The Drummer's Tale - A Novel by Chris Whitfield
‘Fucking hell guys, you were so right to over-rule me. It looks like we’ve got a fucking singer!’
Moreover, we have a fucking singer who sounds like Robert Plant.
*
Ten days on, we are ready to perform our first ever gig... we have collectively assigned the Talent Aplenty fiasco to the bin of forgotten history. The journey to the Liverpool Stadium starts from here and starts tonight at The Ship Inn, a public house in an area frequented by greasers and prostitutes, at least according to Brian who lives in the flat opposite. The pub is on the dilapidated Victoria Road in New Brighton, a tired and unfashionable resort on the River Mersey. The glory days of the Wirral Riviera belong to Edwardian summers past, when this place was full to the brim with eager excited families on a day trip to the seaside from the working class communities of Liverpool, Wallasey, and Birkenhead. New Brighton lost out long ago to the likes of Rhyl and Blackpool, and although not quite dead, it has probably had the last rites.
However, we do not care about venue or location. A gig is a gig. We have managed to get the booking at the Ship through Brian who knows the publican, and we have agreed to perform a kind of residency for the next two weeks, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. Our overall fee of £20 works out at £5 each, a meagre return, but we are not in this for the money.
By introducing live music to his establishment, the publican is hoping to attract a younger clientèle, though as I examine the lounge of the Ship Inn with its wizened customers, it is clear he has undertaken a challenge on par with asking the Ku Klux Klan to champion black human rights. The red and gold carpet is as worn as Harold Steptoe’s long johns, and the floral patterned upholstery is as fresh as the free school milk I had to endure in the red-hot summer of 1966. As for drinks, the only beverages on the tables are pints of mild and glasses of yellow Snowball. This is not a place for the Martini or Cinzano set, most customers scattered around the dreary lounge playing dominoes, their grey bearded dogs asleep under the tables, and their grey bearded wives at home watching repeats of The Forsyte Saga.
Despite all this, we set up the equipment with an air of vanity and prepare for the opening number. It is one of our own songs, a reasonably slow paced, melodic effort called 'Across the Water'. We get the nod from the boss and head towards our instruments. As at the Talent Aplenty gig, there is virtual silence, though Ged is once again ready to live out the Liverpool Stadium dream.
‘Evening New Brighton! We’re Junkie’s Fudge! You might want to shake, rattle, and roll your dominoes to this one.’
Unsurprisingly, there are no shouts or catcalls returned, though I do catch sight of one woman dressed in a leopard spotted coat. She seems to be the only person out there paying us any attention. We are effectively playing to an audience of one.
I am primed for something to go wrong as we launch into the first song, perhaps a bailiff from Rushforths storming in to repossess my drums but am relieved to see things go without a hitch. 'Across the Water' proves to be as gentle as mild green Fairy Liquid, so we rock things up with a few obscure tracks from Deep Purple, Traffic, and Free. The audience response is as motionless as a stuffed guinea pig, and even the old woman in the fur coat is losing interest. However, we finally elicit some reaction from the crowd when we play 'Johnny B Goode'. A few of the pensioners with the dominoes gently tap their feet and soon leopard fur woman is up jiving to the song with an imaginary partner. On closer inspection, I can see the old girl has drawn heavy red lipstick in the general vicinity of her mouth. Such is the unsteadiness of her hand, the result is more Coco the Clown than Coco Chanel, but we are in no position to be choosy. At this moment in time, we will take any fans.
Yet one minute later, as Ged plays a neat guitar solo, I am changing my mind. Exhausted by her jive, our geriatric fan slumps in her chair and adopts the pose made famous by Christine Keeler, though understandably lacking the iconic sexuality, her sex appeal on par with that of an Eduardo nude. Struggling to her feet and wobbling from side to side, she begins to undo the buttons on her blouse. I immediately avert my gaze, before some devil inside me drags my eyes back to the striptease. She is not wearing a brassiere and her exposed chest resembles the ears of an ageing Bassett Hound after a torture session on a medieval stretching machine. She is only a few feet away from Julian and blows him a kiss that turns into a raking cough. Jules glances at me and grimaces. The realities of rock and roll at this level are dawning upon us. In this context, beggars have to be choosers. We are relieved to see the publican come across and get the old girl to put her blouse back on.
The rest of the gig passes off uneventfully. It has not been a storming success, but neither has it been a dismal failure. In football terms, we have started with a goalless draw... despite that exhibitionist invading the pitch.
*
It is the last Friday in June and our final gig in the group of six at the Ship Inn. It has been a brilliant learning experience for us as a band. We have already dropped the self-indulgence of some of the little known tracks and replaced them with a few more rock and roll classics. Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Little Richard have fast become our new heroes. The reaction when we play them is unfailingly good.
Since the first night, when Vera the OAP stripper was our only fan, word has got around, and the pub is much busier. We are not sure if it is a good thing or not, but our appeal is proving to be surprisingly broad. The domino players and Vera are still here, but there is now a good mix of young and old occupying the previously empty tables and chairs. Tonight, the place looks full. John the publican is delighted, and he has offered us a few more weeks' work at twice the money. He is also introducing that rare thing in a public house, food. He is convinced that a cheese and onion sandwich on white processed bread, each slice guaranteed to have a nice stale crust curling up at the edges, will get even more people through the door. We are sticking to the Smith’s crisps.
At tonight's gig, we are starting with the song 'No Matter What' by Badfinger. I am about to count us in when the doors to the pub open and in walk five imposing guys, all dressed head to toe in full black leather. It is a gang of greasers, this country’s own brand of Hell’s Angels. I am not alone in hoping they are here for a quick one before moving on to their hallowed Biker's Club across the road. The scene is not unlike one of those Westerns where some outlaw and his cronies enter a bar, and the whole place goes silent and still.
Regrettably, it seems they are not interested in a drink. The greasers adopt the formation of an arrow, stroll menacingly past the bar, and head straight towards us, until the leader of the gang is standing less than a yard away from my drum kit. I get a very good view of him.
He is holding a crash helmet in his right hand, and given the state of his long, unwashed hair, the headgear has enough grease to cook egg and chips for all those discouraged by the publican’s cheese and onion concoction. The stench of unwashed pig is almost overpowering, his leather jacket and trousers as much a stranger to dry cleaning as a priest is to rampant sex. There is a trademark skull embroidered on to his right lapel, and crossbones on the left. He turns around briefly, and I see the names Colin and Julie painted in a ‘U’ shape connecting each shoulder blade of his leather garment. Julie clearly used to be Julia, as the remnants of the old spelling are visible. Here is a man who is either a bad speller or an opportunist when it comes to a girlfriend’s name. He holds his hand up to the rest of the pub in a gesture inviting them to be quiet, even though I can only hear the odd whisper and murmur anyway.
He faces us again, grits his yellowing teeth and then gobs, just missing my right ear. ‘Play some rock and roll,’ he growls in a voice deeper than Brenda at the 99 Club.
This is not a request a la Ed Stewpot’s Junior Choice. This is 'play some rock and roll or get your balls chewed off'. We launch straight into 'Johnny B Goode', but as the vocal kicks in, Colin motions for us to stop.
‘Faster, play faster,’ he demands.
We consent and play a near
‘Not good enough guys, just not good enough.’ He turns to his fellow clan members. ‘You know what you have to do boys.’
The greaser with a moustache like Jimmy Edwards approaches me; the fat one with a Space Hopper of a belly stands in front of Jules; the love child of Jaws from James Bond and Lurch from The Addams Family sidles up to Ged; and the limping Charlie Drake drags his torso towards Brian. Only an idiot would not be intimidated, a point reinforced when I notice Brian is the only one of us who looks calm.
‘Right you lot,’ says Colin, once again addressing us. ‘It’s time to sit down and let these boys show you how to make a real racket.’
Julian steps forward to protest. ‘Listen old chap, let’s be fair, this is our gig, we are being paid, and these people have come here to listen to us.’
If anything, the silence intensifies, until Colin suddenly pulls a knife.
‘I said sit down, all of you, and let the boys through.’
He brandishes the long, sharp blade and threatens us by dabbing it in our direction as though holding a paintbrush. We are in no position to put up any resistance and so allow the greasers to take up their positions as replacement band members. As we sit there waiting for this unscheduled performance, another one or two fellow greasers, armed with sundry offensive weapons, join the crowd. I look at the others and notice that Brian is also crapping it now. Even so, what happens next shocks us.
I stare helplessly as Jimmy Edwards extracts a wheel brace from his clothing and begins using it as a drumstick, breaking through the skins on my snare and tom toms. He kicks over the drums, cymbals, stands and uses them as a trampoline. The noise is deafening as he breaks through wood and effortlessly bends and distorts the metal of the cymbals. Somewhere in my head, I am aware that the guitars and amplifiers of Tom, Ged and Brian are being similarly damaged and destroyed, but I am unable to look away from what is happening to my Olympic kit, the same set I have not paid a penny towards. It occurs to me, that despite the injustice of what is happening before my eyes, the bailiffs will ensure I do time for this non-payment. Outwardly, I wear a shocked, pale expression, but inside I am blubbering like a baby.
The domino players have awoken from the relative slumber of the last two weeks. They watch as a flying microphone displaces the Wallasey District Domino Champions Trophy from its position on the shelf next to the bar. However, these old hands with a combined age of six hundred are not ready to take on the might of a gang of heavyweight, knife-yielding bikers. The rest of the audience bury their heads and drink as if nothing is happening.
Job done, the greasers exit the pub with smug, self-satisfied expressions on their faces, leaving us too shocked to say anything to one another. There is an unspoken realisation that this must mean the end of the band, even before it had really started. I feel the onset of tears and create a diversion by starting to tidy up. Julian and Brian follow suit. Ged just leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
I fetch my cases from the far corner of the lounge to the sound of random drumming. I turn around to see somebody sat on the stool, drumsticks flapping at the battered tom toms and misshapen cymbals. The sight marginally disperses the anger and frustration that has been building within.
‘I’m George,’ says the new drummer.
‘Hi George, my name's Tom.’
We shake hands, George displaying a big grin.
‘Hot.’ He removes his shirt to reveal a string vest.
George is Down syndrome, and he has been a keen member of the crowd for the last few performances, dancing in his own way to our sound. He has a very young persona, though I can see from the tell tale lines and creases in his perpetually smiling face, that he is probably in his thirties. As I tidy up the mess, he carries on hitting the drums until all that remains is the hi-hat. When I indicate that I need it, he stops, hands me the sticks, and gives me a bear hug like Brenda at the 99 Club. This guy is strong.
‘I love you,’ says the perspiring George as he tucks his vest in his trousers.
In the worst of circumstances, I have made a new friend.
Suddenly there is a commotion. Ged has awakened from his trance and is releasing all his frustrations on a middle-aged man in an anorak who has appeared to take photographs of the carnage. He lunges at him, fists flying, and it takes three of us to restrain him and break things up. The photographer dusts himself down, straightens his glasses, and threatens a front-page Liverpool Echo exposure of the assault as he leaves.
‘Sorry guys, I don’t know what came over me.’ Ged’s remorse kicks in very quickly. ‘He was such an easy target, armed with a fucking Nikon rather than a carving knife.’
‘These things happen old man, he’ll be alright.’ says Julian. ‘It goes with the territory.’
‘I suppose so.’ Ged stares at the ground, reliving the past half hour or so, shaking his head.
‘Why did they do it man? It was so unprovoked.’ Brian is equally bewildered.
John the publican is in earshot and says, ‘I think I may have an idea, lads.’ He is wiping his big hands on a bar towel. ‘That Colin is the caretaker at The Biker's Club, and the bastards that run the joint will have paid him and his thugs to do a hatchet job. You're the reason this place has taken so much business off them in the last couple of weeks. Apparently, it was like a morgue in there the other day. I suppose it's a compliment of sorts.' He is remorseful and sympathetic, but no more.
It occurs to me we should contact the police over the incident. ‘Hey, what about the bizzies?’
‘Forget it,’ says John, ‘they won’t go near those greasers with a bargepole.’
He pays our fee and says he will put in an insurance claim, though reckons a settlement is unlikely. We all think the same; this is the end of the road. The oldies in the lounge bid us an apathetic farewell. Vera is upset, dabbing an eye with her lipstick-smudged, cotton handkerchief, though Julian’s unreciprocated love may be the bigger factor here rather than the demise of Junkie’s Fudge. The dream is over, for both the band and Vera. We leave and head back home to normality in the low budget Caravanette.
*
The next evening, I am in the kitchen sitting on the uncomfortable, homemade stool in front of the homemade table that is dangling precariously from the wall. My dad makes propellers for a living, and he has used some of the discarded industrial metal to make this DIY breakfast bar, hardly a surprise to me because it feels like a U-Boat is stuck up my arse. At least the discomfort is providing some distraction from my desperate efforts to digest the food in front of me, a gourmet dish of Cadbury’s Smash smothered in HP Sauce. It was the best I could muster from our food stocks, and as I thumb through the Liverpool Echo, I push the plastic potato treat distractedly around my plate with a fork, reading about whether Virginia Wade can triumph at Wimbledon. This reminds me of the good news that the old man has decided to rent a brand new Colour TV. We have only had grainy pictures in grey up to now, and rubbish reception to boot. I reckon John Logie Baird was getting a better signal in the 1920s, so the prospect of watching the tennis in colour is rather wonderful.
I turn the page of the newspaper and am taken aback to see next to the adverts for Owen Owen’s an article about Junkie’s Fudge. The photographer has been nearly as good as his word, though the editor has understandably deemed a stabbing in Walton more worthy of the front page than our incident at the Ship Inn. Fortunately, there is no reporting of Ged’s physical attack on the man with the Nikon, and the piece is very sympathetic about 'the plight of five aspiring musicians who suffered the indignity of an assault by local bikers in which all their equipment
Five? The photograph shows George sitting behind the isolated hi-hat, with the caption, 'The Drummer is Distraught.' Talk about a lack of recognition. This potato feels even harder to swallow now.
6. The Song
The schools have just broken up for the summer holidays, and I am off to Wales for a family break, which will be the last of its kind for me. In a few weeks’ time, it will be my eighteenth birthday, after which I will be free of any obligation to attend such jaunts. In truth, I could get out of it now but am going for the sake of Stephen. He is at that age where he plays football or cricket every second of his day. My mum cannot play sports for toffee, and my dad’s endurance is measured in seconds. Half a minute of kick about action for the old man, and we have to search for oxygen equipment and trained medical assistance. To be honest, holidays have been few and far between in my upbringing with the usual treat a day trip to Parkgate, unlike the globetrotting Julian, whose family have recently visited the South of France, Italy and even Spain. There have been no such cosmopolitan destinations for the Kellaways.
I am in the car outside our house with Mum and Stephen waiting for my dad to make an appearance. The vehicle is a 1958 Ford Consul in gleaming beige with shiny chrome bumpers, headlight trims, and hubcaps. It looks great and is the second coolest car we have ever owned; the main honour going to the Ford Pilot with its gigantic front wheel arches and long running boards on which we would play The Untouchables. My mum is in the front passenger seat, dressed in a summery, yellow skinny rib top and skirt. She is sporting an immaculate, raven-haired version of the Dusty Springfield beehive. I can almost taste the hairspray.
‘What’s he doing in there?’ she says, looking anxiously at her watch.' Thomas, can you go and see what he's up to?'