And we clapped politely. Because although clapping is uncool, getting beaten up by a bunch of giant trannies for not clapping would have been uncooler.
Clap-clap-clap, we went.
And Neil even whistled.
‘I wish Mr Ishmael was here,’ I said to Neil. ‘I feel strangely vulnerable, amongst this crowd of weirdos.’
‘We could just grab our gear and run.’
‘Do you think they would let us?’
Neil eyed up Venus Envy and concluded, ‘They do look rather burly and “useful”, don’t they?’
And I agreed that they did.
But at least they were smiling.
At us.
‘I think we’re on,’ said Neil. And we were.
Toby and I were handed our guitars and did our very best to deretune the retunings.
Neil worried at this drum kit. ‘How can anyone put a drum kit out of tune?’ he asked.
But in a whispery voice. And close to my ear.
‘We’ll show them,’ I said. ‘We’ll rock the house, right?’ And I made a soul-fist at Toby, who responded with something resembling a frown. And very resembling it, too!
‘Are you ready to rock ’n’ roll?’ I asked Toby and Neil.
And they made faces at me.
‘Are you ready to rock ’n’ roll?’ I bawled into the microphone. Eliciting some hearty attention-grabbing feedback.
One or two winos gave me the thumbs-up with their sherry bottles and I counted in the first number.
And then we played that rock ’n’ roll.
Like the True Rock Gods we were.
13
We played an absolute blinder that night.
Even with the ropy old PA popping away and the ancient amplifiers fizzing and crackling and a variety of distortion coming out of the speakers the likes of which would not be heard again until nineteen sixty-seven, when, in the Summer of Love and hallucinogenics, everyone would be trying to capture that exact sound.
And I was very proud of the lads – they played a professional set. Neil thrashed those drums and Toby did things to his bass guitar that were probably illegal, but certainly got a cheer from the audience.
And it was a big audience now.
Packed very tight. And not smelling as sweetly as did Mr Ishmael. But we had a full house for certain. They just kept packing in, brushing the snow from their shoulders and rubbing their mittened mits together.
‘We’d like to play a song now that’s a bit of a departure for us. Slow the mood down a little with a bit of a ballad.’ And they cheered this. Loudly. ‘I wrote this number with Frank Sinatra in mind. It is called “The Smell in the Gents’ is Still the Same”.’
And as I said in the last chapter that I’d give you a sample of my lyrics, here is that sample now. You have to picture it being sung by Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, probably on stage at the Stardust casino in Las Vegas. It goes something like this. Oh, and please bear with the spellings of the place names – I was young then and had not perhaps taken the best possible advantage of the education I was offered.
THE SMELL IN THE GENTS’ IS STILL THE SAME
I’ve been to Shanghai
Pagodas hang high
Upon the Shaolin plain.
But no matter where I roam
Over land or over foam
The smell in the gents’ is still the same.
It’s quite a mystery
How come can this be?
I’ve smelled it time and again
In Trinidad and Tobago
Or Tierra del Fuego -
The smell in the gents’ is still the same.
[Middle eight]
If you’re caught short in Kioto
Rangoon or Minisoto
In Cuba or Toledo
In Mexico or Rio
Hawaiee or Tahiti
New Zealand or Wai-Ke-Kee
You’ll sniff this curiosity
This nasal atrocity.
I pose the question
Take all suggestion
To fill this void in my brain.
How can it be
From Irish Sea
To some Tibettan Monastery,
From any pub in Brentford
To the distant shores of Tripoli,
From John o Groats
To God knows where
This frightful perfume
Fills the air.
This sordid stench, this acrid pong
It lingers loud and lewd and long.
This wretched wang, this pooey niff
You really can’t but take a sniff.
The smell in the gents’ is still the same
Oh baby
The smell in the gents’ is still the same.
Fade out.
Applause.
And they really loved us.
In between ‘The Smell in the Gents” and ‘What’s That On Your Shoe, Young Man, Please Don’t Tread It Into the Carpet’, I whispered to Toby, who still had not retuned his retuned bass to his personal preference.
‘It’s tuned to the Key of Doh,’ said he.
‘They love us,’ I whispered to Toby. ‘If there were any teenage girls here, clean ones who didn’t smell of old kippers, I bet we’d get off with them.’
