by Bob Spitz
Right away, Lennon took control of things, telling everyone where to stand, how to act, what to play—and when. There was a flow and an authority in the way he spoke that kept the others in thrall. “I remember being very impressed that John had all this in his head,” says Nigel Walley, another childhood friend, who lived in a semi-detached house called Leosdene on Vale Road, halfway between Ivan Vaughan and Pete Shotton, and had stopped by “to see what all the fuss was about.” Since few of the boys had ever had the chance to actually see a skiffle band in action, they were obliged by John’s special knowledge, unaware that his know-how was for the most part intuitive. “He just knew what to do, it was right at his fingertips,” Walley says. “It wasn’t this concept he’d worked out; it came naturally to him. The amazing thing, too, was how effortlessly he got everyone else to follow him.”
The first song they attempted to play was “Rock Island Line” (John had bought a copy of the Donegan single from old Mrs. Roberts, who owned the village record shop, opposite the baths), with John naturally taking the lead. There was never any discussion about who should sing. With his pale face lifted to the light, John barreled through the song, while his befuddled sidemen did everything they could to stay with him. Chords were jumbled unintelligibly, each instrument reeling in its own orbit. They looked clumsy, crowded under the little metal canopy, with everyone flailing away at the strings. All the boys would later agree that the sound was an unadulterated mess, but at the time no one gave it a second thought. The thrill of playing a song together—as a band!—overshadowed their ineptitude. They grinned at one another’s beaming faces, proud and lit from within. By the end of the day, they had plowed through four folk songs, if not with measurable accomplishment, then at least brimming with determination.
Almost as vital as the music was choosing a name for the band. No one is certain who proposed calling them the Blackjacks, but it was approved unanimously and with a measure of deservedness. Eric Griffiths says, “It had the right sound for boys our age—rugged, dark, and American. We tried it on for size, and it just fit like a glove.”
Successive after-school practices produced a solid, if unpolished, set of songs. The Blackjacks learned the entire Donegan songbook, including “Wabash Cannonball,” “Dead or Alive,” “Bring Me Little Water, Sylvie,” “John Henry,” “Midnight Special,” “Cumberland Gap,” and “Worried Man Blues.” Even though John sang lead, everyone joined in the choruses. The words were so familiar that, by now, each boy had absorbed them like oxygen. When the sidemen chimed in, “Oh, let the Midnight Special shine her light on me / Let the Midnight Special shine her ever-lovin’ light on me,” the boys puffed out their chests and sang with a faintly forbidden enchantment, their voices, once timid and off-key, rising with a greedy incandescence.
Two weeks later, the quartet discovered that another skiffle band—a group with enough of a reputation to impress the boys—was also called the Blackjacks. With no alternative other than to rename the band, they gathered at Mendips one afternoon—John, Eric, Pete, Rod, and Nigel—for “a mini-brainstorming.” After a time, Pete facetiously suggested a name that apparently clicked. There was a tradition at the end of the term whereby the entire student body would stand in the auditorium and sing the school song. Everyone knew it by rote; they were forced to practice it endlessly during Prep, with Cliff Cook, a woodworking teacher, hammering it stiffly on the piano. “Quarry men, old before our birth / Straining each muscle and sinew…” The Quarry Men. John latched onto it right away, agreeing, “Yep, that sounds good, all right.” But a slight smile betrayed his underlying motivation. The name was nothing if not a send-up of the school. “We’d never strained a muscle or sinew in our life at Quarry Bank,” Shotton gently insists. “So Quarry Men, to me, seemed very appropriate.”
[III]
Finding new, fresh material quickly became John’s most pressing goal—and greatest problem. Radio was the most accessible medium, with even the BBC now acquiescing to the skiffle phenomenon, but airplay was still severely limited. Sheet music was scarce, and the cost of records was prohibitive. The only other prospect was going to a record store, where it was possible to preview one or two selections. To John, this was a font of material, and so he, Eric, and Rod joined the other fifth-term Quarry Bank students who climbed over the wall at lunchtime, bought some chips at a shop outside the school grounds, and made the hajj down Harthill Road to the roundabout at Penny Lane, where a branch of the North End Music Store (or NEMS, as it was known) serviced the small community. “You could listen to the odd record there… in a booth,” Davis says, explaining how it was impossible to crib words under the circumstances, “but then they threw [us] out when they realized [we] weren’t buying anything.”
By the end of April, the momentum was broken by the defection of Bill Smith, who proved unreliable and simply stopped showing up for practice. His departure presented no serious threat to the Quarry Men. John and Pete broke into Smith’s garage and “liberated” the tea-chest bass, figuring Bill wouldn’t miss it much.
Smith was promptly replaced by Len Garry, the boys’ singing mate from the Bank, who was now in his last year at the Liverpool Institute, in a class with his friend Ivan Vaughan and Paul McCartney. An easygoing, self-confident, and articulate Woolton lad, Len could also be indifferent to the point of distraction. But, as Griffiths recalled, “he could… pluck the strings of the tea chest as well as anybody. It didn’t matter what [notes] he played—he was acceptable as a person.”
The situation became even more exciting when Eric announced, quite unexpectedly, that he had found a drummer who might be of some use to them. A rarity in Liverpool, principally because of the cost of a set of drums, there was no greater luxury for a skiffle band. Moreover, it would provide them with an opportunity to play some rock ’n roll, which had always been John’s objective. He was beside himself with anticipation.
Griffiths knew Colin Hanton from traveling home with him on the same bus. A little gamecock of a fellow with a quick grin and hair-trigger temper, Hanton commuted regularly from his job as an apprentice at Guy Rogers, an upholstery firm in Speke that operated out of an airy, modern factory that had been used by the RAF during the war to make airplane parts. The boys had exchanged nodding glances at first, in recognition of being neighbors, then fell into genial chitchat, during which, on one occasion, Hanton divulged that he played the drums. “I was very, very amateur, never a good drummer, probably because I never had lessons,” admits Hanton, who beat out rhythms on the wooden furniture as if he were Sonny Liston, as opposed to Buddy Rich.
Hanton leaped at the invitation, but he knew the score. “I was [asked] to join the group simply because I had a set of drums,” he says without a trace of rancor. “It didn’t matter how bad I played.”
Nigel Walley, who felt slightly left out of the configuration, declared himself available to be the band’s manager and vowed to get the Quarry Men work. “I didn’t know the first thing about managing,” Walley admits now, “but no one had the slightest idea how to go about getting gigs.” Walley discovered soon enough that many of the local stores in Woolton Village would accept posters, if they looked professional. “John made up a nice-looking ad in colored inks that said, ‘Country-and-western, rock ’n roll, skiffle band—The Quarry Men—Open for Engagements—Please Call Nigel Walley, Tel. GAtacre 1715,’ ” and they convinced the manager of Mantle’s record shop to place it centrally, in the window. Business cards, printed by Charles Roberts, carried basically the same legend.
Nigel’s early efforts to place the Quarry Men in a paying gig proved fruitless. Still, no one more than John Lennon was convinced that fame and fortune were but a phone call away.
[IV]
The Quarry Men were too enamored of the spotlight to worry about paying gigs. The experience alone was enough to keep them turning up at practice. There were a number of places they found suitable for rehearsal. Eric Griffiths’s house was usually available during the day: his father, a pi
lot, had been killed during the war, and his mother worked, so the place was invariably empty. On Saturday afternoons they jammed in Colin Hanton’s living room, on Heyscroft Road, while his mother was out grocery shopping, or they went around the corner to Rod Davis’s. Even Mimi hosted a couple of practices, minus the heavy equipment. “The tea-chest bass and my drums would have been too much for [her],” Hanton points out, so the boys limited rehearsals there to some singing, mindful to “watch [their] p’s and q’s.”
At one time or another, John took each of the boys to Julia’s house in what can only be construed as a Quarry Man rite of passage. The series of unannounced, informal visits wasn’t anything like the ones they’d endured at the Griffiths’ or the Hantons’ or the Davises’, where a rigid decorum was observed. At Julia’s, the boys could be themselves, without worrying about “minding [their] manners.” They could listen to records, play instruments in her parlor, make as much noise as they wanted, smoke and swear. She expected nothing of them in the way of conventional parental respect, except that they heed her wish to “just enjoy [them]selves.” Several of the boys, while completely charmed by the familiarity, didn’t know what to make of her.
“Julia was unlike anyone I’d ever met before,” says Rod Davis, who accompanied John to her house, alone and with the group, on several occasions. “She acted familiar in a way that was almost flirtatious, and yet there was such a clear division of standing. She was John’s mum—that never strayed from anyone’s mind—but her manner and the way she acted around us was more like that of a mate.”
“One time,” Colin Hanton recalls, “I was at Mimi’s, when John developed a problem with some guitar chords, so it was off to his mum’s. Julia immediately got the banjo out and showed him everything he needed to know. If one of the riffs got too complicated, she’d sing things to emphasize what she was trying to explain. I thought, ‘Crikey, this is his mother. They’re talking music!’ It was a lot for a lad like me to digest.”
John tended to forget the distance that separated his friends from Julia. He often talked Shotton and Griffiths into forsaking their school lunch for a surreptitious trip to her house. They’d stock up on chips and cigarettes, then pedal off to Blomfield Road, where they’d flop on the couch like cocker spaniels and listen to records in her sitting room. “She had loads of records—mostly her pop, not our pop,” Shotton recalls. But Eric Griffiths remembers unearthing a cluster of rock ’n roll 78s there, which they devoured like sweets. “In fact, we discovered Gene Vincent there,” he says with certainty. Somehow Julia had gotten her hands on an American issue of “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” which the boys played endlessly until she begged them to stop. Of all the singers John had encountered, next to Elvis, Vincent came closest to possessing his ideal of a rock ’n roll voice—a deathly growl tempered with blatant sexuality and menace wrapped around an outrageous self-image. He didn’t have to see Vincent to grasp the singer’s penchant for black leather, fast bikes, and faster women; it was all right there, on that steamy track. Julia also introduced the boys to records by Shirley and Lee (“Let the Good Times Roll”) and Charlie Gracie (“Butterfly”). It would take some time for those songs to be deciphered and inserted into the Quarry Men’s repertoire to give them more of a rock ’n roll flavor, but the band’s little cushion of material, largely due to Julia’s bohemian taste, was already swinging in that direction.
Throughout April and the rest of May, the Quarry Men accepted any reasonable invitation to play, performing at various friends’ parties. Nothing seemed to discourage the boys; sometimes, the shabbier the place, the more they were able to cut loose. Mike Rice, who was in the C stream at Quarry Bank with John, recalls, “They once came and played in our garage on Manor Way, to the annoyance of all the neighbors. The noise was such that people confronted my parents and forbid the lads from coming back.”
Nigel Walley, acting as the Quarry Men’s manager, sent homemade flyers to operators of the Pavilion Theatre, the Locarno Ballroom, the Rialto, and the Grafton; however, none were quick to respond. “Instead, we played the Gaumont Cinema, near Penny Lane, a couple [of] times,” he recalls, where performers were treated about as respectfully as the beleaguered ushers who patrolled the aisles. “Most Saturday afternoons, they used to have a skiffle group on [during] intermission. They’d show a couple of short films, then have a break [in order] to change projectors, which is when we’d get up. The kids were never quiet; they’d sing along or stand up on their chairs. I don’t know how the lads got through it; John treated it like an important gig, and incredibly no one ever complained.”
Just how good—or bad—the Quarry Men were at those early gigs is difficult to gauge. Few people have any recollection of them. “We were starting to make some music that sounded good,” says Pete Shotton. But Mike Rice, who watched them rehearse at Hanton’s house, thinks they made a “general noise.” And as chaotic as they sounded at practice, he says, they were absolutely lost onstage.
By John’s own admission, the stakes grew higher in front of an audience. There was an undeniable rush to performing, “a sense that you could control a crowd’s emotions with your voice.” Eric Griffiths remembers admiring how comfortably John worked an audience, singing and emoting with an ease that eluded him in other social situations, how he seemed “to loosen up” in the spotlight “like a captive animal released into its natural habitat.”
Encouraged by the band’s progress, John was determined to test this new power under more challenging circumstances. Part of that was accomplished by entering the Quarry Men in a succession of “skiffle contests” that had become a seemingly indispensable feature of every dance hall, cabaret, and church social in Liverpool. While these shows fed the public’s insatiable appetite for skiffle, the word contest was merely code for “no pay.” Promoters had found a way, however disingenuously, of providing a rousing variety show without spending a shilling on talent. The bands played for bragging rights, or in the Quarry Men’s case, the opportunity to cut their teeth and satisfy a powerful craving for the spotlight.
Toward the beginning of May, the Liverpool Echo began announcing auditions for a talent contest run by Carroll Levis, a corpulent Canadian impresario who was making a name in Great Britain for holding amateur shows in local theaters throughout the country. Later on, he would parlay this into a national TV spectacle and his own cottage industry on the order of Star Search or Stars in Their Eyes, but in the gloom of postwar England the stage—along with the opportunity to see some homegrown talent discovered and (hopefully) ascend to the big time—proved a tremendous draw.
In Liverpool, especially, the heritage of theater remained strong, providing the city with its chief means of entertainment. Television was in its infancy; very few people in Britain owned a TV set, and those who did watched one with a screen the size of a teacup. “People actually preferred the theater,” says a Liverpudlian who remembers that period for its vibrancy of local stage shows and enthusiastic audiences. The grand Pavilion Theatre, for example, packed people into panoramas like “Bareway to the Stars,” in which famous strippers, prohibited from moving (lest they be arrested) by police eager to invoke Lord Chamberlain’s decency law, enacted a series of statuesque tableaux that changed in content only when the curtains were closed. There were lowbrow comedies, burlesque, any number of goofy Dracula spin-offs, topical revues. The audiences were ripe for theatrical entertainment and tapped right into Levis’s brand of open talent shows, with their endless heats and face-offs.
By Liverpool standards, the Levis program was an extravaganza. There were eight acts, featuring a solid hour of old-fashioned entertainment, including Levis himself wearing a tuxedo and dickey bow. The Quarry Men turned up early that night, dressed as uniformly as their wardrobes allowed, in white shirts and dark pants. The entire band was nervous, but they plowed enviably through the allotted three-minute set that restricted them to one song, a straightforward rendition of “Worried Man Blues,” to rousing applause. The last act to appear was
another skiffle band, the Sunnyside Skiffle Group from North Wales, fronted by an arch four foot two comic named Nicky Cuff, who mugged shamelessly throughout the number. Rod Davis sensed right away there was trouble ahead. “They had a coach and a lot of supporters with them,” he says of the competition, “plus, they really performed. The band jumped all over the stage. At one point, the bass player collapsed and played lying on his back. They created some excitement, whereas we stood in one spot, expecting people to just enjoy the music.”
As it turned out, that was the least of their problems. It was determined by the promoter that there was an extra three-minute segment that needed filling at the end of the show; since the Sunnyside Skiffle Group was already onstage, they were invited to perform another number. “We felt that was a disadvantage right away,” Hanton recalls. “As soon as they started the second song, John began arguing [about it backstage] with Levis. ‘That’s not right. You’re giving them the upper hand.’ We were all mad as hell.” But it was too late. Levis offered a halfhearted apology but stood adamantly aside while the Welsh group put their luck to good use, turning up the heat.
When it was time to select the winner, the Quarry Men braced themselves for the audience’s reaction. Levis wheeled out the Clap-o-Meter, a device that supposedly read the noise level of the applause. Every act registered scores in the high seventies and low eighties, except two. Portentously, Levis walked center stage to the microphone and announced: “This is an unusual situation, ladies and gentlemen, but we’ve actually got a tie.” Both the Quarry Men and the Sunnyside Skiffle Group had scored an identical perfect ninety. “We’re going to bring these two groups onstage again, and we’d like you all to clap for either one or the other.” Each skiffle band posed proudly in the spotlight’s glare, while their supporters hollered and whistled in the seats. It was a thrilling moment all around, but when the last hand subsided, the Sunnyside Skiffle Group proved victorious by a hair. “We were robbed,” Hanton says, tapping into some residual anger, “and Carroll Levis knew it, too. While he was lining us up for the grand finale, he apologized, saying, ‘I might have been a bit unfair there, lads, but it’s too late now. Don’t despair—you were quite good. Just keep at it.’ ”
