Back when I wrote about my time as a professional musician, I mentioned a man named Neil Fox, whom we always called on to fill in for Drummer Knob when business called him out of town / country. He was a solid, capable drummer, at ease with any kind of music and an extensive familiarity with practically every song we played. It was no hardship to have him stand in for Knob, I assure you.
Neil was a lovely man, a Scot with a wry, dour attitude towards life, but he had a wonderful, dark sense of humor — his single, explosive “Ha!” when hearing something truly funny was the equivalent of anyone else’s hysterical laughter. He owned a small music shop in downtown Johannesburg which catered almost exclusively to professional musicians, carrying gear that the chain stores didn’t, and several exclusive lines as well. (I don’t recall how much business our band gave him, but it was considerable.)
The store wasn’t at street level, but upstairs. When I asked him why, the response was typical: “I don’t get any street traffic at all, which is why I have almost no shoplifting.” Pause. “In fact, I’d have no shoplifting at all if I banned that Gary Van Zyl coming here.” (Bassist and bandleader of one of the more popular club bands.)
I loved calling on Neil, not least because his wife was the office manager/accountant of the business, and she had probably the most exquisite non-professional body in the country — literally, she stopped traffic in the street and ended conversations when entering a room. I’d known Lettie for almost as long as Neil had, so we always had a good time chatting and laughing together if her hubby was dealing with a customer.
Anyway, I told you all that so I could tell you this.
Neil hated Neil Diamond’s music with an unreasoning and bitter passion. “Och, yon horrrrible fucker’s probably set music back twenty yearrrrs, the bastard.”
Needless to say, then, every time I walked into his shop I would be singing (loudly) Crackling Rosie, Solitary Man or Love On The Rocks — which caused his wife to shriek with laughter and him to chase me around the store with a drumstick.
I was thinking back to those happy times, so needless to say one of Diamond’s songs turned into a damn earworm. Here’s Holly Holy.
Sorry, Mr. Fox.
I just wish he was still alive so he could read this, and be tormented by it.
“I just wish he was still alive so he could read this, and be tormented by it.” You can be a horrible bugger, Kim. One of the reasons I like you.
I too loathe Neil Diamond. So I won’t be going to the link.