From Aces to Angels

The Golden Boys

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This other band I refer to was called 'The Golden Seven,' and the man who approached me was a man from Burt called Neil Crawford. What helped me make up my mind was the fact that he told me they were working three and four nights a week, and had a couple of English and Scottish tours lined up. I'd never been out of the country in my life, so I certainly wasn't going to miss this opportunity.
  To be honest, I was warned by a couple of former Golden Seven members that Crawford was a bit of a 'chancer' or a 'fly man.' If you're reading this Neil, these aren't my words. I know you're a nice guy, so don't get angry. One of the stories I heard was that due to the fact that his family owned a farm, he was likely to pay you in spuds. I found this story a bit far fetched and dismissed it.
  Our first rehearsal was held in Neil's house, and the band then was (again I'm relying on memory, because I couldn't find anybody to confirm it), Billy Smith on drums, Kieran Burke (tenor sax), Bobby Thornton (trumpet), Brian Mc Gee (piano), Neil himself on alto sax and Patsy Mc Gonigle (yip, the same boul Gackims of shack fame, and now calling himself 'Johnny Rivers') doing the crooning. 
  Brian was a bit of a 'multi-instrumentalist,' playing guitar, bass, piano and trombone (not all at the same time of course). I even think he tried his hand at the didgeridoo for Rolf Harris was big around that time. He was talented in other ways too. For example he could turn his upper eyelid inside out, a sight definitely not to be witnessed by the squeamish. Most of the members in this particular outfit didn't have a daytime job, so I now considered myself a professional musician.
  I remember clearly the first three numbers I practised. The first one was the old Billy Vaughn alto sax instrumental, 'Sail Along Silvery Moon,' which up until recently was used by Sean Coyle as the signature tune of his Radio Foyle show, (and subsequently turned out to be Neil's piece de resistance). The second one was Johnny Horton's, 'North to Alaska,' and the third, 'Baby I don't Care' by Buddy Holly. I think the fourth one might have been, 'Whistling Rufus,' another sax solo performed by Neil.
  That same night I played my first gig with the 'Golden Boys,'(as Paddy Canney called them, and Neil himself, 'The Golden Boy'), and if my old memory serves me well, it was in the Fowler Hall in Fahan. That night two cars were used as transportation. The Derry contingent were picked up in a Hillman Minx (by Brian Mc Gee, I think), and Neil used a Ford Consul for the gear. Well naturally, because I didn't notice any minibuses about, I assumed that two cars was the usual mode of transport, but I was wrong.
  The following night we were once again picked up in the Minx, and whisked away to Burt. We were heading off to a gig in Belmullet in County Mayo, a formidable journey in those days. To cut a long story short, seven men and all the gear were crammed into the Consul. Impossible you might think, but it was done.
  Now a Ford Consul car was probably considered a big car back then (though no bigger than the average modern saloon), but I don't think it was built for the purpose that Neil was employing it. And even allowing for the fact that we didn't use the same amount of band gear as we do now, it was still asking a lot of the old engine.
  The procedure was as follows; There was a rack on the roof which was used for the drums, the bulkiest item. There was a smaller rack on top of the boot and the speakers were secured onto this. All the electrical items, bandsuits and instruments were fitted into the boot itself, and the remainder of the gear was placed on the back window ledge. All we had to do now was fit in the members of the band. 
  Two things that helped in this respect was the fact that the Consul had two bench seats and the gear lever was on the steering column. Neil, Kieran and Brian occupied the front seat, the most comfortable one, because they claimed that they were the drivers and needed a bit of comfort, which was fine by me. Unfortunately it wasn't so comfortable for the four back benchers, for there was no way we could all sit facing forwards. So, in order to get a modicum of comfort, we all had to sit sideways looking at the back of each other's heads.
  That was fair enough on short journeys, but on long trips it was quite painful. About every hour or so we all had to change positions from numb left cheek to numb right cheek and so on. That usually meant that on the way back from the gig if somebody fell asleep, they had to be wakened, which didn't do anything to forge lasting friendships. In the long run the car coped with the situation better than the band members. Later, on occasions, after I'd obtained a provisional driving license, I was able to slip into the front seat as Neil was giving me a few driving lessons. 
  Because I was enjoying myself so much, at the time I never gave it a second thought, but when I look back at it now I shudder. With no seat belts and all the rest of it we didn't stand much of a chance if we'd had been involved in an accident. Granted, the volume of traffic on the roads then was nothing compared to today, and I know that the old car didn't go too fast with the load on her. Nevertheless, it could have had dire consequences especially when he let me drive with my lack of experience. 
  It wasn't a very healthy environment either as Neil and Kieran Burke were the only non-smokers. There was nowhere to run either when anybody prone to flatulence had an attack. The car then became a gas chamber on wheels.
  Over the next few months, just as Neil had said, I travelled the length and breadth of Ireland with the Golden Seven an average of three nights a week. It was tough at times, but I was in my element. I recall feeling I'd achieved star status, if travelling along the road, we came across a poster with our name on it hanging from a telegraph pole or a tree. I really felt famous. It was an even bigger thrill when after a dance young girls (and young boys) came up to the stage and asked for my autograph (sigh).
  Before I go any further, I would just like say that this teenage adulation also taught me an important lesson that I want to pass on to you would be pop stars. In the band business there are certain pitfalls to be avoided and the following is one of the deepest.
  In the course of an honest night's work it was amazing the number of young girls who were prepared to throw themselves at respectable married men. I must stress in the interest of fairness that the vast majority of these amorous overtures by starstruck young ladies were vigourously resisted by the betrothed males. The young unattached studs didn't have to worry about these problems of course. On the other side of the coin, there were girls who wouldn't touch a bandsman with a ten foot pole in case they were landed with the unenviable reputation of being a 'Groupie.' 
  So the moral is lads, at least all you who are spoken for; be upstanding and chaste, and don't succumb to the temptations of Oul Nick in the guise of ravishing, curvaceous, and absolutely delectable females.
  Leaving aside the autograph hunters and the doting girls for a moment, lest I give the impression that showband life was all fun and games, I soon learned that there were other surprises which weren't so pleasant. Things like travelling for nine or ten hours and arriving with blistered arses at a gig out in the middle of nowhere. It was usually a big bleak barn of a place built in the forties or fifties from unpainted breeze blocks and topped by an asbestos or corrugated iron roof. Invariably this hangar was called a Ballroom, the word 'Ballroom' being prefixed by some romantic name. We usually sat around in the van, sometimes for hours, until someone eventually came along to open the hall.
  At least during the summer months this vigil was tolerable, but in the dead of winter it could be pure hell. The person who opened up usually had a little cashbox in one hand and a biscuit tin full of sandwiches in the other, the sandwiches being the band's meal (for before and after the dance). Inside, the building was usually a few degrees colder than outside. Some halls had one of those massive gas heaters that sat on the floor looking and sounding like a rocket ship, but others just depended on the arrival of the crowd to generate a bit of heat. In the case of the latter, we sometimes warmed ourselves by running up and down the hall and even wore long johns and pullovers beneath our band suits.
  We thought to ourselves that it wasn't possible that anybody in their right mind would be coming to dance in a place like this, but we were usually wrong, very wrong. There wouldn't be a sinner about until around ten or eleven, depending on the duration of the dance, then all of a sudden it seemed as if the whole world arrived all at once, and in all modes of transport from bikes to buses and tractors. They don't make them like that anymore.
  On stage, we usually kept our overcoats on until the place warmed up a bit and it wasn't the first time I tried to carry out the difficult task of playing the guitar with a couple of dead fingers (a bit more about this side of things later).
  Well we would really be thick if we didn't learn anything from those debacles. Experience taught us that in the band business always make sure you have a reserve of grub. It also taught us that there were two essential items of recreation, a pack of cards and a football.
  To be fair, all the dancehalls weren't like the ones I've just described. Outside the cities and larger towns there were also some quite luxurious ballrooms being built and we played a right few of them. One of the first gigs I played was the Emerald Ballroom in Ballinasloe, County Galway, and I marvelled at the massive crystal chandelier suspended above the dance floor. Apparently it was the largest chandelier in Ireland at the time.
  Another one was the Silver Slipper in Strandhill outside Sligo. This was a beautiful ballroom in a beautiful coastal setting. There was one thing about it that always puzzled me though. Up above the main entrance there was a sign that proclaimed, 'Through These Portals Thread Some Of The Most Beautiful Girls In The World.' As well as the claim being just a wee bit exaggerated, I always thought that the word 'Thread' should have been 'Tread.'
  A little while ago I mentioned the subject of food for the band. Well now I would like to expand a bit on that. Being on the road could be a very nutritionally unhealthy lifestyle because it was just one  long 'grab a bite whenever you can' existence. The bite that we did grab was usually out of a little shop somewhere along the road and consisted mainly of lemonade, chocolate, crisps and other such rubbish. There were no all night petrol stations in those days, so if you got thirsty on the way home your only hope was the water pumps which sat on the footpaths like Daleks in some towns. Half the time these weren't working so you just had to suffer. It was particularly hard on those who were suffering the after effects of a few gargles.
    Occasionally the people organizing the dance would supply a 'meal' but this was invariably a cold salad regardless of the time of the year. Now the bigger bands could demand a 'hot meal for the band,' in the local hotel but not so the smaller bands. On rare occasions even the little boys would get a fry, but this was the exception rather than the rule.
  If we happened to be playing in one of the cities, after the dance we could usually head to one of the late night cafes. These were usually packed with bandsmen and the walls and ceilings were completely covered with band photos and posters (not forgetting the grease from the cooking equipment which probably was changed about once a year). Nevertheless we gobbled up anything that was left in front of us for it was a long way home. I mean we were young and invincible and never gave a second thought to ulcers or blocked arteries. For bands visiting Derry (and local bands too of course) the place to be seen was Coyle's Caf' down Carlisle Road. Unbeknownst to the proprietor (as far as I'm aware) his cafe had the unflattering nickname of 'Grazy Brendan's.'
  One of the nocturnal eating houses that the Golden Seven seemed to frequent a lot was the 'Treaty' in Limerick. The banter between the different bands was 'mighty' while we tried to catch our fried eggs as they slopped and skidded around the plate in a pool of lard.
  In the summer of '98 I was down in that area with  my family and as I was in the early stages of researching this book I decided to call round and see if the Treaty was still there. I dragged my family screaming along with me on my journey into yesteryear. I knew by the looks on their faces that they'd completely given up on me.
  As I drove up the street where the Treaty was located I got a sudden pang of nostalgia, for although it only seemed like yesterday, the last time I'd been here was thirty five years previous. I honestly didn't expect it to be still standing, but lo and behold, there it was with the exact same sign above the door. A closer examination alas showed that it was closed down and was up for sale. I spent a couple of minutes just looking at it, and then all choked up, drove on sadly to continue our holiday. Once or twice I think I detected looks of pity from my family.
  In addition to the band, Neil decided to run a Ceili Mor in the minor hall of the Guildhall once a week on a Thursday night. He talked me into playing double bass, an instrument that at that time I couldn't tell one end from the other. When I tried to tell him that I knew nothing about it, he told me not to worry that it was easy to play. Naturally I was very sceptical but he could be very persuasive and arranged for me to visit a friend of his and take a crash course on double bass playing.
  Well it certainly was a crash course, for I think I had no more than two or three lessons. That didn't worry Neil, and before I knew it I was on stage plucking away. The fact that I didn't have a clue as to what I was doing didn't matter, as long as I made a noise. 
  In the late fifties and early sixties, ceilis were quite popular in the Derry area and there were a number of ceili bands doing the rounds. The most popular of these was 'The Charlie Kelly Ceili Band.' I recall one such band from the Ballyshannon area called 'The Assaroe Ceili Band.' They were affectionately known (at least by Derry bands) as 'The Ass H..e Ceili Band.'
  Joining Neil and myself each Thursday, were Billy on drums, Brian on piano and Kieran who switched over to  accordion. This was a completely new scenario to me playing to boys and girls freaking out to the jigs, reels and that masterpiece of Irish dance, the 'Paul Jones.' Well at least it was a change from watching them twisting or jiving. Anyway, the ceili carry on didn't last too long, but in a strange sort of way I enjoyed pretending that I was Ray Brown (a famous jazz double bass player).
  Still the old 'Golden Boy' wasn't happy, for after that he coerced me into buying a banjo which he reckoned would sound better in the trad jazz numbers (true enough I suppose). The trouble was I knew sweet Fanny Adams about the banjo either. I soon found out that the tuning is the same as the violin which meant that fingering the chords would be completely different. Well I wasn't prepared to spend another couple of years learning to play the banjo, so I got over that hurdle by sticking guitar strings on it, using guitar tuning and plonking away. 
  One night not long after I'd joined the Golden Boys, we played in the local parochial hall which was situated a couple of miles from Neil's place in downtown Speenogue. It holds a special place in my mind, for while we were setting up the gear, Neil's brother (I think it was Cathal) and a couple of his friends, attired in waterboots liberally splattered with cows' shit, made a dramatic entrance into the hall. They were astride old bicycles (obviously indulging in a bit of high jinks) which they continued to ride in circles around the floor giving the odd, 'yee hah.'
  On that occasion I brought my sister Kathleen, and her friend (my girlfriend had gone to work in England for a while). They were more used to the Mem or the Corinthian, and it was their first dance outside Derry. Because of the lack of space, it wasn't very often that I could invite anybody along at all, but this was just down the road so we squeezed them in. Their jaws hung open as they watched in amazement at the strange ritual now being played out before them. They obviously didn't understand the inhabitants of ruraldom and said nothing at the time lest they offended me or other members of the band, but let it out much later.                     
  By the summer of  '61 I was well settled in and at last I had my first trip outside the green shores of Ireland. It was a ten day tour of Bonny Scotland, and in truth I can't remember a great deal about it (nor can anyone else). I do remember that it was a long tedious trip on the 'Scotch Boat' from Derry quay and up the Clyde to Glasgow. I recall that we stayed in the Gorbals somewhere but I just remember playing two gigs, Glasgow itself and Inverness. 
  In the autumn of that year we embarked on our first 'English' tour, a bit of a misnomer, because in truth it was actually an Irish tour only done in England. Although there were a lot of second and third generation Irish who were technically English, without exception every place we played was an Irish club of some description. But that was fine with me for I had a wonderful time travelling all over England seeing places like Manchester, Birmingham and London. These cities made me realise just how small Derry was.
  By this stage Billy Smith and Bobby Thornton had left the band. Their places were taken by John Friel (whom I'd worked with in the Mem.) on drums, and Eamonn Mc Intyre (son of Josie), an excellent fifteen year old trumpet player. At least one thing the showbands couldn't be accused of was ageism, for it wasn't unusual to find a teenager and a fifty year old playing in the same band.
  A few things stand out in my mind about this, my first trip to England. Firstly we went to see Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen in Nottingham University, where we mingled with beatniks in the flesh and I experienced for the first time the pungent aroma of marihuana. Secondly, I always suspected that Gackims was a header as I watched him cavorting round the stage to Jerry Lee Lewis' 'What'd I say' or 'Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On.' He adopted these numbers as our 'showstopper' (a phenomenon I'll explain later). 
  He finally confirmed my suspicions when one night in the digs in London, he clambered out on to the window ledge in his Y-fronts and made like he was Tarzan. The poor citizens of London didn't know what had hit them as they gazed up in wonderment at this strange creature beating his chest. And thirdly, a much less pleasant experience. Despite the fact that I had a couple of  'Sea Legs' in me, I was violently seasick on the journey over and spent most of the voyage in the toilet with my head down the bowl.
  Oh before I forget, there was just one other thing. It was in England that I was introduced to that bane of all musicians, the revolving stage! On this particular podium (I think it was in Hammersmith) the visiting band was obliged to start playing their first number while the resident band was playing their last. At the same time the stage began to revolve and as well as trying to cope with the vertigo, we had to make sure that the gear was set up properly in order to avoid a tangle of wires.
  Well you can imagine the cacophony two bands playing different tunes at the same time created (especially when one was a twenty piece orchestra), but the management insisted that that was the way it must be done. Inevitably, there were times when the speaker or mains cables did come undone and the band completed their 180 degree spin in complete chaos, while the audience, instead of a feast of music, were treated to a comedy of errors.
  There where a few revolving stages in Ireland that I graced as well. The ones that spring to mind were, the Abbey Ballroom in Drogheda, the Plaza in Belfast and the Top Hat in Dun Laoghaire in County Dublin.

  The extent of my naivety in those days can be measured by the fact that whenever I returned from a tour across the water I imagined that everyone knew that I had been away with a band and were whispering to each other, 'There's yur man what d'ye call him. He's famous ye know. He's just come back from an English tour with the Golden Seven.' The reality of course was that nobody gave a toss. Ah the age of innocence.
  Another new experience for me was the 'big tent.' Each summer nearly every parish in Ireland had their annual festival. These usually lasted for an average of two weeks and they entailed all sorts of entertainment and sporting events. The highlight of the festival was the marquee, a large tent where dances and other functions were held on a nightly basis. These functions were nearly always packed for it was incumbent upon the parishioners, under pain of eternal damnation, to support their local church who ran these extravaganzas. To be fair most of the people came willingly because everybody thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
  The size of the tent was usually determined by the number of posts that held it up. The more posts the larger the tent. These on average were three posters, but some smaller parishes had only two, while the larger more affluent could have a four poster, or even five.
  As far as bands were concerned, playing in them could be sheer hell. They were fine if the weather was dry, but if it was raining, as well as the floor being soaked, and the danger posed by water dripping onto the electrics, it was an absolute nightmare trying to change into your band clobber in the quagmire that was the back of the stage. If it was very windy there was always the real danger of the marquee blowing away altogether.
  If adverse weather conditions pertained, a lot of bands used to  change in the bandwagon. If the band was running late for the gig, they actually donned their band suits on the way to the gig and that could be fun.
  The stage itself was usually a rickety affair where many's a band and its equipment came a cropper when it collapsed. As far as the audience was concerned, they could hear the band while they danced near the stage, but further than half way down it sounded as if that band was playing down a hole somewhere up at the front.

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