the audience), snatching our ukes from our hands as they did so.
We were not pleased about this at all.
Toby was in a blue funk! [6]
‘I’ll kill one of them,’ he said. And he pointed to one of The Stones at random. Brian Jones, I believe it was. ‘I’ll kill him!’ said Toby.
Rob made calming gestures with his ukeless fingers. ‘It will all be all right,’ he told Toby. ‘They can be our warm-up act. Get the crowd going. Remember, they’re on before us. They are our support band.’
Toby thought about this. And so did Neil and so did I. I don’t know exactly what conclusions the others drew, but I was happy enough to have The Rolling Stones as my support act.
And so we stood and we waited. In the shadows beside the brightly lit stage. And we watched The Rolling Stones.
They were an R & B band then. In the days when R & B meant R & B. As opposed to whatever it is that R & B means nowadays. Which is not the same thing at all. So to speak. So The Rolling Stones did quite a lot of the blues.
They did ‘Love in Vain’, the Robert Johnson classic. And they did some Chuck Berry. They did ‘Johnny B. Goode’. And that is a classic.
They didn’t do any George Formby at all. Which I personally felt was a shame. I thought they missed a golden opportunity there, what with such an abundance of ukes and everything. But I didn’t really care. We had plenty of George Formby numbers in our repertoire. In fact, we were almost exclusively a Formby-orientated rock ’n’ roll band.
‘I notice,’ noticed Neil, ‘and I notice that I did not notice this before, that Michael has quite long hair. It covers his ears and also his school-shirt collar.’
We nodded.
‘Your point is?’ Toby asked.
‘Long hair is for girlies, surely,’ said Rob. ‘Long hair, well shampooed, “because you’re worth it”, so to speak.’
‘I think I’ll try and grow mine,’ said Neil. ‘Just to see how it looks.’
‘You will look like Guy Fawkes,’ said Toby. ‘You are already the only schoolboy I know who sports a goatee beard. Do not add to your notoriety by styling your hair like that of an effeminate anti-parliamentarian. ’
‘I don’t wish to look like some Muff Mary Ellen. I’ll shave my head tomorrow,’ said Neil. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
And he did.
And in so doing unconsciously invented a look that would later find favour with The Village People.
‘I do hate to say this,’ said Rob, ‘but The Rolling Stones are rather cool. Although it is a rubbish name for a band. They’re playing a lot of Robert Johnson – they should have some sort of Demonic name, but with a bit of a regal quality to it, like ours.’
‘Their Satanic Majesties,’ Toby suggested.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Rob.
And then suddenly The Rolling Stones had finished. We didn’t clap them, of course. How uncool would that have been? Neither did we cheer. Not that we could have cheered had we wanted to.
You see, we’d had to talk quite loudly while The Rolling Stones had been playing. Shout, really, in order to make ourselves heard. So we had rather sore throats. Which would not help my performance.
The Rolling Stones came off stage to considerable applause, and we Sumerian Kynges suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a bit of a crush. Most of the teenage schoolgirls of Southcross Road School ’s fourth and fifth years seemed rather anxious to make the personal acquaintance of Michael and his band. We found ourselves getting all pushed about. But we did get our ukes thrust back into our hands, so we elbowed our way onstage.
And Mr Jenner wasn’t there. He’d gone. Left the stage by some other steps. Steps we knew not of. And that was the last time I saw Mr Jenner. He vanished mysteriously quite soon after that.
I always wondered what became of him. Nothing good, I hope. Some years after that, when The Rolling Stones became famous (and yes, of course I know what happened to them), I saw a photo of them standing with their manager Andrew Oldham. And I recall thinking that if Andrew took off the sunglasses that he always wore, he’d look the dead spit of Mr Jenner.
Whatever. Because we were now on the stage.
And I ‘one-twoed’ with vigour into that mic.
And I introduced the band as the Rock Gods that we were. Or soon would be. And I counted in our first number. And we played. How we played.
And I’ll bet, just bet, that if there had been anyone left in the school hall, anyone who had not followed The Rolling Stones out into the playground, where they were apparently signing autographs and deciding which fourth- and fifth-year girls they would be taking on elsewhere, then I bet, just bet, that had there been anyone remaining to watch us play, then that someone would have been really impressed by our musicianship and stagecraft. Even though my vocal renditions were a tad countertenor-ish.
But there wasn’t and we played to an empty hall.
And when we were done, Toby reiterated his intention to kill one of The Rolling Stones. ‘Drown his head in a bucket’ being the expression that he used.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Rob as he retuned his ukulele, for he had done some fearsome finger-work, ‘I’m thinking that perhaps I am not cut out for the crazy world of rock ’n’ roll. I am thinking that I might just go into advertising and become a copywriter.’
‘Not quite so fast,’ said Toby. ‘Playing to an empty hall is part of paying our dues. It will not happen again, you have my promise on this. And let’s look on the bright side – the fact that the hall was empty means that no one will ever know how truly rubbish we were.’
I looked at Neil and Neil looked at me and Neil looked at Rob and et cetera and et cetera.
‘We were pretty rubbish, weren’t we?’ said Rob.
‘We were excruciating,’ said Neil.
‘I was good,’ said I.
‘You were the most rubbish of all,’ the blighters said. In unison.
‘Perhaps I could go into copywriting also,’ I said.
‘You’d be rubbish at that, too,’ said Rob.
‘So where does this leave us?’ I asked.
‘It leaves you, gentlemen, with a most exciting option.’
Now, I never said that, and nor did Neil and nor did Rob and nor did Toby. And nor did Mr Jenner, nor any of The Rolling Stones, nor any of the fourth- or fifth-year girls of Southcross Road. Nor even Mrs Simian the school cook, nor her weird sisters of the kitchen cauldrons.
‘Who said that?’ asked Rob. ‘Or Who’s Next, as I might put it, if it were an album, or something.’
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said a gentleman. For surely indeed this was a gentleman. He stepped from the shadows at the rear of the brightly lit hall. The left-hand side, when looking, as we were, from the stage.
‘Looks like a man of wealth and taste,’ Rob whispered to me, as I was standing closest to him.
‘Who are you, sir?’ I asked.
‘Call me Ishmael,’ said Ishmael. ‘Mr Ishmael,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I liked your performance.’
‘You did?’ I was puzzled by this. To say the very least.
‘Perhaps he’s a homo,’ whispered Rob. ‘They’ll say anything in order to get a bit of youthful bottom.’
And then Rob said no more. He sort of clutched at his throat and sort of fainted dead away. And all we Sumerian Kynges hastened to ignore Rob’s plight and see what Mr Ishmael’s ‘most exciting option’ might be.
‘You are not, by any chance, the owner of a vast cheese empire?’ Neil asked Mr Ishmael.
‘Why do you ask me that?’ the other replied.
‘Because Rob has fainted. I’m asking on his behalf.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I see.’
‘Glad that someone does,’ said I.
‘The Sumerian Kynges,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I like the name. It is very – how shall I put this? – meaningful.’
Our young heads went nod-nod-nod. Here, it was clear, was an adult who was on our wavelength.
