Necrophenia

That schoolboy’s name was Otto. And there will be no more about him later.

So, five ukuleles and the dawn of The Sumerian Kynges.

If I recall correctly, and I do, it took a great deal of persuading on my part to convince the other members of The Sumerian Kynges that playing the ukulele could be cool.

Being cool was essential. It was almost a matter of life and death back then. And in my opinion it still is, even today.

It’s a given thing, really. An instinctive thing. If you are cool enough simply to know, then you simply know whether something is cool or whether it is not. And come on now, don’t we all, deep, deep down in our very souls, want to be cool?

Of course we do.

So, as to those ukuleles.

I knew that being up on stage and playing in a rock ’n’ roll band was cool. But then pretty much everyone knows that. And I did want to be cool. And I did want to play in a rock ’n’ roll band. But I was poor and the other guys in the band (notice that I use the word ‘guys’ here rather than, say, ‘schoolboys’, and also the word ‘band’ rather than the words ‘teenage combo’, which might not necessarily be cool) were also poor and we had no way of raising sufficient money to purchase guitars and a drum kit. Nor indeed a Marshall amp and stack system. But as Jim Marshall was only perfecting these things in the garage behind his shop in Hanwell at the time, that is neither here nor there.

So, regarding those ukuleles.

There were four Sumerian Kynges back then. The original Fad Four. [1] There was Rob, who would later become an advertising copywriter. Neil, who would later movie-produce. Myself, who would go on to find fame and misfortune in oh so many fields.

And then there was Toby.

And Toby was the odd one.

It was many years later that the rest of The Sumerian Kynges came to realise just how odd Toby really was. But by then the original line-up was no more. And it was all too late.

But more of that anon.

So back to those ukuleles.

‘Ukes are not cool,’ said Rob. ‘Harps are cool, but not ukes.’

‘Harps?’ This raised voice belonged to Neil. ‘We ca

‘Harp as in harmonica,’ said Rob. ‘Do try to be cool, Neil, really.’

Neil did grindings of his teeth. I came to recognise these grindings as ‘the grindings of discontent’.

‘We can afford nothing,’ said Neil. ‘We are poor.’

‘Tea chests and broom handles,’ said Toby. ‘They cost next to nothing. We could be a skiffle band.’

‘There is a steel band called The Skiffle Bunch,’ said Neil, who knew about all kinds of what was then called ‘ethnic’ music. ‘Steel pan maestros. Genius.’

‘Get some cheese!’ said Rob, as it was what he used to say when he had nothing to say. So to speak.

This conversation was being held in Toby’s dad’s shed, at the bottom of Toby’s dad’s and mum’s and Toby’s too back garden.

It was where we went for band practice.

For lack of instrumentation, it was presently where we went for a cappella vocal practice.

I entered this shed at this very moment.

A veritable Duke of Cool.

My hair was all ‘gassed back’ with Brylcreem. My school shirt was untucked from my school trousers (well, shorts) and its shirt tail protruded from the lower rear of my grey school jumper. This jumper’s breast being adorned with many beer-bottle-top badges. [2]

My socks were rolled down. My shoes were unpolished.

And my armpits really smelled.

‘Hi, guys,’ I said, raising an arm in a parody of the Nazi salute. The guys fell to cringing and covering their noses.

Cool.

‘We need instruments,’ said Toby, as I lowered my arm and then lowered myself onto the half-bag of solid cement that in those days was to be found in every garden shed.

Not the same half-bag, obviously, although it was hard at first glance to tell.

‘Ukuleles,’ said I.

‘Uncool,’ quoth one and all. ‘We have discussed ukuleles. Ukuleles are not cool.’

‘On the contrary,’ said I. (In fact I said, ‘Ooh contraire,’ which was French and pretty cool in its way.)

‘Ukuleles are cool?’ said Rob. ‘How so, cheesy boy?’

‘Robert Johnson,’ I said. And I enjoyed the desired effect that the enunciation of this name produced.

There was an awed silence.

And then Toby spoke.

‘Robert Johnson did not play a ukulele,’ said Toby. ‘Robert Johnson played a Gibson L- 1.’

‘Of course,’ said I. ‘But we also know what Robert Johnson did down at the crossroads at midnight.’

‘Sold his soul to the Devil,’ said Neil, a-crossing at himself, ‘in exchange for musical immortality. And his day is coming soon, believe you me. All will know the name of Robert Johnson.’ [3]

‘Yes,’ said I, comfying myself upon the half-bag of solid cement, which was no easy thing, but yet I achieved it. ‘Well, one week after Robert Johnson went down to the crossroads at midnight, there was a fella over here who went down there too. Well, not the same crossroads actually. Johnson went down to where Highway Forty-Two crossed Highway Sixty-One. This fella didn’t go there.

‘He went down South (like Johnson), but down just south of Birmingham. He went to the Crossroads Motel. And there he met the Devil and he sold his soul to the Devil.

‘Right there and then.’

‘Who he?’ asked Toby.

‘George Formby,’ I said.

And then they beat me up.

Which was unfair. I was outnumbered. In a fair fight I could have taken any of them. Still can. I keep myself fit. And, as I mentioned, I’m well hard, me. Tough as old boots. And torn trousers. And naked knees on broken glass. And spacemen fighting for a drink at the bar. And so on and so forth and suchlike.

When they had tired of beating me up, I suppose they felt a bit guilty. What with all the blood and the broken bits of me and stuff. And so they let me go on with my talk of George Formby.

‘After Johnson sold his soul to the Devil,’ I said, in as steady a voice as I could muster, ‘it was said that he always played guitar with his back to the audience. But those who managed a glance over his shoulder swore that he played so good because he now had an extra finger on his left hand.’

Heads went nod. That was such a good story, it just had to be true.

‘Well, it was almost the same with Formby, according to those who have seen him play live. And he doesn’t play live in the movies, he mimes to pre-recorded studio tracks.’ (I knew so much stuff back then. Still do, really. More, probably. Mind you, back then Neil told me most of it.)

‘Well, those who looked over Formby’s shoulder while he was recording swear that he had an extra string on his little ukulele. And the name George Formby is an anagram of the words “orgy of Begrem”, which was something that went on near Sodom and Gomorrah, in the Old Testament.’ (I knew this without Neil’s help because I went to Sunday School a lot when I was younger.)

And then they beat me up again.

But I did talk them into making the most of the available ukuleles in the school-band safe. Because without them we would never be able to play on stage at the school dance and be cool in front of the girls. And so The Sumerian Kynges became vocal and instrumental.

Although at that time unplugged.

Nowadays, when I hear the word unplugged I reach for my pistol. But back then there was Bob Dylan and he was still acoustic.

And so we all took up the ukulele.

And we played on stage in the school hall at the school dance. And we were cool and we became famous. Eventually.

And the school dance is probably as good a place as any other to truly begin this tale (after a brief but necessary digression regarding the origins of our oh-so-cool band name).

[1] This term was originally coined by a reporter from the Daily Mirror who toured with the band during the 1970s, when eating disorders first became fashionable. And the Kynges were at the forefront of this trend.

[2] The technique for adapting the beer-bottle top to badge-wear is now lost in the Mists of Time. Those who remember it, remember it, and these few souls remain cool.

[3] And they would.