Who Am I, Again

by Lenny Henry

  During The Summer Show, I watched various methodologies at work. Trevor Chance was a great singer, but he could also move a bit and do sketches. He and Nicky Martyn got on like a house on fire; they’d obviously worked with each other before. Aiden J. Harvey was a brilliant impressionist, but it was what he did in between the impressions that was genius. He had an almost staggery, Tommy Cooper-ish approach to his performance that I found captivating. The act was key, but it was like he was throwing it away as he performed. The running commentary between himself and the audience was kept up throughout.

  Marti Caine was a big figure, in and among it all. She smoked fags and cracked gags with her husband, Malcolm, and whoever else was in earshot. She charmed everyone. Marti even got Victoria Wood to write material for her appearance in the winners’ final at the Palladium. I don’t think she used it, but it was a massive vote of confidence in Vic. Marti was sort of team leader: she was a grown-up and had worked in every wretched venue around the country. She knew what was what and wasn’t gonna take any crap from anyone. Charlie James was the team chanteuse, diminutive, sexy. To me she was unattainable, unapproachable – out of my league.

  Victoria was a quiet epiphany throughout the recording of The Summer Show. She was incredibly shy and barely spoke to anyone. She would talk to me because I was the youngest. She’d tell me how difficult it was to write a new song every week, how she wasn’t that keen on the material. She missed being at home in her jim-jams, but she joined in with the big fun of rehearsals and costume fittings – and the naughtiness too. She and Marti were as thick as thieves, laughing together a lot. We all did.

  Vic had the best deal in that she wrote a song every week, and each time her offering would take your breath away. My two favourites were a song about children’s TV and another that went, ‘Never spend a fortnight on a health farm, you’ll end up with fourteen days of health.’ She was a marvel: every week she’d be behind schedule, and yet the night before the recording she’d quickly produce a new song. She was truly talented and severely underused on The Summer Show. They just didn’t know what to do with her.

  By the time we’d reached the end of our contracts, I’d been away from Dudley for over two months, the longest I’d ever been separated from my close friends and family. This was a pattern that would remain unchanged for years and years and years. ‘Show business’ seemed to be another term for separation, isolation – and loneliness. The qualities needed to survive were a thick skin and the ability to form friendships and alliances quickly. I was learning fast.

  My Summer Show family disbanded with promises that we’d all remain in touch, but we never did, although whenever I saw Victoria she spoke of that experience fondly and reminded me of odd moments from our time together.

  The New Faces winners’ show at the London Palladium came and went too. Marti Caine won, a group called Ofanchi came second, Al Dean came third and I came fourth. I shared a dressing room with a cockney piano-playing comic called Mike. He taught me to meditate and get my mind right for the performance. Thank God he was there, because my manager, Mike Hollis, had kept well out of the way. He was absent throughout the whole Summer Show experience, offering no help or guidance during the entire series, and after the Palladium he sort of disappeared.

  It wasn’t really his fault. I think managing acts is a rare skill; you’ve either got it or you haven’t. To be a good manager demands attention to detail, caring for the act, nurturing them, making them practise and sharpen their performance, helping to ensure the material is top quality, offering a shoulder to cry on. Through no fault of his own, Mike couldn’t hope to deliver on the majority of these functions.

  Who Am I #7

  This is me, Nicky Martyn and Charlie James in The Summer Show. As you can see, we are dressed as the Flower Pot Men. The mask I’m wearing here is kind of ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in this sketch.’ I was literally going with the flow here.

  I had a nice time during The Summer Show, being mentored alternately by Nicky Martyn, Marti Caine and Aiden J. Harvey, so there was no shortage of advice. But this was a real marking-time period, as we all tried to figure out our next steps. Mine, of course, would involve a face-down power dive into the world of the Black and White Minstrels, but I didn’t know this yet.

  WORKING THE CLUBS

  The New Faces winners’ final was not a huge victory for me, but I was still up there in a sky-blue suit in front of millions of TV viewers, performing at the fabled London Palladium. Once it was all over, I returned to the grindstone and stuck my nose down.

  I was being booked to perform at working men’s clubs on a regular basis. A lot of them paid cash and didn’t care that I was inexperienced at playing to a demanding audience. They were incredibly hard work, and I was just thrown in at the deep end. I had a lot of rough nights when the act didn’t go well, but sometimes the audience would be charmed and allow me to find my feet. On these occasions I would ‘mess around’ and talk to them – an embryonic attempt at improvisation. I sometimes had a feeling on stage that the fact that I was there was somehow more important than what I’d rehearsed.

  In this early part of my career I was often desperate for something to happen: for a table to fall over or a mic not to work or a heckler – something I could react to that would allow my comedy to kick in. I tended to be funny in the moment, when stuff went wrong. However, my approach to the act – a mix of familiar jokes, impressions and Charlie Williams-type patter – was a problem. It dragged and didn’t ever really take off. The audiences smelt blood.

  It was now that my relationship with Mike began to unravel. I was doing shows in working men’s clubs all over the Midlands and beyond, but Mike was working too, deejaying most nights of the week. It became clear to me that my career came second to his dreams and aspirations. I wasn’t dumped or mistreated or anything like that; it’s just that Mike didn’t really come to any of the gigs. He did at the start – when I was asked to do a Sunday concert at the Blackpool Opera House in 1975, he and his trusty sidekick David Luton attended. But when I was doing the journeyman stuff, schlepping from one side of the country to the other and expiring nightly at working men’s clubs, Mike was nowhere to be seen. He was off deejaying all over the Midlands, while also making endless audition tapes for the BBC. I eventually realised that I would be ploughing a lonely furrow for some time.

  Kev Jones, a local milkman and friend of Mike’s, would sometimes drive me to gigs, but that didn’t last very long. Kev was a nice guy, but he couldn’t offer what I really needed. He didn’t go through the show with me or offer jokes or come up with solutions to duff atmospheres and audiences. The amazing thing is that I stayed with Mike for nearly ten years. I think I was timid and thought:

  ‘What happens if I leave? No one else will want me.’

  ‘I’m no good. Winning New Faces was a fluke.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for Mike Hollis, I wouldn’t be here.’

  And so on …

  One of the big obstacles to moving on was the simple fact that Mama had co-signed our contract. It was legally binding, and I didn’t have the first idea about how to get out of it.

  Later on, Pauline, Mike’s wife, took over my day-to-day care. She was lovely throughout this whole experience. She was coping with a hormonal teenager who had just been thrust into the limelight, and I’m sure she had no idea what she was letting herself in for. But she made sure I got to gigs on the right days and at the right times, remembered to pick up my payments, got my clothes ironed pre-gig, ensured my music was collected from Colin Campbell’s house (Colin wrote all the music for my shows back then), always booked taxis to take me to the train station wherever I was, etc. Pauline was brilliant and became close to my family. Later, during my mother’s last few years of illness, she did everything she could to help me ensure Mama’s care was viable.

  I realise now that Mike had thought only of the beginning of my career and hadn’t really considered the subsequent navigation, strategising
and nurturing. As a fan of the 1974 film Stardust, I had expected Mike to be like the manager played by Adam Faith, who was hell-bent on doing whatever he could to keep David Essex’s rock star in the public eye. Mike’s apparent abandonment was hurtful because it didn’t fit into the movie template of ‘how to be a manager’. There was no self-sacrifice, no deals, no hustling to get the right gig at the right time. It was all very mundane and accepting, taking any old offer, doing any old gig, not paying very much attention and then leaving it to the wife when it all got too overwhelming.

  I don’t blame him. I was a young black comic with no experience of the wider world or of show business, no stage time to speak of and no way of generating material. These things take time to overcome, and Mike didn’t have that because he was busy making his own way in the world. It’s hard enough trying to break into this industry on behalf of someone, but to try and make your own bones simultaneously is nigh on impossible.

  Lots of people criticised the way my affairs were run in the 1970s, but without Mike it would have taken much longer for me to get started. There was no one else in Dudley at the time who was like him, no one else who provided an intersection between music, jokes and show business. Because I’d seen him work the stage with such grace and competence, I knew that there was a place on that stage for me. So a tip of the hat to Mike.

  ARE YOU TRIFLING WITH ME?

  Things were happening in 1975, though. Mike and I had been summoned to London to meet Robert Luff, an entrepreneur/impresario who ran various summer seasons around the country. There were plans in the offing. We drove down to London in Mike’s Jenson Interceptor. Mike sought to impress me by slamming his foot down on the accelerator continually and saying things like, ‘Good innit, chap?’

  We vroomed our way around London like Jackie Stewart and arrived at the Portman Hotel in plenty of time. The Portman in 1975 was regal in its appearance. The staff wore liveried uniforms, all purples and golds, with the bellboys in tiny hats. The frock-coated concierge showed us into the sumptuous main restaurant.

  I don’t think I’d ever seen a dining room like it. Everyone seemed to be dressed for fine dining. The men were in Savile Row suits, their hair neatly cut and Brylcreemed; the women were all dressed in couture outfits that dazzled and sizzled. We were totally overwhelmed. The maître d’ conveyed us smoothly to Mr Luff’s table, and there he was, pinstripe-suited and booted, his arms outstretched. He was the perfect English gentleman. He was a man of a certain era, sixty-ish at the time, and the consummate host, ordering wine and making sure we had menus and fizzy water. He spoke to me as an adult and didn’t patronise me at all. He treated Mike as an equal in business, as though this was just a formality, the deal already done.

  Meanwhile, I was fascinated by the carvery trolley, which was wheeled around the room silently, like a small tram laden with steaming joints of meat. My mother had already told me what I would eat – steak. ‘Well done. Mek sure dem cook it good.’ I wound up having a Steak Diane, which came in a thick gravy and was accompanied by potatoes and green beans. No dumplin’ or green banana here; this was a gourmet-style restaurant. I did miss my mother’s food when I was away from home, and this period was marked by my continued absence from Dudley. I had begun putting on weight and had gained half a stone by the end of the year, causing me to join a gym and embark on a ridiculous diet, eating lettuce for weeks on end until I lost a little timber. This gradual see-sawing in my bodyweight would continue for the next thirty years.

  But at this particular moment I’m nearly seventeen and loving being at a classy hotel eating fancy chow. I’m not really paying attention to what the grown-ups are saying; I’m looking at the posh décor. One roll of wallpaper here cost more than our entire house. I had eaten my Steak Diane and was now pouring Coca-Cola down my neck like it was on ration. Mike made several signals for me to ‘cool it with eating like a p.i.g.’ when Mr Luff wasn’t looking, and I eventually calmed down. I now turned my attention to the sweet trolley. This was a transport of delights, featuring a bath-sized trifle made with fresh fruit and topped with glistening, sugar-encrusted strawberries. There was a man-sized chocolate mousse and a gorgeous tarte Tatin. Custards and fresh fruits were also on display, but I only had eyes for the trifle, while Mike and Mr Luff spoke about ‘summer seasons’ and ‘the best setting for Len’ and ‘the best experience’ and ‘where he might learn his trade’.

  As I finished my meal with perhaps the best trifle known to man, I heard Mr Luff say, ‘Yes, definitely – the Minstrels’ show in Blackpool next year. Perfect. And he’ll do the club tour at the end of this year to get him ready? Excellent. I’ll get this.’

  He and Mike were shaking hands, and Mr Luff had his beautiful calfskin wallet out and was flipping it open to reveal at least a dozen credit cards. He took out his Diners Club card and laid it on the waiter’s little silver tray. He smiled at me and said, ‘The Minstrels will be the making of you. The audience aren’t there to see the comics; they want to hear all the old songs and look at the costumes. You’ll be able to quietly learn your trade.’

  And then with a handshake and a shoulder pat he was gone. Mike looked at me and said, ‘What a gent,’ and that was that. I was booked to play the Black and White Minstrels’ club tour at the end of the year and also the summer season the year after. I had no idea what was in store for me, but if I had done a little research, a massive fact would have leapt out at me.

  ROBERT LUFF

  Robert Luff was the mastermind behind the record-breaking ten-year run of The Black and White Minstrel Show at the Victoria Palace Theatre in London. Eight million people crossed the theatre’s threshold to watch the long-legged Television Toppers and their blacked-up partners singing songs and occasionally performing a Stephen Foster or Al Jolson medley.

  The BBC doesn’t like to acknowledge its involvement with the Minstrel Show now that it has turned out to be an embarrassment. However, it was a huge success in its day, and was dreamt up by George Inns and George Mitchell, who originally created the show as a one-off. Once broadcast, however, it took the country by storm and became regular Saturday-night fare on BBC1. It also won the Golden Rose of Montreux.

  Mr Luff (as I inevitably wound up calling him) was responsible for translating the Minstrels’ TV success into a money-making theatrical phenomenon. He rinsed out the format, starting at the Bristol Hippodrome, then took the show on the road for a two-year stint, before settling in at the Victoria Palace in London in 1962.

  The most surprising thing in all of this is that I liked him. He was very protective of me and wanted me to learn in a safe environment. From the moment he took me on, I was protected from all the crap that showbiz can throw at you. He had two wonderful women working for him, Gillian and Rhonda. In the absence of a managerial infrastructure, Mr Luff put them in charge of all my bookings and TV work, and they advised and treated me like a grown-up.

  Mr Luff told me stories about playing the drums in a dance band. During World War II he was a Gordon Highlander and saw active service in India and Burma. The weight of his experiences, which he never really expanded upon, nevertheless permeated all of our interactions. He would mutter things about being imprisoned, entertaining the troops, the harsh realities of war, and what it meant to be a man of honour in times of cruelty and chaos. I would keep a respectful silence and listen to his stories as carefully as I could, because I knew it cost him something to tell me these things. Strangely, as soon as he’d revealed an interesting nugget about his wartime experiences, he would then clam up and behave as though the information had never been exchanged. Although we had many conversations throughout our association, I felt that I’d only scratched the surface of Mr Luff’s past.

  In the 1970s he increased his benevolent work and wound up funding medical research and charities. He was a huge supporter of scoliosis and cystic fibrosis charities, and privately funded the department that carried out urinary reconstruction work at the Middlesex Hospital. I think his unending and ins
piring efforts to raise money for charity might have had something to do with my later commitment to Comic Relief. Mr Luff was always fundraising, and he urged me to do the same. If there was an event or auction that would be boosted by autograph-signing, Mr Luff insisted I help out. ‘The least you can do is give your time,’ he would say.

  So it was very difficult for anyone to question Robert Luff’s integrity or intentions. Whenever I questioned my involvement with the Minstrels, he would talk smoothly about experience and training in show business. He wouldn’t get drawn into an argument about race or prejudice; he’d simply sidestep those conversations and insist that his shows were just good old-fashioned entertainment. He really knew his audience: they were a demographic of a certain age, fans of the Great American Songbook and consumers of the old-school musicals of the 1940s and ’50s.

  When I was in Blackpool in 1976, I would go up to the lighting booth in the gods and watch the shows. No matter how the male cast members presented themselves, there was something fascinating about the audience’s love of this kind of spectacle. It was a huge show, full of movement and exotic costumes and popular songs. Mr Luff would come and see us on occasion, like a football manager; he’d just pop in whenever he felt like it to take the temperature of the cast, talk to all the behind-the-scenes staff. I always wanted to put on a good show for him. Despite the embarrassment of being the only real black person among all these fake ones, I still wanted to get out there and make the people laugh.