A short musical episode.

The Solution

 It is a well established fact that those involved in the difficult and mainly unprofitable business of entertainment should have, prior to achieving international fame, served an apprenticeship in the unforgiving environment of the Working Men’s Clubs. 

Several of those clubs, especially those situated in industrial areas have earned a reputation of a distinct lack of either forgiveness or understanding when an entertainer fails to meet the expected standard and this represents excellent preparation for the hard and rocky road to stardom. The stories told by those entertainers who have progressed to greater things are all too familiar to both musicians and comedians alike. 

My band was booked to play at a somewhat notorious establishment in the West Midlands and as well as providing music of a general nature, we were to back a female vocalist. She arrived at the club rather dishevelled and clearly very nervous. 

“My agent said that this is a difficult place to sing” she said, “and that the club is probably filled with men.”

 Reluctantly, for the poor lady was exhibiting signs of distress, we confirmed that the information was correct. I suggested that we look through her repertoire and pick out some music that might suit the dubious taste of the members. To my horror, it appeared that we had to make our choice from a list of songs better suited to a Women’s Institute than to an audience consisting mainly of hardened male factory workers.

The band opened the proceedings with music from the current charts. Predictably, the concert secretary approached the stage. “That’s far too loud. You need to turn the bass down. Grace says she can’t hear herself think.” I pointed out, somewhat foolishly, that Grace was seated right in front of one of our speakers and would obviously consider that we were too loud. Could she not move? 

“That is Grace’s seat. She allus sits there. Band we ‘ad last week were fine.” 

“Okay, we’ll turn it down.”

 “See that you do.” 

He retreated towards the bar, honour having been satisfied and having ensured that we had been made aware of just who was in charge. After each number, we were treated to a deafening silence apart from the predictable heckler. 

“Play something we know,” he shouted. 

“Like what?” our singer said. 

“Anything. Just something we know.”

 In desperation, we launched into some long and better forgotten songs of an earlier vintage. Half way through a song, the concert secretary approached the stage again. With some difficulty, for by this time he was rather inconvenienced by alcohol, he climbed up on stage, weaved his way uncertainly through the usual tangle of wires and grabbed the microphone. As is the habit of such officials, he tested the mic by blowing into it to the horror of our singer. 

“Hello, hello…is this thing working?” (blow blow) “Can you ‘ear me at the back? Brothers, I ‘ave just heard that poor old Harry Frost died last night. Very sad that. We’ll ‘ave a collection for the widder, Martha after the bingo and before the meat raffle.” 

An agitated member ran up to the stage and told Mr Secretary of his mistake. 

“Oh aye… not Martha. Betty. We’ll have a collection for Betty.” He paused for thought. “And now, the band will play ‘Abide with me’ Ready lads? one two three …. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhbide with me…come on band…Fast falls the eventide…” 

To say that a damper was put on the already damp proceedings would represent the epitome of understatement, but we struggled on manfully until the break. Somehow, during the thirty minute break we managed to convince Josephine, the poor female vocalist, that there was no option other than to go on stage, do her best and try to ignore any negativity coming from the floor. Unconvinced and tearful, she reluctantly agreed to give it her best shot. 

The concert chairman was already on stage when we returned and was slurring his way through the myriad announcements that are usual in such places. He blew into the microphone several times more. 

“Brothers, it’s now time for the Turn. I’m sure this will be a lot better than the bloody rubbish the agent sent us last week.” 

He looked accusingly at Josephine who was standing at the side of the stage. 

“Come on lass. Don’t keep us waiting. Tonight’s turn is a girl singer. Give ‘er a big ‘and.” A few half hearted hand claps followed. 

“Her name is Joeline. Big ‘and for Joeline” 

He consulted the sheet of paper. 

“No, her name is Josephine. Big ‘and for Josephine now” 

He stumbled off the stage with the microphone still in his hand as Josephine took her place. I gave her an encouraging grin and launched into the introduction to “Take me Home, Country Roads” unaware that the poor girl had no mic. Terry, our bass player took his own mic from the stand and gave it to her as the intro went round for the third time. 

Josephine started the song well enough, except for the fact that she came in at the totally wrong place, at the wrong speed and almost, but not quite in the correct key. Somehow, we managed to sort most of the problems out and finally brought the song to a rather messy conclusion. 

The audience sat in stony silence as she announced that her next song would be “Amarillo” and that she was sure that they would sing along. Again, a stony silence greeted the rather lack lustre preformance, but undeterred, she pressed on, gathering confidence despite the obvious hostility of the audience. I knew that we were in trouble when the slow handclaps started. Josephine looked at me in terror, every shred of her newly discovered confidence gone. 

“What do I do?” she mouthed. 

“Carry on for at least one more” I said, hoping that there would be no bloodshed. 

“And for my last number,” she said “a song made famous by….” They never heard who made the song famous. A chorus of boos, whistles and cat calls drowned out any chance of continuing the performance. From the middle of a table near the stage, a single voice rang out above the general bedlam. “Show us yer tits!” it said. The call was taken up with increasing volume by the audience with a rhythmic chant at around 120 beats per minute “Show us yer tits! Show us yer tits, Show us yer tits, yer tits, yer tits…….!” 

Josephine fled from the stage, closely followed by the band and took refuge in the dressing room. Although shaken by the regrettable behaviour, her nervousness was gradually and visibly being overtaken by anger. Before we went back on stage for the last set, she was fuming. 

“I’ll teach the bastards!” she said. Our final set progressed without very much in the way of drama, and a couple of brave souls even got up to dance. The concert chairman, who, it was said, only drank to be sociable, had become so sociable that he had fallen into a deep sleep at the bar. There was, it appeared, every chance of completing the evening without further incident. That is, until Josephine stormed onto the stage wearing her outdoor coat. She snatched a microphone from its stand. 

“Right, you load of perverts. I didn’t realise it was that sort of club. You should have said.” 

She shrugged off her coat, revealing that beneath it, she was completely naked. There was a full thirty seconds of stunned, total silence. Then the applause, whistles and shouts was deafening and prolonged. Josephine put her coat back on and bowed low before making a very dignified exit. 

As we were packing our equipment away, the concert chairman, who had been woken up by the applause came into the dressing room. “Gawd lass,” he said. “I ‘aven’t heard applause like that since we ‘ad a stripper here. I told the agent we’re not that kind of club and don’t ever send us an act like that again. We’ll ‘ave you back though. Well done lass.” 

Josephine grinned at us. “There you are boys. If your music doesn’t work, just show them your tits!”