‘Anything!’ came the obliging voice, its owner curled up in the back seat and mellow after a sell-out concert.
‘Are you OK with the blues – the electric blues we play behind you on “Trouble in Mind”?’
‘If I could have it all the time,’ returned George, ever the charmer, ‘I would.’
But now things were changing and it was beginning to look as if we might have a difficulty. I valued every member of my Half-Dozen deeply and enjoyed introducing them at the beginning of our show before George came on-stage, after which I said not one word. It was also the case that George knew little about them and in fact had to have their names prominently displayed in a list on his music stand after almost four years! Then there was the more serious matter of the music itself. My band, I felt, had given George a new and diverse context which had refocused him in the public eye after the decline of his career with John’s Feetwarmers. And, like any bandleader, I was prepared to defend my musicians from outside attacks. So, for the first time in our relationship it seemed possible that George and I might, however unbelievably, stop being friends.
But meantime we continued to pack them in: at the huge Upton Jazz Festival in June and later in July at a tiny concert with a quartet in Cardiff. And it was here that the first really damaging row broke out.
We had travelled down with my quartet – Dominic Ashworth, Len Skeat and Nick Millward – to our hotel and soon after we arrived I had taken a call on the mobile from our promoter. He had been expecting us to arrive earlier and had been, unknown to us, waiting for over an hour, it seemed. ‘Where are you? This is no good.’ So around Cardiff centre we drove at breakneck speed to our venue, challenging lights and invading bus lanes to find an angry host, who for the moment seemed reluctant to speak to even or look at me, a tiny stage set with an expensively hired grand piano (not required) and generous PA system.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, trying manfully to calm the waters, ‘everything will be fine.’ But our sound check against the clock was difficult and in between I also had to meet and calm a television crew who had arrived to interview George, locate and set him up with his interviewer (explaining the deafness problem as we went) and do my best to comfort our still-distressed employer. All this was complicated by the fact that Babs had arrived at the hotel in a bad temper with her small dog (‘not allowed in,’ said the manager firmly) after driving around Cardiff for ages, unable to find either her man or the venue. By the time everything was sorted there was very little time to do anything but rush back to the hotel to change, locate a none-too-handy half-bottle of vodka and then drive back to the venue devoid of rest or the turn-off time most players enjoy before a concert. Back at the venue I found a packed house and, luckily, a promoter restored to total bonhomie, prompted by what appeared to be a fair intake of alcoholic aid.
Our first set went faultlessly. But there had been no time to set up George’s stall and, when we went back after a warm-up number, I waved to him and announced his reappearance for part two. Our star advanced towards the stage then inexplicably took a right turn and disappeared from view completely. This wasn’t the first time this had happened and consequently I launched into an ad-lib blues:
Mr Melly he’s gone and he might be quite some time . . . But when he returns I know everything’s gonna be just fine!
Indeed Mr Melly was gone for quite some time and when he made his bemused return our blues had lasted for quite some time too. But he took to the stage and our second half went swimmingly enough. As we left, though, the trouble started. I hastened down the club stairs to perform my standard duty of setting up George’s sale table to find Babs, a closed suitcase of books and George in a state of alcoholic impasse. I began to unpack the case.
‘What was that extraordinary thing you started the second half with?’ enquired the one-time band-singer fixing his now-familiar gorgonesque stare firmly upon me.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘you had disappeared after I announced you! And we had to do something to keep the show going. So I made up a blues about how you’d be back soon.’
‘Too long,’ rapped my inquisitor, ‘I wasn’t gone for more than a minute. A piss and three shakes were all.’
‘No, George,’ I said, ‘you were gone for nearly ten. Which didn’t make it easy for any of us.’
‘No, I wasn’t. And what are you doing with that case? You look like a Turkish carpet salesman. Let Babs do it. She does it better than you do anyhow.’
‘Well, in that case,’ I said, putting my face close to his, my temper cracking, ‘let her fucking do it. Fuck you, George. And in future don’t fuck with me.’
‘I’ve always wondered if it might be fun,’ offered George.
But I was past joking and fumed off back to the hotel, realising that if I never saw George Melly again it really wouldn’t, for the moment at least, bother me at all. Unusually the feeling persisted in the newly acquired sobriety next morning and for once there were no apologetic phone calls from either side. Whatever gloves had been worn, it seemed that they were now off, for good and all.
But of course we carried on working. And at our next meeting at the Edinburgh Jazz Festival just over a fortnight later I was at pains to make amends and greet my friend as warmly as he regreeted me. ‘Shout-ups’ had not been unknown in either Mick Mulligan’s band or John Chilton’s Feetwarmers and where necessary we were capable of exactly the same exercises. However, George was now quite as capable of exploding as I was. One band member in particular could get under his skin. By pointing out a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the flight up to Edinburgh, he had incurred a scream of wrath from our star, which was followed by a tongue-lashing administered to an over-officious air hostess who had seen a closed packet of cigarettes on his flight table.
All this was understandable. George was well aware of his failing capacities but preferred to cope with them himself when and wherever he could. ‘I know I’m getting old and infirm,’ he told his combatant, ‘but where I can I like to be independent. I can SEE signs. I can SEE steps. So don’t tell me what to do. Just shut up!’ But the anger passed again and our Edinburgh concert was moved by director Mike Hart to a bigger venue on the night, so keen were the visitors to catch up with the one-time Dean of Decadence.
Despite the show’s success, though, things were not right next morning. After a pleasant breakfast with American visitors, including Matt Domber (the legendary owner of the marvellous Arbors label ‘where classic jazz lives on’), clarinettist Kenny Daverne and drummer Butch Miles, I was summoned imperiously into George’s presence as he sat on the steps of the hotel having a smoke.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that I’m no longer happy with your band. The drums are APPALLINGLY loud! And the arrangements have nothing to do with jazz as I hear it. Remember what Jelly Roll Morton said, “sweet soft, plenty rhythm . . .”?’
I cut in. ‘George,’ I said firmly, ‘I’m sorry you’re no longer happy with us. But we’ve done you good service for four years now. Your albums have had brilliant reviews. I can’t change the sound or the line-up of my band. And honestly, if you want me to rewrite all the arrangements, I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you.’
‘Well, I can always pay you,’ said George, ‘of course.’ But he didn’t look happy about it.
‘Look,’ I said searching for a way to calm troubled waters. ‘Why don’t we talk about this another time? Perhaps we can meet up, make changes in the programme. Cut down the size of the group on some tunes so the music’s softer? I’m sure there’s plenty of things we can do. So let’s not argue.’
Which we didn’t any more that morning. On the way back home from Heathrow, George and I sat in the back of our cab, talking peaceably; a rare opportunity for me to put my arm round my old friend and hold an audible conversation about his life, his relationships and his way of thinking now.
‘Do you think it’s possible,’ I asked, ‘that it’s the feminine in you that makes it easy for you to absorb neuroses or problemat
ic behaviour in others, including your women friends?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘That’s a good question,’ he said. ‘And you might well be right.’
But still the troubles and conflicts were not done. On a menacing date – Sunday, 13 August – we travelled to the Brecon Jazz Festival after an appearance at Lord Montague’s fiftieth birthday party for the Beaulieu Jazz Festival. Humph, Acker Bilk and their bands had played. And George, Craig and I had occupied a ten-minute spot in between, for which George, resplendent in a scarlet kaftan, shouted the blues over the grounds where, almost fifty years ago, the trads had battled the mods in a well-remembered and indeed historic British jazz riot.
But this was Sunday and after a concert and a long journey George was tired. The journey across the familiar Welsh territory plainly moved him deeply; he had been the first star of the first Brecon Festival 25 years previously and along the way we caught a brief glimpse of the castle which he had once owned and where, years before, he had retired regularly to fish his beloved private trout stream along the River Usk until the currents had become too heavy for him.
‘There it is,’ he said, untypically reflective, ‘see it? Down there at the end of the track. It breaks my heart to think that I might never see it again . . .’
The magnificent Brecon Festival sports two marquees, one of which is capable of holding over 2,000 people, and there we were, ready to play our show to a capacity crowd. I had just finished setting up George’s sale table when a steward approached me.
‘Mr Melly requires to see you now in his dressing room.’
I feared the worst and wasn’t disappointed. Once again, up came the old complaints: why was the band too loud? Why didn’t our arrangements sound more like Jelly Roll Morton’s? Why should it be me who made the announcements? Why couldn’t we get a tuba?’
‘George,’ I said tiredly, ‘let’s forget this for now and just do our show!’
But at the sound check, peopled by technical staff, stewards and curious members of the public, George said something over his microphone at a volume that would have done credit to the Rolling Stones that I wasn’t, for once, prepared to let go.
‘If of course the band can bear to play softly enough, I think I should be able to hear myself all right.’
I marched over to his side. ‘George,’ I said, furious, ‘if you have comments about my players you will convey them to me privately and they’ll be discussed in due course!’ Star and bandleader left the stage with cross looks, and attempts by George to carry the conversation further were stalled by an angry trumpeter.
But it was obvious that we now had to do something. And over the next week, before our annual appearance at the beautiful Mill Theatre up the Thames at Sonning Eye, I reconstructed George Melly’s programme. Out went the dynamic electric blues of ‘Trouble in Mind’, the shouting excitement of ‘Everybody Loves My Baby’, once again featuring Dominic Ashworth’s stoking John Schofield-style guitar. And in came discreet quartets, including a Feetwarmers’-style ‘Wining Boy Blues’, a gentle ‘Ain’t Misbehaving’, featuring just George with Julian’s beautifully restrained clarinet; in short, much less of the band and much more of George. I felt happier with the changes.
On the following Thursday, 17 August, I was one of many guests celebrating George’s eightieth at a party at the Cork Street gallery just off Regent Street. Celebrities such as Jonathan Miller and David Hockney milled around the packed gallery holding court or waiting to be recognised as did members of the classic jazz fraternity, including Jim Godbolt and, wonderfully, Mick Mulligan with wife Tessa. This was the last time I would see Mick. Charming as always, full of irrepressible swearing and enthusiasm for Kenny Baker, Nat Gonella and the senior trumpet-masters, we shared a long conversation.
‘Would you,’ asked Mick, ‘and the Half-Dozen like to play at my eightieth next January?’ He had been at Ronnie Scott’s every New Year’s Eve and loved our close harmony version of George Gershwin’s ‘Liza’.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘and we won’t charge you a sou. It’ll be a privilege.’
But later there was a flutter of activity in the adjacent room. Mick had passed out and fallen without warning; people ran to help him up. But it was obvious that he was alarmed and not sure where he was and soon after Tessa took him home.
On the following Sunday, with the show revised, we arrived at the Mill Theatre. At sound-check time George declared himself pleased with our changes: ‘That’s exactly right. Thank you!’
But, despite his delight, our star was still a loose canon. At the show’s opening he was once again nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s he gone?’ asked Julian.
‘Well,’ said a helpful steward, ‘we saw him go over the bridge to the pub but we haven’t seen him since.’
Julian, ever the hero, went in search of our missing bill topper while, once again, with distinct and now disturbing sentiments of déjà vu, I launched into what was now a familiar blues.
Mr Melly’s been here but now it seems he’s gone
But I can tell you folks you won’t have to wait too long . . .
But wait we did. And when he did turn up, rather the worse for wear, our show took the odd surrealistic turn ending with an encore of ‘Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans’ in which more was missing than just memories of the city. The bemused audience took their leave and once again I found my teeth gnashing with frustration.
‘George, will you please do me a favour? Stay on the premises when it’s time for the show. And, by the way, try not to fuck up the encore. Begin well, finish well, that’s the rule. And you know that as well as I do.’
On the way home George told Len Skeat, ‘I got a bollocking!’
The situation was rankling and I knew that sooner or later there was liable to be a meeting and probably a reckoning. On 14 September I had offered to clear Diana Melly’s merchandise accounts by returning to her all of George’s books and CDs and accordingly called at the house. There I was met by Diana and her accountant in an atmosphere that bordered on the funereal.
‘George would like to see you,’ said Diana, ‘upstairs.’
Up I went to find my inquisitor seated in his big armchair. ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘because I have several things I want to say to you.’
The phrase ‘here we go’ crossed my mind, but I reminded myself that my friend was a lifelong hero and one-time role-model. I was determined to keep a smile on my face while I sat on a stool designed, I was sure, to have me crouched at a lower level somewhere around the level of his feet.
‘Now!’ said my interrogator. ‘We have things to discuss!’
‘Yes,’ I said smiling. ‘We do. Tell me what you have to say.’
‘Well, to begin with,’ said George, ‘we must begin with a premise. I think you will agree that the reason you are appearing at so many premier venues, with your admittedly excellent band, is because of me?’
‘Certainly,’ I said. No one could deny that.
‘And that consequently your request for money to rewrite arrangements for me sets a precedent hitherto unacknowledged in our professional relationship?’
‘Certainly,’ I said, ‘and well put. But to be honest, George, after all this time I think you might dismiss that as an idle threat, born of very temporary ire.’
‘Ah yes,’ said George, ‘Dr Smirnoff. We all know about him. But there is one area on which we are at odds musically. You enjoy the word “progression”. And I HATE it! Now, would you say you are a nervous person by definition?’
‘Possibly,’ I said, ‘but why?’
‘Well plainly,’ said George, ‘you were out of your social depths at my eightieth birthday party, wouldn’t you agree?’
I felt my muscles tighten but kept the smile. ‘Well, no, not really,’ I said. ‘Perhaps with the bigger celebrities. But I didn’t talk to them – and they probably had no interest in talking to me.’ I was determined not to let that smile break.
‘An
d by the way,’ said George, now well into his stride, ‘did you know that whenever you ARE that nervous you have the most appalling bad breath?’
This definitely came from left-field! ‘No,’ I said, ‘to be honest I’ve never connected one with the other.’
‘Well, you should,’ said George imperiously. ‘And I think we must lay down some ground rules from here on. Your drummer will use brushes. Your band will remember that it is accompanying me. And I in turn will give full credit to your band members as we go along, thus saving you the trouble.’
My smile had not broken and I took his hand. ‘Very well, old friend,’ I said. ‘Whatever you say is fine with me. And, by the way, I love you!’
‘I love you too!’ said George and I kissed the top of his head.
As I got downstairs the atmosphere was still muted. I felt like a schoolboy returning to class after a caning, but smiled brightly. ‘Everything’s fine, Di,’ I said, ‘and also sorted out. He’s a wonderful man. And we have a lot of great things left to do.’ She nodded compliantly as I left the house and wandered down the sunlit midday, towards Shepherd’s Bush.
Over the coming months, we had a lot to do indeed. A string of Jack’s The Sounds of Jazz shows with George and Jacqui Dankworth to start with; for millionaire Leon Morelli’s Jazz Party at St Austell, at Solihull Arts Complex and the massive North Finchley Arts Department. With George alone and the Half-Dozen we played the posh RAC Club in Pall Mall, the Riverside Theatre Woodbridge, Granville’s Restaurant in Stone near Stoke-on-Trent, the Pizza Express at Maidstone (for a two-night season) and even at a brand-new club called Bar Lambs in Station Road, Westcliff, as well as our regular return to the Bull’s Head, Barnes.
All these jobs were free of troubles or confrontation. I had determined that there would be no more strife with George; his developing illnesses (now officially diagnosed as vascular dementia as well as a recurrence of the lung cancer he thought he had escaped) were its cause, and our partnership, as well as our friendship, were both too valuable to me to be put at risk.
On the Road with George Melly Page 10
