‘What are you fucking talking about?’
‘You know as well as I do, Jack! I want to know exactly who said it. Then I shall ring them and demand an apology or they’ll hear from my solicitor for character defamation.’
The voice at the other end became apoplectic. ‘You little bastard! You don’t get involved with my clients!’
‘Oh yes, I do,’ I said, ‘if they slander me! Now get off the phone and call back when you’ve brought some courtesy back to your voice.’
There was dead silence. Then, ‘You won’t be hearing from me!’ said a flat voice. Click.
Christ, I thought, as I stood shaking with the receiver still in my hand. That might just be it! Plainly, heavyweight fighting was now on the cards.
But not for long. Later on, Jack and I became good working partners and friends. But, as I was now finding out, he could and would take a row to its limits if necessary as part of his professional regime. Any ensuing anger would dissipate and sometimes be forgotten altogether within a few days, or resolved with a quick reconciliatory exchange. Only his clients were sometimes left with their emotions in tatters; at least until they learned the ropes with their irascible (but arguably incomparable) agent. Most of his other clients feared Jack too, including that true gentleman of the profession, trombonist Don Lusher, who had spent over fifty years at the top. Now, under his immaculately pressed suit, he was worried in his heart about the decreasing lack of work for his package the Best of British Jazz in which I had taken Kenny Baker’s place after his death in 1999. One day he rang Jack to talk about it.
‘Jack! Good morning to you. Don Lusher here. I was ringing to ask you whether perhaps things are a little slow for the Best of British Jazz just now?’
‘Slow? Slow?’ I was told that Jack had responded, his voice rising. ‘Of course they’re slow! First of all, you’re too old. Second, there are no fucking stars left in your band. And three, have you read page 27 of today’s Daily Telegraph?’
‘No,’ admitted the quaking Don.
‘Well, read it! And you’ll see an article proving that the trombone is the most unpopular instrument in Britain today. So that’s why you’re not getting any fucking work. Goodbye!’ Click.
But Jack was never above telling a story against himself. Once, while running European International Artistes from his prestigious office in Charing Cross Road, he called an errant bandleader in for a head-to-head bollocking. Later, he walked down Charing Cross Road and dropped into the magnificent public toilet that still welcomes visitors to its palatial depths. On the marbled walls, Jack told me with a chuckle, he read an expansive piece of black-ink graffiti: ‘There’s only one bigger shithouse in London than this and that’s Jack Higgins.’
A few days later Jack rang me again, this time with a big offer. ‘You’ll be playing Ronnie Scott’s this Christmas! For three weeks starting Monday, 15 December. The pay is £75 a night per musician . . . no bonus on New Year’s Eve. And you’ll just have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off. Tell the boys!’
I couldn’t contain my delight. Never had I played at the legendary Ronnie’s and, of course, neither had the Half-Dozen. Everyone was thrilled and Julian heroically declared himself able to finish his Christmas pantomime at the Chicken Shed Theatre in north London and then accelerate down to the club in time for our first set at 10.45 p.m.
‘The hours are killing,’ warned my old friend Len Skeat, a veteran at Ronnie’s. ‘You’ll have to watch yourself.’
And, as we would find out, Ronnie’s timetable made a wreck of our body clocks. The first set ran for an hour until 11.45; the second, from 1 a.m. until 2. I thought we could cope with this but two problems haunted me: the acoustics at Ronnie’s (incredibly dead) and that vexatious matter of no New Year’s Eve bonus. Most musicians at the time reckoned to make at least £200–£300 for turning out to welcome the New Year in. But this was not to be and negotiation with its taciturn manager Pete King was an impossibility. Even Jack Higgins had reached an impasse of non-communication with him: two heavyweights in an immovable clinch.
As usual it was Lisa who came up with the answer. Pay the musicians £70 a night, she suggested, and save the extra for a New Year’s Eve bonus. Good idea! Every member of the Half-Dozen would appear to receive a double fee on the night. This harmless bit of financial adjustment satisfied everyone (including me) and a sound check with Miles Ashton on the afternoon of our first night proved that masterly Miles (the son of Bill Ashton MBE, founder of the National Youth Jazz Orchestra) knew how to make us all sound good. On that first night the club was almost full and by night three the ‘house full’ signs were up for good; queues were forming in an orderly manner along Frith Street to pass under the somewhat formidable gaze of the house staff, a genial giant, Monty, a deeply dignified and immaculately dressed accomplice who hovered in the foyer like a taciturn ghost, and several other heavies for good measure.
‘Leave the CDs with us,’ we were instructed but Lisa wasn’t having any. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘they’re just hidden behind on that rack and nobody’s selling anything! I’ll do it.’ Which she did, determinedly setting up a stall in the downstairs bar and selling like a champion. John Chilton had always fulsomely tipped the front-of-house heavies (and I might have done the same) but once again down-to-earth Lisa came to the rescue. ‘They’re not doing anything,’ she pointed out. ‘Why should they get a tip?’ Which was exactly right. Lisa’s sales desk was a hive of activity night after night and she made a great deal of money for Man Woman and Bulldog and Wing Commander Jack. At the end she offered Pete King commission but behind that taciturn tough exterior there beat a kindly heart and Pete didn’t take any money at all, beyond a token £50 for the use of the table. On New Year’s Eve he even invaded our band room with bottles of champagne and the deathless greeting: ‘I suppose I’d better say “fucking Happy New Year”!’
One night at Ronnie’s, while making our way through ‘Trouble in Mind’, I became aware of a high-pitched voice. ‘Goody Goody!’
It was quite a job for anyone to make themselves heard against the thundering roar of Dominic Ashworth’s marvellous blues-soaked guitar, but someone was managing it. And then again, ‘Goody Goody!’ higher still, and nearer.
Suddenly, vaguely, I was aware of a formidable figure invading the stage to my left, only to be headed gently but firmly off by my kindly trombone player Chris Gower. As he escorted the stranger out of harm’s way, the cry of ‘Goody Goody’ was as audible as ever.
The mysterious invader turned out to be Babs. Tall, with ravishingly slim legs, a full and fair face and figure and an enchanting smile (when we could see her). Babs was George’s closest female friend after Diana and the two of them were firm enemies. Diana well knew of her existence and she remained the most visible threat to domestic harmony in the Melly household. Very drunk indeed on this night, Babs unexpectedly turned up in the dressing room the next night and enchanted us all with her smile and a card of apology which was one of the rudest I’d ever seen.
For the next few years she was a frequent visitor to George’s shows and one of these – at the Bull’s Head in Barnes – produced a first for the Half-Dozen. Deeply committed to a passionate blues trumpet solo amid the roar of sound that the Half-Dozen could produce, I was vaguely aware of suppressed snorts of laughter from Len Skeat and Bobby Worth. Opening my eyes at the end I saw Babs in the front row. Enfolded in the swirling heat of the music she had raised her skirt to waist height, celebrating her uncovered and glorious femininity for all to see. Having on previous occasions ripped off my T-shirt at the climax of a blues while touring with Carole Clegg’s blues band Speakeasy, I appreciated the passion of the moment and all that was necessary was to nod and throw an appreciative smile at Babs’ beautiful and generous womanhood.
George was regularly attended by droves of fans at Ronnie’s, many of whom I was vaguely aware that I should know. Diana Melly made a rare and welcome appearance. So did the highly celebrated Maggie Hambling, wh
ose wonderfully perceptive three-dimensional portrait of George hangs in the National Gallery, whose sculpture stands proud on the beach at Snape and whose brilliant drawings adorned his last book Slowing Down. Unfortunately, I didn’t recognise the figure who threw a critical glance at me in the downstairs bar at Ronnie’s and declared, ‘Your band’s too loud.’
I’ve always defended my band to the hilt and was proud of every member, so criticism from a stranger was dangerous territory at any time.
‘Which particular pieces – and perhaps which bars – are you thinking of?’
‘It’s just too damned loud. That’s all!’
‘Well, in that case,’ I said, ‘I suggest you make your way to some music that pleases you better!’ At least, that’s roughly what I suggested.
Later George came to the rescue as usual. ‘That was Maggie,’ he said. ‘She’s a very old – and very good – friend of mine. And a great artist. But of course she was a bit tipsy. And I’ve rung her up and told her off.’
That was typical of George. Always loyal to friends but non-judgemental, he was a great peace-maker except when roused beyond endurance. So the next time I met Maggie – after the publication of Slowing Down I extended a hand and said, ‘I thought your cartoons for Slowing Down were wonderful.’
‘They’re sketches,’ said Miss Hambling forcibly, ‘not cartoons.’ And quite right too. Oh well.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ribs, Gags and Rows
For the first four weeks of January 2004 the Half-Dozen, George and I readjusted our body clocks and made ourselves busy. Very little happens for musicians in January while the world is paying off its Christmas bills and, apart from one appearance at the Pizza Express, Maidstone, with my quartet and an early concert with George at St Albans, things were quiet until the very last day of January. But then, at the Chequer Mead Theatre, East Grinstead, things took a dramatic turn.
The stall had been set up in the foyer, the sound check completed and our first half had gone well. A full theatre, a high and imposing stage, good sound and a band that by now was as tight as a sailor’s knot. But after our first half, and our opening two tunes for the second (‘Two short ones?’ George had teased me, as usual, before we went on), he was nowhere to be seen. While I improvised a blues, Julian went in search of him and found our star gently contemplating life and his vision in the dressing-room mirror, all his usual accoutrements beneath his reflective gaze.
Julian brought him back to the stage and our second half thereafter went as smoothly as ever. After ‘Nuts’ George raised himself to take a bow and, over the microphone, I called for renewed applause for the man who, in John Chilton’s handy phrase, was ever ‘the funniest of the wise men and wisest of the funny men’. As George moved forward to bow again, I turned my head past him to wave for applause for ‘our great drummer, Bobby Worth’. But within the second the applause abruptly vanished like the terminal swipe of a sword into hushed silence. I looked back and George was nowhere to be seen. Where could he be? Then I looked down beyond the stage and there he was lying motionless eight feet below on the floor of the auditorium.
My God, I thought, he’s dead . . .
From the auditorium people rushed forward as the Half-Dozen made its confused way off-stage. By the time we were alongside, George’s eyes were open. But could he move? What might be broken? His legs? His spine?
But to a round of applause he was hauled to his feet and, supported by staunch fans, made his way out and sat down determinedly at the sale table while an ambulance was called. This amazing man refused to be cowed and chatted amiably with concerned audience members while Lisa, at his side, did a roaring trade in CDs and books. Finally the ambulance men arrived.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ said one. ‘It’s George Melly! ’Ere! Can you sign one of those books for me?’
‘Come on, Joe,’ said the other one, ‘we’ve got to get this man into hospital.’
Which in due course they did. Lisa and I followed the ambulance and, after a prolonged wait on a stretcher in the Accident and Emergency department, George was pronounced fit to go. We drove him home and put him to bed, arriving back as dawn broke. But it was Sunday.
So I phoned Diana in the country. She in turn phoned George who, by now, was in a lot of pain; he had broken his collarbone and his ribs were badly bruised. Diana dialled 999 for an ambulance and George went to hospital again and was later discharged. But he had damaged himself and for the time being had to sleep in a tall-backed chair in his sitting-room. He was also unable to fish, became sadder for a while and, according to Diana, grumpy for the first time. The hospital’s offer to set his collarbone was refused – despite the fact that one shoulder would end up higher than the other – and it was five months before our star could pick up his rod and line again. During this time he had what used to be called a ‘turn’: wandering in a confused way around his house, trying to make a bed up in his kitchen, and talking of seeing things that weren’t there; a hallucinatory result, said the doctor, of too many pills and whisky together.
But on-stage our resilient star refused to show any more signs of wear and tear. During February we played Blackpool, the delightful theatres at Richmond (transformed, for the great film Topsy-Turvey, celebrating Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado, into a re-created Savoy Theatre) and Camberley. On the way back from this concert, with George doing his best to get comfortable in the back of Lisa’s car, we unexpectedly found ourselves running on a flat tyre and hauled our way into a side road to consider the situation.
Ever practical – and realising that neither George nor I was fully equipped to change the wheel – Lisa went in search of a garage, while I rang the AA.
‘Hello. I’m afraid we have a flat and no one to change it. Can you send someone out?’
‘Certainly. What’s the name?’
‘Bridgey,’ I said, ‘Lisa Bridgey.’ There was a long pause.
‘I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have that name on our records.’
‘Yes, you do,’ I said irritably, ‘I’m sure!’
At this point Lisa came back and took the phone, just in time. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and handed the phone back to me. ‘I’m not in the AA. I’m in National Recovery. Call them and I’ll try the garage down the road.’
I hadn’t heard of National Recovery but, in a gentle haze, dialled Directory Enquiries and asked to be put through.
‘Hello,’ said a steady and cultivated female voice. ‘This is National Rescue. Are you at sea or at shore?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘This is National Rescue. Are you at sea or at shore?’
‘I’m in Sevenoaks,’ I said, by now thoroughly confused. But there, once again, was Lisa who averted the potential oncoming swarms of helicopters and fleets of lifesaving craft by setting the records (and the phonecall) straight. While off I went to buy kebabs for my long-suffering driver and guest, who was languishing in his back seat and nursing ribs that were still sore.
But travelling in-car with George was becoming less fun than it had been. To begin with I’d been delighted that he was prepared to travel with his musicians, rather than taking a star’s solitary train journey, but George was gregarious by nature and completely happy (as Diana had assured me from the start) to be with friends in the car. The diminished pleasure had far more to do with his deafness than with him. At the start of each journey he would be full of fun, jokes and reminiscences. Any trip down the M4 quickly produced the legendary story of the glorious art-deco Hoover Factory as we passed it, and George’s fond recollection that its purpose – in his words to ‘suck up shit’ – had prompted his employment by Mick Mulligan. But the difficulty of responding in the road noise made any kind of real exchanges impossible. The only way to talk to him was to put an arm around his shoulder and talk quietly into one ear but in his back-seat refuge, complete with battered briefcase and other luggage, this was an impossibility. Seated in the front passenger seat I found that one way was to place George behind the drive
r, thus making eye, and sometimes verbal, contact possible. But it was generally a losing battle and, soon into the journey, our guest would doze off as usual, waking only to bark ‘Where are we?’ or to haul himself out for a coffee break at a service station. On one occasion, wandering round in one of these, while wearing his tracksuit bottoms (rechristened appropriately ‘heart-attack pants’) he fell again while buying sausage and chips. He hauled himself resolutely to his feet and was visibly pleased to find the staff ready and eager to replace his meal for no charge.
‘I need some food now we’re here,’ he announced on arrival at Harewood House in Leeds later in the year. I went in search of the waiter.
‘They’ve only got bar snacks, I’m afraid, George.’
‘Bath mats?’ responded my friend, deploying his gorgonesque stare.
For the next few months, as his ribs and collarbone recovered, George seldom fell short on-stage. Our show had turned into a smoothly running, fine-tuned presentation, punctuated by jokes which George saw as part of his role. Most of them – to the delight of the crowd, as well as the group – were dirty ones.
For his opening number, George was now resigned to ‘Old Rockin’ Chair’ followed by his celebrated Viagra gag – frequently capped with its F-word punchline. If the laugh was big and unqualified, almost anything could follow:
‘There were two dogs at the vet’s, and one’s looking glum. The other one says, “Why are you here?” And he says, “Well, yesterday my master left me alone in the flat for hours – and I was taken short, wasn’t I? I went everywhere; on his bed, on the Afghan carpet, everywhere. So he’s brought me here to have me put down.” The other one says, “I’m not surprised you’re looking glum!” So his new friend says, “Well, why are you here?”
On the Road with George Melly Page 6