a continuously growing tree of people involved in, or who have come into contact with the Mungai machine; they get rechristened with a Mungai name and told the Mungai proverb: ‘To get anywhere in life you must be meaningless and fledicated’. Simple, really. Incidentally, somewhere within my website, there is a list of the whole Mungai family tree.

Since then, there’s been a fair amount of touring around the UK, Ireland and the US. It’s been an eye-opening episode; as well as being part of it I have been like a fly on the wall and learnt more, probably, than I can fully acknowledge, right now.

However, that final chapter is coming to its last pages and a new one is about to begin. My band has taken on various different shapes and sizes, bringing me to where I am today: Hungry for more. And should I be forced to give it all up tomorrow, I’ll do something else and put just as much in.