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At the Jazz Cafe with the Blockheads, Monday 18th March

 

I had dinner with Wee Willie Harris on Monday night. Actually I just happened to be in the same room as him backstage at the Jazz Cafe when the food arrived. In between mouthfuls he turned round to me and said, ‘have you worked this club before son?’ It was a thrilling show-biz moment for me, and would only have been bettered if he’d made a pass at me - if he’d placed a hand on my knee and said something like ‘plenty of time before our spot son...’ it would’ve been perfect. Not that I’m suggesting for a minute that either myself or Wee Willie Harris is gay, it’s just my twisted view of what old style show business should be like.

As it was my friend Andre Barreau turned up and Willie regaled us with yarns and phillosophical nuggets from the land of pie, chips and cabaret. Andre turned into a Michael Parkinson style interviewer, and while Willie explained the good sense and pitfalls of working with backing tracks, I disguised my hysterical splutterings as a troublesome peptic ulcer:

‘The clubs are taking the piss - they don’t wanna pay the money. I always says to them I’ll only do the one spot, if they want two spots they’ll have to provide a comedian or bingo, I’m an international star see, so I won’t do two spots. But they don’t like it. Well, they’re already getting rid of the drummer and the organist, so that’s two they don’t have to pay, and I do an hour and a quarter, all quality stuff with the backing tracks - an hour and a quarter, you can’t say fairer than that, but they don’t wanna pay. It ain’t right - if you want the fucking goods then you gotta pay for ‘em...’

Willie didn’t seem to think much of Cliff Richards, who he reckoned was not a truly international star because he doesn’t mean so much as a travelling light outside the UK. He doesn’t work in Cyprus for example. He agreed with me when I suggested that Cliff could have been a rock ‘n’ roll legend if only he’d died in a motorcycle accident after Move It, and we all agreed that Move It and Shakin’ All Over are the only decent pre-Beatles rock ‘n’ roll songs to come out of England. That led us nicely on to the Beatles themselves:

‘My biggest regret is that though I have worked with them on several occasions, I don’t have a photo of myself with the Beatles. Someone else may have one, but I haven’t...’

Then it was time for him to get ready so we left him to it, which was just as well because he warned us that he’d have to strip right down. At this point Ritchie, the backline roadie, came rushing in because Johnny had left his bottleneck in the dressing room. ‘You can’t go in there’ I said, ‘Wee Willie’s got his trousers off.'

He came out wearing what looked to me like a pair of flannels, tennis shoes and a pink blazer. It was as though he was presenting himself for our approval. We told him he looked very smart, and tried not to giggle when he turned round and the back of the jacket said ‘Wee Willie Harris’ in big stitched on letters. Andre was rather of the opinion that he was wearing a toupee, but I didn’t think so because it would’ve been pink rather than nondescript grey. Wee Willie Harris was the godfather of punk, he told us so. He had pink hair twenty years before either Andre or myself had even thought of the idea, not that either of us has ever succumbed to pink hair. ’...and that was back in the days when you couldn’t even get pink hair dye - used to get it mixed up by an old jew boy in the Kennington Road …took him a long time to get the colour right.’

That was Wee Willie’s gimmick you see - a big pink quiff and matching drape jacket. But he was a fuck sight better than Tommy Steele. He went on and presented his tribute to Gene Vincent as a personal tribute to Ian Dury - something like that anyway. He had a hell of a voice, especially for a man of sixty odd, and he did the mike stand number just like Gene himself. He was worried at the sound check that he wouldn’t be able to do it, that there wasn’t enough room and he wouldn’t be able to ‘work the stage’. But he managed all right, and afterwards Andre and myself were treated to a graphic explanation of how he’d carefully pulled the mike stand back about a foot before raising it, in order to clear the bottles, glasses, and effect pedals that littered the front of the stage. He’d been a bit worried that he wouldn’t be able to get it up, but it went up a treat and, as Andre pointed out, he brought it down again very slowly - exactly like Gene Vincent, whose work he studied for eight weeks during a tour in the fifties. He didn’t return to the stage later for Sex & Drugs & Rock ‘n’ Roll, I was left to explain to the band that he put his civvies back on because he had to catch a train home from Victoria. He’s top class entertainment.

 

 

It was quite a nerve-racking night, but by the time I went on to do my solo support ‘spot’ I’d been nervous for about a week, so I was worn out and I didn’t give a damn anymore. I was also a bit puffed up because I’d just met Mo Mowlum who told me she was a fan. Ian’s wife, Sophie, came up to me with a nice looking woman who I vaguely recognised from somewhere. We started chatting about this and that, and Sophie said ‘oh, Eric, this is Mo.’ I looked at her and said ‘have we met before, do I know you from somewhere?’ Then I realized who she was, and before I could stop myself I’d said ‘fuck me, you’re Mo Mowlum! - I’m a huge fan.’ She laughed and said she was a fan of mine too. I was amazed, but she assured me that she always has been. It’s a bit worrying really, I hope Tony Blair isn’t a fan because I’m not a fan of his.

In case any anoraks tune in, and Tony Blair may well be one of them though I’d rather hope he’s got better things to do with his time, my set went something like:

Reconnez Cherie

Joe Meek

Bunnyhugger

The Laurel Tree

Denim ‘n’ Lace

Flexible Friend

2** Hotel

Whole Wide World

 

I talked a lot too. It went pretty well. Next I’ll tell you about Croydon and possibly more about the Blockheads at the Jazz Cafe.

 

 

© Eric Goulden, March, 2002