John Lennon: The Life (12 page)

As always if he really wanted to do something, he never gave up. When he finally sold his copy of “Rock Island Line” to Rod Davis, he’d thrown it back onto the gramophone so many times and so roughly that the hole in its center had been worn out of shape by the turntable stem. The first time Rod tried to play it, it wobbled so crazily that the song was barely recognizable.

T
he Quarrymen’s first gig was at St. Barnabas Church Hall—popularly known as “Barney’s,” close to the Penny Lane roundabout where John used to get off the bus for Dovedale Primary. No advertisements appeared in the local press, so we can only roughly date his debut in front of a live audience as September or October
of 1956. Nothing else is known of the event except that his mother turned up loyally to cheer him on, accompanied by his steady girlfriend, Barbara Baker.

The next significant booking was an anomalously upmarket one at the Lee Park Golf Club in Gateacre. Lee Park was that common fifties institution, a “Jewish-only” club, catering to those whose religion excluded them from playing on other courses in the area. Nigel Walley had recently begun working there as an apprentice golf pro, and he talked the secretary into booking the Quarrymen as an extra attraction at a Saturday-night club dance. They played in the round, while a formally dressed and largely adult crowd sat and watched. There was no fee, but a cold supper was provided and a collection taken for them afterwards.

From the very first, John dominated the stage as if born to it, pounding his cheap little mail-order guitar, singing in the high, slightly acid voice that, unusually, he made no attempt to Americanize. To be heard above five frantically skiffling companions, usually without a microphone, the only option was all-out attack. On such public show, it was more unthinkable than ever for him to wear his hated glasses, even though without them he could barely see the edge of the stage. As a result, he adopted a slightly hunched, splay-legged stance, his face thrust forward and eyes narrowed to slits in a way that onlookers took to be aggressive and challenging but often was no more than effort to get his surroundings in focus. Though he never indulged in overt displays of egotism, his companions were left in no doubt as who was boss. “John used to go at his guitar so hard that he’d often break a string,” Rod Davis remembers. “When that happened, he’d hand his guitar to me, take my banjo and carry on playing while I changed the guitar-string for him.”

Perform it though he did with his whole heart and soul, skiffle was never enough for John. What he really wanted to be playing was rock ’n’ roll, not the historically meaningful tracts and protests of Leadbelly and Woody Guthrie but the magic, molten gibberish of Elvis Presley and Little Richard. And time was pressing. Every day brought a fresh hail of adult calumnies against rock ’n’ rollers and seemingly authoritative predictions that they would all soon have
passed into richly deserved extinction. As evidence, the finger was pointed at Presley himself and how he already seemed to be hedging his bets by recording fewer rock-’n’-roll rabble-rousers and more ballads. December 1956 found “the King” starring in his first Hollywood movie,
Love Me Tender
, and topping the charts with a theme song that was less ballad than hymn.

So John, at the very earliest stage, began mixing rock ’n’ roll into the Quarrymen’s skiffle repertoire in small, surreptitious doses, like nips of vodka added to orange juice. He was, anyway, in the habit of making up his own words to current hit songs when he hadn’t been able to decipher their real ones. So he’d play rock-’n’-roll songs as skiffle, slipping in a folksy reference here and there to mollify the purists. The example always cited by his former companions was “Come Go with Me,” a 1957 million seller for the Del-Vikings in the doo-wop, or part-singing, style created by a cappella vocal groups on urban street corners. John’s Quarrymen version—perhaps the seeds of a future song lyric’s invitation to “let me take you down”—ran:

Come come come come

and go with me

down down down down to

the Penitentiary

 

One immediate effect of his new passion was a slight improvement of his profile at Quarry Bank High School. In October 1956, the remote and humorless Ernie Taylor had retired from the headmastership and been replaced by William Ernest Pobjoy, at only thirty-five one of the youngest school principals in the northwest. Mr. Pobjoy had been warned in advance about the malign influence of Shennon and Lotton, by now sometimes too extreme even to feature in the official punishment log. “I was told there was a certain member of staff that Lennon had actually thumped,” the former head remembers now. “The poor man was so humiliated that he’d begged for the matter not to be reported.”

Despite his youth and far lighter touch, “Popeye” Pobjoy was no pushover. Soon after his arrival, he found it necessary to give John
three strokes with the cane—an experience that helped convince him to phase out corporal punishment from the school altogether. Early in 1957, while Popeye was temporarily absent, Shennon and Lotton were each suspended for a week by the deputy head, Ian Gallaway.

But in general John’s guitar made him more a member of the school community than he’d ever wished or expected to be. Now when he went to the headmaster’s study, it might not necessarily be for the cane but to ask in all politeness if the Quarrymen could play at the next sixth-form dance. In a turret of the old Gothic schoolhouse was a little-used classroom where—with Popeye’s tacit permission—John, Pete, and Eric Griffiths would hold practice sessions during break or at the end of afternoon school.

Rehearsal space for the whole eight-man group (if you count all three alternating bass players) was less easy to find. At Mendips, John’s bedroom was too small, and Mimi’s house-proud eye too vigilant, for them ever to feel quite comfortable there. They might convene at Eric’s or Colin’s house or, if the weather were fine, in the back garden of Rod Davis’s. Next door lived the grandparents of the future Olympic runner Paula Radcliffe; as John tried out the latest Donegan or Presley number, the Radcliffes would jokily throw pennies to him over the garden fence.

But most times the Quarrymen would pick up a packet of Wild Woodbines and a newspaper parcel of fish and chips, and go over to their unofficial den mother’s house in Blomfield Road. However many they were, they could depend on the same warm welcome from Julia; she would make them endless cups of tea, share their ciggies, be a sounding board for their latest numbers and a sympathetic listener to their latest adventures and misadventures. The practice session itself would usually be held in the bathroom, whose uncarpeted floor and tiled surfaces maximized the volume and echo of acoustic skiffle instruments; to get the very best effect, John, Eric, and Rod would stand together in the bath. No matter if Julia happened to be bathing John’s two half sisters when the musicians arrived: the little girls would be evicted, the water would be drained, and the two guitarists and banjo player would take off their shoes and clamber into the vacated tub.

Only skiffle groups composed of affluent working men could afford their own private transport. Rod Davis’s father had an Austin Hereford car in which he’d occasionally chauffeur the Quarrymen to their gigs. Most of the time they had to travel on Liverpool Corporation’s ever-plentiful and reliable green double-decker buses, somehow packing the tea chest and Colin Hanton’s drums into the luggage compartment under the stairs. On these journeys a weather eye always had to be kept open for two local heavies named Rod and Willo, who, for unexplained reasons, had vowed to get them, and of whom even John made no secret of being terrified. One night when the Quarrymen got off their bus in Woolton village, Rod and Willo were waiting in ambush. The skifflers all managed to escape, but at the cost of abandoning their tea-chest bass, which stayed in the road where they dropped it for several days afterwards, being sideswiped this way and that by passing traffic.

After John, the group’s most extrovert member—and the only other one with any noticeable singing ability—was Len Garry. By far the best of their three original alternating bass players, Len soon took over the role from Ivan Vaughan and Nigel Walley. Bookish Ivan returned to his school studies with some relief, while “Walloggs” became the group’s manager. He approached the role with great seriousness, writing earnest letters in longhand to local dance promoters and persuading even the Woolton newsagents who had suffered most from John’s shoplifting to display advertisements for the Quarrymen free of charge in their front windows. He also gave out business cards, expressed with old-fashioned formality and claiming an impressive command of musical styles:

Country—Western—Rock ’n’ roll—Skiffle

THE QUARRY MEN [
sic
]

Open for engagements

Their fee varied between £3 and £5, according to length of performance, divided among six of them, since their manager also took an equal share.

John’s insistence on putting rock ’n’ roll first onstage, if not in print, was to cause Nigel many headaches with promoters of skiffle-only venues, as well as some little embarrassment in his day job as an apprentice golf pro. In the Lee Park clubhouse, he had become friendly with a doctor named Sytner, whose son, Alan, was about to open a jazz club in central Liverpool. Its premises were the cellar of an old warehouse in Mathew Street, and—in a conscious echo of jazz joints on the Parisian Left Bank—it was to be named the Cavern. Alan Sytner agreed to book the Quarrymen (advertising them as “Quarry Men”) for a skiffle session in company with other local groups, including the Deltones, the Dark Town Skiffle Group, and the Demon Five.

But the Cavern in this first incarnation proved hostile territory, peopled by traditional jazz fans of the most earnest and intolerant kind. Skiffle they could tolerate, for its blues and folk ancestry, but rock ’n’ roll had much the same effect on them as a string of garlic on a vampire. John nonetheless launched into his Presley and Fats Domino numbers, oblivious of the nauseated silence that greeted each one. “I tried to argue with him,” Rod Davis remembers, “not because I was a purist myself, but because it was so obviously a suicidal thing to do with that particular audience.” John carried on regardless, so “lost” that when a note was passed up to him, he took it to be a song request. But it was from the Cavern’s management, and contained a single terse instruction: “Cut out the bloody rock.”

Just as it had for his father, Alf, two decades earlier, the Empire Theatre in Lime Street represented John’s ultimate ambition as a performer. True to its time-honored place on the music-hall Number One Circuit, the Empire now presented all the country’s top skiffle and rock-’n’-roll stars, usually at the head of a traditional variety bill whose jugglers and comedians had to struggle to make themselves heard over anticipatory teenage screams.

Alf Lennon had never gotten further than backstage at the Empire. But his son received an early chance to tread its hallowed boards when a Carroll Levis Discoveries show came through town in June 1957. Levis was an oleaginous Canadian, known in glamour-hungry and credulous postwar Britain as “Mister Star-maker.” During the
fifties, he used to tour provincial theaters, holding talent contests for every kind of would-be entertainer, from singers and comedians to parakeet trainers and players of musical saws.

When the Quarrymen turned up at the Empire for the contest’s Sunday heats (minus Rod Davis, whose religious parents would not let him take part), they found several other skiffle groups also hungry to be discovered by Mister Star-maker. Their main competition, they decided, was a group from Speke, the Sunnysiders, who included a midget named Nicky Cuff on tea-chest bass. The Sunnysiders’ act was partly comic, with Cuff (in everyday life, a workmate of Colin Hanton’s) running onstage dressed in a top hat and tails and explaining that he’d lost his way to the Adelphi Hotel. His other gimmick was being able to stand on his tea chest while belaboring its single string.

The Quarrymen did better, however, getting through to the Wednesday-night finals while the Sunnysiders’ comic dimension actually lost them points. But on the Wednesday, when winners were judged on audience applause, John’s outfit found themselves up against a group from Wales who had arrived with a busload of supporters to cheer them on. Rod Davis remembers how these Welsh skifflers used extrovert showmanship, flinging themselves around, even lying flat on the stage, “while we just stood still, like purists.” Nonetheless, the applause-measuring “Clapometer” initially showed a dead heat between the two groups. But on a retry, the Welsh group were announced to be just ahead. So Mister Star-maker—not for the only time, it would turn out—missed the greatest discovery of his life.

Rock ’n’ roll continued to defy every forecast of its imminent self-destruction, boosted by an unexpected endorsement from Hollywood. Late 1956 had seen the release of a film comedy called
The Girl Can’t Help It
, originally intended as a vehicle for the huge-bosomed screen goddess Jayne Mansfield, with jibes at teenagers and their music by way of a subplot. Instead, the satire on rock somehow turned into a celebration of it—to this day, still the most potent ever captured on celluloid.

When
The Girl Can’t Help It
finally reached Liverpool early in the
summer of 1957, it showed John America’s new rock-’n’-roll stars as living beings for the very first time—minus Elvis, admittedly, but featuring cameo performances by others he worshipped almost as much, plus a few he’d barely heard of, all in voluptuous Eastman-color and megascreen CinemaScope. Here was Little Richard shrieking the title song in voice-over as Jayne Mansfield’s mighty cleavage sashayed along a street, making men’s glasses shatter in their frames and milk spurt out of bottles as though in premature ejaculation. Here was Eddie Cochran, a hunky young Elvis clone, singing “Twenty Flight Rock” while aiming his gorgeous vermilion guitar to left and right like a tommy gun. Here was another white newcomer, Gene Vincent, a bony ex-sailor with an eerily high and sibilant voice, keening a second classic piece of rock-’n’-roll Jabberwocky, entitled “Be-Bop-a-Lula.” Here, even more fascinatingly to John, were Vincent’s backing group, the Bluecaps: not merely tacked-on session men but fellow spirits who shared their leader’s aura of dissipation and menace, and counterpointed his vocal with almost animalistic whoops and yaps and cackles.