by Ray Connolly
Every reign must have its court and apart from the recording studios, the places the entourage would seek out their heroes were the clubs of the time. Of these the Moon Beam was by notoriety one of the most successful, and it was here that the men of the moment would meet around midnight to play together, to score a little dope maybe, and to choose a bed-partner for the night. And it was here, excited by this very notoriety, that Johnny, in generous mood, took the Stray Cats after their first recording session. The moment that Jim and Mike entered the place they knew they were somehow out of bounds, and that they hadn’t yet achieved the eminence which was necessary to frequent such a place but Johnny was bubbling in his confidence. After all he was going to have a record out in eight weeks. He was going to be a star.
Pushing past the drifting girls with their double-decker black eyelashes and pussy pelmet skirts, Johnny found his way to an empty table. It was by now mid-evening and the club was beginning to fill up, with a greater abundance of pretty girls than any of the group could ever remember seeing at one time before. Immediately Johnny began to go into his pulling routine: little looks at passing girls, followed by longer ones, followed by stares. But tonight nothing seemed to be working. The ladies weren’t interested.
J.D., meanwhile, had been trying to attract a waiter’s attention. They all needed a drink. Johnny had promised them champagne, and they wanted to drown in it. But somehow or other it seemed to them that they must be invisible. Because no waiter was interested in serving them either. Frustrated by his inability to make any headway with the acres of lovely crumpet queuing up around the place, and unable to make himself heard above the din of the records, Johnny began to scribble on a menu. The others watched him curiously. Till in details:’ he wrote. ‘Name ………………; marital status ………………; free tonight (answer yes or no) ………; if Yes, state preference: your place or mine …………….’ And then with a flourish he signed it ‘Johnny of the Stray Cats.’ Mike and Jim exchanged glances of mute mortification. How could he be so naff? But Johnny was oblivious to his ridiculousness. And, since he, too, was unable to catch the eye of a waiter, he stood up and passed his questionnaire to a trio of velvetted dollies at the next table, flashing them his best smile in expectation. Hardly daring to watch, Jim peered at the girls through half-opened fingers. For the first time they had become aware of the Stray Cats. Together they studied them with a considered and expert eye and then, turning to catch the instant attention of a waiter who quickly produced a ball point pen, the prettiest of the trio scrawled an answer across the menu and passed it back. There was no way that Johnny could have hidden the answer had he wanted to. The words ‘Piss off’ were neatly inscribed in large letters right across his questionnaire. Johnny looked at the insult and flushed. Mike and Jim caught each other’s eyes and Alex giggled.
Johnny might have been about to throw one of his tantrums, but just at that moment the extremely large and well-known road manager to a very famous group moved towards him.
‘This table’s reserved,’ he said, smiling. As Johnny turned from the girls to him, a waiter moved smartly in and dropped a reserved card on the table.
‘It wasn’t reserved when we sat down,’ Johnny was livid with anger but the road manager was now using some gentle force and neatly prising Johnny from his seat. And catching sight of a couple of the most famous faces in the world waiting to take their place, Jim and Mike led the retreat out of the club with as much grace as they could muster.
Chapter Seven
After the day of the recording session the lives of the Stray Cats began to change. Colin Day took over from Harrap as their manager, and as he now had an investment in them in terms of the record, he also began to handle the bookings side of their career. Initially he had intended to put only the minimum amount of hype behind his new find but judging by the reports he was getting back from the gigs the boys were playing, it began to seem that he might be on to something distinctly more hopeful. The kids seemed to like them and although they hadn’t really been tested in any big venues, he knew that a grass roots following could often tip a record into the charts. So slowly the machine was getting into gear for the launching of the Stray Cats in the spring and summer of 1964.
To the group themselves though it just meant more and more hard work, more driving and more sleeping rough. It was a shame about Launderette Lil most of them agreed, but that was the business. And they couldn’t afford to be sentimental: there were gigs to be played, new equipment to be bought and tested, more H.P. agreements to tie around their collective neck, new tyres needed for the van, a million things to worry about. And then Colin Day came up with the biggest worry of all. He had decided to launch them to the Press at a garden party he was holding the first Sunday in May, just five days before their record was to be released. He was spending a lot of money on hiring a nice country house and grounds, and so he hoped the Stray Cats weren’t going to let him down, he said, and put that way it made the group want almost to apologize for existing.
‘God’s teeth,’ said Stevie. ‘We’re in the big time.’
‘Big time, nothing,’ said Johnny. ‘He’s milking us on the gigs we’ve been playing and he wants to milk us some more. We’ll only be big time when my record’s in the charts.’
‘Your record?’ Stevie didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Our record, Johnny. You’re only a fifth of the Stray Cats.’
‘If you like,’ said Johnny, smiling sweetly.
For the garden party Colin Day had gone to some little trouble. He had booked a rather grand house in Berkshire, complete with extensive grounds, and as entertainment he had arranged donkey rides for children, a Punch and Judy show and a medium for the older partygoers. Pop entrepreneurs appear always to have felt it an essential part of their public image to be seen as family-loving, children-entertaining men. Colin Day was no exception. No matter how ruthless he might behave as a businessman, or how dissolute his own private life, his public persona was one of open-handed generosity, the ‘my-love-to-the-wife-and-a-kiss-for-the-baby’ syndrome.
To help tempt those members of the pop and show business Press out to Berkshire on this sunny Sunday in early summer, Colin Day had requested that a couple of his better known contract artists turn up, and when that didn’t appear to be enough he instructed Claude Allsop, the head of his Press office, not to deny the sudden rumour that was sweeping London that not only were the Stray Cats the Beatles’ favourite new group, but that at least two of them, together with Mick Jagger, were likely to turn up at the garden party. The ruse worked perfectly and on that first Sunday in May several representatives of national newspapers together with legions of pop Press rushed down to Berkshire in the avid hope of spotting a Beatle and with the certain intention of avoiding the Stray Cats.
As always in those early days, the Stray Cats arrived too early for the party, and as there was little to do while they waited for other guests to arrive, they admired and readmired their new velvet suits in the bathroom mirrors and had a few drinks to help get them through the approaching ordeal. Johnny was the most nervous, despite his continual denials, and consequently he drank the most and became by far the drunkest. But then he was going to be the star.
The Press, who arrived partly by special coach laid on by Day so that they might drink and not worry about the drive back to London, and partly by Ford Zephyr, Vauxhall Victor and Mini-car, were not overpleased to discover that once again the P.R. machine had fooled them, and there was no sign of any of the Fab Four. But Claude Allsop did his best to continue the rumours throughout the day with hints that at any moment all of the Dave Clark Five might appear, while Cliff Richard and Roy Orbison were, even as he spoke, speeding down from town. Of course the Press weren’t fooled again, and many of them made an early departure for Fleet Street, cameras and notebooks empty.
But as always at these functions there were the inevitable diehards who, having made the trip were not about to depart still sober and so it was that a group of
seasoned show-business journalists hung around the fringes of the canopy, never saying no to drinks when offered, and watching the assortment of girls, wives and children who had turned up.
If the Stray Cats saw the garden party as their supreme ordeal, Mike quite contrarily saw that it provided him with a rare array of opportunities. To him the place was mined with golden shells which only had to be searched out from among the professional party-goers: they may have come to see a Beatle but they were going to go home knowing about the Stray Cats. So quietly and shrewdly he made a careful way round the crowd, smiling at children and wives and generally getting to know who everyone was, what he did, and exactly how much use he could be. Mike was good at this because he had enough natural charm on his side to do it without looking as though he were making an effort. As always he kept a low and friendly profile and while no one ever gathered exactly what the nature of his job was, in a very short time he had worked out the relative values of everyone at the party.
Meanwhile the Stray Cats were beginning to enjoy their afternoon, helped considerably by the quite large quantities of free champagne which they had taken to give themselves courage.
‘There’s a medium in there,’ said Stevie, emerging from the small, privy-shaped red and purple tent of the afternoon’s palm reader. ‘I’ve just been talking to Eddie Cochran-a real rave from the grave, it was.’
‘Really?’ Jim’s face was pink with excitement and champagne. ‘I think I’ll go and talk to Elvis.’
This was a bit subtle for Stevie: ‘But Elvis is still alive?’
Jim shook his head sadly: ‘Not so you’d notice.’ And smiling enigmatically he disappeared into the tent. Stevie considered the joke, and finding it unfunny went in search of J.D. and Alex who were playing a noisy game of boule under a large and flowering chestnut tree.
‘Oooohhhh, right in your three piece suite, Alex.’ J.D. had bombed his ball right in the middle of two others, sending them skidding to one side, with that curiously resonant sound of wood hitting wood. Alex giggled and took his turn at the game. Mike, standing under the tree, watched them all impassively. He wasn’t fond of anything or anyone but he enjoyed the antics of J.D. and Alex. They were like a familiar comedy act to him now, an act which sometimes was painfully laborious but given the right material could be a happy diversion from the daily grind of playing and driving and working. Mike was contemplating this when a rather twee upper class voice interrupted him.
‘And which Stray Cat are you?’ A tall, thin girl, with slightly prominent teeth (in the way that makes American girls look pretty) and large round horn-rimmed glasses was towering over him. Claude Allsop, standing at the girl’s side, was immediately becoming irritated and trying to lead the lady away.
‘Oh no …’ he insisted. ‘He’s only the road manager.’
Mike looked at Claude, pretending to be slighted and then, turning to the girl, he smiled: ‘That’s right. I’m only the roadie …’
Had it been left to Allsop the meeting would have been over there and then but the girl was persistent: ‘A roadie sounds rather like some kind of vagrant, doesn’t it?’ She was really rather jolly, possibly full of champagne, too, thought Mike. ‘What do you really do?’
‘Well … aren’t you going to introduce us, Claude, before I betray all my darkest secrets?’ Mike was goading Claude, a man for whom he had the utmost distaste.
‘Mike Menarry … Sally Porter … from the Evening Standard,’ said Claude with the worst possible grace.
Mike shook Sally’s hand, and began leading her away from Allsop, who, seeing the situation slipping away from him, could do nothing other than follow. ‘A roadie,’ said Mike, trying to sound halfway philosophical, ‘… a roadie is something like an army batman without the uniform. He’s the bloke who makes sure there are enough chips to go round, enough bottles of beer and enough rubbers, leads and amplifiers. He pulls the birds, the pills, the pot and anything else that may be required to satisfy the lusts of the group … carnal, spiritual, medical or otherwise.’
As Mike spoke Sally suddenly began scribbling furiously on the back of the Stray Cats handout sheet so carefully prepared by Allsop. Allsop listened in horror. This wasn’t what he wanted the Evening Standard to hear.
‘You must know an awful lot about the Stray Cats then?’ Sally was asking rhetorical questions and expecting more.
‘Everything,’ said Mike, with such assurance that Allsop suddenly grabbed hold of Sally’s arm and attempted to whisk her away.
‘There’s Mr Day now,’ he said, spotting Colin Day standing chatting with his wife’s best friend. ‘Why don’t we go and grab him while he’s free?’
‘If he’s free you should go and grab him, Claude,’ Mike was baiting again. ‘You’d both enjoy that.’ Claude went pale and looked almost as though he was about to clobber Mike, but, controlling himself, he clenched his fists by his side and hurried away towards Day to complain.
‘Bye-bye, love,’ Mike called after him.
‘The Stray Cats?’ Sally brought him back to earth.
‘The Stray Cats?’ Mike endeavoured to sound as though it were a name almost unfamiliar to him. ‘The Stray Cats … are Jim Maclaine. Come and say hello!’
And with a beckoning jerk of his head he led the willing reporter across towards Jim.
‘Jim, this is Sally from the Evening Standard. She wants to interview you.’
Jim turned and smiled beatifically at Sally who, feeling a flood of libido rushing through her nervous system, swallowed hard and said: ‘Maureen Cleave is on holiday. So they sent me as a stand-in.’
Fifteen-love to me, thought Mike as he walked away, leaving Sally staring dreamily into the eyes of the Boy Beautiful and, spotting a chance of scoring a further quick point, he moved through the crowd to where Johnny was lying dozily, yet unnoticed, in a deck chair.
‘Wake up, Johnny,’ he shouted, just loud enough for Colin Day to hear. Colin Day moved closer to see what was going on.
‘Piss off,’ hissed Johnny. Mike, knowing Colin Day was watching, looked anxious and then moved away. Thirty-love he thought, and grabbed a sausage roll from a passing waitress.
‘All right, love?’ She was a pretty girl but her beauty was marred somewhat by short and dumpy legs and she was looking dreamily at a round-shouldered, Beatle-haired disc jockey in enormous sunglasses, standing across the lawn.
‘He’s a pirate disc jockey, isn’t he?’ Mike looked, and nodded his agreement. He’d already checked the fellow out and had been wondering how he might arrange a meeting.
‘Yes. Fancy him?’ This looked like his chance.
‘I might,’ said the waitress. That means she does and she’ll do whatever he wants, thought Mike. And without bothering to further pursue the matter he marched boldly up to the gentleman.
‘Hi-hi-hi, shipmatey … Mike Menarry.’ And he shoved out his hand to be shaken, considering as he did how absurd was the disc jockey’s station call. The old BBC would never have allowed such nonentities to become household figures.
The disc jockey, fondly known throughout much of eastern England as Barnacle Barney because of his nightly programme on Barnacle Radio, one of the brand new pirate radio ships which were in those days laying siege to the shores and airwaves of Britain, enjoyed being recognized and smiled. When Ronan O’Rahilly had started the first pirate radio station, Radio Caroline, just a few months earlier no one had realized the revolution in broadcasting which was about to hit Britain, least of all Barney Banks, but as a failed Bingo Hall caller he had, he considered, admirable qualifications for the new broadcasting companies, and now-Utopia! Within just a few months he had become a national figure. Pop really did level all in those heady days.
‘Well, hi there.’ Barney’s accent, originally Birmingham, Warwickshire, now sounded like a mongrel cross between Birmingham, Alabama and Liverpool, Lancashire.
‘Never miss your show,’ lied Mike.
‘Well, thank you, shipmatey.’
God’s teeth, thought Mike. The twat must always talk in this nautical twaddle. He’s been living on those boats too long. Nevertheless he leaned forward conspiratorially: ‘Want to go to a little party tonight?’ Mike winked.
‘Well all rightey.’ The disc jockey was leering from behind his sunglasses. ‘Where at?’
‘What about your place?’
Suspicion flashed across the reflection from the shades: ‘What kind of party had you in mind exactly?’
Mike put a hand on his shoulder and turned him in the direction of the waitress. She smiled at them as they viewed her.
‘She’s crazy about you,’ said Mike. ‘She’ll do anything for you. And I mean anything.’
‘Not bad.’
‘Fantastic, believe me.’
‘Tell her I’ll be waiting.’
‘Whatever you say, shipmatey.’ Mike swallowed his pride for the sake of his mission, and returned to the waitress. Maybe, he thought for the millionth time in his life, maybe he should have been a pimp.
Anyway, that was forty-love, no matter how you looked at it. And all he had to do now was to make sure the twat was grateful enough to do as he was told when the time came. He was sure there would be a way. Everyone had a weakness somewhere.
