Bluesphinx

 

GETTING READY.

 

“Wyn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Steve.”

  “Steve Boy!”

  “What time tonight?”

  “About four thirty.”

 ”Over at John’s place?”

 ”Yeah. Same time-same place. See you there.”

 ”Cheers Wyn. See you later.”

  The reciever went down, and I exited the public ‘phone-box. With that short exchange I knew exactly what I was going to be doing with myself that Saturday night. It would be much the same as the previous evening.

 A booking at the Four Sevens was always a two night affair-Friday and Saturday, and because it was different from the usual club venues, in the respect that it was more of a rock gig than the usual bingo and ‘Ten Guitars’ sort of do, it often carried with it the promise of a good time.

  But first my mission was to re-design my image. This meant that the two foot long greasy, and difficult to manage, ginger mane that had crowned the top of my head for the last few years had irritated me one time too many. It was way past its ‘use by’ date, and it had to go. I was considering something along the lines of David Bowie, in particular his Ziggy Stardust look. So a visit to the barber was my first port of call that bright, sunny Saturday afternoon. Let’s hope he’s got his BIG scissors-he’s gonna need ‘em!

  An hour or so later I emerged from the hairdresser’s shop, permed and preened, dressed to kill, and looking and feeling for all the world like a regular teenage idol! Proud of my new clean-cut appearance, and eager to hear the inevitable comments, wolf whistles, and wisecrackery from my mates, I stepped confidently out onto the High Street, and set my bearings for ‘home’ which for my sins was the Royal Hotel. The plan was to grab a few morsels of tinned food-warmed upon my small camping gas stove,(I knew full well that the hotel management would have frowned on this, and they would probably have had me evicted if they knew about it-not to mention the local fire authority! But a growing lad’s got to eat.) I would have a quick shower, to rid me of those annoyingly itchy hair ends that always stick in the skin under the collar after one has had one’s ears lowered. Speed, to anyone who valued their health, and well-being was an essential when it came to using the communal shower at the ‘Royal’!

  I once returned home from a hard day’s work, and stongly believed that a stiff blasting from the shower’s purging, cleansing, warm waters was just the thing to keep me in a chipper mood. The shower was an algae encrusted grey plastic cubicle erected in the middle of the floor of the same room that housed the toilet. And as I said, it was a communal room, used by all other residents. Well, it was evident that day that someone had been in there just before me. They must have got the two facilities mixed up, because when I opened the door of the shower cubicle to partake of shower’s hot purifying jets, I was confronted with the biggest four-coil human turd that it’s ever been my misfortune to set eyes on! I’d lay money on it having made the eyes of its parent water, and judging by the steam that it was releasing, I’d guess it was fairly new-born!

 Anyway, back to this day. With only two interruptions from some less than patient other residents who swore that their back teeth were floating, and importuned me, in urgent and florid tones to make haste! It was an otherwise uneventful shower, followed by a bellyful of baked beans to temporarily assuage the hunger, and quickly grabbing my bag of ‘Gig clothes’, I was out, lickety spit, and heading for John’s house, over at the other side of town.

  I knocked hard and sharp on the red front door. It was soon answered by Eirith, John’s wife, who with the usual welcome, “Hi Steve, how are you today?” and adding,”Nice hairdo!” She beckoned me to enter. “You fancy the usual?”

  “That’ll be great Eirith, thanks.”

  The usual was thinly sliced and salted tomato sandwiches, and a cup of hot sweet dark brown tea. It tasted devine and I sat with her in the kitchen while she went about piling them high onto my plate.

  “Where’s the ol’ man?” I enquired because there was no sign of John-this was not an unusual situation.

  “He’s on the ‘throne’, he’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Alright Steve?” Boomed John’s disembodied voice from the dark bosom of his open-doored bathroom.

  John was a huge man. Everything about him was larger than life, his stature, wild strawberry blond hair topped his easily eighteen stoned frame. His sense of humour was, it seemed, limitless, he knew all my jokes, and had a vast reservoir of his own. Even his voice was big. A lorry driver by trade, excellent lead guitarist, front man, and singer in Sylvester, the band I hoped would rocket one day to international stardom, and upon whose coat tails I hoped to hitch a ride. 

  But today, as was often the case when I called round, John was answering the call of nature.

  “Sugar?” Eirith offered.

  “Two please.” It was one of those things that never managed to snag on any of the hooks in her memory, but being the beggar who’s place it was not not to choose, I was OK with telling it to her one more time. Eirith dropped two piled teaspoons of sweet white crystals into my piping hot tea, and stirred. The conversation flowed easily with this farmer’s daughter. A big, black haired earth mother, she was one of those lovely people who could talk about anything, and we chatted until our tete-a-tete was interrupted once again by John’s booming voice. “Eirith, love. I need a hot spoon.”

  With well practiced efficiency, Eirith picked up the very spoon that had just been stirring my tea, took it over to the cooking range, lit one of the burners, and for a  few seconds held the it over the flame. “Back in a sec.” she announced as she scurried out towards the bathroom, leaving me with my half a tomato sandwich and a saucer of buiscuits.

  She was back in a little more than a ’sec.’ Her return was followed by a grinning John, who filled the room. “Constipation…” was all he said, and in the absence of any further explanation, or enquiry on my part, I have only ever been equipped with conjecture and suspicion to work it all out. And it is my suspicion by the way, that John, with the aid of a ‘Hot spoon’ was also working it all out! I made a mental note to bring my own spoon if there was any chance of me partaking of tea at John’s place in the future.

  Nevertheless, pretty soon the familliar sound of the van having it’s horn honked outside signalled to John and I that it was time to ‘get the show on the road.’

  As usual Tot, driver, mechanic, and head roadie, was grinning at the wheel.  Robin the number two roadie and posuer in chief, had his face leering out of the window behind him. Tot jumped out and, gig bag in hand, I bundled in.

  “Hiya boys!” I greeted from the little windowless dusk that was the back of the Transit. A small, but boisterous chorus of greetings were returned. After John had deposited his guitar through the back doors of the van, Wyn who had until now been riding shotgun jumped out to let him in the front.

  All that remained now was to collect my best friend Clive from his gaff, and we’d be on our way.

 

JOURNEY’S BEGINNING.

  The journey that Summer Saturday was much the same as always. That is to say, John and Wynn up front, Tot at the wheel, and me in the back squeezed in between Clive, Robin, and our brilliant rythm guitarist and great bloke, Dai Harries. Shouted ribald conversation centerd around everything from critiques of that morning’s edition of Tiswas, birds, (Not the feathered variety). Music, the visible cloven hooves and avarice of Alan, Sylvester’s agent, several swearing competitions, (in which I excelled!), the reasonable cost of cannabis these days, reminicences of past gigs, John’s jokes, our jokes, Clive’s amusing misuse of words over three syllables, and of course, the dying fly, (In which Dai excelled!) 

  Tot, Robin and I knew we were ’Babe magnets’, a role we took on with great vigour and relish. We were the ‘Road rats’ and as such the willing lower caste. The talented others, with  John at the helm were the glamour boys.

 

SETTING THE SCENE.

 The Four Sevens, a slightly tatty edged, peeling paintwork, down-at-heel club now long since gone, but then occupying a sparse patch of windswept ground on the top of a hill on the outskirts of Maesteg. The clientele consisted mainly of the feckless down at heel unemployed local youth, who together with the lucky hard working few used it as a venue not only for hard drinking, and the enjoyment of hard rock music, but also as an arena in which to settle their many petty disputes. These were usually in the form of pitched tribal battles between the local yokels who saw themselves as battle hardened warriors who’s sole purpose in life was to fiercely protect their home territory against the away team, whosoever they may be.

 One regular customer of note was a harmless simpleton who went by the surreal name of Dai Strawberry. His act was to sit at his regular table, half way up the right hand side of the ‘ballroom’, with two full pints of bitter ale at his disposal. Then when enough alcohol was circulating and working it’s magic in his system he would suddenly and loudly announce to the turn, “Wayhayyyy!! Play that trabone!! Play them droms!!”

  The evening started as usual with Robin, Tot, and myself unloading the ‘Gear’. I was Clive’s drum roadie, and after only a few short months of spending my weekends riding around the grimy coal-tip scarred South Wales Valleys in the company of Sylvester, I knew every last nut and bolt, every tom-tom, side drum, snare, bass drum, pedal, high hat and cymbal of Clive’s beautiful big silver double bassed Pearl drum kit. Inside out. Even so, being a natural team player, I helped the other lads to unload and bring in the very heavy and extremely cumbersome sound equipment. 

  Within twenty miutes I had set up the drums, and Clive was sitting at his kit tuning up, tapping and paradiddleing away, as I stood beside the stage and observed the scene with pride. Meanwhile, Robin and Tot had been busy setting up the rest of the band. The first time I went along with the boys Tot informed me of the rules, such as they were. “Look Steve,” He informed me the first time I went with them, “you are here to lift and carry. You are the emergency trouble shooter, so keep an eye on the boys during the performance, if anything goes wrong-if a lead comes loose or a drumstick is dropped, it’s up to you to sort it out-STRAIGHT AWAY! The show must go on! Keep the boys supplied with beer, and if you can get any, grab all the ’easy meat’.” By which he was referring to the many groupies who during our travels clung to us like limpets. Robin added with a wide bearded, gapped toothed grin, “And always carry a torch.” He always did. Poking its bright head out over the top of the back pocket of his skin-tight jeans which when not in use, was its permanent home. It came in handy for ‘trouble shooting’ when he found himself required to scrabble around in the twilight of the backstage to fix some technical problem that diminished the quality of the audience’s listening pleasure, and it also came in as an extra handy tool in his eternal quest to impress and eventually ‘grab’ any easy, and impressed ‘meat’. I took all this in before getting absolutely legless on cheap American beer, and after throwing up in the toilet found myself mid-gig being bodily dragged out by Robin and Tot, and thrown ignominiously into the back of the van to sleep it off! How to make friends and influence people!

  As soon as everything was set up, and the sound meticulously checked by John, “More top….” “Boing! Boing! Boing!” twanged Dai Harries’s guitar. “More top…” and with a quick twist of his machine heads Dai had it high enough for John’s liking. Only when each band member was satisfied with the tone of their instruments would we all retire jovially to the well stocked, and dimly lit bar. With drinks dutifully supplied on the house, and distributed by we road rats, everyone settled down in the bar to banter, and await the arrival of our largely beetle-browed, neanderthal audience.

  Pretty soon, as the house filled with punters, we took our cue to retreat, second drinks in hand, to the dressing room, where amidst further badinage and laughter everyone transformed from a group of ‘ordinary street joes’ into a preened and polished posse-Sultans of swing to a man! It was not unusual at this time for John, whose bowels were frequent and regular, to partake of the venue’s toilet facilities. The thing that I always remember about John, was his regular need for assistance of some kind whenever nature called. Remember the hot spoon! At one valley venue, during the vigourously enforced silence for housey-housey, John’s massive booming voice could be heard echoing through the empty corridoors, “Wynn. Wynn…. There’s no arse wipes!” And panicked, Wynn went scurrying about on a futile quest for some toilet paper. Unable to find any, and aware of the urgency of the situation, and also to ensure that no further announcements would be inadvertantly broadcast to the bingo playing patrons, Wynn, displaying admirable initiative went to his friend’s aid armed with two packets of Rizlas-King size of course! Was john satisfied? Who knows. I presume so as there followed much joviality, and no further prouncements on the establishment’s shortcomings in the toilet paper arrangements.

 

SHAKIN’ THAT ASS…

  Damned by faint praise, the muted applause from the attentive minority who were not more interested in tittle-tattling welcomed Sylvester onto the stage, and they hit the ground running with Johnny Be Goode. After a few deafening bars the crowd had no choice but to take notice, ant the gabfest died down, giving wat ro wolf whistles and cheers. In other less tolerant clubs, the volume would have the club entertainment secratary running toward the stage, puffed-out, and red faced, with hands waving like a black and white minstrel on speed, demanding “Tone it down boys!!”. But here in the Four Sevens due to it’s remoteness from complaining, noise averse neighbours, and the fact that it was primarily a rock venue, decibels were never an issue, in actual fact, here they were a requirement!

  But still, as always the crowd would initially be cold. The alcohol was yet to take its full uninhibiting effect, and in such cases it would fall down to me to get them up and shaking their grapes. This is where I, dressed in my ‘ridiculous little blue tank top’ and platform shoes, came into my own. I had a natural aptitude for turpsichory, and Robin and Tot had previously taught me a rock’n'roll dance routine that was guaranteed to get to their feet those in the audience who may have felt a twinge of self conciousness about being the first to ‘cut a rug’. My thinking was this; if I was prepared to make a lone spectacle of myself on the dance floor, then what excuse would they have?-None. And in ninety nine percent of cases it worked, and If it didn’t work then I’d just have to roll out the big guns-the deliberate fall as on some pretence, I sashayed across the floor. It was a routine that had taken months to perfect, and if I were ever to represent Britain in the Olympics for the falling down event I would have been able to show off an impressive mantlpiece, groaning under the weight of gold medals!

 The evening went well. The boys, fully in their stride, had done ‘Back in the USSR’, and followed up with ‘All Right Now’. Dai Strawberry, on top form, was doing his impression of an inebriate George Chisholm, and everyone was happy. During the break, whilst answering the call of nature I found myself accepting the compliments of several half soaked revellers on my choreographic skills.

 I danced my way through the first couple of numbers in the second set, and gave way to the now heaving dance floor. The easy ladies, all titties and teeth, taking regular high heeled tottering trips in little blonde possees to the ladies room to adjust and trowel on the warpaint. Then back to the floor to continue jigging around floor beached handbags, while bibulous, boozy, would-be suitors chanced their arms in the hope of a little warm and comfy port in which to harbour for the night. A measure of success for the more generously endowed and good-looking specimens, but female ranks were indignantly closed against the unsteady, mouth breathing knuckle draggers-no chance boyo!

  Before long, and without incident, the time was approaching for the last smooching dance, then amid raucous calls for more, the boys obliged with a couple of encores. When the final chords were struck, and John had bid them all good night, and “A safe journet home”, it was over, the house lights went up, and at last, it really was time to wind things up.

 

THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!

  It was now that the real drama commenced. Earlier that day, and unbeknown to us, Maesteg had received a severe drubbing as the away team on Newport’s rugby pitch, and the Newport supporters bouyed up with a sense of unseemly triumphalism decided to pay a visit en-masse, with the sole intention of rubbing the noses of the Maesteg boys in their victory. Things took on an ugly atmosphere when, as we were about to start packing up,  two boisterous and beer filled coach loads of Newport supporters turned up.

  By the time the visiting side had kicked their way into the hall the band and it’s team of roadies had retreated to the safety of the stage. Here we stayed to observe the floor-show. There were about eight or ten separate skirmishes in progress, missiles ranging from bottles and glasses to tables and chairs-even one or two bodies were flying back and forth from each side of the dance floor. It resembled a western saloon bar fight, and the police, so I was told by a staff member who had joined us, ashen faced, upon the stage for safety, were waiting outside in their cars, not willing to enter until things had calmed down a tad. Dai strawberry emerged from the bar, his usual two beers in his hands and proceeded forward to his usual table in a little coccoon of indifference as the many flying objects missed him by a hair’s breadth! And astonishingly, there he sat throughout the entire fracas, continuing to play his imaginary trombone-the scene was totally bizarre!

 Eventually exhaustion overcame the battlers, whose ferocity ran out of steam just in time for the long arm of the law to extend its grasp unhindered, and they started the mopping up process. Dishevelled bodies were unceremoniously dragged kicking and cursing outside to the waiting fleet of police vans that had by now turned up, and after about twenty minuites a kind of uneasy calm was restored.

  When the staff members had finished commenting on and generally critiqueing the nights performance, a quick check by John and Wynn to make sure that the coast was clear, and after two or three drunkenly stubborn revellers had been evicted from the back of the van by John, who wielding the base of a mike stand like a cudgel, announced, “Right boys, this is not a fucking taxi service-so you’ve got to the count of three!” They saw that he was in no mood for any shit, and hastily scurried away into the night leaving us at last to finally pack up our gear and head for home.

 

FILLIN’ UP.

  The conversation centered largely around the ‘Cabaret’, and to a lesser extent, the nights music. John’s impression of a bailiff earned him much respect, and en-route it was suggested that the evening would be perfectly rounded off  by a good hot Madras curry. This was the usual routine, but on this night we felt particularly deserving of a good plateful of the old Ghandi’s revenge!

  As was quite common I willingly entered into an eating competition with John which amazingly considering that I was half his size, I won-the loser always pays. It was past Two A.M. and as I got back inside the van, full to bursting, I was more than eager for the warmth and comfort of my pit back at the Royal.

 On the way home we picked up a foolish and scantily clad teenage hitchhiker, because as John put it, “It’s better that we pick her up, knowing that she’s going to be safe, than to just leave her walking these dark roads in the dead of night when any predator can get hold of her.”  However, this didn’t stop him from hopefully teaching her a lesson, and putting the fear of God into her by coming out with comments like, “Do you realise that we could send you home to your mother in pieces of newspaper!?”

 She didn’t end up as dismembered dog meat, instead we dropped her off  outside her front door in Swansea, shaken, and much more sober than when we first came across her.

 

NIGHTY-NIGHT!

 We dropped John off at his darkened house, then outside my place I said my goodbyes to Wyn and the rest of them, and after arranging to see Clive the following day, I finally climbed into bed at about three thirty, and with my mind mulling over the events of the night-the riot, and the lone teetering hitchiker, both of which were rarities but were to me just part of the rich tapestry of life, I sank into a deep happy sleep. Another good night could be clocked up, and I hoped then that life would always be this good.