UPDATED: Another Deke Leonard classic five-minute read

[Mickeyboro]

Friday: scroll down for another!

 

A glimpse of Utopia - from Rhinos Winos & Lunatics

Poulseur – pronounced ‘pulls hair’ – is a little village in Belgium; 15 houses, a church, a bridge, a bar, and a large, civic building. Set picturesquely on the banks of a wide, slow-running river, I have yet to find it on a map. We arrived there on a blazing hot August day. It was in the middle of a two-week tour of the Low Countries we undertook straight after the Plymouth bust.

It was late afternoon and the sun was having a final blast before knocking off for the day. Bits of white fluff – which I assumed to be some sort of plant-life – hung, motionless, in the still, heavy air. An occasional bee managed to summon up a perfunctory buzz. Of human life, there was no sign.

We pulled up outside the large civic building, assuming it to be the gig. The doors were open. We looked inside. There was a stage and seating for about 400 people – wooden schoolchairs, joined together in groups of ten by a spar running along the backs. This must be the gig. We shouted hellos. Nothing. We set the gear up.

As gig-time approached, we experienced a whiff of apprehension. Just as we were about to call it a day, a party of seven arrived; six teenagers and an adult. Introductions were effected and the kids ran off into the hall, while the adult started pottering around backstage, switching things on. Under questioning, he revealed that he was the promoter. He was also, he said, the Mayor, the Chief of Police, and the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce.

‘Where are the audience?’ we asked.

‘You have just met them,’ he replied.

He explained the situation. The city fathers – probably the Mayor, the Chief of Police, and the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce – in their benign wisdom, worried that the isolated location of their village would mean that the village youth would be culturally deprived, had given them an entertainment budget, which they could spend any way they liked. In previous years they had hired local bands, once a month. This year was different. They had decided to spend the whole year’s budget on us.

As we walked onstage, the six kids sat in a line, halfway up the hall. The first number was a half-hour ‘Spunk Rock’. At the end of it, the six kids went apeshit, leaping to their feet, yelling and stamping. The more we played, the madder they got. By the end of the gig, they were on the stage with us. We did three encores and they screamed themselves hoarse.

After the gig we were taken to the bar. The whole village was there and we ate a riotous supper. We asked the promoter if we could roll a joint. He convened an ad hoc meeting with the Mayor, The Chief of Police and the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce and, after due deliberation and careful consideration of all the relevant facts, he came to the unanimous decision that, yes, we could. Some hours later, we inquired about the sleeping arrangements. Poulseur, he apologised, had no hotel but they had fixed up something for us in the attic of the gig. We followed him up stairs, ladders and gantries to the attic, which ran the whole length of the building. It was totally empty except for a large square gymnasium mat, laid out in the centre. This was, said the promoter, the best they could do. Would it be alright? Yes, it would. We bedded down for the night. I managed half a page of The Sirens Of Titan before I fell asleep.

We surfaced about noon into another blazing hot day. Everybody in the street waved cheerily to us and pointed towards the bar. We obeyed. Inside, the tables were laid and the staff were straining at the leash. We were shown to a table and given copious amounts of alcohol. Gradually, the place filled up and it became obvious that the whole village had turned out. A sumptuous meal arrived. The Mayor rose, unsteadily, and proposed a toast to the guests of honour. Martin reciprocated with a touching speech about the incalculable value of transitory friendship. The party spilled out into the garden and then the river-bank. Martin, swimming-trunkless, decided to cut his jeans into shorts and called for scissors. A pair were produced and Martin set to work, to the delight of the Poulseurians. As the legs of the jeans became available, they were snatched away. Somebody put ‘Two Ounces Of Plastic’ on the record player in the bar and villagers danced around the garden, tossing the legs back and forth to each other. Then, with due ceremony, they carried them, on high, into the bar. Someone found a stepladder and the legs were pinned, in crossed position, above the middle of the bar. The revelry continued, breaking off occasionally to toast the legs.

Then, we had to heed the unforgiving call of duty; it was time to leave. As we drove off the entire village waved us goodbye. The Mayor was there, the Chief of Police was there, in charge, no doubt, of crowd control, and I think I spotted the Chairman of the Poulseur Chamber of Commerce, but I can’t be sure.

We like to think that, now and again, they still put ‘Two Ounces Of Plastic’ on the record player and toast the legs. As for me, I would like, one day, to return to Poulseur, there to die.

 

Edited April 9, 2020 by Mickeyboro

[Mykesbass]

Another fine excerpt Michael! 

[songofthewind]

Great story!

[Mickeyboro]

From Maybe I Should've Stayed in Bed, his formative years in Sixties Wales

CHAPTER TWELVE: MORE, ROGER, MORE!

Then the Jets phoned up. 'What're you up to?' asked Plum. 'Nothing much,' I said. 'Do you want to join the Jets?' 'You've already got a guitar-player.' 'We want you to play piano. Wes says you're a good piano-player.' Wes, bless him, thinks I can play the piano. 'I haven't got a piano,' I said. 'Buy one,' said Plum. So I went down to Falcon Music and bought the only electric piano in the shop, a Hohner Pianet. It wasn't much to look at; it had screw-in legs and looked like a coffee table. That said, it wasn't a bad sound and, thus equipped, I faked my way through several rehearsals and did a few gigs. They were stormers.

Plum suggested turning professional. 'I am professional,' I said. 'I know you are, Leonard,' said Plum, 'I'm talking about the rest of us.' Everybody was in favour except Wes, who said he couldn't leave the family business. The ensuing discussion was heated but in the end we reached an agreement of sorts. Wes was allowed to continue working on condition he would take time off for out-of-town gigs. 'If he wants to cut hair in his spare time instead of lying in bed all day, that's up to him,' said Plum. But way down deep it rankled. When a group of people decide to burn their respective boats and set out for uncharted seas, it is hardly surprising if l'esprit de corps suffers somewhat when a member of that company decides to keep one foot on the departing shore. Achilles isn't coming out to play today; he's staying in his tent (I know that burning your boats on the eve of a voyage into uncharted waters isn't the brightest course of action, but I am not famous for my common sense, although I am becoming increasingly well-known for my mangled metaphors).

Once Martin heard that the Jets were turning professional he wanted to come back. He wasn't too happy with the Grimms, and the Grimms, it seemed, weren't too happy with him. He didn't like the music and relations with Mike Grimm, the singer, were becoming fractious. They suggested a straight swap - Ace for Wes. Wes agreed. He wasn't too happy with the Jets either. I think you could put it down to musical differences.

The rot had begun to set in before I joined the group, during a Lionel Digby tour of the West Country. They got to one of the gigs early to learn a few new numbers. Wes, who has a penchant for big, romantic ballads, suggested doing 'The Wedding'. Billy Doc, the drummer, freaked. 'You must be flipping joking,' he said, throwing down his sticks and storming off to the dressing room. Plum followed him. Billy was outraged. 'I wouldn't be seen dead doing the flipping 'Wedding', he said, pacing up and down. 'There's something wrong with you boys.' 'Don't blame me,' said Plum. 'I didn't suggest doing the flipping song.'

I'd like to be able to tell you that we exchanged bass-players at night on the Lougher Bridge, with the Jets' van parked on the Swansea side and the Grimms' van parked on the Llanelly side, and that the two bass-players - in a perfect world, wearing fur hats - walked across the bridge, passing each other silently in the middle, before reaching the other end, to cheers and celebrations. But, I regret to say, there was no formal ceremony. All it meant was that the Grimms didn't have to drive all the way to Swansea on gig nights to pick up and drop off Martin, and the Jets didn't have to drive all the way to Llanelly on gig nights to pick up and drop off Wes. Of course, they still had to drive all the way to Llanelly on gig nights to pick up and drop me off, but there seemed no way around that. Nevertheless, Plum assured me, he was working on it.

Keith, meanwhile, had joined Brian Breeze's group, the Casanovas - surely an ironic name. The Jets were as busy as the Corncrackers had been, but the money wasn't as good. But it wasn't bad either. When I'd first met them, Plum and Martin both appeared to be forces of nature, although Plum had seemed the dominant, probably because he was the singer and therefore the front-man but, with the passage of time, it became apparent that Ace was the elemental force. Plum had his cut-off point but Ace didn't. There were occasions when Plum would say enough was enough, but Ace just kept on going. He was fearless. I was always delighted when Plum reached his cut-off point because it gave me an excuse for stopping too. Well, not stopping exactly, but the relief of not being the first to see sense was palpable. I felt, and still feel, duty-bound to follow Ace whenever he goes on one of his metaphysical jaunts. If you want an LBW decision, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are pretty adjacent.

Ace can remember the exact moment he decided to become a musician. He was at a dance in the Pioneer Youth Club - 'a shed in Blackpill' - with his girlfriend, Jackie Williams. The band were terrible and Ace was slagging them off. 'Martin,' said Jackie, 'you're always moaning about the bands, If you think you can do better, buy a guitar.' 'OK,' said Martin, 'I will.' And he did. John P, the Jets' guitarist, was quiet and handsome. He had his own personal following, exclusively girls, who would melt to nothing in his presence. In unguarded moments they would talk in hushed whispers about his magnificent bottom, and when he bent down to change the settings on his amp an audible, female sigh rippled across the audience.

Billy 'Doc' Evans, the band's drummer, was a rugged individualist amongst rugged individualists. He was called 'Doc' because he looked like an Oxford don - baleful eyes, looking out from behind owlish glasses, dominated a round face, framed in straggly hair. He had extremely strong views about the playing of rock'n'roll. These views were not subject to negotiation and most definitely did not include songs like 'The Wedding'. 'Billy didn't even want to do "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright",' recalls Martin. 'Anything with the slightest whiff of sentimentality was out the window.' Billy had a standard drum-kit-of-the-day with two tom-toms, one rack and one floor. But he never touched the tom-toms. After a month or two I asked him why, if he didn't use them, he bothered to set them up? 'They came with the kit, mush,' he said.

Billy's audition with the band had been a public affair. The Jets were playing at the Pioneer Club and Tony Court, their drummer, was on the verge of leaving because his wife didn't like him playing every night. Billy was in the audience. He was one of the Mumbles Boys, the local biker gang. 'He was one of the leather jackets,' says Martin. 'When they came in it was "Look out, there's gonna be a scrap." I always had Billy down for being a really hard bastard. Little did I know.' During an inter-song chat with the audience, Plum happened to mention that the band were looking for a new drummer. 'Any drummers in the audience?' he asked, not expecting a response. 'Yeah,' shouted a voice. Cheered on by the Mumbles Boys, Billy climbed on to the stage, walked up to Tony Court and held out his hand. Meekly, Tony handed over his sticks. 'Billy got on the drums and nobody would tell him to get off because he was with all his mates,' says Martin. 'He went "Boom-bang-boom-bang-boom- bang" in Billy's style. And he didn't alter it at all. He was exactly the same when he joined the band as when he left it, and he's probably exactly the same now.'

Martin's audition, at the Gwent Boxing Club, had been brief but effective. The Jets were looking for a bass-player but Martin was a guitarist. Plum wanted him in the band but John P wasn't too keen, on the reasonable grounds that Martin wasn't a bass-player and had no track record as such. Plum took Martin aside. 'Look,' he said, 'you learn "I'll Never Get Over You" on the bass and I'll suggest it at the audition.' Martin learnt it off pat. At the audition, Plum got the ball rolling. 'Let's do something,' he said. He turned to Martin. '"I'll Never Get Over You". Have you heard that?' 'Go on then,' said Martin, and played it perfectly. 'All right,' said John P, impressed. 'We'll have him.' 'I'm glad he didn't suggest playing anything else,' said Plum, 'or Martin would have been out the door.'

The Jets gig circuit was quite small and concentrated around the Swansea area, with the occasional jaunt down west to the Black Lion in Cardigan - The Land That Time Forgot. We needed to widen our scope of operations. We decided to venture further-a-field. So we started to probe in the east, into the grimy, demonic hills and valleys of the Rhondda. Inevitably, this brought us into further contact with the Kings of Merthyr - the Bystanders. We found ourselves sharing a stage with them on a semi-regular basis. We got along like a venue on fire and took the fosters out of each other mercilessly. It was a good night out for the punters; the lush precision of the Bystanders contrasting nicely with the raucous, no-nonsense anarchy of the Jets. We decided to learn some of the Bystanders' big numbers, just to show them how it was done, We picked 'I Get Around' by the Beach Boys and 'Walk Like A Man' by the Four Seasons.

We tried them out in rehearsal. It was a disaster. We were like boxers trying to be ballet dancers. But we persevered and licked them into some sort of shape. The next time we played with the them, we opened up with 'I Get Around'. It was still pretty ropy and some of the audience had to be sedated but what we lacked in vocal dexterity we made up for in panache. The Bystanders watched open-mouthed, stunned, whether by our capricious daring or our matchless stupidity, it was hard to tell. Then they went on and did our set, opening up with 'You Can't Judge A Book By Looking At The Cover.' This was a surprise. Freed from the strictures of classic American pop, they howled, and Micky Jones was particularly abstract on the guitar. They were, it seemed, ballet-dancers who packed a punch - a cross between Rudolf Nureyev and Roberto Duran; or, we preferred to think, Wayne Sleep and Joe Bugner.

I lasted about six months with the Jets. Then shards of darkness began to stab into the sun-drenched uplands of my artistic soul. I was becoming increasingly unhappy. The company was excellent but I was getting fed up with the piano. I'm not a proper piano-player, I'm a heavy-handed vamper. I can manage a chord or two but I require at least two weeks notice to do a solo. Sometimes Plum - who, at the best of times, teetered on the brink of chaos - would turn to me, when least expected, and order me to play a solo. I'd be fine for about half the sequence, when I would be overtaken by my lack of talent. In the grip of panic I'd thrash away at the keys, making the most awful racket. I'd reach the end of the solo at roughly the same time I'd reach the outer limits of my ability and be overwhelmed by a sense of relief. This rarely lasted.

Plum would suddenly appear in front of me, pointing maniacally at the piano and yelling: 'MORE, ROGER. MORE!' The next solo would be the same as the last one, only this time stripped of all coherence. Plum would sometimes demand a third solo. This wasn't even music. I developed a siege mentality and, under the guise of minimalism, played purposefully repetitive solos, sometimes spinning the same riff out from beginning to end. 'I hate those flowery keyboard players,' I'd say, if asked. 'They're so obvious.' But, inside, I felt like I was wearing someone else's shoes. I'm a guitar-player. I don't have to think when I'm playing guitar.

I still saw Wes regularly. He wasn't happy with the Grimms either. They were, it seemed, on the brink of extinction. When the talk turned to money we discovered that we were earning about half of what used to make with the Corncrackers. Wes mentioned that he still had phonecalls, three or four a week, from promoters trying to book the band. We went to see Keith. He wasn't too happy with the Casanovas. I'm sure that there must have been some excellent reasons for us not to reform but we couldn't, off the top of our heads, think of any. So I handed my notice in to the Jets, Wes finished with the Grimms and Keith jacked in the Casanovas. The Corncrackers were back on the road.

Edited April 9, 2020 by Mickeyboro
Inserting paragraphs...

[musicbassman]

3 hours ago, Mickeyboro said:

during a Lionel Digby tour of the West Country

The 'Lionel Digby' referred to was actually a real agent based in Torquay. The very first proper band I played in which was Exeter based used to do work for him occasionally !