Читать книгу Booted and Suited - Chris Brown - Страница 16

Brothers often seem to be at the heart of trouble, whether on the mean streets of Bristol or the meaner ones of the Krays’ East London manor. Sibling rivalry, as well as a deep bonding, meant that it was inevitable, if you had a row with one, you invariably had a row with two. The previously mentioned Thornes, Walshes, Pascoes and Stones were notorious back then. One of these brothers, Andy Stone, lived in my neck of the woods, Brentry, the smaller, rougher council estate next to Henbury (or Henburberry as it’s now known). He sent me his recollections of a typical weekend in 1969. In his own inimitable style, he remembers those days like they were yesterday:

‘Friday night. Travelled over to The Bell pub in Stapleton to meet up with the Pickerings (Lee and the twins John and Dave), Ginger Evans, Twiggy and others. Had a few beers and made our way to The Horse and Groom. Met up with the rest of the lads, my brother Paul, Brian Coombs, Mike Thorne, Martin and Pat Walsh, Lloyd, Herbie and others (too many names to mention). After a few more beers decided we would go to The Way Inn. A few guys outside The Pineapple started shouting abuse at us… some of our group walked over to them and asked them to be quiet. SORTED. Arrived at The Way Inn, barman gave us six-for-one before two-for-one was invented. Soon it was closing time so walked to the Centre and met up with my girlfriend (now my wife Debbie) who had been out with her mates.

‘The Centre was packed when a few of our friends from across the Bristol Channel started scrapping with a few of the lads. I think their coach had to stop at the B.R.I [Bristol Royal Infirmary]. for a few running repairs before they got home. Arrived at the Never and ordered Viennese steak, chips and peas for Deb and me (did I know how to treat a girl!!). Saw Tony Simms, asked him if I could borrow his minibus to take Deb and her mates home. On the way back to town saw Colin Moore – somebody had attacked him with a metal comb. Drove around for a while but could not find people who did it. Got back home about 2am.

‘Saturday night. The BIG night out – been waiting for this all week. Pick up Debbie from her house, borrow her dad’s car and drove to The Bell, meet up with the Pickerings and the rest of the lads from that side of town and their girlfriends. Travelled to The Horse and Groom and met up with the rest of the lads. Ended up in the Top Rank, most did not pay to get in as somebody had opened the emergency door by the Never café. Most of the night was spent drinking and dancing. Most of us blokes thought we were great dancers but I don’t think the girls did.

“At the end of the night somebody said there was a party at a house on the outskirts of Whitchurch so we all got in cars, scooters and fruit lorry. When we got there we were greeted by a guy giving out free cigs and cigars. There was a table about ten feet long filled with booze situated by the swimming pool. We thought we were dreaming, somebody said the guy’s parents had won the football pools. We were having a great time when somebody (we did not know) threw one of our girlfriends in the pool. All hell broke loose – we were hitting blokes all over the place. End of what could have been a great party. Got back home about 6am.

‘Sunday. Arranged to meet Debbie and her mates in Weston-super-Mare in the afternoon. My brother Paul and me were picked up at our house by Brian Coombs in his Consul Convertible (pre-MOTs). We thought we were the bollocks with the roof down. Halfway up Falcondale Road the clutch was slipping so Paul, Ossie Hardwick and myself ended up pushing the car to the top of the hill. How we got to WSM I do not know.

“Got to Weston at last, found out a few of the lads had a bit a trouble in a bar could The Doll’s House, so we met up with the Pickerings, Walshes, Thorney etc. and walked around to the club. The Weston lads did not realise only two of them could get out of the club door at one time, so we waited outside and baited them. As they came out, they were dealt with. Meanwhile, Debbie had managed to get thrown in the boating pool and Lloyd, forever the gentleman, let her have his jumper. I do not know to this day if he ever got it back. Because of the trouble in Weston that day the police closed all roads out of Weston, but we found a way out! The toll road – what a cheap price two bob. Ended up back in Bristol in the Horse and Groom. Back to work on Monday. Roll on next Friday.’

As an afterthought, Andy added, ‘I know we have all moved on since those days, but they were brilliant. As the man said, “Long gone, but not forgotten.”’

Another lad who frequented the Never back in the day was ‘Dobbsy’ Sellwood who, at the time, lived in Knowle. As in Pat Walsh’s recollections, he also travelled to London, not just for his footwear but also for the clothing. As well as being a terror on the terraces, Dobbsy was known for his sartorial style and, unlike some of the others I was to interview, he quite clearly remembered the first time he spotted the boot boys: ‘1968 in the Croydon area of South London.’

Dobbsy had relatives there and, as well as following Bristol Rovers (as did Paddy Walsh), he also had an allegiance to Crystal Palace. He continued, ‘They would have been Palace and Millwall fans. I was 15 years old and fell for the clothes, the reggae, the gorgeous skinhead girls and the excitement of the whole scene. I became one of the Tote End Boot Boys.’

In common with all the other lads that I had spoken to, Dobbsy confirmed that their enemy of choice was the greaser, but conversely on the Rovers’ terraces, unlike at Ashton Gate, their differences were put aside for the honour of the club, something which was quite evident in the incident at the Maritas café. ‘We hated greasers, although, funnily enough, a lot of our fans were greasers. We fought with other skins at football – they used to chant “soap and water” at the greasers because they were so filthy, but it still caused offence to us, so we stuck together with the greasers for the cause.’

Dobbsy was an archetypal, stereotypical skinhead, but, whereas most of the Never boys wouldn’t be seen dead fraternising with the greasers, he didn’t seem to have a problem with it. He also frequented Cora’s café on Colston Avenue and the well-known Rovers’ café and haunt of the greasers, the Monte Carlo on Stapleton Road. ‘Full of ’em but they were Tote Enders,’ he recalls.

As well as remembering where he first laid eyes on the early skinheads, he quite clearly recalled where he bought his clothing and footwear. He even reckoned he was one of the first Bristolians to wear Doc Martens. ‘I bought them in Jacobs in Old Market for about £2 15s (£2.75) in 1969.’ He also recalled buying his first Ben Sherman, a yellow one, on the King’s Road in London for about £2 10s (£2.50) and shrink-to-fit Levi’s for £3. ‘You had to sit in the bath for hours to get them to fit,’ Dobbsy added.

I asked him if he still had any items of clothing from back then. ‘No, but I still wear similar clothing, like button-down shirts, Levi’s – but full-length now, not short. A smart pair of “Weejun” loafers [hand-made, all-leather slip-on shoes] – classic look, still instantly recognisable to anyone from that era.’

Although Dobbsy clearly retained a great deal of affection with the original skinhead era, he wasn’t so enamoured with the second wave that emerged later. ‘Skins and suedeheads naturally progressed to smoothies. The second generation of skins in the late Seventies lost the edge in clothing, music and politics,’ he declared wistfully.

‘Have you got any regrets about being a skinhead?’ I asked.

‘No regrets. Had a great time. Still see a lot of people from that era who are like-minded. Could have done without the criminal record though!’ he answered with a wink.

Ian ‘Adge’ Haddrell, back then a young skinhead from Horfield, was a contemporary of Dobbsy and likewise followed Rovers and a London club, in this instance Chelsea, but, while Dobbsy recalled his first glimpse of skinheads, Adge was unsure of exactly when it may have been. He recalled seeing pockets of them in Bristol in late 1968 but his first mass sighting was in March 1969 at a Chelsea v Manchester United match at Stamford Bridge, where he was amazed not only at the size of the crowd (63,000) but also at ‘the number of skinheads walking along the Fulham Road to the ground’. He also remembered the media’s obsession with them.

‘There was a considerable amount of media coverage about the emergent youth culture and the violence that accompanied it. I do remember that some of the articles dealt with the fashion of the skinheads – both male and female. This would have been around 1969–70. As I regularly attended football, I was drawn to being a skinhead together with my mates as that was what many working-class young males were doing. It also served that basic human need to belong to an identifiable group.’

Adge, like Dobbsy, also remembered his first Doc Martens if not his first pair of boots. ‘Doc Martens identified you as a skinhead. They became associated with the culture of bovver more than anything else – and they were very comfortable to walk in. I think that’s why I kept them for so long after I ceased being a skinhead. I bought them for £4 19s 6d (£4.97)’.

Like a lot of skinheads, though, Adge wasn’t as ‘hard’ in front of his parents as he was in front of his mates. He smiled as he added, ‘For a long time, I kept them in the garage, not telling my parents, and put them on once I’d left the house in my “sensible” shoes!’

Once changed into his more streetwise Docs, Adge would often head to the RCA record shop in Montpelier. ‘Saturday mornings became somewhat of a ritual visiting Roy’s record shop in Picton Street, prior to going into town shopping, watching Rovers or playing football. It was in Roy’s shop that I spent a good proportion of my hard-earned cash, paid to me as an apprentice with a local engineering company, on “sounds”. At school, I was very much into Motown and popular reggae, such as that offered on Trojan Chartbusters albums. I already had the basis of a collection of Tamla Motown singles, supplemented by some American imports on the “Soul” and “Gordy” record labels.

‘However, it was following these regular visits to Picton Street that my interest in soul music burgeoned and my singles collection grew rapidly. The format of a visit to Roy’s shop was always the same. I would take along the latest copy of Blues and Soul magazine, which provided British and American R&B singles and albums charts, features on soul singers and groups and, most importantly for me, reviews of the latest releases, both 45s and LPs. Selecting from the chart list or review in the B&S‚ Roy would be asked to play the particular record on the turntable located behind the counter – invariably he had it, no matter how obscure. In most cases, this would be the first time that I heard the song and, depending on whether I liked it or not, made the decision to purchase or send it back to its place on the closely packed shelves. Sometimes, a few bars from the record were sufficient to indicate whether it was going to join my collection or not, but often the whole record was played in an attempt to make a decision. Throughout this oft-repeated ritual, Roy remained impassive, playing record after record without comment. I never knew what music he really liked.*

‘The shop was tiny and six customers would practically fill the small interior. As well as white youths buying soul records, the shop was regularly frequented by older West Indians buying ska, reggae and Blue Beat records. They, too, went through the same procedure as me, requesting Roy to play their selected “sound”. Very often, once a record started playing the requestor and his mate – there always seemed to be two of them – would begin laughing out loud at the lyrics being sung. As my comprehension of West Indian patois was fairly limited at the time, I didn’t have a clue what these songs that were causing such amusement were about, although I suspect that due to the nature of many reggae songs (“Wet Dream” – Max Romeo, “Wreck a Pum Pum” – Prince Buster) there was a sexual connotation to them. The tunes were always good, though!

‘Not only did I buy the latest releases at Roy’s but I also started to build up my collection of older classic soul records that pre-dated my interest in R&B music. Some notable sounds purchased from Picton Street were Sonny Charles and The Checkmates’ “Black Pearl”, Eddie Floyd’s “Bring It on Home to Me”, American Poets’ “She Blew a Good Thing”, Contours’ “Just a Little Misunderstanding”, J J Barnes’s “Please Let Me In”, and Doris Troy’s “I’ll Do Anything”.’

Like Dobbsy, Adge remembered the obsession with clothing and the detail of the hand-made suits in particular. ‘We used to have our trousers and jackets made to measure by a tailor in Broadmead called Jacksons. You went in one week to be measured up and pay your deposit, then returned the following week to pick up the finished garment and pay the balance. It was important to have your trousers exactly in fashion, being prescriptive about the width of the trouser legs, width of the turn-ups, and having a ticket pocket. Similarly, jackets had to have a certain length for the centre vent, a specific style and width of lapels, and also a specified number of buttons on the sleeves.’

Once you had picked up your treasured suit, there was only one thing to do – pose. Adge continued, ‘Many of the dancehalls and discos within pubs were playing Motown and reggae, so it attracted us. I used to go to the Locarno on a Monday night with mates, where we’d meet other skinheads. It was an opportunity to wear de rigueur black brogues with extra leather soles and my favourite brown suit and light-green Ben Sherman, together with a tie pin through a silk handkerchief in the top pocket, which was an absolute must.’

During my interviews and research, the loveable old ‘Loccy’ ballroom was getting as many mentions as the Never café. It was a place I also frequented in the early Seventies as well as the late Seventies when it changed its name to The Studio and bands such as The Jam, The Clash and U2 appeared there. One can only imagine what effect it had on the youngsters of Bristol when it opened as part of the New Entertainments Centre in 1966; up until then, the Corn Exchange and The Glen, later Tiffany’s, on the Downs had been the main ports of call for the lads and lasses about town.

This place wasn’t just big, it was huge – at the time, it was the largest entertainment centre of its kind in Europe, boasting not only the legendary Locarno but also an ice rink, a cinema, more than a dozen licensed bars, a casino and the Heartbeat (later Raquels) disco, where (allegedly) Jimi Hendrix relaxed after appearing at the Loccy, although the rumours of him enjoying a brown split can’t be confirmed. At its height, this leviathan concrete complex built by Mecca for a cost of £2 million pulled in 5,000 punters a night, 2,000 of whom could fit in the Locarno alone.

The Evening Post reported of its opening night on 19 May 1966, ‘There were girls in grass skirts who brought on the pineapple confection for the buffet supper. There was a glitter and glow of myriad lights… an atmosphere of rich opulent intimacy warming the place in a way not to be expected. Guests were served in the South Seas climate of the Bali Hai bar, in the swish Le Club bar and by check-waistcoated, bowler-hatted barmen in the Victorian bar.’ No mention of the Neanderthal Teddy-Boy bouncers waiting to punch your lights out and chuck you down those concrete stairs, though.

It had been a pivotal year; not only had the Locarno opened but England were the 1966 World Cup winners, the cult of the mod had gone mainstream and the scooter boys were in the ascendancy. It seems an appropriate juncture, therefore, to include some memories from those pre-skinhead ‘Sawdust Caesars’. Steve Holloway, a young mod who then lived in Southmead, recalled a defining moment. For many like him, it was a rite of passage, a battle of wills between cunning youth and animalistic brawn. Once you had passed this milestone, there was no going back, it marked the transition from a boy to a man – getting past the gorilla in a suit at the door of the Bali Hai bar.

‘I well remember my elation, aged about 16, at getting my first “brown split” in a mug with a handle, not a sleever, in the Bali Hai bar in the Locarno, after getting past the bouncer. If I remember rightly, the bouncer used to stand at the entrance to the bar by the totem pole.’

Another mod from back then, Chris Powell, was so enamoured with the Locarno that when it was demolished in 1997 he managed to salvage the famed totem pole as well as many of the signs from the ballroom, including a bright-red one that will be remembered by many. ‘The bouncers’ warning sign… this was positioned opposite the DJ. If there was any “trouble” within the Locarno, a panic button would be hit and the area in which the trouble was located would be illuminated. The DJ would then broadcast a coded message to the bouncers and the trouble would be “politely” dealt with.’

Chris lovingly restored the totem pole and it now adorns his garage. ‘We used to put out our Embassy dog-ends up the nostril on the pole. When I painted it, I found one still in place!’

Chris recalled a famous night in Bristol in 1967 when the doyens of the mod movement paid a visit to the Locarno. ‘1967 was a very special year for me. London had begun swinging the previous year, England were the World Cup Champions and I turned 15. While London had its trendy discos and clubs, Bristol had always lagged behind, with gigs taking place at the Corn Exchange and occasionally The Top Rank opposite Bridewell nick. However, this was all to change with the opening of the New Bristol Centre and particularly the Locarno towards the end of 1966.

‘At last, Bristol had an entertainment centre to be proud of and a decent venue for bands to play. I was introduced to the Locarno by a school friend by the name of Chris Reeves, who had already sussed out the location and the fact that Monday nights were for 14–18-year-olds, and that it was the place for chatting up the local Bristol talent. This was heaven to two 15-year-old single-sex schoolboys. If you were really lucky, you might even get served a half of Woodpecker in the Bali Hai bar.

‘The Locarno became our Monday-night haunt. Smooth wasn’t the word, what with our blue mohair suits (£15 from John Collier in Broadmead) with slant pockets, ticket pocket and rear centre vent (the longer the better), the obligatory Ben Sherman shirt and the thin tie, we were the business – or so we thought. However, real mods rode on Lambrettas, not the number 8 bus from Kingswood. Word came about that the mod band of the moment, The Who, would be playing the Locarno in May 1967, and Chris and myself decided to attend. The first obstacle was the entrance price of 8s 6d (yes, 42p in today’s money). However, a plea to my parents raised the readies and I was off.

‘The queue stretched all the way down the steps and halfway up Frogmore Street, and attracted the main “faces” on the Bristol scene. After about an hour, I reached the front of the queue, deposited my 8s 6d and met Chris inside, slap-bang in the centre of the balcony. Class seats for a class band.

‘The Who were scheduled to start at around 8.30pm. Eight-thirty came and went, as did nine. Eventually, at just gone ten, they appeared – Roger, John, Pete and Keith. They may have been there in body, although I have grave doubts whether they were really there in spirit, as they all seemed to be on another level – I never had that problem with my illicit half of Woodpecker. The level of sound that reached what remained of the crowd’s eardrums was deafening with the boys going straight into “I Can’t Explain”, swiftly followed by “Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere” and the mod’s favourite, “My Generation”. This was class. This was history in the making.

‘Around that time, The Who had a reputation for smashing their equipment and this evening was to be no different. Pete made short work of the loudspeakers with his guitar, and Keith demolished his very impressive drum set with a ‘small’ charge of explosive. After a quick repair/replacement job, they proceeded on to “I’m a Boy”, “Happy Jack” and their latest hit “Pictures of Lily” and then they were gone. Forty-five minutes of sheer quality and I was travelling home on the number 8 bus. Within two years, The Who were playing gigantic stadia, with even higher plains to reach.’

Chris then explained how he came about owning the various mementos, including that totem pole. ‘During 1997, I learned that most of the New Bristol Centre was to be demolished to make way for student accommodation‚ and I found myself again in Frogmore Street for one final look. I took the escalators (now sadly broken) up to the old Locarno and was amazed to find the entrance ajar. The site foreman very kindly allowed me to take a walk round the old haunt before the bulldozers moved in and also agreed that I could have the old gents “Stag Room” sign that now adorns my bathroom!

‘I spent about an hour in the Locarno before it was finally sealed, taking photos and reminiscing about the Sixties. I stood on the stage where so many class acts had performed and excited Bristol’s youth – none more so than The Who – and wondered if demolition was the only way forward for the building. But then again, The Who would probably have wanted it that way!’

Once the lads finished posing under the illuminated ceiling of the ballroom, it was time to pose on the streets of Bristol. Jim Burnham – the mod who had a close encounter with the Never boys’ fruit wagon one night and who’s still very much part of the latter-day mod scene, recalled, like Adge and Chris, that Monday was one of the main nights of the week. ‘Coming out of the Locarno on Monday nights, and seeing all the scoots parked outside the Hatchet pub – maybe 30 of ’em – magnificent! Then we’d start ’em up – the noise and smell of two-stroke engines echoing around the buildings, then we’d just ride up and down, past the Entertainment Centre, maybe three or four times, just showing off and trying to impress the birds. No crash helmets in them days either, maybe a bobble hat if it was a bit cold! To me, as a 16-year-old, it was pure joy – scooter heaven!’

Sixteen seemed to be when these lads came of age; it was then you were able to buy your beloved ‘scoot’. Chris Powell remembered the significance of reaching that momentous age. ‘Once you’d reached the magical age of 16, you needed to get yourself a scoot, and you could either do this from the motorbike section in the Evening Post on Friday, or visit one of the dealers. The two main dealers in Bristol were King’s and Grey’s which were situated in Stokes Croft. Both had vast stocks of Lambrettas and Vespas and one shop always priced theirs in “guineas” which was an old term and related to 21 shillings (£1.05 in new money). This made the bike look cheaper than it was!’

Chris, like the younger lads I had interviewed, recalled the clothing. Much of it was similar to the skinhead/suedehead gear of a few years later. ‘Suits were generally made to measure at places such as Burton’s, Hepworth’s and John Collier. Cost around £15–£20 all in, mainly two-piece, three-button (covered) with slant pockets, and a ticket pocket. Rear vent – as long as possible. These started around six inches and progressed higher and higher, as Jackie Wilson sang, up your back with some ending between your shoulder blades! Fourteen-inch bottoms with no turn-ups. Colour: dark with a nice herring-bone weave; sleeve buttons: anywhere between three and six on each side.’

My brother Mike also recalled the long, long vents in the jackets which sometimes gathered unwanted attention from certain lads in the dancehalls. ‘You want a long vent, do you? Well, fucking ’ave this!’ as they proceeded to rip the jacket in half. Not surprisingly, it was at that point that the bouncers’ red light would often be illuminated and the gorillas in the mist would earn their pay.

It’s incredible to think that the clothing from four decades ago can be remembered in such fine detail. I might be wrong but somehow I can’t see today’s ‘yoof’ getting all dewy-eyed remembering their present-day attire in 40 years’ time – Ecko trackie bottoms made out of a nice nylon/polyester mix purchased from JD Sports for a tenner… not quite the same as one of Burton’s finest, but then again I’m biased. And I’ve got half a brain.

In the mid- to late Sixties, Bristol became the centre for entertainment for youngsters from all across the West Country. Colin Birch was a young mod who lived in Yeovil at the time and, as well as the Locarno, remembered other cool hang-outs. ‘Bristol was the Holy Grail of entertainment and scootering outside of London for our immaculately turned-out gang. Thursday nights straight after work we headed for Bristol to the Corn Exchange where Thursdays was the Rhythm, Blues & Soul night… just about anybody famous did a gig there. We saw Clapton, Geno Washington and the Ram Jam Band, John Lee Hooker, The Faces. Saturday nights was either ten-pin bowling, followed by egg and chips and a coffee at Aust Services or, if there was enough of us not to get yer head kicked in, we would head for the Bamboo Club.’

* I also recall Roy’s indifference to the very music he sold. You would assume that such a specialist shop as his would be run by an enthusiastic collector, just like his customers no doubt were, but I found out in later years that, in fact, Roy couldn’t abide the music, reggae in particular, simply seeing it as a market to exploit.