I was born on April 14, 1948, to Ronald William Bryon and Iris Lillian Bryon in Cardiff, South Wales. Along with my sister, Carole, I grew up in a bed and breakfast; that was all I ever knew. My father had a second job at Rhoose Airport just outside town, where he supervised the parts department.
Before he would head off to work, my father would get up and start making breakfast for the guests: sausages, bacon and eggs, and so forth. When he got halfway through preparing the food, he would hand off cooking breakfast to my mother, because he would have to leave for the airport at 7:30 a.m.
At the same time, I'd be getting ready to go to school. I would get dressed, fix my own breakfast, and slip out the front door at around 8:15 a.m., without getting in the way of my mum or the guests.
But school was hard for me; I couldn't concentrate. I was always gazing out of the window — daydreaming and looking at the slate roofs across the street — and the next thing I'd know I'd feel a piece of chalk bounce off my head: "Bryon! Pay attention!"
I often look back to a chance conversation I had with one of the boarders staying at our guest house when I was fifteen years old. It was a conversation that would change my life forever. It was 1963, and The Beatles and the Stones and all the London and Merseyside groups were never off the radio. It was a musical explosion. I spent all my time tuned to the radio. I couldn't turn it off.
We also had a few television shows dedicated to music. The biggest was called Top of the Pops, which came on every Thursday night. I wouldn't miss that show for anything, and as I watched the groups perform, I dreamed of playing in one. My love of music had become so deep that I was no longer satisfied just listening to it. I had to become part of it.
So a few school friends and I planned on starting our own group. Since Christmas was approaching, I asked my parents for a cheap guitar and a small amplifier as my main present. A couple of weeks before the holiday, my dad took me down to one of the local music stores, Barratt's of Manchester, where we dealt with one of the owners, Ray Barratt. Neither my dad nor I had the foggiest idea what we were doing, but with Ray's help we settled on a black Burns Bison guitar and a small Watkins Dominator amplifier.
Then, one morning, with only a few school days left before Christmas, I came downstairs as usual and walked through the dining room on my way to the kitchen. I saw a man sitting at the dining room table. He had his back to the wall, but his face was hidden behind a newspaper. As I walked by I politely said, "Morning ..." It was a rule — Dad made sure I was always polite to all the guests.
From behind the newspaper the man grunted back, "Mornin'."
My mother was in the kitchen, putting away the dishes she'd just washed and dried. She pulled me aside and pointed back to the dining room. "He's a musician," she whispered. This was astounding, as Dad never rented out a room to the wild riffraff that he perceived all musicians to be.
On a typical day, I'd stay in the kitchen to eat my breakfast. But not this morning ... this man was a musician and that changed everything. I had to go talk to this guy. He was a musician, and I was going to be a musician.
After I dished up my breakfast, I went into the dining room and sat down opposite t