*
Dave Williams was nervous about playing the Jump Club. It was a deeply cool Central London venue, just off Oxford Street. It had a reputation for breaking new stars, and had launched several groups now in the hit parade. Famous musicians went there to listen to new talent.
Not that it looked special. There was a small stage at one end and a bar at the other. In between was room for a couple of hundred people to dance buttock-to-buttock. The floor was an ashtray. The only decoration consisted of a few tattered posters of famous acts that had played there in the past – except in the dressing room, where the walls bore the most obscene graffiti Dave had ever come across.
Dave’s performance with the Guardsmen had improved, thanks in part to helpful advice from his cousin. Lenny had a soft spot for Dave, and talked like an uncle to him, although he was only eight years older. ‘Listen to the drummer,’ Lenny had told him. ‘Then you’ll always be on the beat.’ And: ‘Learn to play without looking at your guitar, so that you can meet the eyes of people in the audience.’ Dave was grateful for any tips he could get, but he knew he was still far short of seeming professional. All the same, he felt wonderful on stage. There was nothing to read or write, so he was no longer a dunce; in fact, he was competent, and getting better. He had even fantasized about becoming a musician, and never having to study, ever again; but he knew the chances were small.
The group was improving, however. When Dave sang in harmony with Lenny they sounded modern, more like the Beatles. And Dave had persuaded Lenny to try some different material, authentic Chicago blues and danceable Detroit soul, the kind of thing the younger groups were playing. As a result they were getting more dates. Instead of once a fortnight, they were now booked every Friday and Saturday night.
But Dave had another reason for anxiety. He had got this gig by asking Evie’s boyfriend, Hank Remington, to recommend the group. But Hank had turned his nose up at their name. ‘The Guardsmen sounds old-fashioned, like the Four Aces, and the Jordanaires,’ he had said.
‘We might change it,’ Dave had said, willing to do anything for a booking at the Jump Club.
‘The latest vogue is a name from an old blues, like the Rolling Stones.’
Dave recalled a track by Booker T and the MGs that he had heard a few days earlier. He had been struck by its oddball name. ‘How about Plum Nellie?’ he had said.
Hank had liked that, and told the club they should try out a new group called Plum Nellie. A suggestion from someone as famous as Hank was like a command, and the group got the gig.
But when Dave had proposed the name change, Lenny had turned it down flat. ‘The Guardsmen we are, and the Guardsmen we stay,’ he had said mulishly, and started talking about something else. Dave had not dared to tell him the Jump Club already thought they were called Plum Nellie.
Now the crisis was approaching.
At the sound check they played ‘Lucille’. After the first verse, Dave stopped and turned to the lead guitarist, Geoffrey. ‘What the fuck was that?’ Dave said.
‘What?’
‘You played something weird halfway through.’
Geoffrey gave a knowing smile. ‘Nothing. It’s just a passing chord.’
‘It’s not on the record.’
‘What’s the matter, can’t you play C sharp diminished?’
Dave knew exactly what was going on. Geoffrey was trying to show him up as a beginner. But unfortunately Dave had never heard of a diminished chord.
Lenny said: ‘Known to pub pianists as a double minor, Dave.’
Swallowing his pride, Dave said to Geoffrey: ‘Show me.’
Geoffrey rolled up his eyes and sighed, but he demonstrated the chord shape. ‘Like that, all right?’ he said wearily, as if tired of dealing with amateurs.
Dave copied the chord. It was not difficult. ‘Next time, tell me before we play the fucking song,’ he said.
After that it went well. Phil Burleigh, the owner of the club, entered in the middle and listened. Being prematurely bald, he was naturally known as Curly Burleigh. At the end, he nodded approval. ‘Thank you, Plum Nellie,’ he said.
Lenny shot a filthy look at Dave. ‘The group is called the Guardsmen,’ he said firmly.
Dave said: ‘We discussed changing it.’
‘You discussed it. I said no.’
Curly said: ‘The Guardsmen is a terrible name, mate.’
‘It’s what we’re called.’
‘Listen, Byron Chesterfield is coming in tonight,’ Curly said with a note of desperation. ‘He’s the most important promoter in London – in Europe, probably. You might get work from him – but not with that name.’
‘Byron Chesterfield?’ said Lenny, laughing. ‘I’ve known him all my life. His real name is Brian Chesnowitz. His brother’s got a stall in Aldgate Market.’
Curly said: ‘It’s your name I’m worried about, not his.’
‘Our name is fine.’
‘I can’t put on a group called the Guardsmen. I’ve got a reputation.’ Curly stood up. ‘I’m sorry, lads,’ he said. ‘Pack up your gear.’
Dave said: ‘Come on, Curly, you don’t want to piss off Hank Remington.’
‘Hank’s an old mate,’ said Curly. ‘We played skiffle together at the 2i’s Coffee Bar in the fifties. But he recommended me a group called Plum Nellie, not the Guardsmen.’
Dave was distraught. ‘All my friends are coming!’ he said. He was thinking of Linda Robertson in particular.
Curly said: ‘I’m sorry about that.’
Dave turned to Lenny. ‘Be reasonable,’ he said. ‘What’s in a name?’
‘It’s my group, not yours,’ said Lenny stubbornly.
So that was the issue. ‘Of course it’s your group,’ said Dave. ‘But you taught me that the customer is always right.’ He was struck by inspiration. ‘And you can change the name back to the Guardsmen tomorrow morning, if you want.’
Lenny said: ‘Naah,’ but he was weakening.
‘Better than not playing,’ said Dave, pressing his advantage. ‘It would be a real comedown to go home now.’
‘Oh, fuck it, all right,’ said Lenny.
And the crisis was over, to Dave’s intense relief and pleasure.
They stood at the bar drinking beer while the first customers trickled in. Dave limited himself to one pint: enough to relax him, not enough to make him fumble the chords. Lenny had two pints, Geoffrey three.
Linda Robertson showed up, to Dave’s delight, in a short purple dress and white knee boots. She and all Dave’s friends were legally too young to drink alcohol in bars, but they went to great lengths to look older, and anyway, the law was not enforced strictly.
Linda’s attitude to Dave had changed. In the past she had treated him like a bright kid brother, even though they were the same age. The fact that he was playing at the Jump Club turned him into a different person in her eyes. Now she saw him as a sophisticated grown-up, and asked him excited questions about the group. If this was what he got for being in Lenny’s crummy outfit, Dave thought, what must it be like to be a real pop star?
With the others he returned to the dressing room to change. Professional groups usually appeared wearing identical suits, but that was expensive. Lenny compromised with red shirts for everyone. Dave thought that group uniforms were going out of fashion: the anarchic Rolling Stones dressed individually.
Plum Nellie were bottom of the bill, and played first. Lenny, as leader of the group, introduced the songs. He was seated at the side of the stage, with the upright piano angled so that he could look at the audience. Dave stood in the middle, playing and singing, and most eyes were on him. Now that the worry about the group’s name was out of the way – at least for the moment – he could relax. He moved as he played, swinging the guitar as if it were his dance partner; and when he sang, he imagined he was speaking to the audience, emphasizing the words with his facial expressions and the movements of his head. As always, the girls responded to that, watching him and smiling as they danced to the beat.
After the set, Byron Chesterfield came to the dressing room.
He was about forty, and wore a beautiful light-blue suit with a waistcoat. His tie had a pattern of daisies. His hair was receding either side of an old-fashioned brilliantined quiff. He brought a cloud of cologne into the room.
He spoke to Dave. ‘Your group is not bad,’ he said.
Dave pointed to Lenny. ‘Thank you, Mr Chesterfield, but it’s Lenny’s group.’
Lenny said: ‘Hello, Brian, don’t you remember me?’
Byron hesitated a moment then said: ‘My life! It’s Lenny Avery.’ His London accent became broader. ‘I never recognized you. How’s the stall?’
‘Doing great, never better.’
‘The group is good, Lenny: bass and drums solid, nice guitars and piano. I like the vocal harmonies.’ He jerked a thumb at Dave. ‘And the girls love the kid. You getting much work?’
Dave was excited. Byron Chesterfield liked the group!
Lenny said: ‘We’re busy every weekend.’
‘I might be able to get you an out-of-town gig for six weeks in the summer, if you’re interested,’ Byron said. ‘Five nights a week, Tuesday to Saturday.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lenny with indifference. ‘I’d have to get my sister to run the stall for me while I was away.’
‘Ninety pound a week in your hand, no deductions.’
This was more than they had ever been paid, Dave calculated. And with luck it would fall in the school holidays.
Dave was annoyed to see Lenny still looking dubious. ‘What about board and lodging?’ he said. Dave realized he was not uninterested, he was negotiating.
‘You get lodging but not board,’ Byron said.
Dave wondered if this was at a seaside resort, where there was seasonal work for entertainers.
Lenny said: ‘I couldn’t leave the stall for that kind of money, Brian. Pity it’s not a hundred and twenty pound a week. Then I could consider it.’
‘The venue might go to ninety-five, as a personal favour to me.’
‘Say a hundred and ten.’
‘If I forgo my own fee, I can make it a hundred.’
Lenny looked at the rest of the group. ‘What do you say, lads?’
They all wanted to take the job.
‘What’s the venue?’ Lenny said.
‘A club called The Dive.’
Lenny shook his head. ‘Never heard of it. Where is it?’
‘Didn’t I mention that?’ said Byron Chesterfield. ‘It’s in Hamburg.’