‘Where the fuck’s Brian?’ says Ged.
‘He was with that Pothead chap a few minutes ago.’ Julian takes the drinks off me.
‘Well he can’t be that far.’ I strain my neck to try to locate him in the busy lounge. ‘We should be able to find Pothead in this crowd.’
Brian’s mate is about six foot six and about eight stone. He is the original long, tall streak of piss.
‘Well he better make himself known in the next few minutes, ‘cos we’ve got a fucking gig and a half to play.’
*
Ten minutes later and there is still no sign of him.
‘Listen chaps,’ says Julian, ‘what say we go and check out the competition.’
‘What about Brian?’ I ask.
‘I’ll find the gobshite for you,’ says Brenda. ‘You lot sod off to the gig, and we’ll catch up with you later.’
Julian, Ged, and I acquiesce and leave the Grapes to go and watch the first band, allowing the last vestiges of hope that Sofia might grace me with her presence to evaporate into the cold winter night air.
The entrance to the Cavern is small enough for a smartly dressed bouncer with a bald head polished like a chrome bumper to block the way in to the venue. He acknowledges Julian and lets us through to walk down the stone steps, at the base of which there is a right turn opening out into three tunnels. In a previous life, this underground area acted as a warehouse to store products that had arrived via the Liverpool docks, and the premises seem to have inherited a mixture of odours from long ago to accompany the dominant smells of disinfectant and sweat. We take our coats and journey through clouds of cigarette smoke to the cloakroom in the first tunnel and then move towards the middle one with its small wooden stage at the end of a long arch of red bricks.
The audience is building all the time, and though it is still quite early, people have to squeeze past one another to get a decent view. I notice one man, at least ten years older than the rest of the crowd, standing towards the back, surreptitiously making a few jottings in a small notebook. His hair is styled in a ponytail, and he is wearing Wranglers and a pinstriped suit jacket. We decide he is a record label man. It ratchets our excitement up another notch.
The opening act is a four piece called Maelstrom, and though there is a clinical proficiency about them, their performance is lacking any kind of inspiration. There is not much of a tune heard in what is an ordinary rock sound. We exchange smug glances, recognising that we have the beating of these boys. They play their final song and leave the small stage to generous, though hardly thunderous applause. The record man is not too animated.
The second band is a three-piece called The Sam Wilson Encounter whose front man, presumably Sam himself, has based his whole image and stage persona on the late great Jimi Hendrix. Unfortunately, he is a third rate Hendrix, not least because he has hair like a ginger biscuit and a face the colour of a virgin bride's wedding dress. Their first song, a piece of plagiarism more thinly veiled than a Soho stripper, is called ‘Voodoo Bile’ and lasts fifteen minutes, including a ten minute meandering guitar solo from Sam himself on a predictably white Fender Stratocaster. The song finally ends with Sam telling the audience to ‘fuck off’ for no apparent reason. The reaction has moved up a level, but it is nowhere near ecstatic. The record man still does not look too engaged. I check my watch and see that we are on in fifteen minutes.
‘Still no Brian?’ My words carry more than a hint of anxiety.
‘Where the fuck is he?’ says Ged, ‘I thought Brenda was getting him for us?’
‘Come on gents, let’s find him,’ says Julian.
We force our way through the audience towards the exit. I am now thankful that Sofia is not here. The atmosphere is more sweaty and uncomfortable than a Greek Wrestler’s jock strap. It is a relief when we hit the cool air of Mathew Street, but this respite is short-lived. Outside the Grapes, we see Brenda effortlessly propping up Brian in some vain attempt to get him to cross the road. I can’t see Amanda.
Brenda spots us. ‘He’s fucking stoned,’ she shouts. ‘We found him outside the gents with that lanky get puffing on some contraption'.
Brian’s speech is slurred, but we can just about hear the words, ‘Bad shit.’
‘I’ll give you fucking bad shit you dick,’ says Ged, launching himself at our near comatose band mate.
Julian and I react quickly and do our best to restrain him but frustration-fuelled adrenaline is surging through Ged's physiology and he is so strong, it is not until Brenda grabs him by the collar and launches him into the road, that we finally gain control.
‘You stupid shit face! What good is that going to do, you dozy bucket of kangaroo kak!’ she bawls, showing more of a way with words than her accused.
Ged submits immediately and apologises for his outburst. It proves conclusively that he has more than met his match with Brenda.
Pothead makes an appearance, and although he tries to stagger towards us, he finds it too difficult and falls back on to the pavement in front of the pub. It is 8.20pm. We are due to go on stage for the biggest gig of our lives in ten minutes, and our lead singer is stoned off his head with his mate lying unconscious on the pavement. It all looks utterly hopeless, yet inconceivably, our prospects then take a turn for the worse. Two police officers turn into Mathew Street, and there is every chance the coppers will assume that Ged has just battered these two hippies and then arrest him for GBH.
Brenda reacts decisively. ‘You three get in there and do your thing. We’ll take care of the fuzz,’ she says.
‘We haven’t got a singer,’ I protest.
‘You’ll have no fucking lead guitarist in a minute if you don’t shift your arses! Now get in there and do your stuff.’
She means business, and we are soon inside the Cavern again. Both Julian and Ged appear to have lost heart, and there is an air of despondency about them, yet I suddenly feel energised. It is a little bit of a déjà vu, being reminiscent of how I felt at the Social Club after the calamitous gig with Dick. I decide to mobilise the troops.
‘Listen guys, we mustn’t back out now.’
‘Come on Tom lad, what’s the point without Brian?’ says Ged.
‘There’s every point! We’re the heart and soul of this band. Remember, we were a trio when we had the original dream of playing the Liverpool Stadium back in my front room. That was less than a year ago, and look at us now! There’s a man in there, probably from one of the record labels in London, looking for fresh talent. We can’t throw away this chance, Brian or no Brian. Let’s go in there and do it as a three-piece.’
My words seem to revive the others and within seconds, we are discussing the practicalities of the set list. We drop the Led Zeppelin number because none of us can reach those top Robert Plant notes, and replace it with the less vocally ambitious ‘Black Magic Woman’. Aside from that, we reckon we are OK. We rush to the third tunnel and the dressing room at its far end. The organiser is blowing his top, but Julian uses his charm to calm things down and five minutes late at 8.35pm, an announcement comes over the PA:
‘Let’s hear it for Plain Truth.’
There is a decent sized cheer as we take to the stage, but I have an immediate moment of panic, because I have forgotten my drumsticks. Fortunately, there is a spare pair on the floor underneath the stool, so when the other guys are plugged in and have turned up the volume on their amps, we are ready to go.
‘Evening Liverpool!’
Ged's war cry shows he is ready for action. The crowd roars back, and it is looking good. I take the lead vocal on our opening number, ‘Walkin’ with a Mountain’. We do a boisterous version, and it goes down really well, probably the best reaction of the evening so far. I strain my head in an attempt to see the response of the record man, but it is so smoky and crowded that I cannot locate him.
The next two songs are our own compositions, and after the storming opener, they are both fairly pedestrian. We do not disgrace ourselves, but there is a feelin
g that we are losing momentum. Things do not improve when we perform the substitute 'Black Magic Woman', which is competent but not over-inspiring. However, not all is lost, for we have the rock and roll medley to revive our fortunes.
Ged counts us in, and we start 'Johnny B Goode' at a faster tempo than normal. The crowd loves it. There must be fifty or sixty people close to the stage, all jumping up and down to Chuck Berry's classic. The golden days of rock and roll may be nigh on fifteen years ago, but the magic still lives on. Ged and Jules are more animated than usual in their playing tonight, and with me stuck at the rear of the small stage, I am only getting fleeting glances of the audience. However, when I see the pony-tailed record man clapping his hands to us, the joy is enough to compel me to drum an extra snare to tom tom roll and cymbal crash. We are a fledgling band, yet our big break may be imminent. Unfortunately, the fickle hand of fate is about to stick two fingers up to Plain Truth.
The guitars suddenly go silent, leaving only my drums and a mixture of cheering and screaming. The place is in complete darkness, except for a few cigarettes ends glowing like fireflies in a tropical night sky. There has been a power cut. I stop drumming. The diminutive flame from the flicker of a lighter reveals disappointment etched across our faces. We can only curse this misfortune.
Under the light a lit match, the organiser, evidently the twin brother of the bouncer on the door, addresses the crowd and explains that power has been lost. He invites everybody to leave the building in a calm manner until things are back to normal. The request is met with a chorus of resigned jeering and a sprinkling of 'fuck offs', more than one from Ged.
It is a slow journey through the dark and the dank, up the stone steps and back to civilisation and street light. By the time I emerge, wearing only a tee shirt, into what is now light snow falling in Mathew Street; I have become separated from Ged and Julian. The cold is very welcome, and there is an obvious relief at being able to gulp fresh air. Milling around the entrance, I bump into Brenda.
'How goes it soft lad,' she says. It could be Ged talking. 'Power cut then?'
'I know, just as we were getting going. Where's Brian?'
'Well, at this moment, Brian and what's his name...'
'Pothead.'
'Dickhead more like... anyway, they're preparing to spend a night locked up in the cells. Like me on my first date with that animal of yours on lead guitar, they've been grabbed by the fuzz.'
'Crikey... what did you say?'
'Be careful down there, you're not plucking a bloody chicken.'
'Not to Ged, to the police.'
‘We just disowned them... said we'd never met them before.'
'And where’s Amanda?'
'Over there somewhere.' She points to the Grapes.
Through the crowds, I can see her on the pavement talking to and giggling with a familiar face. It is Danny, Sofia’s ex-boyfriend. There is a fair amount of mutual touching going on. His fingers thread through her blond hair, and he strokes her cheek. She reciprocates with her hands tucked into the chest pockets of his leather jacket. I swivel my head to locate Julian, and I spot him by the entrance to the Cavern in conversation with Ged and a couple of members from the Maelstrom band. He has not seen Amanda’s shameless flirting, though I rather wish he had. She does not deserve him.
Danny notices me, and we nervously acknowledge one another like a pair of gunslingers about to duel. To my surprise, he whispers something to Amanda and then heads towards me. I feel my body stiffen and my heart beat increase. I suddenly start to feel the cold.
‘Alright mate,’ he says. For once, there is no indication that he wants to chin me.
‘Hi.’
‘You’ve got a good band there.’
‘Cheers, yeah, it’s just a pity the power went when it did.’
A shaft of light appears from the Cavern entrance and everyone cheers. The power is back on. Fate has determined that my conversation with Danny is going to be as brief as a conversation with Peter, my brother-in-law. We nod our heads before I traipse back into the venue, primed to restart the rock and roll medley. Unfortunately, the organiser, rubbing his bald head with a masturbating right hand, has other ideas.
‘Sorry boys, your slot’s over now. We’re moving on to the next act.’
‘But hang on a minute,’ I protest, ‘we were in the middle of our final song.’
‘You were five minutes late starting, if you remember, so tough shit.’ He displays the charm of a vindictive traffic warden.
We continue to object, but the man in charge ignores our protestations. Even Julian is impotent. We are left to rue the fact that fate has taken away the chance of a standing ovation in front of the record label man. Life can be cruel. We hang around for the next couple of acts, and they are both better than us. It appears that the promoter has been careful about the running order of the bands, intent on leaving the best until last. There is a growing sense of anti-climax about the evening, and not long after ten o'clock, we decide to go home.
Sitting on the train, I wonder if the Cavern date has been Plain Truth’s swansong. We started the evening as a four-piece full of hope, and ended as a threesome full of disappointment and dejection.
Julian, with Amanda leaning onto his shoulder, notices my sombre mood. ‘Everything OK old man?’
‘Yeah, not too bad,’ I reply, rather unconvincingly.
‘Oh, I have some good news chaps.’
‘What’s that Jules?’ Ged has his arm around Brenda's shoulder, and it does not look long enough for the task.
‘Clever Amanda here has managed to organise another gig for the band on Saturday at a private 21st birthday party.' Jules squeezes his girlfriend towards him as he speaks.
'Where's the venue lad?'
'Above the ABC Cinema in Liscard.'
‘Good girl. How much fucking spondees are we getting?’
‘£100.’
'£100!' I am incredulous. I would have to put in more than a few shifts at Strathconas to earn that kind of money.
‘Fuck me, that’s over £33 each.’ Ged shows a previously hidden skill for mental arithmetic.
‘What about Brian?’ I ask.
‘Fuck Brian,’ says Ged, ‘he let us down tonight, and he’ll let us down again.’
‘Listen chaps,' says Jules, 'we don't have to decide Brian's fate here and now. Let's give it a few days.'
We all agree.
I suppose the 21st birthday party gig is a timely reminder that tonight is not going to be the end. In many ways, it is the beginning. We are a young band that has only been performing in earnest for a few months. We will get better and better as time moves on. Maybe then, we will get the call from a man in jacket and jeans with a ponytail. Patience and persistence will be important.
We pull into the next station, and I see a map of the local railway displayed against a brick pillar on the platform. My eyes follow the route from Birkenhead to Hoylake and West Kirby, and I think of Sofia. Although relieved that she stayed at home this evening, what of the next step? In a rare moment of decisiveness, I vow to give her a call. The time seems right for resolution.
At Grove Road Station, Amanda, Julian, Ged and Brenda get into a Ford Cortina taxi and head for their respective homes. I walk to the bus stop and wait for the number 2a. From the famous Liverpool Cavern to the 2a bus... hardly Rock and Roll.
15. Love Hurts
I am at home reading the latest edition of the Melody Maker. It is the evening after the Cavern gig, and I am biding my time as I build up the courage to call Sofia. I read that The Who are taking their 'Tommy' show to the USA; Bob Dylan is to star in a new film; and I can win a mobile disco on page 14. A Christmas decoration in the form of a multi-coloured paper chain becomes detached from the picture rail and strikes me on the head. The house at this time of year is a splash of garish colours. Red, green, silver, and gold strips of tinsel, as threadbare as Bobby Charlton's crown, weave their way from one wall to the other, although on the positive side, th
e seasonal décor does a sterling job covering up the Eduardo nudes.
After giving up on the prospects of owning my own mobile disco, I take a deep breath and pull from my pocket a small piece of crumpled paper. Written in spidery long hand is Sofia's phone number. I place the music weekly on the kidney shaped coffee table and walk slowly into the hall. My stomach churns, when I dial the number. I hear the first ring and start counting them. On the tenth, the line clicks and she answers.
'Hello?'
'Is that Sofia?'
'Yes.'
'It's Tom here... Tom Kellaway from Strathconas.' Christ, you would think I was Jack from Electricals selling a spin drier.
'Oh hi.'
Her reaction is flat. That is it. I know straight away that she is not interested. Yet I retain the persistence of Jack with an apathetic customer.
'I was wondering if we could meet up one night, perhaps for a drink.'
There is silence. She does not want to.
Still I persevere. 'Just for a quick chat.'
'Erm...'
'Are you off Wednesday afternoon?'
'Yes.'
'So am I. It's half day closing. I could be at yours for about two.'
'Meet me at the station.'
'Hoylake?'
'West Kirby.'
She is so matter of fact. There are no questions about the Cavern gig and no questions about me. It is all a bit dispiriting. However, when I replace the receiver, a feeling of relief matches the dejection. In two days time, the misery will be over.
*
Wednesday is another cold but sunny December day, and I arrive early at the station in West Kirby. I pass the Brief Encounter tearoom and meander down Meols Drive, planning to waste fifteen minutes or so. When I get to St Andrew’s Church, I take a detour and walk through its churchyard. The sun is getting lower in the sky, and I shadow my eyes to view the sandstone structure with its slate roof and spire. My walk follows a path that curves to the left, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust from the glare of the sun to focus on the young woman before me. She is sombrely dressed in a light grey woollen coat and black leather boots. It is Sofia, and she has a small brown dog with her, busily sniffing anything and everything it encounters. I have no idea what kind of strange homing instinct has led me here, but here I am. And here she is.