Them Two Front Teeth!

Teeth, if you want my opinion – well, even if you don’t you’re gonner get it, ‘tis my bleeding’ blog, innit?– are a ginormous mistake on Mother Nature’s part, an indubitably unclearly thought-out number one, top of the heap, prize cock-up. They’re a nuisance from the opening over: firstly, as a baby, one cops the uncomfortable pain of teething, secondly the so-called milk teeth (the product of the uncomfortable pain of teething) begin to fall out, or,in my case, get violently yanked  out in the name of medical science. Me mum told me that when I was very small, she took me to a famous London training hospital, full of wannabee-quacks, to have me junior gnashers checked. Visiting a private dentist would have been too expensive, so orrff we goes to this hospital. As I have absolutely no recollection of events, being far too young at the time, it’s only hearsay, so I can only repeat what me mum told me (and anyone else unlucky enough to be around at the telling moment) which was that I was led away for an examination, and some time later returned to the maternal bosom minus ten (yes, folks,10) teeth. Like I said, it was a famous training hospital, so to train ‘em, they’d let the students practice pulling pegs on me, and the buggers had nicked ten of me choppers – yeah, right, they were only “milk teeth” but blimey, do me a favour!  My mother when relating this tale, as she so often did (which is why I remember it so clearly, not because I’ve got access to a three–or–four–year–old–at–the–time’s memory bank) said she went up the wall. But the deed was did, the tuskers tugged, and that was that. I suppose I must have had some kind of anasthetic – dunno for sure because me mum never mentioned that; she was always far too busy getting incensed and agitato at the recollection of a bunch of students whipping out her little currant’s ‘Ampsteads for practice. The students had to learn, the hospital told her, and they were only milk teeth after all, which would soon be replaced by proper lastyer-a-life-time (hollow laughter) pearlies, and should she sue them (knowing well that as she couldn’t afford to pay a private dentist [otherwise we wouldn’t have been there at a famous London training hospital,in the first place] she couldn’t possibly raise the prohibitive price of a lawyer) she would anyway lose the case . They didn’t actually say:  “Tough shit, lady !” but one can read between the lines, cannot one?

After the milk teeth,(I did have all of Vince’s lovingly kept for security and posterity, in a matchbox, in a desk drawer; unfortunately during a move-of-house, one of our helpers must’ve pulled out the drawer, then somehow contrived to lose its irreplaceable contents) your proper lastyer-a-life-time  (hollow laughter)  teeth take their place and you are  soon introduced to numerous fresh dental delights: drillings, fillings, extractions, dentures,and trying to answer questions with your cake’ole held wide open by an array of specially constructed, extremely uncomfortable medieval contraptions.

Teeth are an unequivocal folly: rows of separate little fellers, each of whom is capable of providing pain, and seemingly only too willing to do so, plus sundry other forms of bother. A coupler pieces of bone – top and bottom of the jaw – would be quite sufficient when it comes down to eating, chewing, grinding up food, holding tobacco pipes, opening bottles, biting off your opponent’s ear, or whatever else one wishes to use ones jaw for. Yet, were there only two rows of bone, rather than separate teeth, we’d be deprived of the following delightful, not to say incredible, and unbelievable (though, stand on me,it is absolutely true) Fairfield Hall tale.

To be honest, my powers of recollection are not so honed, that I am able to recall date,  time and place of myriad events, indeed I’m not very hot on numbers at all. Vince set up an account for me, then told me the lengthy, pretty complicated password. ” Well ” I said, ” I’ll be able to remember the words okay, no bother, but I dunno about the numbers.”
 ”Look at it again,” he said.
I did so, then shrugged: “Yeah, and?”
(Patiently) “Did you look properly?”
 ”Course I did.”
“Then you know how easy it is to remember.”
(Slightly irritated) ” Easy! No way. Like I said,the words are okay, but I still don’t know how you expect me to remember them bloody numbers.”
Using the gentle, kindly voice upon which he calls when dealing with his daft–but–doting–dad’s–dotage–dilemmas, he said: “It’s your date of birth.”
 I do know where I was, and what I was doing when 9/11 happened. Although I can’t recall the year, I recollect the date, despite the fact that the walk-the-planks, always annoyingly do dates arse–to–face: putting month before the day, automatically causing me, and not only me, confusion when trying to sort out dates on American letters, articles and so on. The rest of us, ov kosst, do it correctly, putting day before month, in fact it orter be known as 11/9  not  9/11, but we fall in with their harmless little eccentricities, as, to our shame, we do with some of their less little harmless ones. Anyold, I”d just parked me bum in me comfortable old armchair, with a great mug of steaming Rosie in me hand, to watch TV, when the first plane crashed into one of the twin towers in New York. “Christ, Shir !” I yelled, “Come and ‘ave a butcher’s at this, there’s bin a terrible accident.”  Whereupon the second plane flew into the other tower, and I realised it was deliberate. All hell broke loose, and the civilised world was changed for ever. I remember the date (though again, not the year) John Lennon was murdered because the eighth of December is Shirley’s birthday, as it is  Mary Queen of Scot’s, though different vintages. I have no idea of the date, but I do recall where I was on the day President Kennedy was assassinated. I was in Cecil Sharp House with Shirl – we were doing a concert with Rory McEwan, and the Spinners (no, not the great soul group from Detroit, the folkies from Liverpool). Several of us were rabbiting in the dressing room, when an overwrought length of Tony Davis charged in announcing: “Kennedy’s been shot.” I looked up, and – thinking he was referring to the folklorist said, with my usual sparkling wit: ” About bloody time.” ” No, no, no! ” spluttered Tony, “not Peter Kennedy – President Kennedy.”
As Sammy the Peeps never wrote: and so to the Fairfield Hall. Naturally I can’t recall the date – we did play there two or three times– but  I’m pretty certain it took place sometime in 1964 or ‘65. Nor do I remember all the artists who were appearing on the bill, but aside from me and Shirl, I know for certain there was: Steve Benbow, John Pearse,The Strawberry Hill Boys (I once asked Eric Winter: ” When you’re writing your Melody Maker column and the Strawberry Hill Boys are playing, you inevitably refer to ‘em as The Strawbs, right? ” He nodded his head. ” So how do you refer to the Country Gentlemen?”  For a few seconds, Eric, looking puzzled, was silent, then he was off in a fit of high-pitched hilarity, gasping. “Oh, matie, how do I refer to the Country Gentlemen? That’s a good one. How do I refer to the Country Gentlemen? How do I…?”  dear old Eric always repeated the punchline several times, in case you’d missed it first go round) and then there was the catalyst and protagonist of thismerry  tale: Alex Campbell.
Alex had a great singing voice, played solid guitar, but, above all, was a wonderful entertainer, plus being a wonderful encourager. When I first started out, Al really helped me: calling on me to do floor-spots at his gigs (giving me a big build-up everytime beforehand) he played as first guest, at the folkclub I opened with my old china John Glen, at the Star and Garter in Bromley: and then would drop in whenever he was free, a bunch of his mates (most of ‘em singers) in tow, and always did a great floor-spot for us. Inevitably it was Al who taught me an invaluable lesson. One night I was in the middle of a long unaccompanied ballad, and some berk in the very front row of the club, leant back in his chair and yawned, he could’ve yawned quietly, or covered his cake’ole, but no, it was a loud, cavernous–see–what–i–had–for–breakfast yawn. I just flipped, stopped singing and bellowed at him: “You fucking cunt, you ever fucking do that again, and I’ll fucking shove your fucking teeth down your fucking throat! ” (I’m afraid  also used some quite unprintable words.) The bloke was not only terrified at  my raging outburst, he was also covered with embarrassment, apologising profusely, saying: “I’m really, really sorry, Colin. I didn’t mean to do that, I’m just so tired, but I didn’t want to miss the folk club.”  Of course, the ballad was now well up shit creek, so I went into some jolly chorus song. Afterwards, Alex said to me: “Don’t ever lose your rag like that again, man; all ye do – or can do – is antagonise the rest o’ the audience. Ye’ve got tae learn to take those kinds o’ things in ye stride. Mind you, ye did well wi’ that chorus song – that wis real smart. “
It was also Al who encouraged me to concentrate on entertaining, to be myself on stage, say the daft things I’d normally say anyway, and get the punters laughing – he gave me a lot of self confidence, told the organizer to book me as resident singer in his place when he (Alex) returned to Paris; I’ve always been grateful for that, and for several other useful tips he passed on to me.
Back in the 60s it was the norm, at a concert with several performers, for everyone to come back on stage and join together –musicians united like one big happy family – for a farewell number (or two). So having all given of our best in Croydon’s Fairfield Hall, we gathered together for the grande finale. Alex (modestly assuming command in his usual shy, reticent manner) said: “Okay cats, we’ll do ” Goodnight Irene”  (what else?) we all chunked our guitars, banjos, or basses on the opening chords, and began to groove. He stepped forward, threw back his head and started to sing the first line of the song. In that instant the first unbelievable thing happened: his two front teeth, which were on a dental plate, flew out of his mouth like a fly-catcher’s tongue when it spots a prey.Then the second unbelievable thing happened: his hand flashed out, causing the sound barrier a mini-second’s consternation, and he grabbed the buggers in mid-air. Turning to Benbow with a wide, gappy grin, he said: “Lucky it wisnae ye wig, Steve! ” Understandably, as one, we l corpsed. I dunno what the audience made of it: one minute we’re seriously plunking our instruments, the next we’re all doubled over, wetting ourselves with laughter. Obviously, due to the distance between us and the audience, due to the stage lighting, and also due to the speed with which the Campbell hand flashed out to retrieve his departing dentures, they couldn’t have seen what happened. Somehow we managed to get our act back together, sang probably the jolliest version of Leadbelly’s classic song ever, did a couple more encores tout ensemble, then reeled off to fill the dressing rooms with our laughter.

Lightning, they say, never strikes the same place twice…… a right load of cobblers!
Shirl and I were doing a coupler weeks in the Netherlands. Alex was touring Scotland, had a free day, didn’t know what the hell to do with himself,remembered his old chinas were in the Netherlands, hopped on a plane and…….
…….We were singing in a great club, run by Dutch singer Cobi Schreijer, called De Waag, in Haarlem, a16th century public weigh station converted into an extremely curry-‘n-rice little cabaret: very intimate, dimly lit, candles on the Cain-an’–Ables, wonderful atmosphere. We’re in the middle of our show when, the front door, which we could see from the stage, abruptly, like a filmic police-raid, bursts open, and there: guitar in one hand,  bottle of malt whisky in the other, stands a well-known figure which loudly booms: ” Hell yeah ! Surprised ye, eh? Hell yeah!”  and Alex stomps stridently into the room. We were astonished, and, despite the deliberately potentially show-stealing, unnecessarily over-noisy entrance (it was Al fergordssake) delighted, to see him; greeted him, asked him if he’d like to do a couple of numbers with us. You didn’t have to ask Campbell twice if he wanted to hit the stage, he broke out his axe with alacrity.
Huddled from the audience we quietly discussed which song we’d do, played the intro, then Al throws back his head to  sing the first line and…….
Unbelievable but……
Yep, out they shot……..Them two front teeth again!
This time he reacted a tad too slowly, wasn’t quick enough to catch ‘em; this time they vanished into the welcoming candled gloom of De Waag, unquestionably heading straight for the deck, patently preparing to skid beneath a table; this time there were no wide gappy grins, this time there were no jocular remarks about  syrups, this time Alex fucking panicked. Before he commenced conducting a frantic hunt amidst the table legs, chair legs and human legs, he held up both hands, begging the assembled:   

“Fer Chrissake, don’t nobody move their feet.”