From Aces to Angels

Further Adventures of the Seven

Click Images to View Details

  Over the next couple of years I covered a fair bit of ground with the Golden Seven. By this stage the music scene was changing rapidly with the emergence of the 'Mersey Sound' led by the Beatles. There were numerous new dance crazes appearing as well, like the 'Shake' and the 'Locomotion,' to name only a couple. Of course along with the new music and new dances came the new clothes and hair styles. Yea the times they sure were a changin.'
  During that time also there were many personnel changes in the Golden Boys. Brian Mc Gee concentrated on playing trombone and Mickey 'Mel' Murray joined on bass. Then George Mc Kane joined on piano, and for awhile we had a young attractive female vocalist called Dolores 'Doly' Power sharing the vocals with Gackims. This brought the membership up to eight and persuaded Neil to buy a van, which itself was just barely adequate. On occasions we were joined on stage by great musicians such as John Trotter, George Hetherington and Barney Hannaway. One night in the Whitla Hall in Queen's University even the great Phil Coulter himself gigged with us.
  As well as playing, Neil, with the help of a few agents, also managed the band. I'd often heard him mention 'The Syndicate,' but didn't want to show my ignorance by asking who they were. Then one day on the way to a gig we stopped at the Longford Arms hotel where he said he had a business appointment with somebody.
  While he was in the hotel a couple of members of the band let it be known that he was meeting 'The Syndicate' to get some bookings. In the subsequent discussion it transpired that The Syndicate (who musicians referred to as the 'Music Mafia') was a group of Southern Irish businessmen who had gotten together to manage all the top bands in Ireland. They also took some smaller bands under their wing, the idea ostensibly being to get work for the bands but in truth to monopolise the entertainment industry in Ireland.
  So now we had a situation where if a promoter wanted to book one of the bigger bands, he had to give an undertaking to take one of the smaller bands as well. On the face of it, this seemed as if it would work to the advantage of the bands, big and small. In reality, while the bandleader may have made a few bob, any financial benefits seldom filtered down to the rank and file, unless you happened to be a 'Co-Op' band, something I'll discuss later. The general concensus was that the Syndicate was just a bunch of moneygrabbers, devoid of any love of music and motivated by profit alone, who could see bands as an easy way of making a fast buck. Surprise, surprise, one of the leading lights in the said organization was none other than that crafty, leather faced politician, Albert Reynolds. Judging by the rampant sleeze among politicians at the moment, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if some of his cronies were part of the Syndicate as well.
  Now that I've got that off my chest, back to basics. The last change during my time with the Golden Seven was John Friel leaving. I think this was in the early summer of '62  but again I'm not a hundred per cent sure. Now John's departure was sudden and a bit acrimonious. One day as we were driving along the highways of merry England, his drums blew off the roofrack. I think it was near Chorley not far from Manchester, and the first we knew of it was when somebody glanced out the back window and saw them bouncing down the road.
  Understandably John was very upset, because a subsequent examination of the aforementioned percussion instruments showed that they were quite badly damaged. I think after we got home there was a bit of legal wrangling between John and Neil, the outcome of which I never heard. Anyway that was goodnight from John, and I was sorry to see him go for he was a good steady drummer and easy to get on with. To add to Neil's woes one or two other members left around the same time.
  Just by coincidence, 'Big' Frank Mc Laughlin, the bandleader of the 'Derry City Showband' was also having personnel problems. How it came about I don't know but somebody suggested that Neil and Frank form a merger. Well they did and I remember rehearsing in Frank's front room and a little band shed over in the Brandywell.  
  John Friel's place was taken by that clown prince of drummers, Willie Hamilton and Frank himself blew the trumpet for a while. I recall one of Willie's party pieces was standing up while drumming, his eyes popping out of his head. I wasn't able to confirm this, but apparently Frank's party piece was handing out notes to any of his band members whom he caught frowning with the written command 'Smile please or you'll be docked.' If this is just a malicious rumour, accept my apologies Frank. As far as I can recall, the merger wasn't a very successful venture and soon Frank and Neil went their separate ways.                                           
  Band life was not without its moments of danger and fear either. In October 1962 we were in England on one of our regular sortees. As we sat in the digs listening to the radio, there was a news bulletin which announced that the U.S. had discovered Russian nuclear missiles in Cuba. It went on to say that John F.Kennedy had issued an ultimatum to Khrushchev to get his missiles out or he would order an attack on them. At the same time the U.S. navy blockaded the island of Cuba.
  It was announced that this 'Cuban Missile Crisis' as it came to be known, could spark a world wide nuclear conflagration. If that happened there was a possibility that England would become involved, and the ports would be closed. Well not to put too fine a point on it, we all panicked at the thought of not seeing our families again, panicked to the point of almost shitting ourselves.
  Ashen faced we discussed the emergency and tried to console ourselves with the assumption that the crisis would blow over. In later broadcasts it became clear that there was a real danger of nuclear war between  the  U.S.A. and Russia, which only served to make us panic even more, for we could find ourselves stuck in England indefinitely.
  For a whole week, one of the longest in my life, Kennedy and Khrushchev embarked on a dangerous game of brinkmanship until finally Russia acceded to America's demands and removed the missiles.
  During that week it was difficult to concentrate on our music, but when the crisis was finally resolved, the band, and indeed the whole world, heaved a collective sigh of relief.                     
  One of the musician's least favourite nightmares was the dreaded power failure. Sometimes these were caused by an ill maintained and even downright dangerous electrical system in the hall, but at other times they were caused by the bands themselves, mainly by overloading the primitive wall sockets of the day or sticking bare wires, sometimes minus the earth, into the plugholes. Back then we didn't have the sophistacated 13 amp fused plugs of today but either 5 amp or 15 amp 'round pins,' with no safety fuse.
  In the event of a fault developing, this could prove very dangerous, and sometimes fatal, especially for guitarists. More than one musician has died on stage as a result of faulty electrics. I'll relate one of my own scary experiences in a moment or two. No matter what caused the power failure, it was the time that the drummer and the brass men came into their own and really earned their bread.
  Whenever a power failure occured, it put electric guitars and basses out of commission and also killed the P.A. system so there were no vocals (unless the band carried a megaphone). It meant that the brass section had to pull out all the stops and usually ended up playing trad jazz and instrumental versions of everything all night. You might ask yourself what did you do if you didn't have a brass section? Well in that case, unless you could work miracles, you were completly banjaxed.
  To add to the misery there were some members of the audience who didn't seem to understand that you just couldn't sing without electricity and blew us the odd raspberry. Overall the crowd were usually good humoured and even enjoyed it as they danced the night away by the ghostly light of Tillie lamps or flickering candles. After nights like these the brass men usually had a night or two off because their embouchures were so painful and swollen they just couldn't blow a note. 
  There was one other amusing aspect to these blackouts. There were occasional reports of young men (and women too) using the cover of the sudden darkness, to take liberties with their dancing partner. The veracity of these reports I was never able to confirm.
  While on the subject of electricity, there's one experience I had that I hope to never repeat. It happened while we were rehearsing in Kieran Burke's house over in Spencer Road. I was holding my guitar in one hand and reached down to lift the arm of the old record player with the other (which, apparently, completed the circuit). Suddenly everthing went completely black and I felt as if I was ten feet in the air. My whole body was filled with the most horrible sensation and I was completely paralysed. 
  This awful experience seemed to go on for ages when all of a suuden it ceased and I was prone on the floor with my guitar round my neck. It took me a while to come round and to realise that I'd just received a near fatal electric shock. While Mrs. Burke went to get me some sweet tea the boys tried to explain what happened. Apparently it took a few seconds for them to realise that something was wrong. They thought at first that I was only messing around but as I was doing so much flailing about and squealing they realised that it was serious. As soon as they cottoned on to what was happening they tried to kick the record player off me but to no avail.
  Understanably nobody wanted to touch me but then somebody had the prescence of mind to go over and pull the plug out of the socket. Gackims and Kieran then took me to hospital to be checked out. Except for being badly shocked and burns to my hand, I was okay. After that to try and make me feel a bit better, everybody tried to play it down, but I know that another few seconds and I would have been dead. That experience caused me a few nightmares and a new respect for electricity, and it took me quite a while to get over it.
  On stage the band business was littered with musical gaffes like people playing or singing off key, bum notes and guitarists playing wrong chords etc. One I remember stands head and shoulders above the rest, although this was more of a technical gaffe than a musical one.
  I was standing in one night with a band, two of whose members were down with 'flu. We were playing in an Orange hall somewhere and at the end of the dance we were required to play 'God Save the Queen.' Well unfortunately the other member who was ill just happened to be the trumpet player, who usually took the lead, so that left the sax player on his own.
  To avoid any possible embarrassment I'll not mention the name of the band and to be honest I'm not even sure of the sax player's name. I don't even know if the man concerned is still alive, but perhaps if he's reading this he'll let me know.
  Anyway it was no problem to the saxophonist as he'd played 'The Queen' many times before. Well the drummer started a roll on the tom toms and the sax player began to play. 'Play' wasn't exactly the right word, for all that emerged from his instrument was a series of squeaks and whistles. I don't know a lot about saxophones, but apparently his reed splintered and became unplayable. Well obviously he didn't have time to fit a new one and decided to soldier on.
  He tried his best to get some sound out of the sax but the squeaking just got worse. By this stage some of the band members were almost shitting themselves while others, in spite of the possibility that we could be going home with our collective head in our hand, were struggling hard to stifle their giggles.
  After what seemed like an eternity, and to the odd shout of encouragement like 'Start playin' ye Fenian b......s!'   from the crowd, he finally gave up. Understandably the audience, not being au fait with the workings of the saxophone, came to the conclusion that we were taking the piss.
  Then a series of fortunate circumstances converged to save the day (and possibly our bacon). The sax player, who just happened to be a Protestant and also did a bit of singing, stepped up to the mic., offered a hurried apology and sung a rousing rendition of the British national anthem. When it was over the crowd clapped and cheered as we slunk off the stage all glad to be still in the one piece. Worse than this was the odd occasion when the band started playing the wrong anthem altogether and almost caused a riot. I just wondered if these gaffes happened today whether we would have got off so lightly.
  Well I've made a few gaffes myself in my time. I think the worst was the night I tried to play the guitar instrumental 'Wheels' for the first time. I was reluctant to play it in the first place because I wasn't entirely confident, but the boys talked me into it. I was playing  with the Merry Macs at the time, and not to put too fine a point on it, I made a complete bollocks of it.
  I completely forgot what I was doing and it was so bad that I had to stop playing half way through and pretend there was something wrong with my amp. Now I can honestly claim that that night's performance was not the apotheosis of my musical career and it was a long time and many hours of practice before I had the confidence to play it again.
  One favourite trick of trumpeters and trombonists was what I termed the 'slabber shower.' This was usually inflicted on young males who were sitting up on the stage and were making nuisances of themselves. At the bottom of the trombone and trumpet there is a little valve which when opened released all the accumulated saliva. 
  If the offending individual didn't desist from whatever annoying activity he was involved in, one of the brass men manoevered himself into a position just above him and deposited the sticky contents of the trumpet or trombone on his head. The recipient usually felt his head with a look of disgust but had no idea where the mess came from as the brassman had usually retreated to the back of the stage before he caught on.
  Off stage there were also some weird shenanigans going on, like running naked in the snow as a result of losing a game of 'forfeits,' siphoning petrol in the middle of the night from parked vehicles (strictly only in an emergency), and many others too dicey to mention. One of the funniest capers I thought was the one that I called 'mooning in motion.'
  This took place when one bandwagon passed another on the way to a gig. The members of the one doing the overtaking occasionally would put on a show which consisted of a row of bare bums being stuck out the windows and doors. When they had their turn, the second van overtook the first and put on a reciprocal exibition. On occasion, in an attempt by one to outdo the other, a 'moon in reverse' (i.e. a full frontal) would be performed. This could happen half a dozen times before the show would be brought to a close when one of the wagons would speed off to their gig.
  These impromptu roadshows could take place in all weather conditions and happen at any time of the day or night. In spite of the fun, the drivers usually made sure that they were on a long straight stretch of road before the show commenced. One of the favoured places seemed to be Barnesmore Gap in Donegal, for that was a big broad road even in the sixties. If the weather was calm, and you listened carefully, sometimes you could detect the odd broadside of farts.
  One thing I regret though is the fact that it was only the male gender who appeared to indulge in these escapades. If there was a female in the band, while seeing the funny side of it, she usually averted her gaze or even hid under the seat. These days, or even then, I don't think you would get away with that caper in any other place of work.
  Well the two years plus that I worked for Neil, there wasn't a pratie in sight (except for the ones his mother was kind enough to make for us, and we weren't slow to eat). If he paid anybody in spuds before I joined, well that was between him and them. If he was involved in other shenanigans, well at eighteen I probably was too naive to realise it, and cared even less. As long as his alleged shady dealings didn't directly affect me, then that was his business. 
  I do recall though that during the summer he had some of us in the cornfield for a couple of days. I can't really remember if he paid us overtime or not. In later years he went to live in Scotland. Today he's no longer in the entertainment business, but he's done well for himself as he and Cathal now own the Grianan Golf course, a restaurant and god knows what else.
  During my stint with the 'Golden Boys' I certainly learned a few things. It was my first time to sing with a showband and talk into a microphone. I think the song I sung was either Bobby Darin's 'Multiplication' or Pat Boone's 'Johnny Will.' It was Eamonn Mc Intyre's first shot at singing in a band as well. The masterpiece he chose was the falsetto bit in the intro to 'Speedy Gonzales' also by Pat Boone. Eamonn and I got on very well and we had many laughs.
  Then I learned to speak a second language; that graceful esoteric gobbledygook called 'eg-Latin.' It was also my first time to see coloured T.V. Mesmerised, I stood staring in a shop window in Dundalk where we'd stopped for a while on our way to a job. Finally, I learnt one more painful lesson; I was prone to seasickness, although in all the trips across the water with the Golden Seven I was actually only sick once. Still, many's a cold stand I had on deck trying to keep my stomach in place.
  Unfortunately Eamonn Mc Intyre died tragically in England at a very early age, a complete waste of musical talent. Patsy Mc Gonigle and Bobby Thornton have since died as well. Bobby in February '98 and Patsy in January 2000.
  In late June or early July '63 I terminated, not without a little twinge of sadness, my contract with the Golden Seven. I think Neil was genuinely sorry to see me go as well and tried to persuade me to stay. It was the longest I'd played in any one band, but I'd made up my mind that it was time to move on.

<<Back ---- Next>>