Dear Mr McBride. The sixth epistle according to Capt. Hall

                                               The Tale of Jed Thresher

Under protest, and not without a great deal of grumbling, I was attempting to deal with a plague of snails in my garden when the phone rang. Gardening was, at that period in my life, a function that I carried out strictly in self-defence and I was far from dismayed when my wife indicated that the caller wished to speak to me. 

Without preamble, the voice at the other end demanded to know if I was Allen, the keyboards player. With some slight hesitation I admitted that the information was accurate. Over several years of deputising with various bands, I had learned to exercise caution in making such admissions, as many semi-professional musicians are reluctant to discuss their earnings with HM Inspectors of Taxes and those Inspectors tend to use similar discretion in disclosing their identity. 

For reasons that were not immediately apparent, the name given to me by the caller seemed vaguely familiar. He claimed to be a singer. A singer without a backing band, a state of affairs that he intended to remedy forthwith. He wondered whether I would be interested in working with him that very evening. After some consideration, I agreed and started to write down details. It soon became apparent that other musicians were also required. Did I know of a bass player, he enquired. Fortuitously, my son, then a mere teenager, was rapidly becoming a fairly competent bass player although he had never appeared in front of an audience other than his immediate family circle. The acquisition of both keyboards and bass from the same household inspired great delight in my caller and we agreed to turn up at the venue where we would meet the guitarist and the drummer. 

Warning bells started to ring when the singer arrived and introduced himself as Jed Thresher. Although I am not generally given to forming opinions about the competence of musicians based on their dress sense, logic should have indicated trouble ahead when I observed that his attire comprised a John Wayne style shirt, flared trousers, high-heeled boots and a black cowboy hat. To complete the picture, he wore horn-rimmed glasses and had attempted to conceal his baldness with a truly dreadful toupee. I learned that we were to be known as Jed Thresher and the Haymakers. The sinking feeling was enhanced still further on the arrival of the drummer and guitarist. The drummer confided to me that it had been some fifteen years since he had even touched a drum kit and he confessed to being a trifle rusty. The guitarist, however seemed fairly confident although the guitar, produced from the back seat of his car had certainly seen better days. 

Bravely, we trooped into the pub and set up our equipment in a suitably dark corner. It is customary to carry out a sound check prior to commencing the performance and it was at this point that my worst fears were realised. Jed’s ability as a singer made his dress sense appear worthy of Saville Row. It was instantly obvious that the poor man was totally incapable of singing in tune and his concept of timing was, to put it kindly, fatally flawed. He was, however, brimming with an entirely misplaced confidence and patently considered himself to be God’s gift to the music business. He roared tunelessly through a couple of well-known pop songs from the fifties whilst we struggled to determine both the key in which he was attempting to sing and at which point in the song he had arrived. John gave me a despairing glance as if to ask what manner of circus his father had got him into. I avoided eye contact in a despicably cowardly fashion. 

The audience started to arrive and my already low spirits plummeted. I have absolutely nothing against the aficionados of Heavy Metal music, but I felt sure that they were going to be impressed by neither Jed’s choice of music nor by his vocal abilities. Undeterred by the mass of shaven heads and tattoos, Jed launched into an enthusiastic version of what I vaguely recognised as ‘Singin’ the Blues’ accompanied by vigorous, if meaningless gesticulations. At the end of the song, the silence was deafening but the glares spoke volumes. Undeterred, Jed pressed on and treated them to a truly delightful assault on Hits of the Fifties. By the time we decided to take a break, the mood had turned decidedly ugly. 

John and I retreated to the bar, studiously avoiding any form of contact with the rest. To be accurate, Jed had retired to his dressing room (the gents’ toilet) to carry out running repairs on his hairpiece which had slowly slid sideways during the last two numbers. The guitarist and drummer had disappeared in the general direction of the car park. The proprietor of the pub approached us. 

“This is not what I expected,” he announced. “If that buffoon sings again, you will not be getting paid.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “In fact,” he continued, “If you don’t play something more modern, this lot,” he gestured towards the audience, “will tear you apart. They are not happy.” 

Jed appeared from the toilet, hair adjusted and reeking of aftershave. 

“Ready to go again?” he enquired cheerfully. I studiously ignored the warning glare from the proprietor. 

“I think they want something a bit more modern,” I said. “Do you know any Status Quo?” Jed looked scornful. 

“I don’t do any of that sort of rubbish.” 

“John and I could manage a couple if you like. Why don’t you have a break and rest your voice for a while.” With some reluctance, he agreed and I despatched John to the car park to locate the other members of the band. He returned empty-handed a few minutes later to report the defection of both guitarist and drummer. We were doomed to perform alone, it seemed. Having watched my son and I for some ten minutes or so, Jed decided that it was time for him to take his place again as the undoubted star of the show. Carefully adjusting his hat, he strode purposefully towards the stage. As he seized the microphone, an impressively large man rose to his feet. 

“Oh no yer don’t!” he cried. He picked up a chair and advanced with obvious hatred in his eyes. “Get ‘im off that stage before I kill ‘im,” he cried. Jed bravely ignored his potential assailant and sailed into another of his Fifties Favourites. Finally realising that the big man menacingly brandishing a chair was intent on doing him physical harm, he squealed in terror and, dropping the microphone, ran off in the direction of the door. The man looked almost tearful as he realised that his intention to cause mayhem had been thwarted and sadly returned to his seat. The proprietor came over to me. 

“Call it a day, lads. I know you two did your best, but you’re on a loser here. I’ll put the jukebox on.” 

I am happy to report that John and I did get paid. As we drove home, I suddenly realised why the name had sounded familiar. Jed had been the leader of a great many bands, none of which had ever lasted more than one performance. For John, it had been a character-forming experience. Not many musicians, I told him, are threatened with extermination on their first public performance. 

“Are there many singers like him?” he asked. 

“No,” I replied. “There is only one Jed Thresher.” 

“Thank God,” he said with a sigh.