Sunday, the 24th of July 1958, was a typically glorious summer day in England, which is to say that it was partly cloudly with a chance of rain later.

Our recording session at EMI Studios was scheduled to commence at 7:00 pm and end at 10:00 pm sharp. Those were the rules. The scheduling was done with military precision. Alternative times would have been either 10:00 am to 1:00 pm or 2:00 pm until 5:00 pm. There were no exceptions. I believe that in addition to each three hour session a half hour was allowed for the completing of forms and for tidying up.

We recorded in Studio Number Two, the same studio that would later be used by the Beatles. Of course it didn't become known to one and all as 'Abbey Road' until the Beatles made it famous. To remind myself, I pulled the Abbey Road album out of my collection, and it occurred to me that, since it was the last album they recorded there, it was actually appropriate that they were walking away from the studio across the now famous zebra crossing.

I, having arrived at St. John's Wood underground station, had to walk down Grove End Road, turn right and cross the zebra crossing in the opposite direction, enter through the wrought iron gates, cross the graveled forecourt, and walk up the stone steps which had been ascended by the world's greatest musicians since the studio opened on November 12, 1931. Even though I was oblivious to that fact at the time, it was still a pretty imposing entrance.

Abbey Road itself began life as a footpath leading from Lisson Green to the 12th century Kilburn Abbey. The studios were originally a nine bedroom mansion built in the 19th century as a townhome for one Richard Cook. After changing hands several times it was eventually converted into flats.

In 1929 it was bought by Frank Myers, a builder, who converted it and sold it to the Gramophone Co. who later merged with The Columbia Record Co. and changed their name to Electrical and Musical Industries (EMI).

There were two main studios; Number One, being the largest, was built on and over the back gardens which, in another grander era, were once the home of peacocks. The idea behind creating the studios was to create a permanent independent facility for recording classical music (the first of its kind in the world), and the studios were large in order to accommodate symphony orchestras.

Our studio, Number Two, was almost as large as Number One, and my first sight of it was from the control room window. One looked down into this enormous, dim and somewhat forbidding space. It reminded me of the RAF aircraft hangars to which I had recently bid a fond farewell. Next to the control room, attached to the wall, was a very long flight of stairs leading down into the studio.

Descending into the depths my first impression was that there seemed to be a great many people there, far more than I had expected. Somebody was setting up a microphone, and there was a group of five or six people milling around in one corner of the studio. They turned out to be the Mike Sammes Singers (or at least some of them) who had been booked for a "half-session" to sing back up on Schoolboy Crush.

Mike who hailed from Reigate, Surrey, had played cello in the school orchestra, and, after taking a job with a music publisher, went on to form his own vocal group. They appeared frequently on BBC radio and also at the London Palladium. They subsequently sang on many of Cliff's recordings, and supplied the backing vocals for many artists including Matt Munro and the Beatles. They made several successful albums for HMV, and even had their own BBC radio show, Sammes Songs.

In addition to Cliff, Terry Smart and myself there were two other people in the studio who would turn out to be more helpful to us than we could possibly have imagined, guitarist Ernie Shear and bassist Frank Clarke. They were both quite a few years older than we were, and, to look at them, you really wouldn't automatically have associated them with rock 'n' roll.

Frank was a tall, good looking, well dressed, muscular kind of guy; you would have wanted him on your side in a rugger match. He played stand up bass, and was a very experienced session musician having played on a variety of pop, jazz and orchestral recordings.

I doubt that he had ever played rock and roll in his life, but he certainly came through for us on that day. He went on to play on many of Cliff's recordings, and, I am told, played bass on the Beatles' Penny Lane.

In contrast, Ernie Shear was short and stocky with dark wavy hair and horn rimmed glasses. Originally from Scotland, Ernie as a young man had moved to London and, at the tender age of fifteen, joined the Oscar Rabin Band.

For Move It he played a beautiful blond Hofner guitar with a DeArmond pick-up near the bridge. It has been suggested that he used a Fender amp although I doubt that; it seems too early. The British government were still busy rebuilding the post-war economy, and import restrictions were still firmly in place. Ernie would have had to travel to the United States or import it himself. It's more likely that he would have used a Selmer or some such.

Meanwhile, up in the control room, there were two engineers, Malcolm Addey and Peter Brown, both formally dressed; and Norrie Paramor himself, resplendent in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts! He had recently returned from his summer holidays in Tangier, and I guess he wanted to look as hip as he possibly could.

Previously we had only seen him sitting behind a desk at his office appearing and acting every inch the businessman as he peered over his rimless glasses. I believe his title at the time was "Recording Manager" rather than producer.

This photo was taken in the control room of Abbey Road Studio Number Two, but at a later
date. Unfortunately no pictures were taken of the Move It session.

In fact, the initial releases of Move It, both on 45 rpm and 78 rpm didn't mention Norrie. After it became a hit, however, additional pressings bore the words, "produced by Norrie Paramor."

As is well known, Schoolboy Crush was intended to be the A side and was the first song to be recorded. I seem to remember that we rehearsed it a couple of times before actually committing it to tape.

I sat on a chair in the middle of the studio far away from everybody else, and my only contribution was a very simple guitar line behind the words "Baby Doll, when we graduate you will still be my steady date."

I don't remember how many 'takes' we did, probably only a couple, after which we all trooped back up the long flight of stairs to the control room to listen to the playback. Duly satisfied, Norrie said good-bye to the Mike Sammes Singers. We never got to meet them, and for me it was the first and last time that I ever saw them. Nevertheless I thank them; listening to Schoolboy Crush today it's quite obvious that they gave an extremely professional and spirited performance.

It has been erroneously reported that Peter Brown was the engineer engaged for this session, and that Norrie had allowed him to leave because he had tickets for the opera.

In fact it was Malcolm Addey, who had only been with the studio for about three months, who engineered both Schoolboy Crush and Move It. Norrie had asked Peter to drop by at the beginning of the session just to make sure that everything was okay.

I am deeply indebted to Steve Turner for his research in The Biography. He notes that, "there were rule books at EMI Studios in those days which even went as far as stipulating the volume at which music should be recorded. Addey allowed Move It to go over the limit, and this added to its authentic sound."

And so, back down the long flight of stairs, I found that I had been moved to the far end of the recording studio. There were no photographers on hand that day, but from left to right it would have been me, Ernie Shear, Frank Clarke and Terry Smart. Cliff stood just a little in front of us facing the control room. He had had some difficulty singing without playing, so Norrie allowed him to hold on to his guitar.

First, we had to demonstrate how Move It went, and, since it only consisted of three chords, there seemed to be no need to write it out. Instead, I quickly scribbled out the lyrics for Ernie Shear which he duly placed on his music stand.

Norrie decided that, because Ernie's guitar, amp and playing were much better than mine, he should be the one to play the introduction - a great executive decision.

Despite the fact that the intro is, to say the least, somewhat unusual (it begins with a quaver rest), Ernie 'got it' immediately. We agreed that he should also play the first two bars of rhythm, and that I would take it from there, leaving him free to play the fills.

It has been said that Move It was recorded in three takes, but I think one of those was a false start. So, in fact, we got it on the second take. The record itself lasts for two minutes and twenty-one seconds; all in all, I doubt if recording it took more than twenty minutes from start to finish. These days it would be more like twenty hours.

So that was that, it was all over. I packed up my guitar, picked up my amp and walked toward the steps. Looking up I saw Norrie Paramor coming down. We had a very brief conversation which went something like this, "Well, Sammy, we're going to have to get your song published."

"Published? You mean like a book?"

"Exactly. Look, don't worry about it. I'll take care of everything."

At the time, of course, I had no idea what the implications were. No idea that I would be assigning the copyright for the "entire world" forever and ever to someone I'd never even met. And no idea at all that they were going to take half the proceeds for doing precious little. Norrie said that's what needed to be done so I did it.

He was as good as his word; he spoke with some friends of his who owned the B.F. Wood Music Co. Ltd. with offices at Mills House, Denmark Street (London's Tin Pan Alley).

A few days later I received a contract and a cheque for forty pounds. My mother was impressed. "You better write another song," she said. I couldn't have agreed with her more. Forty pounds would be several weeks wages for the average working man at that time.

After the session I remember feeling strangely deflated. There was nothing to do but go home. Same thing for Cliff, Terry and Johnny. They to Cheshunt and me to London Colney. There was nothing to take home, cassettes hadn't been invented and test acetates wouldn't be available for days.

When I finally arrived home, weary from the long journey, my mother looked up from her knitting. "Oh good, you're back," she said. "Come and help me fold these sheets."

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