The Man Who Lived by Night by David Handler Read Free Book Online

band had two guitars, a banjo, washboard and upright bass. Three chords. Four/four beat. Very basic like, y’know? But it was there. We could hear Elvis and Bill Haley in it. And we could do it. All we needed was a 78 of “Hock Island Line,” which cost six shillings, and a guitar. And we didn’t necessarily have to play it that well. Guitar was entirely different back then. Wasn’t the top-gun lead thing it became after Clapton and Page came along. Back then it was more of a rhythm instrument, like a ukulele. The saxophone was the lead instrument. Ricky Nelson had a guitarist who could bend a note, James Burton. And Cliff Richard, who I reckon you could call the first genuine British rock ’n’ roll star, he had a fellow called Hank Marvin who could play.
    Hoag: You and Rory decided you wanted to play.
    Scarr: Rory, he got his mum to give him one for Christmas. I sent away for mine, a Spanish acoustic with wire strings that made m’fingers bleed. Came with an instruction book, Guitar Made Easy, by this geezer with glasses called Johnny Baughan.
    Hoag: You wrote a song about him, too.
    Scarr: Yes. “For Johnny Baughan.” He was m’first and only music teacher. The book was mostly about how to play folk songs, but it did have these diagrams in the back showing where to put the fingers to make this or that chord. So we got our guitars, Rory and me, and we set about learning ’em. After school. Instead of school. At m’flat, since nobody was around during the day, and we had a phonograph. We smoked Woodies and played the 78 of “Rock Island Line” over and over and tried to imitate how it sounded. It could be done, y’see. So could the look, the Elvis look. The look was perhaps even more important. Creased ducks-arse hair with sidies—that’s sideburns, to you. Drainies …
    Hoag: Drainies?
    Scarr: Drainpipes, which is what your jeans looked like since they were so bleeding tight. Only way to get ’em that tight was to wear ’em in the bath with you, the water as hot as you could stand it. M’dad figured as how I was daft. Looked in on me once in there and said “Mrs. Scarr, your son Tristam is taking a bath with his new trousers on, he is. Moaning, he is.”
    Hoag: Moaning?
    Scarr: Bath was also where I learned to sing. The echo, y’know. At first I tried to imitate Elvis. Then it was Little Richard.
    Hoag: Why him?
    Scarr: My voice wasn’t deep enough to do a really proper Elvis.
    Hoag: That sandpapery quality your voice has—was that how you sounded from the start?
    Scarr: Christ, no. That took years of Woodbines and whiskey and screaming into shitty microphones.
    Hoag: What did you sound like back then, in the tub?
    Scarr: Like any other lad, I expect. Bad. Actually, I’ve never had a great voice, mate. Or even a good one. It’s effective.
    Hoag: Aren’t you being a little modest?
    Scarr: I’m being honest, like you asked. I mean, Rod Stewart isn’t Placido Fucking Domingo either, y’know?
    Hoag: How did you end up being the singer?
    Scarr: Rory didn’t like doing it. Thought it was too feminine.
    Hoag: You were telling me about the look.
    Scarr: Right. Pointy black shoes—winkle-pickers we called ’em. Black leather jacket. Pink shirt and socks.
    Hoag: Sounds like a swell outfit.
    Scarr: Oh, we were bleedin’ swells, all right, with our Spanish acoustics, spots on our faces, twelve, thirteen years old. Double trouble, we were.
    Hoag: What did Martin and Meta think of all of this?
    Scarr: They’d always figured as how I’d never amount to anything, and this here was proof of it.
    Hoag: What about the others at school? What did they think of you?
    Scarr: That we were teds. The surprise was the dollies. For the first time, they started taking notice of us two scruffs at the chip shops. Partly because they knew Mum and Dad wouldn’t want ’em to. Partly because our trousers were so bloody tight. (laughs)
    Hoag: You mentioned Little Richard. He was an important influence?
    Scarr: I told you