Yes Johnny Rico, You're The King.
By andy
- 1760 reads
Some time ago the Nottingham Playhouse asked me if I would spend the
first three months of 1999 by travelling on the Robin Hood Line - a
relatively new route that connects Nottingham to Worksop in the north
of the County and which passes through a large area that has been
devastated by the demise of the coal industry. The idea being that I
would spend a couple of weeks in a number of different towns and
villages meeting various people and groups and finding out about the
local history and current concerns and well known characters and by the
end of this time I would have come up with a wee show thing which I
would perform in a suitable venue in each location.
And I agreed. I needed the money - pitiful though it was - and quite
fancied the idea of being this Keith Chegwin figure running around
these places trying to think of something to do.
So on Monday January 4th I arrived in Worksop, having already managed
to lose the camera which the Playhouse had bought for me to use for the
project and realising, as I stepped off of the train with the dog end
of a flu dose that had obliterated my entire Christmas and New Year,
that I hadn't a clue what to do or where to begin.
So I headed for the Tourist Information Office, explained my
predicament and was told that 'well - you could do the Worksop
Walkabout. A walk through Worksop's rich and varied history stretching
back over the centuries, full of many interesting sights and details of
times long gone'.
And I thought 'Yes! The Worksop Walkabout! That sounds great!' Because
I loved that stuff. On childhood holidays my dad and my sister would
slope around on yet another organised tour, pulling faces behind the
guides back, whilst I would be thrilled to bits at seeing such a fine
collection of tea pots or Aztec farming implements.
And as luck would have it the Worksop Walkabout began right there, in
the museum, housed in the same building - a fine example of 1930's
architecture - with the Pilgrim Fathers Story; an exhibition which
follows the Pilgrim Fathers from their origins in North Nottinghamshire
through their voyage in the Mayflower to their colonisation of the New
World and the early days of the United States of America.
And so I began, diligently reading the neatly presented information and
looking at the models of these pilgrim folk sitting in front of roaring
fires reading from their bibles when I came across the word Scrooby,
which was the name of my next door neighbours house when I was about
nine, living in Devon.
Now I remember this clearly because the kids on the close used to
pester the Turners, a retired couple, by constantly ringing their bell
and asking, usually, Mr Turner, who was a bit tapped, if he had any
snacks. 'What are you on about?' he'd say and they'd go 'You know
snacks. Scrooby Snacks!' and they'd run off going 'Scrooby Dooby Doo!'.
And they did this for weeks. Until Mrs Turner answered the door one day
and threw a big tin of meatballs over them in a fit of desperation
which really upset this little lad who had been persuaded somewhat
against his will to get involved in the prank for the first time and
who wouldn't come out to play for seven months afterwards.
So I was really interested to find out that Scrooby was in fact a
village just outside of Worksop where William Brewster, the head elder
of the Separatist Church, which advocated greater individual religious
freedom in opposition to the Established Church at the end of the 16th
century, built up the Scrooby group - a collection of non conformists
and ex communicated priests who decided to create a Utopian society,
first in Holland and then in America. Which is where the historic
journey of The Mayflower comes in.
Anyway I continue to read and I find out about how the pilgrims
survived a terrible journey to found the promised land of New Plimoth
and how some months later another ship - The Fortune - arrived to an
ecstatic welcome which became somewhat less enthusiastic when it turned
out that not only had these new arrivals not brought anything to eat
but that they had neglected to bring any supplies, equipment, bedding,
or clothes. Which must have been testing I would have thought. 'No you
can't share my pants!'
And I'm looking at these names Samosat, and Squanto who were Indians
who helped the pilgrims when they first arrived, ensuring their
survival, and hence being unwitting collaborators in their own ethnic
cleansing programme. And I know that I've heard it before. And then it
comes to me. It's the next door neighbours again. The Turners. They had
two rabbits - Samosat and Squanto - real bushy tailed little things
with big floppy ears. One of which - Squanto I think, but I may be
wrong, was struck tragically, and with some force, by a fork while Mr
Turner was out digging his potato crop leaving the other with a broken
heart and more hutch space.
And it started coming back to me. The ships that Mr Turner made out of
matchsticks. The biscuits that he used to offer you when you popped in
to say hello, which were really big and hard. And the Sunday mornings
when he used to leave for church wearing this big brown hat and shoes
with enormous buckles, and his long socks pulled up over his trousers
even though he wasn't cycling.
And I realised something that I've never realised before. Mr Turner,
the man who lived next door to me for six years, had been living the
life of a Pilgrim Father.
Now this threw me a bit. I was beginning to wonder whether the whole
thing wasn't just some after effect from my bout of flu, some
imagination infection. I walked out, bumping into a man who strangely
called me a Hampton Wick!, and the first thing that hit my eye was a
poster of a man dressed as Elvis in a number of poses and on it were
written the words 'Experience The Dream. Johnny Rico is Elvis'.
And I thought that those were beautiful words. Experience The Dream.
Full of assonance. A lovely lilt to it. And the name. Johnny Rico.
Conjuring up images in my head of sharp suits and tumblers of bourbon,
of colourful ties and Las Vegas showrooms. And it spurred me on to
continue with the Worksop Walkabout.
I walked through a rose garden and past a dam on the little river Ryton
and found myself peering intently at the wall of the Priory Church
looking for musket ball holes made by Cromwells men and I couldn't see
the fucking things and lost interest in the whole exercise just like
that.
And opposite was a playground full of children on their lunch break
with these two young lads pushing each other about and grabbing each
others noses and it took me back to the rivalry between Keith Board and
I when we were that age, and how we used to have Elvis contests.
The girls would all sit around and judge us as we did our thing. Keith
was good with the pretend guitar but I had the better lip and although
we respected each others talents I had the trump card because my dad
had seen Elvis in the flesh, had actually said 'hello' to him. In
Hamburg in 1959 when both my Dad and Elvis were serving in Germany in
the British and American armies.
Anyway I decided to kick the Worksop Walkabout into touch and went for
a pint and a bite to eat at the Lock Tavern where I was surprised to
find that amongst the standard fare of egg and chips and sausages and
cheeseburgers, for ?3 you could get a plate of shark, chips and peas.
And I asked the barman, Brendan, whether this was a joke or not - which
it wasn't; it's a white meat, it comes in a little fillet, it's quite
sweet, and because the shark basically has one big bone you don't have
to bother with lots of fiddly little ones. And the peas seem to work
really well with it.
Anyway we got talking and I asked Brendan if he had heard of Johnny
Rico. His eyes lit up like sparklers and he said 'I could listen to
Johnny all night long'..
And everybody I asked in the pub and in the street knew of this man.
'Oh yes. Oh yes! Johnny Rico. Johnny Rico! Fantastic. He's got the hair
for it you know'.
I felt as though I was being sucked into a world which I was meant to
visit and this sense of synchronicity was exacerbated, on the way back
to the train station, by my discovery of a second hand book and record
called Treasure Island, run by a man who looked very much like
shopkeeper from Mr Benn, only without the fez. And there in the back
room amongst a stack of Elvis LP's, was treasure indeed. The album that
Dad played more than any other. The album that I curled my lip and
waggled my pre pubescent pelvis to. 'A Date With Elvis'. Released while
Elvis was in the army. With the great cover of him sat in a car in his
G.I. uniform.
And now it was mine. A bit scratched. Two pounds. Fantastic.
On the train home my head was full of Elvis with Mr Turner making the
odd appearance in his Separatist Church attire. My Dad had seen him. My
Dad had seen the King. In a bar. When they were both handsome young
men, the whole world in front of them like those scantily clad and
peckish pilgrims.
When I got back to Nottingham the first thing I did was to go into a
shoe shop and buy a pair of blue suede shoes. And I as soon as I put
them on I knew that these were going to be the most comfortable shoes I
had ever worn. It was as though my feet were gently sinking into the
warm sands of some tropical beach as the limpid water lapped around my
ankles and the girl with the cocktail tray ran her fingers through my
hair. My toes felt as though they were being licked by a celebrity line
up of French actresses.
And so the next day I didn't so much walkabout Worksop as float, about
two centimetres off of the ground. And the spirit of Elvis was with me.
I had spent all night listening to the record, much to my girlfriends
bewilderment - 'Isn't it strange how I love you, isn't it strange how I
care?' - and now, I don't know, it was as though Elvis was breathing
next to me; as though Worksop was coming alive through all of it's
stages of history thanks to the King of Rock and Roll.
As I walked over the Chesterfield Canal - which brought new prosperity
to Worksop, with maltkilns, mills, warehouses and taverns attracted to
its banks - I could see the the long narrow boats carrying the local
stone to build the Houses of Parliament. The boatsmen on board in their
Hawaiian shirts and garlands providing fine backing vocals as the head
tiller belts out 'Rock A Hula'.
And I could see the great Manor House - built in the late 1580's for
the 6th Earl of Shrewsbury and which was supposed to be the greatest
house in the North of England before it burned down. And there is Mary
Queen of Scots, one of several royal visitors, a red tinge slowly
creeping up her face, as the guest with the strange sideburns takes her
by the hand and serenades her and how does he know, how does he know?
that she is lonesome at nights.
And then I walked into Beaver Place where the beaver hats were made,
the smell of leather from the Mansfield Hide and Skin Company searing
my nostrils. And as a man with a red jacket came out of a door and
walked down towards the river I ran after him, feeling a bit like
Donald Sutherland in 'Don't Look Now' and when I finally reached him he
turned round and stared at me. It was Shakin Stevens with a stupid fat
grin on his chubby Welsh face.
I realised that my imagination was becoming very tired. That I needed a
glass of milk and some food to gee me up.
And so I went into Aphrodite's Coffee Bar with it's red formica tables
and gigantic tin John Smiths ashtrays that could hold a thousand butts.
And as I sat there with my bacon cob wondering whether to ask whether
Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love and Beauty, was in this lunch time
she suddenly appeared in the middle of three white arches sat high upon
a tiled wall that partly hid the kitchen area; spatulas and strainers
hanging behind her golden head; her ladies in waiting mopping down the
tables. And as she began to grate a big block of cheese I thought
'mmmmmm maybe it's time to get a hold on all of this. Maybe it's time
for me to track down Johnny Rico'.
After a few enquiries I found out that Mr Rico ran a Laser Disc Karaoke
Night at Churchills bar. I left a note with the landlord for Johnny
saying that I was writing a show about people and places in Worksop and
that I would like to meet him and he rang the next morning and said
that he would be happy to see me and I jumped straight onto the next
train.
I knocked on the door and he answered. Immediately I could see what
they meant about the hair. I was bursting for a wee and asked him if I
could use the toilet and whilst I was relieving myself I heard him sing
King Creole, interrupting the chorus briefly to tell me that he was
making a brew and did I take any sugar. It made my leg hairs
tingle.
I introduced myself properly and before I could say Old Shep he was
showing me all his outfits and telling me about the research that goes
into these things. Often spending nights on end sifting through books
with a magnifying glass trying to spot the tiniest detail.
The G.I. uniform was his greatest triumph. It had taken him six months
to find the right stripe. The buttons alone cost ?42. He was working on
the hat now, trying to get the peak the right colour. But you've got to
be careful he told me. If come on stage wearing the hat some of the
audience think you're doing a Full Monty routine.
Next came the Graceland brochure, Johnny carefully turning every page.
He went on the tour seven times. He wanted a photograph of himself with
Elvis's guitar and got it on the fourth go.
And then he got out the menu for Elvis Presley's Memphis Restaurant on
126 Beale Street, the street where the young Elvis used to hang out and
sing rhythm and blues. Elvis's favourites were marked with a little
sign so that you could eat what he had eaten and Johnny had gone for
the spare ribs. But he had been disappointed with his meal. It was
crap.
He told me about his career. That he was really called John Richardson
and that this had all begun when somebody heard him in a Spanish
karaoke bar. He was not an Elvis impersonator he stressed. You've got
to get that straight. There's only one Elvis. He was an Elvis Tribute
Act.
He confided in me that he was a bit worried because his girlfriend -
who's called Lisa Marie, like Elvis's daughter, which is a bit weird -
had made him a pasty which had badly burnt the inside of his mouth. But
I had to go. and Johnny was on the road that night. With his leathers
and his G.I. suit and his big flared pants. He would start with 'Guitar
Man'. Chesterfield wouldn't know what had hit them.
I spent the next few days hanging around Johnny and I'd like to think
that we became muckers. He showed me how to make battered cauliflower
and we played some games and he put on the G.I. uniform and I pretended
to be my Dad duetting with him on 'Hound Dog'.
And then he told me that he wanted me to help him set up for a gig the
following night at The Westgate club and I knew, finally, that I was
going to get my date with Elvis.
As soon as I walked into the club and looked at the names of the other
acts who were coming soon - Steve Rhythm, Lisa L'amour, Cherry Pink and
Pink Gin - I realised that this was a world whose rules I was
unfamiliar with. A world of people singing songs by other people to
people who just wanted to have a good time. A world of backing tapes
and cheesy grins and cliched introductions and clapping hands and
raucous laughter and everybody throwing themselves into the spirit of
the thing.
And I thought about the many clubs that I had been told about in
Worksop, and the Karaoke bars, in the middle of a town that relies on
jobs in Netto's and Wilkinson's and a sandwich making factory to keep
things ticking over. And I tried to imagine the Separatist Church bunch
stumbling in here by accident. What would they have made of it? Would
they have set themselves up as an a capella band - The Scrooby Doo Wops
- and thought twice about making such a terrible journey across the
seas?
As Johnny polished the microphone, Suspicious Minds playing, the owner
of the club came up to me:
- You've spent some time with him haven't you?
- A bit.
- Well you wait til tonight. He's a showman. You watch the
transformation. When the crowd are all baying for it.
Later on Johnny turned to me and said 'Hey there's a good sign for
tonight - I need a poo'.
And he was right.
The way he held the mic. I've got to remember that, got to use it. The
big white belt made by the people who produced Elvis's clothes gleamed
under the lights; and he swung his guitar about with a joyful abandon.
The moves were mustard and the voice lay itself all over the songs like
snow on a mountain top. He was majestic.
At times he looked like a bull frog but Hell! I realised that I loved
that man. How dare I think of myself as a performer when he's giving it
his all in that collar.
Of course there were some obvious differences between Johnny and Elvis.
Elvis didn't have to call out the winning raffle tickets and then
contend with queues of people in front of the stage collecting their
prizes as he continued with his act.
And did Elvis have to announce that there's a G reg Silver Escort
outside blocking somebody in? I'm not saying that Elvis couldn't have
dealt with it, but was he ever put to the test?
And there were other differences.
Elvis was always filmed from the waist up on American TV because his
pelvic actions were so sexually provocative, so charged with pure
animal sexuality, driving females wild with lustful abandon.
Johnny didn't really have that problem.
He was good alright. His appearance on Kilroy's Christmas Special had
been well earned.
And the audience were with him. They knew Johnny from the fish and chip
shop and Aldi and his Karaoke machine but this was the King of
Rock'n'Roll that stood in front of them at that moment.
I was entranced. The ability to do that. To move outside of this tired
existence and to step into a legend. Can you imagine the power? What
was he thinking up there? What was he seeing? And I began to realise
how important it was to believe in something that won't let you down.
And Johnny was providing that. Allowing the audience to experience the
dream.
When I saw Mr Turner peering out of his bedroom window with his
telescope did he just see the rooftops and chimneys or was he spotting
land for the first time? Running downstairs and grabbing his
wife.
We've arrived darling. We've arrived. We're going to be alright.
That night, after the gig, as we sat back at Johnny's getting stuck
into some hefty luncheon meat sandwiches that he had kindly knocked up
he pulled his chair right up to the table and said 'Andy there's
something I want to tell you about Elvis when he was a G.I. in Germany;
when your father saw him. You see one night I had finished a show in
Manchester and this guy came up to me and said 'absolutely brilliant,
really enjoyed you. Do you know much about Elvis?' And I said 'well I
know as much as I can'. He said 'I met Elvis in the army; and I was
told that I had to watch over him because no matter where he went he
got mobbed you know. Everybody wanted to see Elvis'.
Then he reached into his pocket, took out a photograph of a group of
people and said 'show me Elvis on there', and I looked and I couldn't
see him. He said 'there he is. Standing right next to me'. And then I
could just make him out. I could just see his features underneath this
mass of horrible red blotches. He had a terrible problem with acne Andy
when he was in Germany. Spots all over the place. Couldn't get rid of
the things. Apparently it used to take them hours to get him ready for
the photos. Have you ever seen the cover of 'A Date With Elvis'? Have
you wondered why his skin looks so orange on that Andy? Foundation
mate. An inch of the stuff. Like Coco the bloody clown'.
And I said 'alright Johnny I get the picture' and something seemed to
break inside me at that moment. I don't know what it was but it sounded
like a tiny plate being dropped and smashed. Maybe that's why Elvis had
spoken to my Dad. To discuss creams or something. And the next morning
I left to go back to Nottingham before Johnny had got up. It was
Elvis's birthday. If he had still been alive he would have been
64.
Back in Nottingham, feeling a bit forlorn, I was told to cheer up for
Christs sake as myself and Catherine and my twenty month old son Oliver
were going to a friends daughter's fourth birthday party. And I made a
real effort and after we'd all had the birthday tea I set all the kids
round in a circle to play pass the parcel and a friend put on a
CD.
And as the game progressed it dawned on me for the first time in my
life, not that I'd spent a lot of time since my early childhood days
contemplating it, that Pass the Parcel was a fix and that it made no
difference whatsoever how quickly you grabbed it from somebody else and
how long you lingered over it before passing it on; and if I had just
looked up I would have seen parents pointing and saying 'don't stop on
him he's taking too long' or 'let her win as she didn't like the
jelly'. And I heard that tiny plate smashing sound again. And then one
of the children was sick on my blue suede shoes.
For the next three nights I had the worst nightmares of my life in
which I was playing pass the parcel over and over and over again and
everytime the music stopped on me and I ripped open the paper with glee
only to find Elvis's rotting head lying in my lap and I'd be screaming
and Dad was laughing in my face. And I would wake up sweating like a
pig and then it would start all over again.
And I started to ring Johnny, which I know I shouldn't have done. To
ask him if he was sure that he got the story right. That maybe the
Mancunian had been mistaken or pulling his leg or had just seen another
Elvis impersonator that was ahead of his time.
And I kept ringing, over and over again. And after a few days Johnny
told me that he hoped my show went well, but that he never wanted to
see me again.
I knew then that my days with Johnny Rico and Worksop were over and
that it was time for me to leave all of this behind. And I could see us
all climbing aboard a big old wooden ship and setting sail for the
promised land, away from all of the nightmares and problems and
frustrations and tedium that surround us. On, on we sail. Mr Turner at
the front standing tall, his finger jabbed forward and a huge smile
across his old and wrinkled face; Johnny behind him, his quiff blowing
in the breeze; Aphrodite coming out from below decks carrying mugs of
steaming coffee and me, my father and Oliver playing pass the parcel as
Elvis himself sits on the side fishing for sharks as Brendan the barman
spoons battered cauliflower into his mouth.
Thanks Johnny. Thanks for everything. It was a tough old journey - but
I'm glad I made it.
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