On Sunday 1st May 1966 I went to see the Beatles at the NME Poll Winners concert at the Empire Pool in North London. On the bill with many other top acts of the time - The Who, Small Faces, Rolling Stones, etc - they out-shone everyone, of course, performing `I feel fine` and `Nowhere Man` and other great songs. It was an incredible experience even though I didn`t get to hear much of the performance, due to the ear-busting decibels of female screaming.

  Outside in the grey spring rain, my ears still ringing, jostled by the still hyped-up crowd, a young man crashed into me as we both ran for a taxi. (I later learnt that this was an oft-used ruse, perfected by the youth, to obtain free rides. It worked on this night.) I offered to share the taxi with my assailant.

  The young man was actually about my own age and of similar build: seventeen and skinny, dressed like an Edwardian dandy. We both wore Beatle boots, although mine were the genuine article from Annello & David in Covent Garden; his appeared to be made of cardboard, the sole of one flapping disconsolately as he waggled his foot nervously in the back of the cab. He had the words `Tomorrow is an orange` written on the back of his hand in green ink.

  His skin was yellow, his lank hair unkempt beneath a black Lennon peaked cap. And beneath this his eyes burned with stunning adolescent passion. "I love the Beatles!" he declared in a weird accent. He nodded his head in wild agreement with his own honest statement. He shoved out a delicate, multi-ringed hand: "Hi - hi -hi! I`m Julian - Julian Starr!" His breath smelled of roses.

  And so began a brief and disturbing friendship.

  My band, The Key, had just signed a major recording contract. A massive advance had been paid and each member of the band had splashed out on Rollers and Bentleys and Aston Martins. We`d wined and dined top models and actresses and had lost thousands on the backs of horses and recalcitrant roulette wheels. We had addled our brains with a cornucopia of Technicolored pharmaceuticals. Studio time was booked for our first forays into the emerging, invisible universe of fledgling psychedelia. We were on top of the world.

  And so it was understandable that when I turned up at the band`s new flat in Pimlico with a fast-talking red-eyed American in tow, the other members of the band should collectively groan.

  It was six months before I could shake off my sidekick. He followed me everywhere: in the studio, on to film sets, to the shops, into radio stations, in the bathroom. He became a drain on my physical and mental energy with his endless questions: "How j`a do that?" "Watcha dream last night?" "Can you smoke this?" "Why is the world still turning?" `J`a think Salvador Dali is Jesus?"

  What I failed to realise was this: I was in the company of genius.

His story gradually emerged: he was in a band who had already released two albums and made a film; he was a songwriter of prolific, prestigious talent; he had come to Britain with Biff Godfried and Oliver Crumb to seek their fortune. He played us just two of his songs, `I`ve got this in my ear,` and `Who will take Grandma?` -- the latter so appalling we quickly realised it must be good.

  I encouraged Julian and his friends, but it was clear to us all that Fate had something special in store for this blessed trio. Whilst my band went on, as Kaleidoscope, to explore the lighter side of English folk-psychedelia, The Loft delved into the actual guts of the genre, producing the great secret album of the Sixties. This was the music the rest of us - and I include the Beatles and Pink Floyd in this - were striving to make. It was frightening, uplifting, troubling, purple head-splitting stuff, designed to open your skull to release those mystic butterflies. This it did with knobs on.

  With the intervention of the - unfortunately - insane Walter Ghoul, the Loft became the Lavender Brigade and the rest is history - albeit secret history.

  To the aficionados of psychedelia I have only this to say: Listen to the work of this fine `lost` band and count your blessings you were not born a fish.

Peter Daltrey, England 1999