From Aces to Angels    

In with the Heads

With a mixture of excitement and trepidation I looked forward to the next day. That night my girlfriend and I donned our gladrags and went to the Crit for a good jive up. While there, we marvelled at young Pat Mc Crossan, who had recently joined the resident band, freaking out while he played that old hillbilly classic, 'Turkey in the Straw' on his blonde Harmony guitar. The resident band during my dancing days there (c.1959-1961) was led by Willie Campbell who had a sort of showband in reverse.
  His outfit was known as 'The Willie Campbell Bandshow,' and featured one of Derry's more colourful musicians, Harry Bridge on alto sax. Harry was reputed to have been able to grab a quick swig of vino in the space of a crotchet rest. Of course there were a few musicians who weren't behind the door when it came to having the odd gargle. Later, sitting in Maggie Friel's fish and chip shop, when I explained to my girlfriend about cancelling our date she was a bit put out, but at the same time she was 'all lured'(happy) for me. After walking her home to Creggan, it was three in the morning before I got to bed, and I hardly slept a wink for the rest of the night.
  At this point I would like to say a few words about the 'Crit' itself. As far as I can remember, the Criterion Ballroom held a dance three nights a week. It was mainly the domain of the Teddy Boys (and Teddy Girls), because the more 'upmarket' ballrooms like the Corinthian and the Embassy considered the 'Teds' to be sartorially inappropriate. Their choice of clobber as far as I was concerned was their own business, as long as they didn't cause any trouble.
  There was one more reason to frequent the Crit. In those early days of Rock 'n' Roll it wasn't unusual for many ballrooms to have a big sign on their walls proclaiming 'Strictly No Jiving.' In many cases this policy was rigorously enforced but it didn't apply to the Crit of course.
  I didn't think much about it at the time, but now I realise that there was a lot of hypocrisy and double standards involved. Although Teddy Boys were 'barred' from the aforementioned ballrooms (and other places), sailors, who had just as bad (or worse) a reputation for fighting, weren't. Perhaps the fact that they had a few bob to spend had something to do with it.
  Personally, I thought the Teds looked rather smart dressed in their drape jackets with velvet collars and drainpipe (skin tight) trousers. Complementing these were shocking pink socks and thick soled suede shoes. All this finery was crowned with a massive head of greased hair combed into a D.A. (duck's arse) at the back. Not forgetting the girls of course, who were equally as colourful with their pony tails, wide swirling skirts and bobby socks.                    
  This particular Ballroom of Romance didn't have a very good reputation, and I suppose to an extent it was justified, because it was a quiet night indeed when it didn't have at least two or three fights. Some tough characters used to frequent it like Patsy 'Friday' Kane and 'Jock' Henderson. Yet, believe it or not, there were  some Teds who were more interested in jitterbugging than jousting. One man who springs to mind was Paddy Hegarty, who also came from the camp. His jiving technique was something else. When he took to the floor with his three inch thick crepe soled shoes, the whole building shook and trembled.
  But the dancing wasn't confined to up-tempo jiving numbers. While the Corinthian had its 'Corinthian Crawl'(a slow shuffling type of dance), and the Embassy had its strict tempo waltzes and foxtrots etc., the Crit also had its unique slow dance. As far as I'm aware, it didn't have an official name, but I called it the 'Criterion Bounce'.
  It commenced with the lady and gentleman taking up positions fernenst (opposite) one another. The lady then interlocked the fingers of her right hand with those of the left hand of the gentleman. Both partners arms were kept rigid and pointing downwards while in this position.
  Next the lady placed her left hand gently on the right shoulder of the gent and he reciprocated by placing his right hand on the lady's waist. Then the gent lowered his head until his temple made contact with that of the lady's. The final move in this ritual was when both partners then commenced to sort of bounce around the floor in time to the music. Sometimes with a little encouragement from the lady and a little daring from the gentleman, the latter would pull the former's arm up behind his back, fingers still interlocked. They were now dancing 'cheek to cheek' and as far as the man was concerned it was a good omen in the 'gittin' off' stakes.
  In addition to the 'hards' traversing the dance floor, there were equally as tough characters on the door like Ming Harkin and Paddy Bonner. Whenever a fight did start, these 'chuckers out' weren't reluctant to crack a few heads. It wasn't the first night that a troublemaker 'slipped' and fell down the stairs. Most of the fighting was usually over a female (surprise, surprise) especially when some stud got wind of the fact that somebody had 'dropped the han'' on his woman. I remember one time my legs turning to jelly when I heard that some tough nut was 'gunnin'' for me. I heaved a sigh of relief when it turned out to be a case of mistaken identity.
  Outside, patrons usually had to run the gauntlet of 'wee hards' 'tappin' for odds,' and out of a mixture of fear and healthy respect, I usually threw one of them a tanner or so. In spite of all this, I enjoyed my teen years bouncing up and down with hundreds of other sweaty bodies on the Crit floor.                                    
  We hear a lot today about young people being involved in violence in the city centre, but I don't think it's essentially much different now from what it was in my day. There were fights back then too, between gangs of Teds and between the locals and members of the various navies who used to visit the city.
  Fortunately the Teddy Boy scene in Derry never got as violent as other cities like Glasgow and London, where they used to hack one another with razors and bicycle chains. The worst you were likely to get here was 'the nut stuck in ye,' or 'a boot in the stones' (neither desirable of course). To be perfectly honest, back in the Teddy boy era I'd never heard of anybody having their ear bitten off, so in that sense maybe things have gotten worse.
  Of course the pubs then used to close around ten and there was no drink sold in the dancehalls (these were usually referred to as 'dry halls'), so you wouldn't have seen many people on the streets after two in the morning (except occasionally at weekends when coming from a late night dance or the midnight matinee).
  Today, with the population having more than doubled since the fifties, and the preponderance of late night clubs, swarms of young people can be seen roaming the streets at all hours. These facts combined with the easy access to alcohol probably gives rise to the apparent increase in street violence. Obviously I'm talking about what's termed 'social violence,' and not the political violence commonly referred to as 'the troubles.'
  Leaving alcohol aside for a moment, a lot of people these days claim that drugs are to blame (I was of the opinion that both drugs and alcohol were symptoms of the disease rather than the disease itself). But there were drugs in the fifties and sixties, as any bandsman worth his salt will tell you. I have to admit though, that there didn't appear to be the same drugs culture among the young as there is today, and, there are certain types of crime that definitely seem to be on the increase.
  There are complex philosophical and political reasons for this, but I'm afraid that's outside the scope of this book. In my teenage dancing years the only drugs I saw consumed were bottles of 'Vepes' (V.P. wine). I'll say one thing though. If I was up the town on a Saturday night and was confronted by a group of youths intent on giving me a going over, I would be disinclined to try and explain to them that the root cause of their aggression was the decline of the Capitalist system. My main priority in that situation would be to get offside as quickly as possible. Anyway, I've digressed long enough, so back to the story.
  Next morning at ten sharp, with the rest of my family and half the camp looking on, I threw my gear into the back of the van and we headed off. My first professional engagement was a bit of a bum destroyer, as I soon discovered that we were heading off on a one night stand to Carrick-on-Suir in county Tipperary, a nine or ten hour journey in those days. There were seven of us plus the equipment and a driver crammed into a Bedford 'Utilabrake' van.
  Paddy introduced me to every body, and although it's difficult to recall now, I think the members of the band that day were, Bobby Brown (Sen.), father of Eurovision winner, Dana, on trumpet, 'Big' Jim Mc Dermott (sax), Freddie or George Robinson on piano, (Brian Mc Gee at a later date) and Willie Lindsay (trumpet). Paddy himself played drums and I think it may have been Sean Hutton on trombone. If I'm mistaken in this I hope the people mentioned (and not mentioned) will forgive me.
  It was a most uncomfortable trip because the seats were hard and facing sideways, and once or twice I felt decidedly ill. I had to get out of the van a few times to settle my churning guts. The weather wasn't too good either with rain, hailstones and fog.
  We arrived at the hall about half seven, with just enough time to set up the gear. By now my arse was completely numb and my back ached, but being young, healthy, and full of enthusiasm, I soon recovered.
  Well if I thought the journey down was bad, then my performance was a disaster. Standing on stage (already a bag of nerves) in an ill fitting jacket and a tabby bow that was choking me, the first thing I heard was Bobby Brown shouting, 'Seamus, giv'us a four bar intro in three flats for 'Buona Sera.' 
  I looked at the pianist puzzled. 'E flat,' he said smiling. I'd only vaguely heard of 'Buona Sera,' and I'd never played in E flat in my life, so I did the next best thing, just stood there like a dummy.           
  The rest of the night was more of the same and only for the piano player things would have sounded a bit thin. I knew a few numbers and clawed my way through those but most of the time I was all at sea. We played from 8:30 to 1 and I mean 8;30 to 1 with a fifteen minute break in the middle. I'd like to point out that we didn't have electric pianos in those days, so it was just pot luck if there was an accoustic one in the hall. Even if there was, more times than enough it wasn't in tune. Many's a night the pianist, except for the ones who could 'double' on another instrument (usually a piano accordion), had to sit twiddling his thumbs. Eventually you got to know which halls had a decent piano and which hadn't, so you could decide whether to take a pianist at all. Lucky for me this was a good night.
  At the end of the dance, which by the way was choc-a-bloc, everybody was very kind and assured me that I did all right. In my naivety I almost believed them. Paddy handed me a bunch of 'bob copies' and told me to have a look at them. He informed me that we were playing the following night in the I.N.F. hall in Omagh.
  After the dance we were straight up the road again. The trip back was even worse than the one down because we were no sooner on our way until we ran into a real pea-souper. On a couple of occasions we got lost and somebody had to climb up a signpost to find out where we were. To make matters worse, I tried to sleep but the trumpet kept falling on my head as there was no partition between the gear and the passengers. 
  With few exceptions, the roads in the 'state' back in 1960 were no more than glorified back lanes, and the signposts were of the 'fingerpost' type and not the massive things you see today. But it wasn't only the condition of the roads that made the journeys so long. In those days there were no such things as by-passes, so when going to a job you had to drive through every city, town and village on the way. We'd made a 'request' to allow us passage through the border but we knew we'd never make it.
  If you bear with me for a moment, I'll elaborate on the term 'request' in this context. When bands started travelling the country in the late fifties and sixties there was a certain procedure to follow if their journey entailed crossing the border into the Irish Republic. In those days the border crossings closed at a certain time at night and reopened at a certain time in the morning.
  If your return journey meant you would arrive back at the border before opening hours, then you had to make a 'request' to have a customs officer there to allow you through. If for any reason you missed your appointment, well tough shit, you had to sit there until the customs post opened the next morning, and sometimes that could be for four or five hours. If you didn't, as well as incurring the wrath of the customs man who had to get out of bed (sometimes in the dead of winter), you were breaking the law and took the risk of having your vehicle impounded and your instruments seized.
  But that wasn't all. To add to the misery, when crossing from north to south you were obliged to fill in a form with all the serial numbers of the musical instruments. It could be a lengthy process, so in order to save time, it was incumbent on each individual to have his serial number at the ready. On top of all that, sometimes you were required to have what was called a 'triptych,' a sort of passport for a motor vehicle. These are aspects of the sixties that I was more than happy to see go, and hopefully never to return. Anyway, the customs post (on this occasion I think it was Swanlinbar in county Cavan) was open by the time we got there.
  Hungry and with eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket, we arrived back in Derry about midday. I felt like a king when Paddy handed me my first wages (albeit on this occasion, less my subscription to the Musicians' Union).  Paddy said he'd pick me up at seven, so I crawled  straight into bed. As soon as I hit the pillow I immediately conked out. 
  That night there were a couple of new faces on stage which surprised me. My performance wasn't much better either as I never even got a chance to have a look at the bob copies. My mother had wakened me at six with my dinner, and my girl friend was waiting for me. Again I had to tell her that our date was off but she showed great fortitude and we made arrangements to go to the pictures the following night.
  The following week we had a rehearsal down in the Clarendon Hall in Prince Edward Street (now an antique furniture store). It's the only one I remember ever having, and because of electrical anomalies I wasn't even able to plug in my amp.(which suited me fine because I couldn't be heard so nobody knew what I was playing). Apparently the hall was D.C. (direct current) and not the usual A.C. (alternating current). There's a different interpretation put on those terms these days.
  In spite of all the demands of my new found fame, I was still in a state of elation and enjoyed my first weekend on the road with a professional band. To be more precise I should say semi-professional, because it transpired that they played mostly weekends (usually just a Sunday night) due to musicians' work commitments. Paddy himself was a professional French polisher and a very good one too as far as I heard. For this reason I was able to play the odd night with outfits like 'The Crescent Showband' from St. Johnston in Donegal and a couple of other bands. 
  Eventually, because my services were in such big demand (probably because of the shortage of guitarists in those days and not any outstanding ability on my part), my work was beginning to suffer. On occasion I was being collected at the shop on Friday nights and left off there on Monday mornings. I was falling into bed straight after I came home and even falling asleep at dinner time.
  My father noticed and must have taken pity on me, for he finally relented and let me give up my day job. He himself went in and explained to my boss, so I handed in my notice. I then went down and signed on the Bru', and lest anybody thinks otherwise, like all other honest musicians, I reported every penny I earned.
  Overall I played with Paddy's band for about nine or ten weeks and I found him a sharp but fair man. His honesty was amply demonstrated when he often sent one of the band down to collect the fee after the dance. I wish I could say the same thing about all bandleaders, but unfortunately there were one or two who, shall we say, were a bit less up front.
  I was educated in more ways than one. Firstly I learned a whole new nomenclature like 'gig,' 'orchs' and 'heads.' I picked up other more colorful terms like 'flies' shite' (all these terms, and subsequent terms will be explained in the glossary later on in this book).
  I definitely improved musically and gained a lot of confidence. There were also some dark areas of my sexual knowledge where I gained enlightenment. I certainly  learned a few things by deduction from the punch lines of some very blue jokes. And, I learned to play in the key of three flats.
  Paddy himself had a steady but slightly old fashioned drum technique. I learned that he was a staunch and dedicated union man. As far as he was concerned, woe betide any man who broke union rules. He could be quite humorous too and had his own names for people and places, e.g. 'Stirabout' (Jimmy Sturrock, bandleader), 'Belshaft' (Belfast), and a plethora of others (including alternative names for individuals which I'm too polite to mention). It became obvious too that he rarely had the same band two weeks in a row and sometimes from night to night. I certainly met a lot of fine musicians and interesting people while gigging with Paddy. Ah it felt great to be in with the heads. Sadly Bobby Brown died in July '89.

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