” We may not have written the book…”
My story about Alex Campbell’s flying ‘Ampsteads (try saying that in a John Cleese ‘Obson’s as if introducing Mon-ty Py-thon’s Fly-ing Cir-cus…..… sounds good, eh?) received several interesting comments.
Jeannie, thoroughly destroyed my illusion that we at the Fairfield Hall concert were the only ones to witness it (though I bet in no other case did the Campbell hand flash out to hold ‘em like an magnificent slip-catch) mailed:
”…By the way I did laugh at “two front teeth”…. Just how many times did Alex lose his teeth in front of an audience? They flew out into the audience at the “Black Horse” much to the amusement of Dominic Behan who happened to be sitting in the center of the front row, also at Loughborough Festival when Martin was directing it. Most folk would have found it an embarrassing situation to be in, but “Hell No” not Alex he had the audience in stitches laughing with him not at him, a truly fantastic performer.”
Jack wrote: “…We heard about the Campbell choppers because we did Coby’s club shortly after you and she was still talking about it ….”
And our old china Hennessy, who’s words inspired this posting, said:
” Col
I loved your blog on Alex’s teeth. There is another story on the same subject. As I was leaving the UK forever, Alex gave me his only copy of his first album, Chanson Populaire. It was recorded in the south of France and you may have heard his No More Cane On The Brazos. Al was embarrassed by it because he virtually cried his way through it. He said that he recorded it while he was still pissed from the previous night’s booze and lost his front teeth whilst spewing into the Med…
Col, we have lived in incredible times. We may not have written the book but we have lived it.
From Memory Lane,
H”
Hennessy is a creative craftsman, a sculptor, but above all, a luthier whose work with wood needs to be seen, and heard, to be believed. Here are a coupler links which will give you some very small idea of the scope of his work.
Back in the early 60s, Hennessy took Al’s battlefielded, scratched and scarred old Gibson guitar (gord, did I covet that axe) which Alex always let me use when I did a
floor-spot at one of his gigs, and refurbished it. Like all Gibsons, it was a lovely sounding instrument (as far as I’m concerned they’re far superior to any other of the “big name” guitars which are so popular) with a glorious bass, and easy action. When he was finished it looked brand new, and sounded even better than before. I could never understand what possessed Alex to later on buy a new model when the old Gibson he had was so marvellous, but he did, and the “Hennessy” Gibson was pensioned off. Where she is now, I know not, but hope the new owner realises what a guitar treasure he/she has.
Brussells never won a place in our hearts like other towns: Paris, Montreaux, Berlin or Menton did. Over the years we went there several times, mainly in order to spend time with Derroll, invariably staying a few weeks on each occasion (I’ve a headful of amusing anecdotes concerning these trips: the day the ceiling fell down, the long lost German soldier, living in a brothel, room on fire, and many more, mostly funny, maybe someday I’ll sit down and …) To me, once one left the gaudy, trafficked avenues and bustling broad boulevards behind, and entered the backstreets, it became a somehow sinister seeming city peering, like a nosy neighbour, with hooded eyes past closed-curtained cafe windows . Then again, maybe my opinion was partly influenced by the quarter in which we lived: one morning a bloke walked into the rather gloomy little cafe where we always ate breakfast, and shot the owner……. this kind of event could, naturally, affect one’s judgement, and create prejudice.
Nevertheless, despite our decided antipathy toward the town, we continued returning, always making fairly good bread singing in restaurants, or on the streets, and, having done a coupler spots, would go to the Rue du Marche aux Herbes, contiguous to The Grand Place, in the Old Town, and sit in the Welkom, a noisy, overcrowded meeting place for itinerant street singers, pavement chalkers, mime acts, jugglers, painters, poets and unpublished novelists, plus a healthy sprinkling of sundry interesting rogues, rascals, and assorted skullduggers, rabbiting with Derroll before we had to nip off to do our cabaret turn (sounds very pish-posh, but it was quite small – like our fee – which supplemented by singing the streets. On the credit side we had free accommodation, were excellently fed and plentifully supplied with free booze). Derroll was living in Brussells with his then-wife, the lovely Isabelle, and though still playing banjo and singing, his principal source of revenue was designing astoundingly imaginative window displays. We’d walk through the streets and suddenly go: “There’s an Adams’ window” they were so totally different from any others, so cleverly way-out, so extraordinarily inventive, so original, well, yeah…so Derroll ! they gleamed like gems set among the usual boring ordinariness of other shops surrounding them.
Neither Shirl nor I can remember, and we’ve really tried hard to recall the circumstances, how we got engaged to appear in Theatre 140 with that wonderful show “An Evening of British Rubbish.” Our conclusions, such as they are, are that the theatre’s owner must have seen us singing in a restaurant, or in the little cabaret, or on the streets, and asked us if we’d like to do a concert one evening in Theatre 140 – which, it being a highly respected venue with an excellent reputation, and having received the blessing of the cabaret owner, we did – then when the “British Rubbish” show was booked to play in his theatre, he suggested us as an addition to the other acts; one of which, to our great delight, was Hennessy.
The idea for “An Evening of British Rubbish“ was born in 1963, and featured a
phalanx of British humorists, amongst whom were: Bruce Lacy, The Alberts, Ivor Cutler, and Joyce Grant, all members of that wonderfully surreal, completely anarchic British comedy tradition epitomized by The Crazy Gang,The Goons, Monty Python et al. How long it ran at Theatre 140 we cannot recall, we just remember having a smashing time with this crowd of nutty musical comedians while it lasted:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qGMCeqwW8g&NR=1
As the show was in English, it was decided to use subtitles; fittingly, these were scrawled on a toilet roll which stretched from one side of the stage to the other, was attached to primitive winders, and unrolled jerkily, causing it to break halfway through the lunatic proceedings that dominated the evening. I wish one of us could remember what the hell we did, when we did it, and why.
A terribly trite, overused, faux hip, cliche claims “if you can remember the 60s you weren’t really there”; well we were definitely there, can definitely remember quite a lot, but just as definitely have a number of blanks where we ought to have memories – which doesn’t mean the terribly trite, overused, faux hip, cliche cobblers is correct. “An Evening of British Rubbish” is, regrettably, one of our blanks. So, did we amble on stage whilst mayhem reigned around us and lay a coupler choruses of The Sweet Nightingale on the punters ? I don’t think so, but…sorry, no idea. All lorrst and gorn in the mists of time. I suppose we just enjoyed ourselves so much working with this conglomeration of comedic crackpots that…well, whatever, we had tremendous fun.
Hennessy, a big, good looking, bearded bloke with a fine head of hair (even now, the bugger) used to come on stage carrying an instrument case, sit down, take out and immediately dispose of the instrument, turn the case over and– it was fitted with strings– play tunes on the back of it. He had a whole collection of unexpected, weird “instruments” and a repertoire to match. But, to us,one of the most impressive things, something the audience were never aware of, could never be aware of, was his dedicated, innate workmanship. What the audience did see was him sitting on stage playing, when suddenly somebody would march out from the wings and smash a fiddle over his head. Getting whacked on the loaf with a violin is not recommended as a hobby, however, Hennessy was spared the pain of a real Strad shattering on his noggin because he built the offensive weapon himself, out of wax. From the audience’s perspective it, quite naturally, appeared to be a real ‘igh-diddle-diddle, as it did even close up, it was so skillfully made. Now, if you’re capable enough (unfortunately I’m not) you can construct an instrument out of wax that, from the auditorium, has the appearance of being the real thing. There’s no need to bother with refinements, just make it look roughly like a fiddle, that’s all that is required. But not if your name’s Hennessy…no way. Every morning he would painstakingly make a beautiful replica of a violin, complete with f holes, bridge, tuners, and the rest of the fittings.
Then in the evening it would be demolished across his head.
Next morning, just as painstakingly, he would build another one,equally detailed, and in the evening it would be demolished across……
then, next morning…….
”Col… We may not have written the book but we have lived it.”
We certainly have mate.
