How the band got to France and back all on the same day is a story Vernon first told me on our first trip to Palamox, back in 1985. Here’s the story.

The band gigged on through January 1965

We gigged on through January 1965 but one cold winter’s night after braving the threats of the violent yobs at some god-forsaken place in Lincolnshire, driving over the flat plains looking for an all-night café, Joe turned round.
“Sorry lads, the band’s broken up. We’ve no engagements.”
“What? No more gigs? How come when we’re the best band in town?
“I can’t help it. Everything’s finished. Don’t think I’m any happier than you.”

So how did things go wrong?

I blamed our manager, also the owner of the “Esquire Club” whose main interest was promoting his gold-mine of a club. He did however help us later when we had real problems. And then there was our semi-crooked agent in Cleethorpes.
I was dropped off at home and went into a deep depression. Sunday, I refused to get up. Mum couldn’t persuade me to eat. “Black is Black” as Los Bravos changed our English usage. I slept on, sorely depressed, slept and slept, my mind a blank.

And then: “Get a passport. We’re going to France!”

Monday morning. A nock on the door. Dave Memmot, genius drummer and van driver, is at the door. A man of few words.
“Get a passport. Tonight we’re going to France.”
I was underage, my father an insurance agent on his rounds, incommunicado. What could I do? Went to the Labour Exchange (now called euphemistically Job Centre) and got a form applying for a visitor’s passport. Forged my father’s name on the form and got the passport quite illegally, with no sense of guilt or remorse.

From Dover to Calais

We get on the Great North Road and head for the Big Smoke. North Circular road and the Dartford tunnel. Now we’re in Kent heading for Dover. Palpable sense of adventure.
In Dover we have a few pints then sleep a little in the van waiting for first Calais ferry. Once on the ferry we find a new beer which is Dutch and which we like. “Orangenboom” (Orange tree). We spend the crossing tanking up on this foreign lager. Once at the docks in Calais I’m immediately given Joe’s front seat in the van.

In France, Vernon acts as the interpreter

I’m the only one who speaks French, the official interpreter upon which the other members of the band rely.
“You sure you talk frog?”
“Of course. Eight years of French at school. Give me a break.”
We park on the docks. A rather scruffy customs official approaches.

At the French customs

“Bonjour, les mecs! Qu’est-ce que vous aves dans la petite camionette?”
I already have instructions from our manager to say that we’re here to give concerts to our friends in different parts of France. I explain to the Frenchman that the instruments are to play the music on.
“Ouvrez les portières, s’il vou plaît.”
We open the doors. He looks, says “wait a minute” and makes off to the office. We wait.

They give the band three options

He comes back and says in French:
“Well, my lads, you’ve got three options. Either leave all your equipment here in our warehouse, or leave a deposit of 5,000 francs (£500) with us or take the next ferry back to Dover.”
In my job as interpreter I had to always suffer a bombardment of questions from the band.
“What’s he say?”
“What’s it all about?”
“Something fishy going on?”
“Quick, tell us what he said.”
I politely asked the customs man to repeat our options but much more slowly, which he did in nice, slow, easy French, so there’d be no doubt.
“What’s he say, for fuck’s sake?”
“We leave equipment in his warehouse here on Calais docks, or we leave £500 deposit and enjoy our holidays or we take the next ferry back to England.”
“You’re joking”.
“No, it’s exactly what he said. He repeated it twice.”

After sampling some French wine, back to Dover

“We need time to think. What do they drink here in France?”
“White wine is very good.”
We get out of the van and head for the bar. I order “Cinq vins blancs, s’il vous plait.”
The boys like it and call it VAN DONK! We all have a few, then take the next ferry back to Dover. Have some fish’n’chips, a few pints and sleep in the van on the same football field where we’d parked the day before. Most cold and uncomfortable.

Through Belgium

Next morning we’re on to our manager in Sheffield.
“We’ve been thrown out of France by the Customs.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll send you a postal giro. Get the cash and go via Ostend”
We get the cash from P.O., buy tickets, and get the next ferry to Ostend. On the boat, they’ve got the same “Orange Tree” lager. We tank up.
At Ostend they wave us through. No trouble. We head for the French border. It’s dark, raining, dismal.

Back to the French border

We come up to the French frontier. Out come the customs men.
“Bonjour les mecs! Qu’est-ce que vous aves dans la camionette?
“Instruments musicaux”
“Ouvrez la portière s’il vous plaît.”
He sees the equipment, looks at my amp.
“Est-ce qu’il transmet?”
What he wanted to know was whether this was equipment to set up a clandestine radio station in France.
“No, it doesn’t transmit. It’s an amplifier for my electric piano, to make it louder.”
Meanwhile our wily drummer and driver had disappeared, coming back shortly with a pack of 200 Pall-Mall from the duty-free, which he handed to the customs man.

France at last!

We were waved through. At last we’re in France, after crossing the English Channel three times in two days. We drove on in the rain and dark. The lads were feeling peckish.
We stop at a bar and go in.
“Well, what they got to eat?”
I peruse the menu.
“There’s sandwiches, cheese, ham and pâté”

After being hired by Joe and buying the electric piano without his parents knowing, Vernon has to play with the band on a TV show. As you can imagine, his family and many of the neighbours will be watching… Here is the story:

I play quite often in Joe’s band that autumn of 1964.

One day I ring him at the appointed time to find out about gigs.

“Everything’s cancelled this weekend”, he tells me. “We’re going in the telly in London. Leave Thursday afternoon and come back Sunday night. Just be at home Thursday afternoon. I’ll explain in the van.”

It’s Thursday afternoon and we head for the Great North Road

Thursday afternoon the Ford Van arrives with the intrepid Dave Memmot at the wheel. We head for the Great North Road.

“So, Joe, what’s this telly lark?” I ask.

To be one of the acts at the “Stars and Garters”

“ ‘Stars and Garters’. In the studio they set up a pub, sort of East End, Cockney. There are comedians, musicians, atmosphere all Cockney-style.”

“and where do we come in?”

“We only have to do one song. I thought Tommy Tucker’s High Heeled Sneakers”

“Looks like a fine choice to me”

My parents will be watching…

We arrive at the ITV studios for rehearsal. I get a trembling sensation in my spine. My mum and dad are going to invite the whole street to see their dear son on telly. They’ll see the electric piano! The cat will be out of the bag and I’ll be in for the high-jump.

and they don’t approve of buying things on credit

Having lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War my parents knew the destructive effect of credit. They never, ever, took credit, hire purchase anathema to them. If they wanted a new telly, they’d draw the money out of the Post Office Savings bank and pay cash. Always cash, never a penny on credit.

We go to the studios for the dress rehearsal. The set of “Stars and Garters” is teetotal coloured water in front of the cameras. But there’s a real bar at the back so Joe, me and the boys go there to tank up. I spy three plump women of a certain age. Cockneys. I talk to the ladies.

How the electric piano was kept from my parents’ eyes

“You girls like to earn a little drink?”

“Sure darling, three double gin and tonics.”

I get the ladies’ expensive drinks. Their Cockney accents intrigue me.

“So, love, what do you want us to do?”

“when I go on stage just stand in front of my electric piano.”

“No trouble darlin’.”

The show starts. First Jesse Mathews (second Mrs. Dale of Mrs. Dale’s Diary)sings “Over my shoulder goes one care, over my shoulder go two cares…”  A pleasant matronly lady. Ray Martine goes on and cracks a few Cockney jokes. Then it’s our turn. Joe, me and the band go on stage. The three plump ladies position themselves in front of my electric piano. Joe sings “High heeled sneakers.”

I play standing up. Only my head and shoulders appearing above the ladies. My mum and dad never saw that electric piano bought on credit. Got away scot-free.

We enjoyed London

The rest of the weekend after the show was even better. I bought Tchaikovsky’s fifth symphony and took it to an old school friend’s from Chesterfield who was now an undergraduate in London University. He was highly amused that I’d joined the world of rock’n’roll.

Saturday night was even better. Off to the Watermen’s Arms, Isle of Dogs. First a jazz trio, then Mrs Shufflewick, a drag queen Cockney comedian. We laughed like drains. What unknown delights London offered.

Got a taste of real-life rock-industry

We never got paid for that show. I started thinking the rock industry was full of crooks. Managers, idle, only interested in their 10%. Agents just gangsters.

And thoroughly enjoyed the end of 1964

That Christmas, however, was idyllic. In the band we’ve got new numbers rehearsed. My favourites: “Black, White and Brown Blues” by Big Bill Broonzy, exquisitely accompanied by our guitarist, Dave Hopper. Then Ray Charles’s, “What would I do without you”, accompanied by me alone on electric piano.

This trend of stopping the band and having Joe sing with one single instrument was pleasing both to the audience and us. It also gave the rest of the band time to take it easy. That same Christmas of 1964 we saw our following grow. We took over from Dave Berry as the top band in Sheffield.

In the next post, we’ll read about the events that took place in 1965, and the trip to the American Bases in France.

Vernon is 18 and leaving school. When planning to start training as a music teacher, he meets Joe Cocker, who offers him to play with his new blues band.

One year after Vernon’s death, I resume the publication of a selection of his “memoirs”. I cannot promise the frequency, but intend to keep some regularity in the publication.

1964: My last day at school

We boys who were leaving school for good went to the canteen to sing the school song, performed only once a year and only by school leavers. The song, universally abhorred, is “Non Quo sed Quomodo” (It ain’t what you do, it’s the way you do it. That’s what gets results.) Latin is so concise. The melody is so undistinguished and the words so bad it could be classified as “anti-music”.

Just a word or two from Mr O’Kelly

That done with, I wander round the grounds giving the school its last look-over. Out from the staff room come Mr Breen O’Kelly with his immaculate dress and military bearing, head of the CCF, fought with Montgomery in the North African Campaign.

“Oh, Nash, so you’re leaving today. Just a word or two”

I look sheepish.  “Yes, sir”.

“Actually, Nash, I’ve always rather liked you. But I couldn’t allow you to disrupt life in Upper Sixth Arts and spoil the chances of those serious boys with academic ambitions. In the final year you’d ceased to be a danger so I let you do what you liked.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, to have caused so much trouble”

“And what are you going to do now? You should become a beatnik. That’s your true vocation.”

I point at my beautifully Chinese-laundry starched collar: “I like to keep smart, sir.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way round that. And don’t go marrying the first girl who comes along. Play the field a bit.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, sir. You were always my favourite teacher.

“You taught me critical thinking.”

“In what way?”

“Remember the day in the Spanish room when you brought in a few copies of ‘El Ruedo’?” I said. Then continued ‘ “I looked at the magazines and said “Spanish magazines are really poor quality”. “You, spineless jellyfish, Nash! You’ve broken the first rule of Greek logic!” “How, sir?” “You went from the particular to the general. You saw one Spanish magazine and concluded that all Spanish magazines were the same.” Then, Sir, you went on to tell us in full detail about the “cornadas multiples” at which point I fainted and had to be taken to Matron for treatment.” ’

“Oh yes. You always were a spineless jellyfish. Don’t forget. Your vocation is to be a Beatnik. And don’t marry too young.”

At some point that year…

… the Beatles are playing on my girl-friend’s transistor radio.

“You’ll think I’m a real berk when I tell you this one”, says I.

“Go on”

“I missed the chance of seeing the Beatles for 2/6 (two and six or two shillings and sixpence, the Old money system in Britain) at a dance hall 5 minutes from my mother’s house.”

“You could have seen the Beatles for 2/6 and you didn’t go?”

“It was the biggest mistake of my life. I was wrong. I was obstinate. Told people I’d heard them on the radio and didn’t rate them. Everybody from Gleadless went. Said it was fabulous. Best they’d ever heard. I felt ashamed, especially as I was trying to learn rhythm’n’blues piano.”

We tried never to mention the matter again.

Not much idea of what to do with my life…

“I hate to ask, Vernie, but what are you doing now you’ve left school?

“I’ve absolutely no idea”

… train to become a music teacher?

I go to my piano lesson. Working on a tricky Brahms intermezzo. After a week, I seem to be making a little progress with the Brahms. My music teacher shows me an advert. At Huddersfield College of Technology, they want students to train as music teachers. I decide to apply.

At the interview in Huddersfield, I played the piano for them: They seemed eager to take me on. Teacher training plus piano plus double bass. I was offered a place: grant and tuition sorted out, with accommodation Monday to Friday in Huddersfield. Dark stone buildings, blackened by the industry but quite a pretty, friendly place. Good beer, too.

Gloom settles on…

It all seems a good break, but my girlfriend and I know it all means we’re only going to see each other two days a week. Gloom settles on as September drags on. Everything just seems to get darker and more sinister…

In need of a bit of fun, I call on Grez, my blues guitarist buddy.

“Let’s have a few pints.”

“Sure, but better down-town.”

We jump on a big yellow taxi (slang for Sheffield buses). Get off at the Leadmill Road, home to the famous Esquire Club.

Then, at the Rodley Arms…

We go in the Rodley Arms, a beer house. No spirits, no wines, only beer and Babycham. We get our nutty, frothing pints. We sit and gaze philosophically at the wall.

“Hey, they’ve got a piano in here. Why don’t you try it, Vernon?”

I open the lid and play slow blues, then, fast boogie-woogie. I sing Elvis’s “Teddy Bear”, then back to slow mournful blues.

Vance Arnold was listening

Unbeknownst to us, Vance Arnold of “Vance Arnold and the Avengers” had already been in the room for nearly ten minutes. I suddenly notice him there. I keep playing, amazed to see this local rock star leaning against the piano.

“Do you always play like that?”

“I try to. I love blues, rhythm’n’blues and most other black American music. I’m sort of hooked.”

Vance Arnold was just his stage name. His real name was John (Joe) Cocker.

Joe asks Vernon to join his “brand-new gutsy blues band”

“We’re starting a brand-new gutsy blues band. Would you be interested in joining?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice”

“OK, rehearsals on Wednesday and Thursday at the Lescar Hotel, Sharrow Vale Road. Arrive 6:30 p.m. prompt.

We sealed the deal over a pint and a handshake. Joe downed his pint and left. I looked at Grez, my face contorted in amazement.

“That was the break of a lifetime.”

“I don’t quite understand how it happened.”

“That band’s going to be good. I know the guitar man. Plays like Buddy Guy or John Lee Hooker or Big Bill Broonzy or any other style you’d choose. The bass player has perfect pitch, meaning hum him a song and he’ll have all the chords and bass line ready in his head. The drummer plays like Ray Charles’s drummer on ‘What I′d say’. They’re all first-class musicians”.

“That was a stroke of luck”

“Correction. A one-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck.”

“And I didn’t have to try much.”

“Obviously you tried enough.”

Joe Cocker’s Big Blues Band kicks off

Wednesday rehearsal we polished off at least a dozen songs in short order including, “I’ve got my Mojo working”, Muddy Waters; “Georgia in my Mind”, Ray Charles; “I believe to my soul”, also Ray Charles.

Thursday rehearsal we’d already got a respectable repertoire of more than twenty-four songs. We went through the programme again fast. Joe was always a perfectionist. Once he was satisfied, we had the last pint and closed the rehearsal. I couldn’t wait to get on stage.

Friday, Saturday and Sunday gigs. I played grand piano with mike wired to Joe’s amplifier. Good audience Friday, Saturday at dance halls, but Sunday at the High Gate was even better.

The guitarist (David Hopper) went for a Buddy Guy-type stroll as he played an extended blues solo. We already had a following. People came up saying how they liked the new band. My first three days in show-biz —exhilarating.

Joe paid me up for the three shows. I’d never had so much cash in my hand before.

“How did I do?”

“Real good. They like the sound of the piano in the band and so do I. Just one problem. Next Saturday we’re at Club 60. They’ve no piano. So get a piano or organ by Saturday or you’re fired!”

Without my parents’ knowing I buy my first electric piano on the never-never

Three shows and then fired? How could this be? My parents would never allow hire-purchase. I was under 21. Stymied. Until the bass player (Dave Green) intervened.

                “I’ve a mate who runs a fish’n’chip shop. I’m sure he’ll sign the agreement.”

                “Thanks a million.”

Sure enough next Saturday morning the whole band is at Wilson Peck’s music store, plus the fish’n’chip man. I try a few organs: Farfisa (not keen), Hammond (great but too expensive), then a Hohner Pianet. An electric piano. I like the sound- Reminds me of Ray Charles on “Believe to my soul.”

                “I’ll take this one.”

I pay £7 deposit, the chip-shop man signs the H.P. agreement and I waltz out of the shop with a good R&B instrument.  All is solved. Panglossian.

I cancel the plans I had made for my future: the course, the grant, the tuition and never think about Huddersfield again. I will never become a music teacher.

I play Club 60 with my new instrument. Everybody seems to like the throaty sound of the electric piano in the band.

http://www.donhale.co.uk/videos.html shows a recording of when Joe Cocker was still “Vance Arnold & the Avengers” but, for some reason, Vernon appears there too and, according to a friend of his, he’s playing keyboard, so the recording must have been made in 1964, not 1963. Else, the recording is a mixture of different performances between 1963 and 1964-65.

In the next episode, Vernon tells us…

“How I managed to hide the piano from my parents’ view when performing on telly”