‘George said, “I’ve lost something under the bed. Can you look for it?” So I said, “What is it?” and George said, “I won’t know until I see it!” So there am I under the bed pulling out everything that was there and every time he says, “That’s not it.” So finally I’m sweating and breathless and I said, “George, I can’t do this any more. I’m exhausted.” And George said, “Well, I’ll just have to find something else to clean my CDs with.” And it was on his bedside table.’
Michael knew his stuff and was currently co-writing a book on neurosurgery. He explained to me the risks that George was now facing: lack of blood flow to central brain cells; the pressures on his heart because of his physical decline; the impending threats of a heart attack, a stroke or even death in a car or on-stage.
‘So,’ I asked, ‘would you be prepared to travel with George to the out-of-town engagements he still has in his book?’
‘No,’ said Mike, ‘I’ve had them in the book, I know. But now I wouldn’t be prepared.’
The next morning – full of worries – I faxed this letter to our agent.
My dear Jack,
We’ve agreed that we should stay in close touch over the matter of George and following two telephone conversations from Diana on Wednesday and Thursday I visited [George] yesterday (with Dominic Ashworth my friend and guitarist in the Half-Dozen whose opinion I value) to talk to his in-house minders Chris and Tina and to George. On arrival I was handed the two letters which accompany this fax, and which I thought you should see.
There is no doubt that our dear friend is very ill now. To call him ‘frail’ would be putting it kindly (his body is wilfully shrunken by the cancer) and his conversation repetitive and eccentric – although to be fair the matter of the film and his potential role as Jesus wasn’t mentioned! I asked him how he was and received the direct answer ‘Look at me – I’m riddled with cancer from top to bottom!’ which sadly I am sure he is. We talked for fifteen minutes or so before Dominic asked the direct question: ‘Do you want to keep working – and singing with the band?’ to which George replied an emphatic ‘Yes – it’s the only thing that keeps me going.’
I’m sure it is too. But Chris and Tina – who are qualified occupational therapists – are very concerned about his out-of-town work, as of course is Diana. Apparently he regularly declines to take his prescribed medication (the side effects are hard for him to cope with) and has a job even leaving his room. I had a long and serious conversation about the future and what could – or should – be done.
Our conclusion after the talk was that there is a problem to deal with. It was suggested that George should only undertake London work from now on. And although I pointed out that this presents huge implications in professional/contractual terms I must say that I can see their reasons. I am also sure that a full-time minder would now be necessary for any such extended trips, should they occur.
One conclusion was that George’s GP – or in my view his specialists – should be consulted over the situation and professional medical advice taken over whether travelling is still practical. But we also agreed that George’s declared wishes to perform for as long as possible should be fully respected until his time has come. Plainly his second home is the stage.
I do think we need to talk, old friend. I know that a knee-jerk reaction would be to say ‘Right! We’ll cancel all his work from now on. That’s it.’ But to do so would be to confine him to his tiny bedroom (and probably the hospital) until the Reaper arrives, which is a dismal fate for a performer who still wishes to sing and has declared that ‘that’s what keeps him going!’ I feel sure that neither Diana, Chris, Tina nor any other of his current close associates would wish that situation on him either.
Another point to be raised is that – as you will note from the last line of Diana’s dated document signed by George – our position, amid this situation, is a potentially questionable one. For you George – as well as a friend and colleague of decades – is also a professional client. For me – as well as a hero, musical kindred and friend – he is still an occasional source of work! As such we are open to the possible accusation of flogging an old horse who – though not yet demised – is certainly very far from well now. Of course this is not the case, but I think we need to consider any such potential viewpoint with understanding rather than an unnecessarily defensive attitude and deal with it with love for an old and sick friend, compassion and as much constructive help as possible. George is now a very ill old trouper; those around him are under tremendous stress and the situation is a complicated one.
We must talk of course. And I have at the moment no immediate conclusions to offer – beyond the suggestion that we seek definitive medical judgment on George’s ability to travel and then, dependent on that, take the necessary steps to make sure that he is taken proper care of, should the answer be ‘yes’. (I should add one important point; that Mike – his principal minder – is not prepared to risk the problems inherent in long journeys if this should be the case). If ‘no’ then we must look at the situation again.
I’m copying this letter to Diana, Chris and Tina.
As ever, your junior client,
Digby
It wasn’t long before Jack was on the phone. ‘I need something,’ he said, ‘from a doctor! I’ve explained to Diana that I have no wish to put George in a bad situation. But as co-director of Man Woman and Bulldog, I have both legal and contractual obligations.’
I understood perfectly. So next, I wrote to Diana.
Dear Di,
Following my visit to [George] last night and a useful talk with Tina, Chris and the Master I thought you would wish to see this letter faxed to Jack this a.m. I have also passed to him the signed document from yourself and the letter from Michael.
Jack has been on the phone very quickly to say that initially he will need signed documentation from George’s GP if – after due consultation – George is pronounced ‘unfit for travel’. In short a ‘sick note’. He needs to know about this as soon as possible and I would suggest you talk to him when you can, as I gather you may have already made contacts and enquiries in this direction.
I’ve also had a long talk with Michael who has advised me that he would not be prepared to travel with George to out-of-town engagements because of health risks of which he seems to be well informed and fully aware. An initial thought – which we should discuss I think – is that my band may therefore no longer be able to transport George in his enhanced condition for both practical and (possibly) legal reasons. However if qualified medical care could be found – even at some expense – I feel that George’s joy in performing should be gratified as long as he is able to do so competently and with dignity and that transport should be considered accordingly.
Hope to talk soon,
Digby
But we weren’t to talk soon; I heard nothing from Diana for the remainder of the day but meantime contacted Paul Jones and Georgie Fame to see how they might feel about stepping in for George.
Paul – ever the courteous gentleman – was quick to reply. Within a couple of hours he was on the phone. ‘I’m sorry to hear the news, Digby,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later. Just now I’m on my way to Newark.’ And next morning we did indeed talk. Paul was sympathetic and declared himself happy to fulfil a few dates even though he was busy with his Blues Band, the Manfreds and other commitments.
Later, however, I was worried about George and decided to give a quick ring. Diana picked up the phone.
‘Di,’ I said. ‘It’s Dig! I just rang up to see how he is.’
‘Much the same as ever,’ said Di. Her voice sounded cool. ‘But I must say, Digby, that I was disappointed with your reaction to our conversation of ten days ago. Do you remember that?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ I said.
She went on to say she felt I had only responded because two men, Chris and Mike, had stepped in and that this was a somewhat chauvanist response.
‘That’s it!�
�� I thought – she obviously had the same idea and the phones went down together.
I was shaking with anger and took ten minutes off for deep breaths. Then with hands still unsteady, I wrote this.
Dear Diana,
Having had a cup of tea – and cooled off! – I would wish to apologise for my part in our somewhat heated exchange. I have no wish to quarrel and have indeed been very grateful for your help in band matters in the past. With George as ill as he is there is plainly no reason to consider anything other than his welfare.
However, I would (gently) make the following points. One, my visit to George this week was prompted solely by your conversation of Tuesday evening and my concern for him; not by the intervention of either Mike Woods or Chris – both of whose role in George’s recent decline I have been only vaguely aware. To accuse me of the – somewhat tired – cliché of chauvinism is both inaccurate and invidious. I have regarded you as my principal contact at all times – whether in or away from the house – and my occasional silences have been prompted principally by the fact that, reasonably often, I can’t get hold of you.
I also feel it necessary to assure you that my sole concern – as you might (I presume) have gathered from my letter to Jack Higgins yesterday – is purely for George’s best interests. He has been a considerable personal inspiration to me for decades and working with him has been, in general, a complete joy. However, as you would have heard – had you been present on Wednesday – neither I, nor my band, have the slightest wish to work for or with him for one moment longer than George wishes to do so, though Chris, Tina, Dominic and I have all agreed that his continued wish to perform for as long as possible should be respected wherever this may be practical.
I am perfectly happy to discuss all or other of the above matters with you at any time and hope that we may now resume friendly and rational relations.
Later, an email arrived from Diana, explaining that doctors’ letters were being made available and that all away jobs should be cancelled and promoters told that letters would be coming. She went on to say that George would be driven to local jobs in future, with Michael in attendance, and that she couldn’t speak to Jack after his outburst, but that I could, if I wanted to, tell him to cancel jobs on Monday. It was signed with love.
It had been a bad and upsetting exchange all round and I went out and got very drunk. Very drunk indeed. Next morning, wandering dimly round the house I found pictures on the floor and my grandfather clock halfway across the floor. Luckily I’d been sick outside.
So I was glad of Jack’s bellowed pep-talk on the phone. ‘First of all I can’t get you! And two, stop being so fucking emotional. This is business. We don’t get Paul Jones yet. We need the facts! Facts first! This is business! Business – remember! I can’t do anything without that medical evidence. And once I’ve got that we move on to stage two – if and when it’s necessary. So keep your eye on things. I’ve got contracts to meet – and obligations. So stop going on an emotional trip – it’s not necessary.’ The barked instructions were like a breath of much needed fresh air. But it was impossible to shake the feeling of depression that grew as the weekend progressed. Clearly the situation had been getting on top of me and I began to understand how Diana must feel. Listening dully to my new show through Sky television on theJazz for the first time, the screen proclaimed: ‘Digby Fairweather! – Further scheduled information unknown.’ All too true, I thought.
As my 61st birthday approached, another article appeared in the Daily Mail: quotations from George about his terminal illness: ‘I don’t fear death,’ he said, ‘I’m a fatalist. Although I would rather death came as a shock to me. I’ve always said I wanted to die coming off-stage with the applause in my ears or of a terminal stroke on a river bank with two trout by my side.’
Soon after Diana called. Happily our spat seemed to be forgotten. It had been decided that George would sing at his next two jobs – at Worcester, then Newark. Mike and Chris would accompany him and mini-cabs would transport him. And a benefit was to be arranged for the ‘for dementia’ charity quite soon, for which George would sing. Then Mike was on the phone. ‘I’ll help with George and travel with him when I can,’ he said, ‘although he may need a lung drained over the next week or so.’
But gradually the dark clouds seemed to be clearing. First of all, Thursday, the day after my birthday, 25 April, Jack Higgins began talking to Diana again. He told me that he had called her, saying ‘Don’t get emotional on me!’ I have to get things straight in our business dealings. And Digby and Jacqui Dankworth are involved too and we have to think of them.’ The two of them agreed that, unavoidably, George’s days were rapidly coming to an end. ‘We have to talk to the venues,’ Jack emphasised to me later. ‘One at least will take the show without George. And give me Paul Jones’s number. I’ll talk to him.’ My fax machine whirred into action.
Then, early next morning, came another call from Diana. She was at full speed. ‘I’ll be driving to Worcester,’ she said, ‘along with George, Mike, Chris and Tina. The five of us will book into a separate hotel. And the benefit looks like being 10 June. George will sing and hopefully George Webb will play – and maybe Kenny Ball will help out too.’ She was full of optimism. ‘The film company have had their offer taken up by the BBC,’ she continued, ‘so all the musicians will get their proper fee. And we intend to help George to sing for as long as possible – even though he sometimes seems to think I’m trying to stop him. But realistically, Digby, he won’t be able to do anything after July. I’m sure of that.’
Then on the following Thursday the telephone rang and it was George Webb.
George Webb! At approaching ninety, the founder of Britain’s jazz revival and leader of Britain’s first authentic New Orleans band was already a legend. As agile as a diminutive bantamweight boxer, sharp as a box of tacks, and still leading his band with the same irresistible vigour that he did in 1944, he was the most vivid testimony to everlasting youth that I knew of. Only a month or so previously his Band of Brothers had packed the 100 Club with over three hundred disciples.
‘Hello, Dig,’ he said. ‘Yesterday I popped over to Shepherd’s Bush to see George and Diana. I nearly came away in tears. Poor old George! When you’ve been mates for decades, shared jokes and laughter – and music of course! And now he’s rambling; talking about his dreams . . . and of course the cancer is all the way through him now. It’s so sad.
‘But,’ continued this marvellously youthful leader, ‘we have to get this benefit going! Kenny’s going to play. And so will my Band of Brothers. And yours? And we have to get advertising the gig fast – it’s very soon. So you get in touch with Diana and we’ll get the deadlines for the publicity for The Jazz Guide, Mary Greig’s Jazz in London and of course my pals at Just Jazz [Britain’s shiniest monthly devoted to classic jazz] will help too.’
We set to work and George was on the phone daily to get things rolling.
Then Diana called. ‘The Society,’ she said, ‘will be coordinating the publicity if that’s all right! I’ve been in touch with Sir Paul McCartney and Van Morrison’s people and if things are right they may well drop in. And, yes, we should ask Paul Jones too . . .’ This really began to sound like an event but just for now George and I watched in wonder as – over the next month – every seat was sold.
Our next date in early May was to be next door to the home of Sir Edward Elgar; the beautiful Huntingdon Hall in Worcester – an antique place of worship converted to a concert hall, for which the audience sat in pews (mercifully softened by thick cushions) or generous oaken balconies up above and around, to face a high stage dominated by ecclesiastical artefacts, and an impressive organ of cathedral proportions. But I hadn’t seen George in several weeks and was worried at what the Half-Dozen, Jacqui Dankworth and I might find. According to phonecalls George Melly was now making no sense at all. On the journey down I received texts and calls from both his friend and regular helper Michael Woods and Chris, suggesting that thin
gs might indeed be bad as George was now in very poor shape. I called Jacqui Dankworth, who was joining us on the show as usual, and suggested she bring extra music in case Chris, George’s driver for the occasion, was forced to turn back. We ran through our sound check, rehearsal and first half. And then suddenly there was George.
In a wheelchair, yes, but dressed to the nines in a tailored purple velvet jacket and grey slacks, sporting a rich grey beard which lent him enormous distinction. Helped up from his chair by friendly hands, he made his steady way to centre stage amid roars of applause. And proceeded almost faultlessly through his show; coherent and cogent announcements capped by vocal contributions in a voice marginally more shaded and husky but the more attractive for that, and even rising majestically to his feet at the conclusion of ‘Cakewalkin’ Babies’. At the end beautiful Jacqui joined him for a joyful duo on ‘Ain’t Misbehaving’ and the audience, as one, stood up to acknowledge the presence of a great entertainer with an ovation that rang around the ancient hall for minutes on end.
After all was done I stayed the night in London in the empty flat kindly and regularly loaned to me by old friend, Daphne Shoolman. Leaving early for a lunchtime concert in the sunshine of Golders Hill Park in Golders Green I caught a doubledecker to the station and the driver greeted me.
‘Trumpet case, eh? Musician?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ I said.
‘Me too,’ said my driver, an attractive young man with an ever-present smile and strong Liverpool accent. ‘Fifteen years!’
‘So why are you driving a bus?’
‘Well,’ said my new friend. ‘You know what it’s like. Hand to mouth. I’ve got a wife and kids. And really one gig every two weeks – maybe £60 – you know what it’s like. I mean if it’s the right people I’ll work for nothing, like we all do. But driving a bus is easy and it’s regular money! Who do you work with?’
On the Road with George Melly Page 14
