On Sunday, 25 February Dominic and I drove to Shepherd’s Bush to check keys with George. In the hall, stepdaughter Candy met us. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Diana’s away at a literary festival so I’m sitting in. He’s upstairs and well. But it was a hard day yesterday.’
‘Was he ill?’ I asked, alarmed.
‘No,’ said Candy. ‘On the contrary. We had to go to an orthodox Catholic memorial service and it was all in Latin. And he kept writing notes to me saying, “Shall I stand up and shout ‘It’s all bollocks’?”’
Plainly our host had lost none of his rebellious instincts. Seated in the armchair he looked comfortable and was as welcoming as ever. ‘I’ve just heard the most amazing thing on television,’ he said. ‘Apparently Toulouse-Lautrec had a lover who was on the musical stage. And she used to sing the song that daddies still sing to their children: “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow-wow”. But APPARENTLY when she sang it on-stage and got to the part about “I’ve got a little cat and I’m very fond of that!”, she lifted her skirt up to her waist. And then when she got to the punchline about “I’d rather have a big bow wow!” she lifted her fist up from the elbow. Isn’t that marvellous? Well, shall we check keys?’
The power still in his voice was amazing as we ran through the old blues and vaudeville songs he adored. For one – ‘Down in the Dumps’ – he reached the line ‘Mr Landlord’ and remembered how Mick Mulligan had interjected ‘Mr Meadmore’, George’s long-suffering landlord from the beloved old days at Margaretta Terrace where he had been a lodger with Mick Mulligan back at the start of his career. When not establishing comfortable keys for his songs, he ran, as blithely hilarious as ever, through old music-hall routines and gags, including one antiquity from the days of Nestlé’s tinned goat’s milk: ‘The trouble Mr Nestlé and I have/Is getting those goats to sit on them cans!’
Two days later, Diana Melly went on television’s News at Six again to announce that George Melly was now officially suffering from dementia. Naturally the piece was seen by most of Britain’s population, and Jack Higgins’s fury mounted. ‘Do you want all his work cancelled?’ he demanded.
On the phone to me Diana was unrepentant and determined. ‘I’ve told Jack,’ she said, ‘that George has only got months to live anyhow. And in every interview I’ve said that he can remember words and still sing – even though he doesn’t know what day it is. I’m not taking any more shit from Jack. And I’ve had a letter from the “for dementia” charity thanking me for upping the profile of their campaign.’
Now, it seemed the heat was really on. I wrote twenty basic arrangements for our new album in two days and on 5 March my heroic rhythm section – Craig Milverton, Dominic Ashworth, Len Skeat and Nick Millward – recorded them all in one day. On the way home, an old friend, David Thomas, rang me. ‘Dig,’ he said, ‘I thought you should see something.’ He named a prominent national newspaper. ‘There’s a big article in there about George.’
And a big one it was. Headed ‘George got nasty – it wasn’t like him’, a full-page article dug deep into George’s developing condition. In an interview with Diana, some unexpected grievances appeared to rise to the surface. She was reported to have said that ‘her grieving had happened when George was diagnosed with cancer’ and that ‘she was pleased by the dementia diagnosis because she had begun imagining things; is it me?’ The article went on to say that she enjoyed being in control for a change and that she could now ‘boss him around properly’ and that, understandably perhaps, she would omit dates with at least one of his girlfriends, while copying George’s diary.
George was reported to say that he was now only happy in his bedroom at home. A pen portrait of George depicted him as bedridden listening unceasingly to Bessie Smith records that he loved. A question about the experience of dementia produced the response that, for George, it was a bore and a nuisance. His only comfort was wife Diana who helped him through the thought-fixations of the night and the imagined fantasies of the day. It was reported that, towards the end of the interview, George had relapsed into mental absenteeism.
This article briefly aroused my anger. But I knew full well that reporters can have a field day with a situation and that articles could steer off course. But the sad quotation that George was ‘only happy’ in his bedroom stayed in my head. And, sure enough, Diana was on the phone soon after. ‘I didn’t like that article,’ she affirmed, ‘there have been more sympathetic ones which you should read. They’re on the Internet. Anyhow how shall we get George to the studio tomorrow for the recording session? Shall I put him in a cab?’
Which she did and promptly at 10 a.m. George Melly emerged from his taxi fit and ready to record, once again in Julian’s marvellous studio. Amid merciless ribbing – ‘where’s your book then? Forgotten it! I thought so’ – he careered through fourteen titles, shouting the blues like a tiger and joyously careering through a one-take ‘Salty Dog’ with all the carefree panache of a Bessie Smith and with only brief breaks for cigarettes in the garden and two minute sips of whiskey. At the very end, I suggested my ‘Blues for Mick Mulligan’ and seated in his chair in the vocal booth George sang:
I went down South – but old Mick Mulligan had gone
It’s just a short time – but it feels like oh so long.
As he sang the first line he sobbed and my own eyes momentarily filled with tears too.
‘I wonder,’ he said ruminatively after the take, ‘if I should sing “But it seems so fucking long”?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we try it and see?’
The new performance was more powerful still. ‘Which do you like best?’ asked my band singer.
‘I’m not sure. I think the idea is very moving anyhow. But perhaps the “fucking” gives it an extra emphasis. After all it’s nothing new – Kenneth Tynan used it on TV forty years ago now. And of course it’s very “you”. Why don’t we let the producer decide?’
So we left it at that and for an hour sat in the garden, in the gathering dusk, laughing, joking and talking of old and new times until at last the taxi arrived and our visitor made his dignified exit.
The next day Diana rang again. She said that George had been absolutely mad when he got home, making no sense at all and rude to everybody. In the next ten minutes she opened her heart to me a little and I sympathised with her plight. It seemed as if their mutual roads of excess had not this time – according to the rule of Omar Khayyám – led to their palace of wisdom. And, a day or two later, I witnessed the changes of mood that alter the demeanour of a human being cursed with dementia from day to day. At 8.10 a.m. – very early on the morning of 8 March – George was on the phone to me.
‘This is DEFINITELY my last album,’ he affirmed. ‘So keep the arrangements simple. No “progression” now! Remember what Jelly said – “sweet, soft, plenty rhythm”.’ The old familiar formula of Jelly Roll Morton still sang through George Melly’s stout heart.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sadness in Great Ones
The next day, while Julian and I were mixing George’s vocals at the studio, a new voice arrived on the telephone. This was Michael Woods, an old friend of George who had collaborated with him on a book Paris and the Surrealists.
‘I found George sitting outside his house at 10 a.m. this morning,’ he said, ‘waiting to go to Southport.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘That’s not until tomorrow. Everyone knew.’
‘But that’s the problem,’ said Michael. ‘There’s nobody there. Diana’s away in Bagnor. The people living with him – Chris and Tina – are occupational therapists and are out at work all day – and often they’re out at night too. So there’s no one there to see he gets his medication at the proper times; often he takes everything at one go last thing at night, if he remembers at all. And of course he’s not eating properly. So I’ve been going in – and apparently he’s been hallucinating again. On Monday Diana and I are going to meet to discuss the matter of qualified carers going into the house at regular inte
rvals.’
The following day we played Southport at the Talbot Hotel and George looked well enough. ‘Hello, Grasshopper,’ he said. ‘Forgotten your book again?’
‘Sorry!’ I said, not knowing quite what for, and went to finish our sound check. Later I was called up to the Master’s bedroom and found him snuggled up in bed.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’ve been worried about you!’
‘Why?’
‘I’m afraid that you need more help.’
‘Bollocks,’ said George briefly. ‘I’ve had people coming in from all sides.’ And, whether or not that was true, by the following Wednesday arrangements had been made and qualified carers – said Diana’s voice, live on Radio 4 on Wednesday, 14 March – were now, sure enough, securely in place at home.
Meantime, the night after Southport, we had played a big benefit which I’d organised for George’s former drummer Eddie Taylor at 100 Oxford Street. The Great British Jazz Band, Humphrey Lyttelton with special guest, Scott Hamilton, and Ron Russell’s All Stars had all played. And George had sung with a re-formed Feetwarmers band, including John Chilton and Wally Fawkes, along with Nick Dawson, Len Skeat and Allan Ganley. Despite a lengthy dedication to Stan Greig, whose benefit he had decided it might be instead, George nevertheless stopped the show, just as he had done thirty years earlier, as I watched him sing ‘Shave ’em Dry’. It was still easy to think that very little had changed.
But after that there was silence for almost a fortnight. Fuelled by the medical news, I began to wonder seriously if we had seen the last of our hero and determined to ring. Apparently he had appeared on television with Diana talking about his condition. But then the phone rang and it was Diana.
‘Hello, Digby,’ she said. ‘I have something I want to discuss with you. A film company, Walkergeorge Films, want to make a documentary about George’s life and his current problems. And they want to film you, him and the Half-Dozen at the Bull’s Head in Barnes on Saturday. We think it might be his last performance! So we need to set rates with you and the band.’ Fair as always.
My only hope was that the documentary – as an edition of Melvyn Bragg’s South Bank Show had done a week or so previously for Humphrey Lyttelton – would be a celebration of George’s life rather than a documentary about his current malaise. And a few hours later the show’s producer assured me that that would indeed be the case. ‘Would there be interviews,’ I asked ‘with his old associates, Wally Fawkes, Humph, John Chilton, perhaps George Webb and others? Old footage? Artists like Maggie Hamblyn who had painted him? Radio and television presenters or other cultural colleagues who had worked with him?’ My questions were all answered with assurances; yes, these plans were already made.
Then an hour later, on the phone came George. ‘I’ll let you talk to him,’ said Shirley, his secretary.
‘Hello there,’ said George, ‘I wanted to ask how the new album was going. And to ensure “sweet soft, plenty rhythm”, you know.’
‘All, old friend,’ I said, ‘will be exactly as you wish it.’
‘I haven’t heard it yet of course,’ he said.
‘I know. We’ve had a brief hold-up as Julian has had a bout of illness. He’s actually had quite a bad few weeks. But it’ll be mixed soon and I’ll make sure that you get a full copy of the vocal tracks, even if the horns haven’t been put on yet.’
‘Fine,’ said George. ‘And, by the way, it occurred to me that, if this album is released after I’m dead, then it very well might sell a lot. Then of course it may not. But I wanted to make certain that the band and its leader make a nice lot of money from the royalties. Everything at this end is taken care of. But it would be nice for the orchestra to do well – and they deserve it.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, very moved.
We continued talking for a while and then, ‘I’ll see you Saturday,’ said my friend. ‘Michael will bring me to the Bull’s Head.’
‘Might Diana be there?’ I asked. ‘Or Babs. And how is Babs?’
‘She’s fine,’ said George, ‘though I haven’t seen her in some time. Craigie, the man she’s been looking after, has died now as you may know. But I shall see her when I go and visit Andy Garnett next week.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ I ventured.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said George, ever cautious of a stock reaction. ‘Basically, it’s just two old bores waiting for the other one to finish talking so that the other one can have a turn. But it’ll be nice to see Babs. Diana is having a tough time with me now.’
‘I think Diana has a need to feel needed,’ I offered.
‘I think so too,’ said George. ‘By the way, have you read John Chilton’s book Hot Jazz Warm Feet?’
‘It just arrived today, with a new consignment of mine from my publisher Ann Cotterrell at Northway. What did you think?’
‘Well,’ said George, ‘it’s OK I think. But he’s too nice about everybody. There’s no details of the screaming furious face-to-face rows we had. Or of the people in the Feetwarmers that we didn’t get on with. None of that. It’s all a bit comfortable.’ In retrospect I found this to be an ungenerous assessment.
‘Not enough “owning up” perhaps?’ I suggested.
‘Exactly,’ George concurred. ‘Well, bye, bye, darling. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Saturday,’ I reminded him.
‘Saturday,’ he said. ‘For sure! Bye, bye, dear. Bye!’ The voice, as he rang off, sounded as young, as intimate, as full of spring promises as the burgeoning trees up and down the street where he lived.
Meantime, Mike, George’s new minder, had texted me. Should George bring CDs and books to the job? This was something we didn’t normally do as sales at the Bull’s Head were usually unaccountably poor, but I was glad of the help and all my own stocks had now been returned to the Mellys. ‘Lovely,’ I texted back. ‘But you will need to count what you bring. Make a list. And bring a float of £20 with you for change.’
So Saturday rolled around: Boat Race day 2007. And consequently when I arrived at the Bull’s Head, Barnes, with clarinettist Tim Huskisson, the pub – and most of Barnes itself – was packed with celebrants, many of them in the latter stages of alcoholic fulfilment. I wedged my way through the smoky crowds and into the jazz room (‘sponsored by Yamaha’) to be greeted by the familiar hush that surrounds a TV interview. Diana Melly, dressed to elegant perfection, was at the bar, surrounded by lighting men and cameras, conducting an interview. Anxious not to become a visual disturbance, I hurried to the back of the room and outside to the rear courtyard where I found altoist Peter King and Len Skeat safely out of vision in conversation and joined them until a new figure materialised. This was Mike with a kingly summons. ‘When you’re clear . . .’ he said, ‘George would like a word in the bar.’
Through I went to find George, a triumphant scarlet in his kaftan, surrounded by cameras and friends.
‘Hellooooooo,’ he said genially. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘How are you?’ I asked, as I put my arm around him.
‘As well as can be expected,’ said George, ‘under the circumstances. Diana is here, so I have to be on my best behaviour. No jokes, no showing off – just singing.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘that’s your very strongest point anyhow.’
‘And,’ said my friend, ‘I’ve only had one whiskey!’ He refused another and launched into his familiar, though good-natured, verbal onslaught on one of the performers who occasionally aroused his competitive ire.
‘Is this the man I’m thinking it is?’ said Mike, looking pained. ‘I’ve heard about this for months!’
‘I think so,’ I said. But then, aware of a camera-cum-soundman at our shoulder, I steered the conversation to a more positive topic noting a distinct teeter as talk proceeded. Dementia, it seemed, might be taking a more serious hold.
‘How was the opening of the Surrealist exhibition?’ I asked.
‘Good,’ said George. ‘But I had to tell Alan Yentob off.
I said, “You started off by making great programmes. But now if you don’t fill in your lottery tickets you must be a great fool. I’m going to call my lawyer and get you around to the office and sue you if you don’t.”’ It seemed that his mind was wandering and we were switching subjects with disturbing speed. Then George took my arm.
‘But I have a second thing to say. If this record takes off, as I said – and it may do, it may not – when I’m dead, I want the members of the orchestra and its leader to get a good royalty!’
‘That really is very sweet,’ I said, omitting the phrase ‘under the circumstances’ but touched by the fact he was re-enforcing this point, ‘thank you.’ And I kissed him on the cheek to be greeted by the old flirtatious moue that followed any such action. ‘Now I must go and get my cornet and warm up.’
Back in the Bull’s Head jazz room, the audience was already busily filing in. Nervous and out of practice, I handed out the music to the five remaining musicians who this night were to make up the Half-Dozen – Tim, pianist Nick Dawson, Chris Gower, Len and Nick – and warmed up lip, stomach and mind with a healthy slug of Dr Smirnoff’s prescription. Wandering back into the room momentarily, I found Diana Melly, seated dead centre in the front row looking radiant. I used a standard joke.
‘Couldn’t,’ I asked, ‘you get somewhere closer?’ She smiled, looking happy and relaxed.
‘How did the interview go?’ I said.
‘Fine. They asked me lots of questions. Including, “why don’t I go to all of George’s gigs?”’
‘What did you say?’ I asked.
‘Because I’ve got lots of other better things to do.’
‘Good answer,’ I said.
But then it was time to begin. To the packed room, ‘Good evening!’ I said. ‘Tonight we are here to celebrate a very special event, the filming of part of a George Melly documentary. And we are privileged to be joined by his wife. Please acknowledge the presence of Mrs Diana Melly!’ There was applause as she waved. ‘And very soon, the reason we are all here – and have been treading the boards for the past five years – Mr George Melly himself!’
On the Road with George Melly Page 12
