Who Am I, Again

by Lenny Henry

  I crossed my eyes, fingers and toes and … jumped.

  Who Am I #11

  So here I am. I’d just had this oddly mixed experience of being in a hugely successful show with the Black and White Minstrels. This palette of conflicting emotions was something I would carry around with me until at least 1980.

  Leading into 1977, I was strangely buoyant, but there was more professional angst to follow. (Shutterstock)

  SUMMER SEASON 1977

  I worked the 1977 summer season at the Spa Pavilion in Felixstowe with matinee idol John Hanson. In my youthful ignorance, I had no idea that Hanson had made an album of The Vagabond King/The Student Prince that went to number 9 in the UK charts. I didn’t know that he had played the Red Shadow in a record-breaking production of The Desert Song at the Palace Theatre in London in 1967. I had seen him on The Morecambe and Wise Show. Eric and Ernie had teased him something rotten about The Desert Song, and I remember my family killing themselves laughing, even though none of us knew anything about him.

  Hanson was approximately fifty-five years old when I worked with him, still handsome and fit, his face artfully made up with fake tan and just a little eyeliner – and the blackest hair I’d ever seen. He was every inch the middle-aged matinee idol and had a fervent following among the blue-rinse brigade. In fact, whenever he left the stage door, he’d be mobbed by women of a certain age. I didn’t envy him.

  He carried himself like the star he was and remained relatively isolated throughout the entire twelve-week run. He could belt out a song, though. Having been a boy soprano when he was younger, he now fitted into the Howard Keel style of singing – full-blooded and right in the sweet spot. He would occasionally clear his throat of phlegm mid-number during the instrumental bits – a massive hawk and then a loud swallow. The audience never heard, but everyone backstage was like, ‘Daaaaayumn! That one must have had bones in it!’

  Peter Butterworth was second on the bill. He’d chat to me in the breaks during rehearsals about his long career acting in sketches with Terry-Thomas and playing minor roles in films alongside everyone from Douglas Fairbanks Jr to Sean Connery. Peter and I had worked together previously in pantomime in Bournemouth, so there was a familiarity there that I didn’t have with Hanson.

  Also on the bill was a magic act called Anna and Maria, two glamorous, sequin-wearing ladies who presented illusions in a choreographed manner. They had a massive parrot called Miggsy, who would say things from the wings during the performance. At the time, I had the dressing room nearest the stage. I would play loud music on my boombox and dance and move until I had to go on. It was a ritual. (The eighteen-minute live version of ‘Pick Up the Pieces’ by the Average White Band was a particular favourite at the time.) Then I’d make my way to the side of the stage and wait in the wings. Every night I’d be in the queue with Anna and Maria and Miggsy, who was not a big fan of John Hanson. Once while I was waiting to go on Miggsy started to mimic Hanson’s singing, but in an out-of-tune, high-pitched squawk. It was very loud and distracting. Hanson was on stage trying to sing, but looking off to the side as if to say, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  He stormed off stage, saw me waiting to go on and said, ‘Mr Henry, I want a word when you’ve finished.’ I went on and did my thing, and then went to his dressing room. On entering, I was surrounded by the aromas of eucalyptus and peppermint coming out of steaming bowls, photographs of his family, the works, everything for the professional singer in residence. His dressing room was very neat indeed. I felt slightly ashamed of my chaotic, Fungus the Bogeyman-style cave, which was mostly dominated by my boombox, a heap of dirty stage-wear and half a ton of cassettes. There was a meaningful silence before Hanson drew my attention to the order of the day: Lenny Henry mocking John Hanson’s singing mid-show. I swore blind on my mother’s grave that it was the parrot, but he just shouted at me to get out. I was ashamed that he didn’t believe me, and it cast a pall over the next few weeks.

  However, one thing happened to cheer me up. After a month, the management at the Spa Pavilion reported back to the promoters that Peter Butterworth’s act was a bit thin. I loved Peter, but I had no idea what he was up to out there. He wasn’t really a stand-up and was doing a rather camp, rambling, characterful chat, which wasn’t going down particularly well with the punters. So the promoter called and told me that I would now finish the first half of the show, that I could do twenty minutes instead of fifteen. I was ecstatic – this was the first time my talents had been acknowledged like this, a moment akin to a battlefield promotion. Peter was very kind about it. He supported me throughout the whole transition process and made me feel fit to take over his position. He was a true gentleman and never held this change in the hierarchy against me.

  But there were other things to be dealing with during this summer season.

  I had met a drummer called Martin, who played with a band called the Amazing Bavarian Stompers. They were playing at a nearby Biergarten and had garnered a considerable following. Martin and I had met at a local benefit, immediately becoming soulmates. We had a mutual love of Richard Pryor, Bill Cosby and funk music. We listened to music together and I got him into the Ohio Players and the up-the-country thumpin’ Bootsy Collins. He played me tapes of The Goon Show and insisted that I like them. I did enjoy the Goons, but when I bought the script books I was alarmed to discover dodgy stage directions in the margins, such as ‘3 coons sing during this bit’. I liked the madness of the writing, all the catchphrases, the silly voices. This madcap style came out of Spike Milligan’s time in the army – that get-up-and-go, anything goes style of ENSA entertainment. The jokes and catchphrases came thick and fast, with a surrealist backdrop. I enjoyed all that stuff, but I did not enjoy the casual racism.

  Martin and I used to eat at a café run by a sandy-haired, bespectacled guy called Reg. The café was away from the seafront and down a side street. It served massive English breakfasts and Sunday roast-type meals. I was in heaven. This was the closest I’d been to Henry-style portions since I’d left home. Martin, being a drummer and from Halifax, would order two of everything and then gobble down the whole lot, washing it down with gallon mugs of tea. In my stupidity, I would try to match him spoonful for spoonful. It wasn’t a competition, but there I was, trying to keep up with a maniacal drummer who burnt several thousand calories every performance. Martin’s big trick after each meal would be to say, ‘That were lovely. Can I have the same again, Reg?’ And I would say the same. Something had to give – and it did.

  For my sins I had agreed to perform in the Stevie Wonder medley that opened the second half of the show: ‘You Are the Sunshine of My Life’, ‘My Cherie Amour’ and ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ – definitely the non-funky side of Stevie’s work. We had to wear Second Generation-style outfits during this routine. I was in a white catsuit with pink, purple and orange panels, with tassels hanging from each sleeve. I looked ridiculous. The fit on the costume was relatively snug, as you can’t really wear a baggy catsuit for a dance number – I would have looked like a plumber who’d wandered on stage from the car park.

  About five weeks into the season, I’m in the middle of the dance break of ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ when I notice that the seams of my pants are giving way at the back. I try to minimise my movements, but it’s too late. Sixteen bars later, I do a pirouette and my pants split from backbone to navel. I had put on so much weight that the costume was no longer fit for purpose. Thankfully, I habitually wore underwear, otherwise this would have been a different kind of performance …

  Martin, being a musician and therefore perhaps more proactive, behaved in a ruthless fashion when it came to courting members of the opposite sex. I was still relatively young and any snogging etc. that would occur would usually be because Martin had begun the conversation. Back in Dudley my MO was to show off for Greg, Mac and the rest of the lads and hope that some girl was watching me act the fool. Then, when something slow came on, like ‘Summer Breeze’ by the Isley Brothers or ‘My Girl
’ by the Temptations, I’d ease across and ask her if she wanted to dance.

  In 1977 I was nineteen and assumed to be a bit of a playa, but really I wasn’t. I was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the charade of being Barry White from the Black Country. I was hopeless with girls, and it was becoming an embarrassment. I think my main technique was to go wherever the object of my desire was that day and make eyes at her. It was like Puss in Boots from Shrek, when he’s doing the huge eyes routine. Martin was very blunt with the ladies, no messing around: ‘Are you interested, love? Otherwise I’ve got a pie in the oven.’ He was a charmer.

  BACK IN LONDON, 1977

  After Felixstowe there was a brief sojourn back in Dudley. I was restless, out of sorts. My family didn’t know what to do with me. I was no longer the kid from Dudley, and there was no real connection with my former school mates. Greg, Mac and Tom – the Grazebrook Crew – were away, following their own paths. I was isolated, a road runner, never staying in one place too long. In many respects, I was glad to get on the road again.

  1977 was another year of The Fosters for me. Also, London had become less of a mystery due to my friendships with Joe and Neil, Jude, Netty and the rest. We went to see shows like Bubbling Brown Sugar, with the delightful Helen Gelzer and a spectacular cast, all choreographed by the mighty Charles Augins. We saw the film of the Rocky Horror Picture Show about six times! Of course, the clubbing, partying and carousing carried on apace too. I also got to know Norman Beaton a bit better around this time. He would show up at Gulliver’s nightclub and, like a character from an old Peter Sellers routine, would ask at reception if it was possible to cash a cheque. I used to mimic Norman for the bouncers. I’d come in, hopping on both feet, and the guys on the door would say:

  ‘What’s going on with you?’

  And I’d reply:

  ‘I’ve got one of Norman’s cheques in my pocket!’

  I don’t know why Norman was broke, because he always seemed to be working. He was appearing in a film called Black Joy (1977), which was chosen by the Cannes Film Festival and won favourable reviews at home and abroad. He was also about to work on Black Christmas, directed by Stephen Frears, which would eventually lead to his starring role in the UK’s first black soap opera, Empire Road (1978–9), so it was all happening for Norman. But he was constantly broke and partying a lot, while teaching me how to act as the eldest son in The Fosters.

  Meanwhile, I was still sleeping under the stairs at Joe’s house, and I was beginning to notice a pattern. When Joe was working, everything was cool under the sun. But when he was out of work and having to hustle for a few quid here and there, he would stomp around the house hoovering with a big black cloud over his head. He would roll up one of his curious cigarettes, watch television and moan about the lack of opportunities for actors of colour. Here was a constant reminder of how lucky I was. Even though Joe had been in episode one of The Fosters, he hadn’t been asked back. He was now plying his trade at the Royal Court or the National Theatre or wherever, whenever possible. It was a tough existence for him, whereas I would just schlep to Workington or Dorset or Cardiff, do a working men’s club or one of the bigger venues, and then come home, having made enough money to pay the bills for the next few months. Eric and Ernie used to call the big club gigs ‘bank raids’, and they were right to some extent. Club comics could earn a decent living, even the ones who’d never really done a lot of telly. As long as they’d made an appearance on a show like Sunday Night at the London Palladium or Seaside Special, they managed very well.

  I think it might have been Joe’s plight that kept me from taking on a theatre role for as long as I did. I saw that he wasn’t happy, that the gaps between jobs were huge, and that when he did work, he moaned all the way through about the money, the hours, sharing a dressing room … Being an actor, he was out of work for quite lengthy stretches of time. His response to working actors on the telly was hilarious: he would really slag them off. He just didn’t seem to like anybody. His comments were cutting:

  ‘Couldn’t act his way out of a wet paper bag.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s funny … NOT! Dickhead thinks he’s a comic but couldn’t time a joke if he had a Timex jammed up his arse!’

  Sometimes he’d just yell at the TV, ‘NOT GOOD ACTING!’

  There was a brief moment when Joe and I were on our own in the house for various reasons – a change in relationship status is perhaps the best way of putting it. When single, Joe became incredibly strict around the house: he hated it if you left the toilet seat up or if you didn’t hoover at least once a week. I would put music on, sing along and get on with it. Joe would hoover with a vengeance, cursing anyone who had allowed biscuit crumbs to besmirch his carpet. I’m sure the inhalation of certain substances had a lot to do with this rage. Rather than calm Joe down, they seemed to have the opposite effect. He didn’t chill; he would heat up and become more and more furious. It was scary sometimes, and I tended to back down at those moments.

  Generally, he would have my back when we were out and about of an evening. He always stood his round and was smooth with any lady who strolled across our path. Joe didn’t do the traditional chat-up lines; it was more the way he stood, making sure the light hit him in a certain way. I would just pray that her boyfriend didn’t hit him first.

  He was always fair about my staying at his house. He replaced lost keys, drove me to gigs on occasion and cooked many, many meals for me. He was a mensch for most of the time. Although later in my career there were occasions when we didn’t get on, at this point in my life we were getting on fine.

  REFLECTION: MIMICRY IS SURVIVAL

  The experience of working on The Fosters was perhaps a portent of things to come. Here I was, playing someone my own age. The scripts were funny, and there was a recognisable structure to the work. This was clearly the gods giving me a sign: ‘Be an actor, Len! Somebody else writes a script, and then a director tells you how to do it. You don’t have to drive to Middlesbrough and do Charlie Williams’s jokes. It’s all written for you.’

  I loved being a young man playing a young man, and being on the scene in ‘the Smoke’ at a time when there were great clubs and even greater music. It took my mind off the day job, the constant grind of working the clubs and trying to figure out just exactly what I was doing up there. Perhaps I should have taken up the challenge and accepted more acting work earlier, but it just didn’t occur to me. Once I committed to learning the art of being a stand-up comedian/impressionist/entertainer, I pretty much stayed the course for twenty years, with the odd foray into acting, but never to the point of distraction. These were hard lessons to learn, and it’s interesting looking at old photographs of myself during this period, because you can see me trying on different faces – a plethora of masks. ‘Which one do I like? This one? How about this one?’

  I would grow tired of this ingratiating mimicry. But not for a while. I was fast learning how to present a moving target. If you get stuck in a trench, it becomes your grave, so I kept changing what I did, because nothing was working. The act of creativity, of trying to reinvent yourself, is painful. I was constantly remaking and remodelling my identity; constantly hurtling off a cliff and finding myself in deep water; constantly in the act of self-discovery. On-stage Len had nothing to do with off-stage Len, the confused man-boy who lost things travelling, drank too much, fell in love. But on-stage Len had to grasp a very adult craft, the art of which often eluded me.

  Both the on-stage and off-stage Lens were a mess …

  As a mimic, you’re already putting on a mask. Nobody gets the chance to find out who you actually are. It’s all pretend. Show business nowadays is all about bearing one’s soul on stage, but back in the day, audiences didn’t care who you were; they just wanted you to make them laugh, to walk on, wow them and walk off.

  Older comedians would tell me that no one was interested in politics or your private life. If you did talk about your family, you always lied about what they were ac
tually like; you created a different version of them. You never told the truth on stage; it was always a heightened world of pretence, where nothing was real. Irish people were thick, and black people were lascivious; housewives were randy, and salespeople even more so; all the policemen said, ‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s goin’ on ’ere then?’ This was a seaside postcard world where hangovers, big-chested blondes and giant sticks of rock were funny. People didn’t reveal how unhappy they were; they just practised all those tropes that we’d come to expect in 1970s clubland. As I travelled the motorways of Great Britain in pursuit of my craft, I found myself learning what was soon to become an outmoded comedy vocabulary.

  *

  For all immigrants, refugees and diaspora people, acquiring the language of your new home is a key tool of assimilation. If you’re moving to a country where everybody speaks differently to you, being able to communicate is imperative. Fortunately, in the former British colonies English was the lingua franca, so we were one step ahead. But the way we spoke English, our Jamaican patois, was deemed unacceptable to some.

  I always think it’s funny when a Jamaican is interviewed on the news and there are subtitles. It seems perfectly clear to me what is being said: ‘Mi guh down the street and mi si de man wid de gun come running,’ sounds just like, ‘I was walking down the street and I saw the assailant with the firearm approaching.’ But to Middle England it sounds like gobbledegook, so people find ways to fix it. But not my brother Seymour, who, rather bravely and stubbornly, decided that he would always speak with a Yardie-style drawl, only speaking a super-stylised mockney, like a Jamaican Dick Van Dyke, when it suited him. Generally, this is a survival technique. By becoming one with your host country, you’re sending out a message, which, to paraphrase, goes something like: