From Aces to Angels

Don't give up your day job son (just yet)
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At the beginning of nineteen sixty I was seventeen and a half years old. For the previous three years I'd strummed my way through skiffle, calypso and rock 'n' roll. I'd become involved in music from a very early age (I probably got it from my father who sang for a while in the thirties with the resident band in 'The Oaks' up the Bankin') and loved anything musical. When I was about eight he bought me a mouth organ, and I've been sucking and blowing it ever since.
  During the fifties I spent most of my time listening to Radio Luxembourg, 'The Station of the Stars', and I remember my father exclaiming indignantly, 'What the hell's that noise?' referring to the rock and roll emanating from the little speaker on the old fashioned  wireless (I think it was a Phillips). I just shrugged and thought to myself, 'Oul square.'
  'That rubbish'll never last!' he boomed.
  Well at the time of writing-April 2000- it's still going strong with no signs of abating. It may have changed its form but it's still rock 'n' roll. The thing is, and I hate to admit it, when I listen now to rap and rave music I say the same things to my teenaged daughter.
  As well as the harmonica, I tootled a bit on the accordion. Eventually, heavily influenced by men like Lonnie Donegan, Bill Haley and Elvis Presley (like a million other teenagers around the world who wanted to emulate their heroes) I took up the guitar, as did a couple of my friends.
  At this time I was working in the Commercial Paper Company which was then situated in Waterloo Street. I hated it and I had this hankering to be a great guitarist. In those days I resided in the opulence and splendour of a hut in Springtown Camp so I can definitely claim to be working class.
  Each day I couldn't wait to get home to my litle bedroom to practise, and I strummed 'til the tips of my fingers blistered. I had reached the stage where I'd  mastered a few simple rock 'n' roll riffs and was able to play tunes like 'Apache' by the shadows, 'Detour' by Duane Eddy and 'Guitar Boogie Shuffle' by Bert Weedon. They weren't exactly Beethoven symphonies, but at the point where I was musically, to me they were masterpieces.
  Except for the odd appearance at local concerts, the  skiffle group (The Starlighters), that my musical contemporaries, namely, Jimmy and Johnny Jennings, Charlie O'Hagan and Jimmy Mc Closkey and I had formed in nineteen fifty seven, was more or less defunct. Enjoyable and all as those years were,I now had my sights set on greener pastures.

  I wanted to join one of these showbands that were popping up everywhere. Showbands like the 'Johnny Quigley All Stars', 'The Clipper Carlton' and the 'Royal' that I'd heard from time to time in the Guildhall and the old Corinthian Ballroom (now long gone) in Bishop Street. I had attended all the rock 'n' roll films in the old City cinema (now no more as well) and fantasized about travelling the country and having all the girls fall at my feet. I remember my father taking me to do an audition for either the Gay or Josie Mc Intyre band somewhere in Garden City. Presumably I didn't get the job, for now, almost forty years later, I haven't heard anymore about it.
                                                                                       
                          

  During those years also, when I wasn't listening to Luxembourg, I used to tune into the A.F.N. (American Forces Network) overseas in Germany where they played blues music regularly.
  Now the only way you could learn new songs in those days was either by buying the music or the record as this was well before the time of cassette recorders and such. Even an old reel to reel recorder was well out of my reach. I could read a little music for the accordion but not for the guitar. Anyway most sheet music was written for the piano, so that complicated matters even further.
  As I didn't have a record player either, the only other alternative was to listen to them over and over again on the wireless and try and memorise them. A couple of years later we did manage to get an old radiogram, so that made things a bit easier. It may have simplified the learning process but it certainly didn't help the records and stylus as I scratched and scraped across the grooves trying to copy the Shadows' or the Ventures' latest hit.
  So besides all the skiffle and rock 'n' roll songs of the day I also developed an interest in blues music, but because of a lack of material, and no idea how to go about it, forming a blues group was complete pie in the sky. For the moment a job in a showband didn't appear likely either so I'd just have to soldier on and make do with what I could get.
  In the meantime my mucker of a few years, Tony 'Gilly' Gilmour and I, continued to pursue our other social activities. Popular pastimes like sitting in Jimmy Macari's cafe in William Street playing the latest records on the jukebox, and dancing in the 'Crit'(the Criterion Ballroom in Foyle Street which is now the A.O.H. hall). We shared a mutual passion for football and passed the odd Saturday at the Brandywell. On many's a summer night we spent our youth kicking a ball around the field above Springtown gate until it got dark.
  There were other diversions just as enjoyable, like standing each dinnertime at Conn Bradley's corner ogling the hundreds of beautiful girls streaming out of the shirt factories, or getting measured up for a suit in Burton's.                 
  The Teddy Boy era was rapidly coming to a close, and the Edwardian styles of the mid and late fifties were now giving way to the less flamboyant fashions of the early sixties. The lads were beginning to sport Tony Curtis hairstyles and Italian cut suits, (nicknamed 'Bum-Starvers') while the ladies were adorned in can-can skirts and bee hive hair dos. Tony and myself (Tony Gilmour that is) loved R'n'R but we were never full blown Teds, and although we wore tight trousers, 'winklepickers' and Brylcreemed hair, we were always on the periphery. He liked music but never quite enough to spur him on to learn an instrument. 

  Over those early months of 1960 I continued to practise and as far as I was concerned I was the bees knees. In reality of course I knew very little. I teamed up with what I called the 'three Ps.' Patsy Mc Gonigle, son of the well known one armed trumpeter, Paddy Mc Gonigle, on vocals, (who for some reason was nicknamed 'Gackims'). I'd only met Gackims within the previous couple of months and found him a very humourous and likeable lad.
  The rest of the squad were, Patsy 'Pasty' Mc Ginley (guitar), Patrick Mc Donald (tenor sax), trumpeter Eamonn Boyle and as far as I remember, a drummer called Brian 'Brimsey' Doherty who had his first name emblazoned across the front of his bass drum and for some arcane reason spelt his name 'Brain.' We didn't even have a P.A. system but that didn't stop us from forming a loose sort of band. We had a couple of rehearsals and were ready to rock.
  We played once a week at the 'hop' in the 'Shack' down in Alexandra Place (now long demolished), and although we didn't set the world alight musically, it was great crack. I was so keen in those days that I even walked the whole way from Springtown Camp to the Shack, a distance of four miles, with my guitar cased in a pillow slip.    Occasionally I had to take some stick from a few Teds standing at the corner but I just kept my head down and plodded on. We even played a gig at 'Boystown,' a small American Naval Communications station once located at Rossdowney. It was called 'Boystown' apparently after a town in America. As far as I remember that gig was a bit of a disaster as we were as raw as ropes.
  While five bob a night each as our wages wasn't very rewarding financially, in terms of education and experience the hops were invaluable. I think this venture lasted for about two months, but inevitably everybody went their separate ways to seek their fame and fortune in other bands. In between times Tony and I continued our round of the dancehalls and had widened our travels to include the Embassy and the 'Mem' (The Apprentice Boys  Memorial Hall in Society Street).
  Around May of that year, a man called Mickey Mullan who was our breadman and who'd an interest in show business, entered Jimmy Mc Closkey and myself into a talent contest (our first such venture) in Bundoran. He entered us as 'Derry's Everly Brothers,' our party pieces at the time being 'All I have to do is Dream,' and 'Bird Dog.' Cloaking us in the mantle of Don and Phil Everly I recall, made us feel a little self conscious and apprehensive. Mickey noticed but he assured us that we would be great.
  He drove us to Bundoran, the furthest at that time that I had ever been from Derry, and took us in to a little cafe to have a meal. I must be honest and say that Mickey treated us like stars, probably to try and boost our confidence a bit.
  After we'd eaten we drove down to the Astoria ballroom where the contest was being held. From that point on things become a little vague, but I remember sitting nervously outside the Astoria while inside we could hear someone singing the Jack Scott hit of the time, 'What in the World's come over You?' After that I can't remember what exactly took place but we drove back home without actually taking part in the contest. 
  I can't remember if it was cancelled, Mickey got the date wrong or what, but I can distinctly recall coming home with a mixture of disappointment and relief. I talked to Jimmy but his memory wasn't much better than mine. He said he couldn't be 100% sure but he thinks we might have arrived too late for the contest and the organizers put another act on in our place. 
  Unfortunately, shortly before I started writing this book, Mickey died, so I was unable to talk to him about it. It looks now like it's a part of my musical history that's destined to remain a mystery forever.
  By the time the summer came round, both Tony and I were going steady (not with one another I hasten to add), so our gallivanting days were numbered. We still saw one another occasionally but eventually lost contact and Gilly went off to seek his fortune in England (as a matter of fact last year-1999-I met him again for the first time in almost forty years).
  By then I had changed jobs and was now working in McLaughlin's hardware store in William Street. This job (without meaning any disrespect to my employers and workmates who treated me okay) was just as tedious as my previous one, and, incidentally, the last daytime job I ever had.
  Over the summer months (whenever my love life allowed), I practised like mad. With financial assistance from my father, who took me up to Deery's music shop in Butcher Street, I acquired a pick-up for my Hofner 'Committee' cello type guitar which I'd bought  from a guitar catalogue about a year earlier(I was still paying up for it at five bob a week). I also became the proud owner of a small ten watt Selmer amplifier. Now I was as happy as Larry, whoever ‘Larry’ is.
  I would just like to say at this point that I'll always be grateful to my mother and father (both sadly now dead and who weren't exactly rich) who always encouraged me and helped me in my musical career, especially in those early days.
  One night in September of that year I was sitting in my bedroom strumming away when my mother entered. I can't remember verbatim the conversation that ensued, but it went something like this;
  'There's a man here to see you,' she said
  'Who is it?' I asked
  'Don't know,' she answered, 'Go on out and see him.'
  I left the guitar on the bed and went out to the door.
  Standing there was a small man with black slicked back hair, and puffing vigorously on either a Woodbine or a Park Drive. Over at the road a taxi containing another person was parked. He introduced himself as Paddy Canney, a bandleader, and my heart began to pound. I think at that time he said his band was called 'The Swing Aces' (which I later found out was usually abbreviated to 'The Aces'). 
  'How're ye doin' Seamus, fancy a job'? he asked with a smile.
  For a moment I didn't know what to say, then I stammered something like, 'But I've never played in a band before.'
  'Don't worry about that,' he answered, 'Ye'll not be long in learnin.' Are ye interested?'
  'Aye, I am,' I replied breathless.
  'How're ye fixed for equipment?'
  'Okay, I've a guitar and an amp.'
  'We're on the morra night, are ye okay?'
  'Aye,' my heart beat even faster. I'd a date the following night but I'd have to cancel that.
  'Have ye got a white shirt, black trousers and shoes? I like my musicians to be well dressed'.
  I thought for a moment, 'Aye I have'.
  'Well bring them too. We'll pick you up on in the mornin' about ten, okay?'
  'Aye okay Paddy,' I stammered, 'Dead on.'
He reached into his pocket and handed me a folded piece of paper, 'Fill this in and give it to me the morra.'
  At that he walked over to the taxi and with a wave of his hand, they drove away.
  In a state of shock I looked at the piece of paper. It was an application form to join the Northern Ireland Musicians' Association, and written just below the heading it said, 'Paddy Canney, General Secretary.' I had never heard of N.I.M.A., but if signing a piece of paper  was what it took to get me into the dance bands, then I was prepared to put my name to anything.
  Highly excited I told my mother and father the news. They were almost as excited as I was. They asked me where I was playing but in my shock I'd forgotten to ask. Wherever it was it must have been a good bit away to be leaving at ten in the morning, but it could have been Timbuktu for all I cared.
  Then suddenly seized by a paroxysm of innocence and naivety I asked my father if I could hand in my notice to my work. He almost had a canary,
  'Naw ye wull not!' he bellowed.
  For some unknown reason I thought that because I was now over eighteen he would have said yes. I think his integrity was at stake here because it was he who persuaded Michael Mc Laughlin to give me the job in the first place.
  'Ye've only been in it for six months an' it's hard enough to git a job when ye come from Springtown. Don't give up your day job just yet son,' he continued with a note of finality.
  Oh well I thought, look on the bright side. Now I'd be earning money in my daytime job and in my band job.

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