On the Road with George Melly

by Digby Fairweather

  ‘George Melly,’ I said.

  His face lit up. ‘George Melly! He’s gold! How old is he now?’

  ‘Eighty years,’ I said, ‘and nine months.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ he said. ‘A total hero! And who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Digby,’ I said, ‘Digby Fairweather.’

  His face lit up again. ‘Of course! I know you! I’ve been following you since I was that high.’ His hand lowered towards the cab floor. ‘Bloody wonderful. You’ve lost that long hair though.’

  So he did know me. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘It’s lovely having you on the bus! And you and George make a wonderful team I bet. I can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘I hope you will too – and soon!’ I said, passing my friend a CD token of affection as we reached the station.

  ‘Take care,’ he called out, waving as the bus drove off amid a fanfare of toots. A wonderful team! I thought. And in the bright sun of the Golders Green Sunday morning all the church bells seemed to be ringing at once.

  Over the next few days Diana was on the phone regularly. George, she said, had not been out of bed since his Worcester triumph. But now everything was safely in place. Yes, he could continue to work around town, indeed another job had come in for July. But from mid-June, in response to medical confirmation, out-of-town jobs would be cancelled. Jack Higgins was in busy negotiation with Paul Jones and the venues concerned, and several had already agreed to take the Half-Dozen minus its featured attraction. This of course was good news; at last my band was achieving a reputation of its own it seemed. But we would miss the man who had helped us to get there.

  ‘It’s a tragedy really,’ said kindly Craig Milverton, ‘isn’t it?’

  News from the Melly household continued to be regular and constructive. George appeared on a trailer for an ITV documentary Suggs in Soho to be broadcast in May and, hair uncombed, bearded and sporting his most spectacular kaftan, he was looking very old: ‘Terrible,’ said Jack Higgins bluntly.

  But filming was powering ahead. ‘We’re going to film him on an away job in Newark,’ said Diana one morning, ‘because the company wants to show how difficult it is to get him to work. And at the Testimonial concert at the 100 Club too. And by the way, he’s ranting about the last album. He wants the lawyers to quash it!’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t,’ I said, ‘when he hears it.’ And I explained about Julian’s recovery from an illness and how that had slowed things up.

  ‘I’m just warning you,’ said Diana.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘let me tell Julian. He can get a rough mix across to George and hopefully he’ll be able to hear how good it is. By the way, have we an updated prognosis on his life expectancy?’

  ‘I’d say two months,’ said Diana. But next morning she was on the phone again.

  ‘Michael came in last night,’ she said, ‘and he tells me that George is sinking fast. In fact I’ve asked the children to come in today to see him. But if he lasts the night I presume we won’t need to be at Teddington until around 8.30 tomorrow. I really don’t know what’s going to happen. But Jacqui Dankworth does the first half of your show, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she does, but, if things are looking that bad later, do let me know. I’d like to get in to see him too, unless it’s family only of course.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ said Diana. ‘Are you in all day?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said feeling miserable. Apparently the time was getting very near now when my old friend would make for the great cocktail bar in the sky.

  If so, the Landmark Centre at Teddington on 17 May looked like an appropriate point of departure. Named so it was said by the Luftwaffe (who during the First and Second World Wars used it as a bombing reference), it is a church of opulent cathedralic majesty. The Half-Dozen checked for set-up and sound and walked the five hundred yards to a handy riverside tavern.

  When we got back, the centre had turned into a full Hollywood set. Walkergeorge Films had done us proud. A team of cameramen and directors surrounded the rear entrance where I could see that George Melly, upright and steady-footed, was making his royal entry. Cameras and sound equipment hovered around and over the technicolour figure recording his every word, action and reaction.

  Once inside he lay on a chaise-longue to rest; a camera still trained on its subject. I knelt beside him. ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Dying!’ he responded with a smile. ‘But I’m fine for now. Just taking a rest. What time are we on?’

  ‘About 9.15.’

  ‘Two short ones?’ he twinkled. The old teaser was still at his work.

  The church was full; our band played its heroic set and Jacqui Dankworth, as poised as ever, sang her songs. Then it was time.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I announced. ‘For the past five years we’ve had the delight of touring with a man who not only is our greatest singer of the blues but a British cultural icon of the highest order. It’s been our pleasure and our pride. As you know he’s had hard times of late but he continues to sing and to delight us all. Please welcome George Melly.’

  The cameras panned in and, speedily propelled by Mike in shiny wheelchair, George arrived at the microphone in double-quick time to a roar of applause. Any lingering doubts as to whether he would be alive or able to make the show were dispelled.

  ‘Old rockin’ chair’s got me . . .’

  At the end the audience stood up as one to applaud their star, and his encore – a flirtatious ‘Ain’t Misbehaving’ with Jacqui – kept them on their feet. Afterwards he was wheeled to the back lobby and at the entrance I knelt by his chair and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘This,’ I said, ‘is the greatest man in the world!’

  A day or so later I was due back on the road but found time to send a letter of report to our agent down in Bradwell-on-Sea. I knew he’d been thinking about us.

  Dear Jack,

  As we haven’t been able to talk over the last couple of days – I’ve been busy at theJazz recording Bank Holiday specials as well as blowing – thought you’d like an update!

  Teddington was fine. George arrived in a wheelchair and was wheeled on to the stage by Mike, his minder. But he sang well and the duet with Jacqui at the end was amazing. He had a standing ovation.

  He is of course getting weaker now but preserves his energy off-stage and is still mentally quite sharp I think – we had a good conversation. It’s sad to see the slow departure of such a fine old trouper but I’m sure he’s doing it as he wants, and the family and friends are gathering around which is good to see. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him quite yet . . .

  Including tonight of course! Off to Newark shortly; then down West for a couple of days to do solo gigs.

  Hope you’re well and as busy as usual!

  As ever,

  Dig.

  At Newark, where we played the beautiful old Palace Theatre, there were more cameras, a full house and, yet again, a tour-de-force from George. He had been unwell on the way to the theatre but once on-stage stopped the show with Jacqui and the band. Beforehand Sally, the director of Walkergeorge Films, had called me in for an on-camera interview.

  ‘How do you feel about people telling him he should stop?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s a difficult one,’ I said and meant it. ‘The problem is, George is of course now very ill. And all those closest to him see all of that. But there’s something about the act of performance. It can lift you. And it might be difficult for even the most highly qualified doctor to understand how that can happen. But not understanding might also hurt George for as long as he’s able to sing at all. Because it takes away probably his most principal pleasure now.’

  ‘How would you feel if he were to die on stage?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Well, to be truthful, of course we hope it won’t happen. But, if it did, the band and I, we’d be at his side. Bring down the curtain. And give him a round of applause to send him off.’

  But after th
e ringing applause at Newark, the battery of cameras and brouhaha of activity, all was quiet again. A week later Diana rang to tie up details of the Melly Testimonial Concert, rapidly approaching on 10 June.

  ‘How’s George?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he’s been asleep since last Saturday. He hasn’t got out of bed once. Which is good really, isn’t it?’

  But a few days later remarkable things started to happen. Paul Jones – my hero from the roaring sixties and now Britain’s principal blues authority on radio (as well as still being the star frontman of both the Manfreds and his own Blues Band) – agreed to compere and Van Morrison was, by all reports, checking his commitments. And then the phone started to ring. Musicians, fans, personal friends – all had heard about the Melly Testimonial. And the word was it was already completely sold out.

  On Saturday, 2 July I found a call from Diana on my answerphone. ‘We’re going to have to cancel Goring next Friday,’ she said briefly. This was sad news; Goring Jazz Club – in a pretty village hall which was always packed to the rafters with its eminent guests – was only a manageable drive west up the Thames from Shepherd’s Bush and consequently had been kept in George’s schedule until now. ‘But,’ said Diana, ‘George has hardly been out of bed since Newark. And the nurses are in every day now.’ They have brought morphine and related treatments to the house in case pain kicks in. ‘And we can only hope,’ she said, ‘that he can make the Testimonial on Sunday. Yes, we can get him there. And of course he doesn’t have to do anything – except meet the people who love him.’

  Now, though, things were starting to move fast. And later that day Jack was on the phone again at full power. ‘George is out of action now – for good,’ he said. ‘And I want you to do some work for me. Find out everybody’s availability for everything. He won’t be doing any more at all. So get to it!’

  I got to it but found it hard to get the instant answers that Jack needed. Then Goring Jazz Club, having agreed to our appearance, summarily decided to cancel it. ‘We don’t want the backing group,’ someone said.

  I was very upset. I knew we had one of the best small bands in the country but the cancellation hurt, nevertheless. Then in the evening Diana left a long message on my answerphone full of frustration and anger over the cancellation (why hadn’t people taken her advice long ago, then all the jobs would have gone by now?) and that some performers had not confirmed their appearance at the benefit.

  And of course the Sunday concert was sold out; no help had been needed from anyone with the publicity. It was an ugly day, and I had to work hard to remember that approaching death turns the normal niceties of living upside down.

  But I couldn’t help wondering what was swirling around in the still-active brain of my old friend. Now he was lying in a specially installed hospital bed downstairs in his living-room and attended at all times by Macmillan nurses and other minders, as well as by Diana. ‘But,’ she said, ‘he’s still quite cheerful and not in any pain. He knows he’s dying though. And I’ve no idea if he’ll be there for his Testimonial.’

  ‘We’ll just have to take it by the day,’ I said. She agreed.

  And so Sunday, 10 June arrived: the day of George Melly’s Testimonial Concert. A bright optimistic morning and ‘Yes,’ said Diana, George would be there. Transported by an ambulance and carried down the steps of the 100 Club on a stretcher if necessary; the first time, it occurred to me, that George (so far as I knew) had been carried on to the stage rather than off it at the night’s end!

  Katie, from the trust for dementia, was on the phone as I hit London at 5.30 p.m.. ‘The 100 Club looks great,’ she said, ‘and we’re heading back to the Mellys to collect George. Do you think he should come on straightaway?’

  ‘Definitely. Good idea.’

  As I reached the club the queue down Oxford Street was already forming. Paul Jones, fresh faced, charismatic and looking no older than he did back in the hit-making sixties, was at the door. ‘Truly good to see you,’ I said, as we shook hands.

  Downstairs in the club it was already a turmoil of activity. A swarm of charity workers busily buzzed around, manning buckets, and a table of T-shirts and programmes had been set up by the door. Film cameras were everywhere catching every moment. A professional recordist was behind the sound desk to record the whole concert.

  The Half-Dozen arrived and we sound checked briefly just as people began to swarm into the club, running through Paul’s new selections – ‘I Ain’t Got Nothin’ but the Blues’, and an up-tempo ‘All Right, OK, You Win’, to which I had inserted a light-hearted Paul Jones Medley – ‘54321’ and ‘Pretty Flamingo’ converted for twelve-bar purposes. Paul enjoyed the joke and sounded wonderful, tearing into his vocals with the vigour of a twenty-year-old, and producing ecstatic harmonica solos for good measure. Even our rehearsal (minus bass as Len Skeat was lost in Clapham) received cheers. Soon the club was overflowing; people of all kinds – from 100 Club habitués like actor John Turner and long-time Melly colleague and co-writer Michael Pointon to Melly fans from other areas of his work – had come from home and abroad for the music and to pay their respects to a legend.

  But then it was time to visit George. ‘He’s in the dressing room,’ said Paul. ‘And he really doesn’t look good. There’s been a decline . . .’ He shook his head, looking perturbed.

  In the dressing room in his wheelchair was our star. Considerably shrunken (by account he had neither eaten nor drunk for three days), he looked distinguished nonetheless; his grey beard fulsome, his dress immaculate as ever. Around him, the court of King George: Diana, son Tom, granddaughter Kezzie, Candy, John Chilton looking distressed behind his old partner’s wheelchair, and Michael kneeling gently at his charge’s feet. As I came in he looked up and twinkled but his voice was only a whisper.

  ‘Two short ones?’

  ‘Not this time!’ I knelt next to Michael. ‘They’re all here for you! The club’s packed, just like sixty years ago.’ He nodded but his reply was inaudible.

  Michael turned to me. ‘He thinks he’s still in his bedroom,’ he said.

  Outside George Webb’s Band of Brothers had completed a storming set; the bandleader, nearing ninety, playing with the same romping enthusiasm as when he’d led his legendary Dixielanders in 1943, the band that had started it all for everybody. Then, to the stage came Kenny Ball with his Jazzmen, blowing with the same power through the joyful show that had propelled him back and back to the charts at the height of the trad boom nearly thirty years on from George. In between them, Paul Jones was a charismatic master of ceremonies, bridging an unscheduled five-minute hiatus with an unexpected but expert George Burns routine, and reading goodwill messages from a star catalogue of celebrities, among them Van Morrison, Sir Paul McCartney and the politician and jazz fan Kenneth Clarke. Between bands there was an auction heroically hosted by Alan Yentob with willing help from Paul, at which a bottle of J&B Irish whiskey encased in leather fetched several hundred pounds as did a dinner for four at a prominent London restaurant. George’s famed J&B striped suit fetched less than it might have but still was sold for over one thousand pounds. A raffle, occasionally chaotic, nevertheless raised more money still.

  And then it was time for us. I could see George’s wheelchair on its way as the Half-Dozen took the stage.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, ‘sixty years ago, a young man took to this stage while Humphrey Lyttelton blew his solo, eyes closed, on “Dr Jazz” and sang a chorus. Afterwards Humph said, “If you want to sing again, just ask.” He brought the house down then. And he’ll do so again tonight. Ladies and gentlemen [I could hear the applause rising already], please welcome our legend, George Melly.’ The audience rose to its feet.

  Hoisted to the stage in his wheelchair George took the microphone from Michael’s hand. His voice was veiled and much of the old power had vanished but the opening line was unmistakable nonetheless.

  ‘Old rockin’ chair’s got me . . .’

  Clear
ly it hadn’t quite just yet. ‘Cakewalkin’ Babies’ followed and then a moment’s silent absence as George stared vacantly into space. Michael, once again at his charge’s feet, whispered, ‘That’s enough.’

  But I was closer to my star’s ear and tried for one more last long shot. ‘George! “Thinkin’ Blues”!’

  The Half-Dozen struck up and, in little more than a hoarse whisper, he sang his last song. His audience rose to its feet again as he was carried from the stage to his dressing room and the applause refused to end. As Paul Jones bounded to the stage the joint was jumping once again to the last breathless bars.

  ‘This has been a great night in musical history,’ someone said afterwards. ‘My hands were burning with clapping,’ another member of the audience told me.

  Mindful of my optimist’s tendency to maximise the effects of a show, next morning I wanted to find out what other people thought of the concert. Had they come for a good time? To see the last musical efforts of a dying man? Or most likely, it seemed to me, to pay their respects to a legend? I telephoned Sally George, whose unfailing sunny smile, warm affectionate nature and infectious love of life had turned us into instant friends. Sally’s previous documentary, about a group of old people called Young @ Heart, who had defiantly toured America singing rock’n’roll music, had won two Golden Rose awards at Switzerland’s Rose d’Or festival 2007.

  ‘How was it?’ I asked.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said, ‘and very moving too. Though sad of course. His son Tom was distraught. He said, “My dad thinks he’s just come from a pantomime! He’s not my dad any more.” I know the feeling well – my father was just the same at the end. And I know that Katie, whose film it is, has been very moved and disturbed too sometimes by what she’s seen. But it was just such an honour to have him there; a great man and so brave! Staring the Reaper in the face is not easy.’

  ‘Moving’ seemed to be the key word. Later in the day, two old friends rang. The first of them was double bassist Pete Corrigan. ‘I had a little microphone there,’ he said, ‘talking to people for my radio show. And many people said the same thing: that seeing how the jazz fraternity united to celebrate a great life was deeply affecting.’ But it was the secretary of the Jazz Development Trust, Sebastian Scotney, who put it most cogently. ‘It was the perfect, focused moment to remember George. And everyone needed an opportunity to say goodbye. That’s what the evening gave them, and you can’t place a value on such a privilege.’