UK organiser of rock exhibition rubbishes the idea that genre has died out
"Contrary to press reports, rock 'n' roll is not dead. Rock 'n' roll is the only true music. It is alive, and here to stay." - Earl Sheridan, late of Earl Sheridan and the Housebreakers, now president of the Rock 'n' Roll Appreciation Society.
Earl was preaching The Truth at St John's church hall, Stockwell, London SW, last Friday and Saturday. He was surrounded by trestle tables and blackboards, exhibiting such items as a signed letter by Elvis, copies of the Penniman News (the magazine of the official Little Richard Fan Club), obituary notices for Buddy Holly and Johnny Otis, an utterly complete Chuck Berry discography, and yellowed tributes to the Big Bopper, Jerry Lee Lewis and Bill Doggett. On the wall hung one of Gene Vincent's black leather suits, looking as if there could be someone dead hanging inside it.
The atmosphere was singular. It roved between that of a small archaeological museum, a grassroots European Catholic church (the kind that has postcards of saints pinned to the wall with a doily surround) and a wake for a zombie. By its exhibition in South London, this sad trash took on strange meanings. The organisers were very straight and serious rock and roll devotees. But the people who attended were something else, as well as being themselves on show. They were not, for a start, Teds; although there are still Teds holed out in what George Melly describes as "the primeval swamps of transpontine London," rather as Japanese soldiers went to earth in Burma, not to hear that the war was over until well into the 1950s.
They were drawn, not just by the names on show, and certainly not by the music, but also by the necrophilia of rock and roll iconography. Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper died in the same plane crash; and, in the same year, Eddie Cochran was killed in a car. Johnny Otis and Johnny Kidd are dead, too. Last year Frankie Lymon died of a drug overdose. And this death scent infects old stars who still live and perform.
George Melly, again, has the clue to the atmosphere at St John's Hall. One of the protagonists in "Flook" is Douglas Bodger, a stupid and cowardly malevolent twister from the Elephant. In episode after episode of Flook, Bodger is mastered, only to arise, transmogrified, in the next. Moreover, his sister Lucretia Bodger is a witch, whose ancestress, Goodie Bodger, was burned on Clapham Common. George Melly proves to be a precise chronicler. For the youths on show in Stockwell did their best to give off black vibrations.
They were, of course, English and therefore amateur and unserious. They stood around drinking brown ale. Most of them wore Nazi insignia. Overheard conversation: "Did you hear about this guy who got put in a bath of acid, and all that was left was his teeth?". In the week they work in factories and petrol stations. They cannot hope to identify with Californian Hell's Angels, who are 15 years older, and very serious. None the less, as they roamed round the exhibits signalling at each other, motioning against the isolated music enthusiasts present, waiting for something to happen, they exuded Bodger crass menace. At one point Gene Vincent's suit had to be removed to a back room; the organiser explained that its emanations were getting a little too strong.
"Violence is the lowest form of sensuality," says a Notting Hill Gate Hippie graffiti. Right. Rock and roll music does live. It can't be frozen, its history is a momento mori. Reported by guardian.co.uk 18 hours ago.
"Contrary to press reports, rock 'n' roll is not dead. Rock 'n' roll is the only true music. It is alive, and here to stay." - Earl Sheridan, late of Earl Sheridan and the Housebreakers, now president of the Rock 'n' Roll Appreciation Society.
Earl was preaching The Truth at St John's church hall, Stockwell, London SW, last Friday and Saturday. He was surrounded by trestle tables and blackboards, exhibiting such items as a signed letter by Elvis, copies of the Penniman News (the magazine of the official Little Richard Fan Club), obituary notices for Buddy Holly and Johnny Otis, an utterly complete Chuck Berry discography, and yellowed tributes to the Big Bopper, Jerry Lee Lewis and Bill Doggett. On the wall hung one of Gene Vincent's black leather suits, looking as if there could be someone dead hanging inside it.
The atmosphere was singular. It roved between that of a small archaeological museum, a grassroots European Catholic church (the kind that has postcards of saints pinned to the wall with a doily surround) and a wake for a zombie. By its exhibition in South London, this sad trash took on strange meanings. The organisers were very straight and serious rock and roll devotees. But the people who attended were something else, as well as being themselves on show. They were not, for a start, Teds; although there are still Teds holed out in what George Melly describes as "the primeval swamps of transpontine London," rather as Japanese soldiers went to earth in Burma, not to hear that the war was over until well into the 1950s.
They were drawn, not just by the names on show, and certainly not by the music, but also by the necrophilia of rock and roll iconography. Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper died in the same plane crash; and, in the same year, Eddie Cochran was killed in a car. Johnny Otis and Johnny Kidd are dead, too. Last year Frankie Lymon died of a drug overdose. And this death scent infects old stars who still live and perform.
George Melly, again, has the clue to the atmosphere at St John's Hall. One of the protagonists in "Flook" is Douglas Bodger, a stupid and cowardly malevolent twister from the Elephant. In episode after episode of Flook, Bodger is mastered, only to arise, transmogrified, in the next. Moreover, his sister Lucretia Bodger is a witch, whose ancestress, Goodie Bodger, was burned on Clapham Common. George Melly proves to be a precise chronicler. For the youths on show in Stockwell did their best to give off black vibrations.
They were, of course, English and therefore amateur and unserious. They stood around drinking brown ale. Most of them wore Nazi insignia. Overheard conversation: "Did you hear about this guy who got put in a bath of acid, and all that was left was his teeth?". In the week they work in factories and petrol stations. They cannot hope to identify with Californian Hell's Angels, who are 15 years older, and very serious. None the less, as they roamed round the exhibits signalling at each other, motioning against the isolated music enthusiasts present, waiting for something to happen, they exuded Bodger crass menace. At one point Gene Vincent's suit had to be removed to a back room; the organiser explained that its emanations were getting a little too strong.
"Violence is the lowest form of sensuality," says a Notting Hill Gate Hippie graffiti. Right. Rock and roll music does live. It can't be frozen, its history is a momento mori. Reported by guardian.co.uk 18 hours ago.