George Melly died last week and I was a little bit sad because I liked him. Am not a huge jazz or blues fan, but I do enjoy it live from time to time. And he had such a wonderful joyous fuckit way about him.
In '92ish, between Christmas and New Year sitting in the Clapham South Pitcher and Piano sipping Sol with lime in the top and slightly jaded Yah and Hoo, we decided to go into town and try something different. We ended up standing outside the 100 Club on Oxford Street debating whether to spend £12 a head (plus dinner) for George Melly downstairs, or £6 for the Salsa club above. We were cheapskates.
A couple of hot, sweaty loin-bumping and grinding hours later my boyfriend tapped me on the shoulder and whispered to get everyone together with fresh drinks and quietly nip behind the long black velvet curtains covering the fire escape. Girls first, followed a few minutes later by the guys we walked down the stairs, past the loos and under the next fire escape sign into the 100 Club proper. Be nonchalant. Nonchalant. OK Chris.
Just as we'd all met up at the bar, the party of 8 at the table front and left of the stage, made for the exit, coats and bags in hand. Two or three minutes later, George came on and wowed us with his Jellyroll Loving. While we were a chillin' and 'laxin' and noddydoggy in appreciation and picking at the chips left by the 'clean-looking' People Who Left, in swept Chaka Khan and settled at the table right next to ours.
George invited her to sing, and she did and it was good (well, he couldn't not really - her aura was huge and blocking the eyeline of even those on the far far other side of the room).
Once up, though, he couldn't get her to sit down again and he must have thanked her a good half dozen times before she finally got the hint and fucked off HIS stage. Chaka had a persistent lesbian admirer / proto stalker who ordered up mucho Champagne and all but flung herself onto the table legs akimbo, so we made out we were with The Chak (as if!) until the Lady moved away. Chaka said thanks and gave us all her champagne and left, though not before just one more song 'for my fans'. Bless her little cotton socks.
More George, more drink, more chips, more music, taxi home, more drink, more music. Aaahhh. Perfect post-Christmas, pre-New Year night out had by all. And every time I hear his name I think really happily of that night and those friends and living there then.
Goodnight Goodtime George.
6 comments:
George was wonderful, but I've got a horrible feeling that he was partly responsible for some aspects of modern celebrity culture. He was the sort of guy who could turn up on chat shows just as 'George Melly', rather than 'the singer George Melly' or whatever, because he'd be good value. I think this has seeped through to the likes of Posh and Paris and Jordan et al, who think name recognition is the be all and end all. The fact that George was just 'George' because nobody could agree whether he should be the singer, the surrealist, the fisherman, the TV critic, the anarchist, the atheist, the drunkard or whatever seems to have passed them by.
Peter Ustinov, there's another one. Fat polymaths. They're a dying breed.
Oh yeh.
That would have been a great way to introduce him 'tonight's special guest, fat polymath, George Melly.' Is Stehen Fry, Ustinov Lite, then?
Sounds like a fantastic evening!!!
George might also have set the trend for oldies to wear absolutely amazing, visible-three-miles-away clothes, rather than the dreary, anonymous togs we're meant to wear to avoid being mutton dressed as lamb and to blend into the anonymous background we're usually consigned to. Mutton dressed as peacock, anyone?
Thinking about it, it could've been Ronnie Scott's and not the 100 Club? Mists of time n all...
Scary that I can't remember for sure though.
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