The time I almost impressed a soul legend.
It was 1966 and my friend Cyn
and I were off to meet a soul legend. We were sure that by breathing the same
air as him even for a few minutes we would become imbued with star qualities
and he would fall hopelessly in love with us.
Cyn was not my friend’s real
name. It was short for Cynthia after Cynthia Lennon who was then John Lennon’s
wife. My friend had adopted the name to show which Beatle had her absolute allegiance
and presumably - when the time came - to let him know she was prepared to join
him in holy matrimony.
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| Alexis Korner by Heinrich Klaffs |
But this soul legend was not
John Lennon. It was Alexis Korner. If you have to ask who Alexis Korner is –
that simply shows how uncool you are and always will be.
We’d learned in those
crucial years between 12 and 14 that you never let on you don’t know who
someone is.
You just nod as though you know - then rush off later to find out
from someone’s older brother.
We’d spent time hanging out in the Fighting Cocks in Birmingham’s
Moseley village drinking pints of mild (the cheapest at one and a penny) while studiously ignoring the “Moseley crowd” who we fancied the pants off but would never, never let on.
The Moseley crowd were a bunch
of fiercely sharp mods who wore single-breasted collarless jackets and ankle
boots. They made special trips down to London to buy their kit. They also bought
soul music on discs that had been imported from the States. Naturally anything
in the top 10 was below their notice.
Cyn and I learned quickly that
a conversation with one of the Moseley crowd could be improved by dropping
names. We did our research and peppered our chat by mentioning the likes of Sam
and Dave, the Temptations, and the Bar Kays (a good one as you could always mention
the tragic plane crash).
But knowledge was not enough, the
way you talked had to be moderated. Any sort of enthusiasm was severely frowned
upon. We cultivated a look of boredom and disinterest saving our excitement
until we were well out of their gaze. We’d nip off to the Ladies where we could
yell, scream and jump up and down bellowing the name of the lad we fancied
before walking back out with our faces rearranged into a suitably blank expression.
Now Alexis Korner was coming
to play at the Birmingham Arts Centre so we might get a chance to meet him. Here
was a man who was seriously exotic – someone told us that he was related to
Jimi Hendrix, someone else said he was Greek and we all knew he was definitely
born in Paris. Cyn and I had tried to find the exoticism in ourselves – but the
best we could come up with was my Welsh father and her Irish parents. We’d have
to make up for this somehow. Maybe by dressing up to the nines.
The gig was on too late for us to be allowed to go but we reckoned we’d be able to ambush Alexis as he passed by the Arts Centre coffee bar before the start.
We had dressed to impress. My
trousers reached the floor – the flares so wide that they billowed as I walked.
My top was a red “body” - fastened between my legs by three large press studs. Cyn
was wearing a silver cat suit – we agreed it looked wonderful. I was having my
doubts about wearing the top – perhaps the sizing was not quite right because
when I sat down, the press studs dug into my bottom. I knew that my pained look
was not going to be seductive so I rushed off the loo to release my nether
regions.
Back in the coffee bar we watched
the front door for signs of Alexis Korner. A kerfuffle told us that the great
soul artist was arriving with his entourage. Looking splendid he moved down the
corridor towards the short flight of steps leading up to the coffee bar.
We leapt up and started to
walk towards him. At the top of the steps I felt my trousers wrap round my
ankles. As I began to topple, I grabbed the hand rail - stopping my fall - but
the momentum spun me round so that I presented my rear end to the bemused musician
- the red flap of the body protruding from the top of my trousers like an
enraged baboon.
I thought Cyn was doing better. What I hadn’t realised was that she had jumped off her stool and put her right foot into a waste paper basket, her chunky shoe fitting neatly into the bin - her foot tightly gripped. After trying to shake it off by waving her leg about she made the best of it and advanced down the stairs creating an almighty clank each time she put her foot down.
. “Alexis” we both said
together. As he saw us, he had taken a step back but immediately came forward
and put out his hand. “How do you do?” he said - the epitome of an English
gentleman. He shook both our hands and then disappeared off down the corridor
to the studio. At the open door stood a gaggle of young men, smoothing their
hair down and adjusting the buttons on their single-breasted jackets.
Here's a link to info on Alexis Korner. You have permission to name drop.
Here's a link to info on Alexis Korner. You have permission to name drop.
This piece was written and performed for the event The time I almost ..
