One place we didn’t get back to at the close of 2006 was Ronnie Scott’s, at least for our heavyweight season. This, for me, was a relief; the traumas and disagreements of the year previously had made me wary of the risks of weeks of night work and I wanted no more disagreements with my friends in the Half-Dozen.
However, when George found out, he was angry at the discontinuance after 33 years and at one point had threatened to refuse the offer of just three days in November and to transfer his services to the Pizza on the Park, over in west Knightsbridge, for a six-week season. An excellent idea except that, quite possibly to the loss of the management, he hadn’t been invited to appear there. But in late November, anyhow, we played three nights back at Ronnie’s for Leo Green; the houses were full, conditions and money far superior to previous years, and honour seemed as good as satisfied. It was good to spend Christmas at home and to see the New Year in listening and dancing to Lisa’s function band rather than looking out from a crowded stand to the celebrants beyond.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Slowing Down for Sure
The year 2007 started sadly nevertheless. Just before Christmas Mick Mulligan had died from a stroke (from which he never recovered consciousness) and his funeral, organised by a close friend, trumpeter Bill Harvey, was to be on Thursday, 4 January at the Thomas a’ Beckett Church in Pagham. Bill had kindly invited me to help play farewell to this grand figure and seminal raver of British jazz. I reached the church in time to see widow Tessa, her daughters, a packed congregation and pews set aside to accommodate a big group of musicians including Bill, trumpeter Cuff Billett, Paul Sealey, Ian Christie, John Barnes, George Walker and more.
George Melly, was there too of course, and had been asked to deliver the eulogy. Carefully avoiding the F word – by spelling it out instead – he made his way through a long and affectionate address which, among other areas, dealt with Mick’s first meeting with George Melly Senior.
‘My father,’ said George, ‘said that my mother’s coffee tasted like “ferret’s piss”. Which turned them into friends immediately.’
At the back of the church the Minister’s good-humoured face failed to blanche for even one second. ‘But,’ said Roger Horton, long-time manager of London’s ‘Home of Traditional Jazz’ the 100 Club, later at the wake, ‘I doubt if he’d heard those words in church before.’
I felt deeply for George at his loss. He had cried all day at hearing the news and rung Wally Fawkes. ‘Well,’ said wise Wally, ‘there goes our youth.’ George had loved that brief epitaph and thereafter quoted it often. But it occurred to me that losing someone as close as Mick might make him secretly wonder if it wasn’t getting on for his time to leave.
Then on 10 January the phone rang, and it was Jack.
‘I think GM is losing it,’ he said. ‘You’d better ring Diana then call me back.’
But Diana seemed calm enough. She explained that she’d had a row, had been in tears, but was now fine and walking the dogs.
‘How is George?’ I asked.
‘Well, he’s mad now, of course,’ she said casually. ‘But probably once he’s on-stage he’ll be just like he always is.’
On a late rainy afternoon soon after, I travelled back home by train from a successful but boozy lunchtime fundraiser concert for the National Jazz Archive at 100 Oxford Street. It had been full enough with a long queue: the star guest was the great Kenny Ball, along with singer Val Wiseman and a distinguished band of mine, assembled by telephone, including Julian, my old friend John Altman ( just back from a successful US career as a film composer), Campbell Burnap, John China, Paul Sealey, Pete Skivington and drummer Pete Cater. In the audience was Britain’s founder-jazz revivalist George Webb, who donated six of his newest CDs (auctioned for £180) as well as John Chilton, Ron Bowden and Archive stalwarts Stan and Jean Ball, Jayne Hunter-Randall, David Nathan and Graham Langley. Then, as the train pulled into Rochford, my mobile rang and it was George.
‘I wanted to say,’ he said, ‘that I had no idea that when I came to the Bull’s Head last time Dan had the cost of my eight guests deducted from the band’s fees. I’ve told Candy and her guests that they must pay – so you’ll be paid.’ I was touched by his recollection of such a tiny point and determination to deal with it.
After the train had drawn into Southend Victoria I stood in the rain for a long time talking to my friend. He sounded youthful and completely untouched by the kind of dementia with which he was now being officially – and regularly – credited.
‘John Chilton was there at the do,’ I said. ‘He sent his love.’
‘John’s a wonderful player,’ said George, ‘even though he’s abandoned his style of suits and looks paler than before. I’d go and sing with him and Wally Fawkes at the White Hart, Drury Lane – they’re there every Tuesday night – but Wally doesn’t like singers. And John gets a bit annoyed when Wally says, “That was wrong”!’
We talked of other things too. A prized picture donated to Liverpool Institute by my friend had not been ‘officially’ accepted yet. ‘Fuck ’em!’ he said (a favourite phrase). ‘I’ll take it back and give it to the artist’s estate. That’s all.’
I mentioned how much I’d loved his obituary for Mick Mulligan in the Daily Telegraph and the spectacular portrait of the two of them in action that accompanied it. ‘Very moving, old friend,’ I said. ‘And a real rock’n’roll picture! How are you now?’
‘Thank you,’ said George, ‘I’m better generally. And yes, it was a good picture. Though originally they were going to use one of me and Mick sitting with Jimmy Rushing and his two girlfriends.’
I said, ‘I can’t wait to see you again.’
‘Being on-stage . . .’ said George, ‘and singing the blues is what keeps me alive. I can’t wait! We shall embrace.’
Mildly drunk as I was on that early rainy evening it seemed as if the grand old days were back if only for a brief season. ‘Bye, bye, darling,’ I said.
George’s datesheets (faxed through to me by his faithful secretary Shirley) now had as much to do with medical overview as musical or social engagements. Visits on a more or less weekly basis took him to St Mary’s Hospital in Praed Street or St Charles in Exmoor Street to monitor his condition with blood and other tests. Checks at colorectoral clinics, at the diabetic endocrinic and ENT centres – all these steered our superstar along the hazardous road designed to lead to continuing health. In between these trips – as well as gigs – came a busy round of social functions and visits, among others, to old friend Andy Garnett in Somerset. Then there were parties and visits to art exhibitions for business and pleasure and to lectures. All these continued to keep George Melly almost as busy as ever.
Soon after, though, came a bad night. On 25 January we had driven down to Hove for a concert at the Old Market Place Theatre, a regular jazz venue which had previously promoted concerts by Humphrey Lyttelton, Stacey Kent and others. Soon after George’s arrival, with bookstall and CDs in place in the foyer, I was summoned to his dressing room.
‘Here,’ said George, ‘is a book. You know you need it because your memory is as bad as mine. So every time Diana tells you something you are to write it down – and then you won’t forget. See? I’ve put a little dedication.’
‘To be on your person at all times’ it read and below:
This little book is a useful and acceptable gift from Digby’s chum George (Sir George!) to write down what he is told during the day when his mind makes a grasshopper as retentive of information as that creature! Most of what he forgets comes from Diana, whom I will ask to check and read aloud what you or she have written down. Much love – Sir George.’
I wasn’t aware of any forgotten instructions from Diana but had to admit that at the end of the evening, when bandleader and star were both tipsy, there were precedents for the situation. ‘So thank you,’ I said. ‘And how are you?’
‘Well, the dementia is accelerating – and I’m full of cancer,’ George confessed. ‘T
he doctor’s given me until the end of July. But I shall go on singing until I can’t do so any more.’
The first half of the concert was superb: a planned interview for George with trombonist-broadcaster Campbell Burnap, my old friend, who had made his second name as one of the music’s most knowledgeable, approachable and radio-friendly commentators on a seventeen-year show for Jazz FM as well as for the BBC. Campbell had done his homework superbly and the interview would have graced national television. It was full of intimate references, finely researched points and the kind of sympathy for his subject that had made Campbell a highly rated national spokesman for classic jazz.
But when the second half arrived and George made his unsteady way to his chair it was clear that something was wrong. His opening ‘Old Rockin’ Chair’ wandered hopelessly from both lyric and accompaniment and the rambling disconnected announcement that followed bore little relation to our show. The follow-up – a normally spirited version of ‘Cakewalkin’ Babies from Home’ – left the tracks in similar fashion before limping to a conclusion.
George sat there in silence, then began the announcement he had made before. It tailed off to silence and, to my horror, our star began to topple sideways off his chair.
‘He’s had enough, Dig,’ warned Nick Millward from behind his drums. ‘Get him off.’
Members of the audience and staff rushed to the stage and George was carried away. What to do? Close the show?
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said. ‘In our first half you heard Campbell Burnap reminding George of a famous evening at Ronnie Scott’s when, after considerable celebration, he was unable to continue and John [Chilton] made the famous announcement that “the captain is no longer in charge of his ship”. Well,’ I continued, ‘it seems that we’ve encountered a similar nautical problem. But with your approval we’ll try and keep you happy until our captain is able to return.’
But of course he couldn’t and the Half-Dozen valiantly finished the show to an ovation. It was an uncomfortable fifty minutes, however. Had George had a stroke? Or perhaps worse still had he left the building completely?
Once off-stage, I ran to the phone and dialled the West Sussex Hospital in Brighton. Yes, Mr Melly had been brought in. Yes, he was conscious. And now he was down in the Medical Assessment Unit. There was very little doubt that he would be there for the night.
I rang Diana. ‘You must get home,’ she said. ‘We’ll take care of the problems tomorrow.’
‘I’m staying down here tonight, Dig,’ said kindly Campbell, ‘with my wife Jenny and some old friends. If he’s better tomorrow I’ll be glad to take him home.’ Which he did. By the following morning, George – who had been badly dehydrated and was consequently placed on a drip – was joking with the star-struck staff and gently enquiring if there were somewhere on the ward he might smoke. Back to mobility he met Campbell and entertained his drivers with stories – and a stop at a handy pub – before being met at the door by Diana, who summarily ushered her vagrant charge back into his domicile with a thank-you nod to his kindly drivers.
It was obvious, however, that George couldn’t work the following night and at six hours’ notice beautiful Jacqui Dankworth stepped in for our concert at Holt, Norwich, and stole the show.
‘All this is going to make the national press,’ predicted Jack Higgins and, as usual, he was right. George’s collapse hadn’t only made local and national television news (including an interview with Kezzie, his granddaughter) but also appeared widely in both tabloids and serious newspapers. Diana Melly, soon to become the spokesman-commentator for George’s medical problems, went on News at Six but was happy to report that five minutes after his collapse he was requesting a return to the stage to finish the show.
‘We’re not doing ourselves any good,’ warned Jack. ‘People will stop booking George if they think he’s dying. From now on keep an eye on him. Make sure he eats before the show – and drinks plenty of water. Otherwise people are simply going to cancel.’ And sure enough a day or two later came a worried call from Cole Mathieson, who had welcomed George for decades and was due to host his return to the Concorde, Eastleigh less than two weeks later.
‘Will he be all right?’ asked Cole.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he will be!’
Which he was. Fortified by friends who bought him food at the club, and Nick Millward, who relentlessly pressed pint-glasses of water into his hand, our star was unfaultable. Before the show I went to see him in the dining-room.
‘I know you’re fine,’ I said, ‘and looking after yourself. But have you got everything you need?’
Sitting with his friends, George returned a sweet smile. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘And I find I rather like being looked after.’
Whatever TLC had been administered to our star, it had certainly worked. At the Concorde his voice sounded stronger than ever, as if somehow he might be shouting defiantly at the spectre of mortality. No lines were fluffed, jokes were focused and word perfect and the Half-Dozen and I were astounded.
Just over a week later, on 16 February, much the same wondrous thing occurred, this time at our regular haunt, the Marlowe Theatre, Canterbury, where, with Jacqui, we were due to play The Sounds of Jazz show. Beforehand I had received my usual summons to the master’s dressing room.
‘Have you got your notebook?’ he asked. Luckily I had.
‘I’ve got mine too,’ said George affectionately. ‘See? Here it is. And you see I’ve arranged it alphabetically.’ Sure enough, as the pages turned they were marked ‘A’ to ‘Z’ in his favoured black Papermate felt-tip pen.
‘But I have something else I want to to do,’ he said. ‘Another album.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I want it to be me with guest star Jacqui and on the next page the “award-winning Half-Dozen”. And I have an excellent idea for the cover. It might be seven turkeys looking at a coffin [this was the time of the Bernard Matthews bird-flu scandal] and they’re saying “’e looks bootiful!”’
I roared with laughter.
‘Or indeed,’ he continued, ‘we could, I daresay, have seven of your players around a gravestone . . .’
‘Oh come on!’ I said, nonplussed by the courage of my friend.
‘Face it, dear chap,’ he said, ‘I’m dying. But not just yet. First the album.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure how.
Once again it was a good concert (George had eaten well and drunk plenty of water) but later the bite of Jameson’s whiskey affected our progress a little and loving reminiscences on Bessie Smith stretched one of George’s announcements to around fifteen minutes amid audible audience titters. I finished the show with a handy cover-up. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, while Jacqui waited patiently in the wings, ‘tonight we’ve been happy to bring you not just a concert but an audience with George Melly.’ There was applause. ‘Perhaps,’ I said to him later, ‘we might shorten the announcements a bit. Even though it’s so good to hear you talk so passionately about someone you’ve loved all your life.’ George – ever the band singer – nodded compliantly.
Two days later, I had been staying at friend Daphne Shoolman’s flat in Hampstead and picked up my mobile in time for a ‘Saturday chat’ with Jack Higgins. As time had passed Jack and I had become closer. The business in which he had been a dominant figure for almost sixty years occupied him all week and conversations would be brief and devoid of smalltalk, but on Saturday morning he would sometimes pick up the phone for a friendly catch-up conversation.
‘Hello, my friend! How are you?’
‘Fine, Jack,’ I said. ‘How good to hear you, lord and master! And how’s the weather in Bradwell?’
‘Lovely!’ he said, ‘Crocuses blooming in the garden already. And daffodils too.’
‘Spring’s on the way, it seems,’ I said.
‘Global warming probably,’ said Jack, ever the realist. ‘But I don’t need to wo
rry about that.’
‘Well, neither will I,’ I said. ‘But please don’t stop yet. Because if you do my career as a park-keeper begins.’
Jack laughed. ‘I won’t be around for ever. But by the time I’ve stopped I hope you’ll be established in your own right.’ The remark bore a hint of tenderness that I found very moving. My friend Jack Higgins was showing – as he sometimes did – his soft side. But whether he could realise his hope was another matter.
‘My life is serving my people,’ he said. ‘And, you know, The Sounds of Jazz show with you, Jacqui and George is about the only thing that’s doing anything right now.’
The remark had me thinking. Because for the first time my datesheet was beginning to show alarming gaps. The sad demise of Don Lusher had brought to an end the busy activities of the Best of British Jazz. And, with Don’s death, Jack had decided that the Great British Jazz Band had taken one too many body blows too. Neither unit was working any more. And George, like it or not, was slowing down too. One day soon there would have to be some changes made.
But meantime to my astonished delight, an opening had appeared for the last album that George wanted so badly. Paul Adams – of the well-regarded Lake label, up in Cumbria – had begun a programme of new issues in addition to his dedicated reissue of old (and sometimes badly neglected) albums by prominent British bands. Might he, I asked, consider a new Melly album? And Paul, to my delight, had said yes!
George was very happy and within a day had faxed across a list of his choices. After the experiments of the last album, his selections dug back deeply to his musical roots with Mick Mulligan, many of Bessie Smith’s most notable standards, traditional favourites like ‘Salty Dog’ and ‘Down In The Dumps’, plus fine selections from the Fats Waller cadre. In addition he would read selected extracts from his books and, yes, a brief blues for Mick Mulligan was a good idea too.
On the Road with George Melly Page 11
