Category: Music

Chapter 5:  Putting It All Together

As I’d managed to fail my first two freshman years at Wits University, utterly and completely without a single credit to my name, my long-suffering father decided (with some justification) that he was done paying for my tuition, and if I wanted to stay on and try again, I’d have to pay my own way.  That, or subject myself to my military conscription, which I’d thus far escaped with a student exemption.  The South African Army?  No frigging way.  So I launched myself into a series of dead-end minimum-wage jobs, ending up working at three or four simultaneously.  These, while earning me quite a substantial income, would leave me absolutely no time to devote to my studies, even if I wanted to study anything (which I didn’t).  So instead of beating my unwilling head against the wall of university, I took the low road instead and enrolled myself at the Johannesburg Teachers’ Training College.  My First from St. John’s College was an easy qualification to the TTC, but I had no intention of becoming a teacher, so I attended only as many courses and seminars to keep me from being expelled.  Most days, when I wasn’t working, I used to go back onto the Wits campus and hang out with my buddies.

If not there, I’d lock myself in my bedroom and practice on the bass.  I didn’t bother with scales or anything like that.  Instead, I set out to learn songs — i.e. to be able to play as many rock songs of the day that I could with some confidence  — by listening to music over and over, identifying the bass part and getting it down, note-perfect.  (It’s not as easy as it sounds;  even though I was quite accustomed to close listening from a classical music perspective, rock music was another story altogether — especially when a guitar and bass were playing the riffs together.)  But I stuck to it, starting with the simplest ones (50s rock ‘n roll) and rolling upwards into music like that of Credence Clearwater Revival and Status Quo, just as I had when learning to play guitar back at the College.  By the middle of the year I’d managed to put together a playlist of about fifty songs.  None of them were current hits, by the way, because who knew if I’d ever play any of them?

Then one day on campus I happened to meet a guy named Robbie Kallenbach;  a quiet, very gentle man of immense musical talent, he was doing a business degree while doing what he really loved:  composing movie scores.  A few weeks later, he asked me to give him a lift back to his apartment because his car had broken down, and I had a chance to listen to his latest work, which had been accepted for some movie (since forgotten).  Then as I was leaving, he said, “I forgot.  Are you still interested in putting a band together?  Yes?  Well, there’s a guy in one of my classes who wants to do the same.  He’s a drummer, and his buddy is a guitarist.  Let’s meet up soon and I’ll make the introductions.”  And thus I was introduced to Rob (or “Knob”, as we nicknamed him).

At the time, I was still living at home in my parents’ large house in Johannesburg’s eastern suburbs.  One feature of the house was that there was a thatched cottage beside the pool — actually designed as a party room, there was a bar counter inside, and lots of room for dancing.  My mom was using it for her yoga classes, so it was the matter of a moment for me to commandeer the place for band practices, provided that at the end, all the gear would be packed away and the dozen or so mats restored to their original places.

So that fateful Sunday arrived for our first practice.  Knob arrived with his guitarist buddy Don (“Donat”, spoken as though with a cleft palate) and their gear:  a set of British Premier drums for Knob, and a Gibson Les Paul guitar and some strange Yamaha amp for Donat.  And then there was a surprise guest: a chubby redheaded American named Kevin, together with his ’63 Fender Stratocaster and a Fender Twin Reverb amp.

“I just brought Kevin along for the jam,” Donat explained.  “He’s already playing with another band, but I thought it might be fun.”

We’re going to be spending a lot of time with these maniacs, so they each deserve a few words.

Donat was a student at the Tech, en route to his electrical engineering degree.  At the time, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Steve Howe from Yes (and still does, by the way).  He was, I soon discovered, a filthy perfectionist when it came to putting songs together, and any mistake, no matter how small, resulted in him stopping playing and raising his hand up in the air.  It pissed us all off — me most of all — but in fact, it was Don’s insistence on perfection that made the band better than any garage band.  He was not a good lead guitarist, but an excellent rhythm guitarist and his chops were both incisive and wonderfully clear.

Knob was not one of those powerhouse drummers, because he’d learned and practiced drums in his parents’ townhouse and thus never played loudly lest he irritated the neighbors.  But what he lacked in volume he made up for in technique:  he was one of the most competent drummers around, playing literally any kind of music whether rock, jazz or ballads.  He also had an excellent baritone voice, along with an astonishing falsetto which reached higher even than mine.

Kevin was a shy, self-effacing man of extraordinary talent.  An American by birth, he spoke with a soft Detroit accent, even after having lived in South Africa for over a dozen years.  I was to learn that there was absolutely no guitar part he couldn’t play — Clapton, Beck, Page, Hendrix… it didn’t matter, Kevin nailed everything thrown his way with ease, on a ’62 Fender Strat.  And he had a very pleasant tenor voice, much suited to ballads and softer rock songs, and he could harmonize any part.  Alone among us, he had an actual job as a lab technician at a hematology laboratory.

Of the four of us, I was by far the worst musician.  Fuck.  Still, I managed to keep it together by using my playlist as a basis for the jam, when we weren’t doing slow blues or Chuck Berry.  So I didn’t sound as bad as I really was.

What happened, by the end of this practice, was that we discovered that we simply grooved.  In some songs, it sounded as thought we’d been playing as a band for a long time, so well did we mesh together.

And when we finally decided to end, I did the first thing I could to stamp some kind of authority over the band.

“Kevin, you’re going to have to quit that other band,” I said firmly.  There was a stunned silence from the others, and then Kevin said, “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“I don’t care,” I said.  “This band is going to sound better than the other one ever will, and it’s going to get there quickly.”  Considering that I’d never before heard Kevin’s band play, it was something of a leap.  Kevin looked around at the other two, and to my surprise, both nodded in agreement.

At our next practice the following week, I waited nervously for the others to show up, and to my everlasting relief, Kevin came in with a sheepish grin.  “I told them I was quitting,” he said, and blushed.  So we jammed again, this time playing a few songs that we didn’t know all that well, or that only one or two of us knew, and I soon realized that I had a lot to do just to keep up with these guys.

Here we go again, Kim.

But to my surprise, the others didn’t treat me like Mike du Preez and Dick the dick had.  Rather, when I tried and failed to master a bass line, I’d say simply, “Sorry, guys;  I’m going to have to work on that one by myself.  Can we try it again at the next practice?”  To my amazement, they’d all agree, and we’d move on.  At some point, we ran dry of songs to play, so I decided to grab the bull by the horns.

Treating the lack of material as a fait accompli, I said, “We need a repertoire, because we’ll never get work playing the stuff we’ve just been jamming.”  And then I played my “I’ve played a pro gig before and you guys haven’t” card:  “When I was in Margate, we drew from a list of over a hundred songs.  We’re going to need at least that many if we’re going to cut it as a gig band that people will want to hire.”

So we sat around a notepad, and each of us took turns in suggesting songs we’d like to play.  I of course drew extensively from my old playlist, which was fine because while the songs were “old”, we were still in the early 70s so they weren’t that old:  Rolling Stones, Credence, Kinks, and other guitar bands of that ilk.  Those songs were also proven crowd-pleasers (e.g. Honky Tonk Woman etc.), so there was no problem there.

Then the others started in on the songs they’d like to play.  Whoa.  Curved Air?  Wishbone Ash?  Genesis?  Yes?  Led Zeppelin?  Doobie Brothers?  Lynyrd Skynyrd?

I was dead meat.

A lot of these songs, though, could not be played by our fledgling band because we didn’t have a keyboards player.  This shortcoming, it turned out, would soon be solved, albeit at a price.

Knob and Donat both suggested that we get a lead vocalist.  I was a little against this, because I thought that between the four of us, we had enough to carry most songs, especially those requiring lots of harmonies.  But they were insistent:  they knew a guy who had a fantastic voice, and they were going to invite him to join us at our next practice regardless of what I said.  Kevin, of course, went along with their idea, so I begrudgingly agreed.

Enter Clifford (Cliff).

Oh dear.  My problem was that I took an immediate dislike to Cliff — I don’t know why, but his whole attitude rubbed me the wrong way.  But there was no argument:  he did have a good voice, and it did improve the band’s sound.  So we started to put a repertoire together, and it was pretty good.  (See below for examples).

One song, by the way, caused us endless problems:  Zeppelin’s What Is And What Should Never Be (off LZ II;  use it as background to what follows).  Fortunately, John Paul Jones’s bass guitar part wasn’t too difficult (unlike almost all his others), so I managed to battle my way through this.  Of course, Kevin nailed the lead guitar solos (as he did every lead solo, regardless of whose), and Knob ditto with Bonham’s thunderous drum part.  Cliff sort-of managed Plant’s vocals, but after we’d gone to all the trouble of learning the thing and eventually being able to play it to Don’s satisfaction, I brought it all to a screaming halt by saying:  “I love the song and it sounds great.  But let’s face it:  it’s not a song we could ever play at a gig.”  (And we never did.)

But we all agreed, though, that just because there were songs that we might never play, we should play them anyway because learning and playing them would make us better musicians.

There were a couple of issues, though, that still had to be resolved.  Firstly, Don was playing on a borrowed amp which had been lent to him by a couple of his buddies — twin brothers, actually — who’d lent it to him without reservation except for one:  his band would have to perform at their twenty-first birthday party, which was due to take place in a scant couple of months’ time.  So if we weren’t to make complete fools of ourselves, we’d need to be able to play at least thirty songs — and I was insisting on forty — because we had to treat this gig as though it was a paying gig.  On that issue I was absolutely adamant, but fortunately everyone fell in with this so we set about doing that — I think we ended up with over two dozen songs, which sucked, but when we did the gig I lied like a maniac and announced over the PA:  “I know we’ve already played this one, but we’ve been asked to do it again.”  (I think we did the Doobie Brothers’ Listen To The Music  about four times, come to think of it.)  One song which went down really well, by the way, was Hendrix’s Fire, in which Donat did a very creditable rendition of Jimi’s voice — and his Mick Jagger’s Honky Tonk Woman  went down equally well.

There was a second issue which we needed to address really quickly.  In the previous paragraph I made mention of a “P.A.” system, which is not strictly true because we had no P.A. system, and had to plug our microphones into the guitar amps.  This proved hopelessly inadequate and we ended up screaming the vocals.  We were only saved by the fact that the 21st party took place at the twins’ parents’ house and we couldn’t play that loudly anyway.  But the screaming took its toll on us:  we were all completely hoarse by the end of the gig;  but to my horror, the worst casualty of all was Cliff’s voice, which had completely vanished by the end of the second set (of the five we ended up playing).

Side note:  the old Hofner Beatle bass was turning out to be a real problem.

Its neck had become bowed to the point where it was completely unplayable above the sixth fret, and I was in constant fear of it breaking completely.  I needed to get a new bass guitar, and quickly.

In the interim, I should mention that I’d finally found a decent full-time job as a computer operator at a Great Big Insurance Company, a job which not only paid well but which included many, many hours of overtime — so much so that at one point I was actually earning as much as my father — and this money was now going to help the band out, big time.

Anyway, I went to one of the few music stores that catered to professional musicians, Bothners Music in the downtown Carlton Center mall, and there I met Eddie (“Eds”) Boyle, who was not only a superb salesman but also the bassist for The Rising Sons, one of the country’s biggest name bands.  (Keep Eds in mind, because he will feature a great deal, further on in this tale.)

I ended up with a new bass — a Fender Mustang:

Like the Beatle bass, the Mustang didn’t have a full-size bass fretboard, but a ¾-scale one.  (I was under the — mistaken — impression that my fingers were too short to handle a full-size bass, hence that choice.  Also, it was the only one I could afford at the time.)

As a result of that trip to Bothner’s, the band also ended up with a PA system, or at least a PA amplifier, an 80-watt Dynacord Eminent II:

Like all German amps of the time, the Dynacord sounded wonderful:  warm tones, with a splendid frequency response.  Unfortunately, that 80-watt power amplifier would prove to be woefully inadequate for any large gig, as we were soon to find out.  But we kept it for years, only finally replacing it many years later with a 2,000-watt amp (but that’s a story for a later date).

We couldn’t afford proper P.A. speakers, so we ended up buying eight cheap 50-watt speakers and building our own cabinets.  (Actually, my father built the cabinets for us, but to our specifications.)  For speaker cloth, we used some ghastly curtains from a thrift store.

Anyway, we carried on rehearsing, twice or three times a week, building up that repertoire, but we kept banging our heads against a wall — that wall being that we didn’t have a keyboards player, which not only restricted the kind of songs we could play, but also the type of gig we could play as well:  you can’t play a wedding reception with a repertoire that includes Sweet Home Alabama  but doesn’t include waltz tunes and songs of the kind I played with the Trio in Margate.

That didn’t matter all that much for our next gig, which was arranged by Knob.  His old high school was putting on a fundraiser in the form of a dance marathon — the kind where the kids are “sponsored” by the number of hours that they can dance.  This was to be our first actual paying gig, so we approached it with great anticipation;  also with great trepidation because we learned that the actual marathon would last at least eight hours and we had, at best, enough material for three.  This gave us all the incentive we needed to practice still harder:  I think that by then we were doing three practices a week for the next three months.  We ended up with over fifty songs, a number which would have been a lot greater, except did I mention? Donat was a filthy perfectionist and his attitude had spread to Knob and Kevin as well.

Well, it would all have to do;  so on the appointed Saturday morning, off we went to that high school’s auditorium.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

 

Chapter Four: How A Band Works

In case it hasn’t been clear in this narrative so far:  I had a dream and an ambition, but not a single clue how to make that happen.  To call me “clueless” would imply that I had even the faintest idea of where I could find a clue, or any inkling of a clue’s existence.

But when I discovered Shalima, the Palm Grove’s resident band that year, I started to get the picture.

Let me first, however, list the dramatis personae who comprised Shalima, because almost all of them would be important to me (pics courtesy of Max):

Pete The Drummer

A rock-solid drummer who kept perfect tempo, and put down a lovely beat.

Richard The Bassist

Richard was a wonderful bass player. Good grief, looking at the ease with which he played his Fender  Jazz  Precision bass, sometimes so inebriated that he could barely stand (to be explained later), I nearly quit on the spot.

Jeff The Lead Guitarist

Jeff was just as good on lead guitar. It seemed like there was no guitar part he couldn’t play, note-perfect. If he had a fault, Jeff was shy and self-effacing, so much so that I think he would occasionally hold back a little with his lead solos – but when he did cut loose, it was an awesome experience.

Tommy Sean The Vocalist

Tommy Sean (whose surname I include because it’ll be important later) had a powerful and very distinctive voice, but which he seemed to lose as the evening went on. Clearly, he hadn’t been vocally trained at all, because he’d wear his voice out fairly quickly. The immense quantities of beer he’d consume during the evening couldn’t have helped much, either.

Rory (“Max”) on keyboards

Finally, there was Max. If ever I’m asked, as I have often been, who most influenced my musical career, it would be Max — not so much for his considerable musical ability, but through the way he managed the band and the different personalities to keep them on track.  Max had started out as Shalima’s bass player, but when Richard arrived on the scene he moved to keyboards.

 Sheila (the pregnant book-reader, and Max’s wife) featured occasionally on keyboards and vocals.

Now, their music;  and man, this bunch of scruffy Rhodesians could play.  Of course, as with all club bands in South Africa at the time, their repertoire consisted of covers of hit records, and only hit records.  They didn’t play any of their own stuff (if indeed they had any), but what struck me the most was that every song sounded precisely like the original artist’s recording, with only the occasional variance being of course the vocal sound.

Incidentally, one of the first songs I heard them play was the 3 Degrees hit When Will I see You Again?  and the (very) pregnant Sheila had a voice of lovely clarity, absolutely the equivalent of the song’s original lead singer.  That was impressive by itself; but what stunned me was that Shalima’s backing harmony vocals mimicked the soprano voices of the 3 Degrees perfectly.

I told you earlier that I had no idea, and in this case I had no idea that male singers could sing female voices, in a rock context.  Of course I knew about falsetto – I could sing pretty much any female vocal part myself that way – but I’d never known it could be used in performance, and especially in rock music.  Like I said: no clue.

Anyway, the band played the first set, each song impressing me more than the previous one, and then they took a break, going over to sit at a table clearly reserved for their use on the side of the dance floor.  And then they each proceeded to drink three beers during the next fifteen minutes.

Back on stage, they continued on with the performance, and more drinks during the breaks, and so on.

I wanted to talk to them, but I felt somewhat intimidated because, let’s be honest, I wasn’t musician enough to walk on stage with them let alone play what they did.  Finally, though, as the evening started to wind down at about midnight and I’d had a couple beers myself, I plucked up some courage and walked over to Richard, having prepared a question about his amp and guitar as a conversation-starter.

He was polite but a little diffident, but when he asked me what had brought me to Margate and I told him, his attitude changed completely. “You’re in Mike du Preez’s band up in the hotel?  Wow!”  Clearly, I wasn’t just some fan-boy or drunkard off the street;  I was a musician.  “Come and meet the rest of the guys,” he said, and pulled me over to the band’s table.

And thus started a relationship which was to last years, and which helped me get into professional rock music more than just about anything else.

I learned so much just from watching these guys.  From a playing perspective, they were consummate professionals:  never late to get on stage, always playing the music most guaranteed to fill the dance floor, no messing around between songs, in fact they had none of the bad habits that bedevil “garage bands”, and I was extremely impressed.

Also, Max was the band’s leader and driving force:  no arguments on stage, no nonsense of any kind:  his decisions were policy, and the band had to fit in.  As a keyboards player, he was more than competent, but considering that keyboards were essentially his second instrument, it should be known that he never held the band back, musically speaking.  (That’s not always the case, by the way, as you will see later in this narrative.)  Unsurprisingly, he ended up being a piano teacher many years later.

Over the next few weeks, I learned from these guys how to play in a band — and more importantly, how a band worked:  not just the playing, but the management and attitudes.

In the first place, I was only nineteen, but all the others were in their thirties (except Jeff, who was a little younger), and they’d already been playing either professionally or semi-pro for over a decade.  I had no idea that one could do this.  I mean, I knew about other famous South African bands who’d been around for a while (the Staccatos, the Rising Sons, the Blue Jeans, Four Jacks and a Jill… the list was long);  but while they’d been around for years, they’d all had top 10 records on the South African hit parade, which to me justified their longevity.  Yet here was Shalima, of whom I knew nothing, and they’d been playing music as a full-time job in club after club, year after year.

You could have a career in rock music without having a record contract or hit record.

This made all the difference to me, because I’d always thought that a career in rock music required a hit record — and I also knew that the number of hit records (and the bands that played them) were only the top 2% of the bands.  (As with all things, whether sports, music or any activity, only a very few end up being truly successful.)

So you didn’t have to be a rock star to make a living.  You only had to be as good as, well, Shalima.  And all you had to do was get good enough to play on the club circuit.  Once again, as a teenager I’d been woefully ignorant of the club scene — thank you, boarding school — but listening to the Shalima guys talk, I realized that there were lots of opportunities around, far more than I’d ever imagined.

Then, a brief splash of cold water.

I mentioned to the others in the Trio how much I liked Shalima, how impressed I was with their musicianship, why I’d never heard of them before, and why they hadn’t played in Johannesburg.  Dick the dick scoffed.  “They’re what I’d call a good gig band,” he said.  “Maybe high school dances, weddings, that kind of thing.  But in a Joburg club?  No way.”  And to my amazement, Mike du Preez nodded in agreement.

I didn’t believe them.  So the next time I was down in the Grove, I asked Max why they hadn’t played in Johannesburg.  “We’re not good enough to play Joburg,” he said bluntly.

Bloody hell.  Clearly, there was more work to be done if I was going to make a go of being a pro. 

At this point, some two weeks after I’d started playing in the Trio, I started to get better on the bass.  No longer did I have to play “find the note” or search my memory for what song it was;  it all started to become a little easier, I stopped approaching each night with something akin to dread, and I actually started to enjoy myself.  Paradoxically, as I relaxed the whole thing came more easily.

But that “not good enough to play in Johannesburg” warning had stuck, so I started to practice, really practice on the old Hofner Beatle bass.  One day I decided to teach myself how to play what’s known as a “walking” bass line, whereby the notes are played four to a bar, but “walking” up and down the scale.  (Ah, so this was why we had to practice scales:  now it all made sense.)  It took me more than a few days, because of course you have to learn the scales for each of the keys in the key signature (A, A-flat, A-sharp, B, B-flat etc. all the way up to G.  And then of course the minor keys thereof.)  But I stuck to it, concentrating especially on the more common keys the Trio was playing, and eventually I could play the runs with some confidence.  Then I taught myself the classic rock ‘n roll bass riffs — the Chuck Berry / Albert King / Bo Diddley standards — and with my newfound fluency, they came quite easily.

Then, kismet.  One of the songs the Trio played was the old Art Blakey song Moanin’.  (I invite y’all to listen to it now, as background for this part of the story.)  I’d struggled mightily with this one in the beginning, because Jazz.  But once I figured out the scales and walking thing, it became relatively easy to play.  So one night I asked Mike, ever so casually, “How about Moanin’?”  He nodded, and played the opening riff — then stared at me open-mouthed as I walked my way around the complex melody.  Even Dick was impressed when I managed to scratch out a rudimentary bass solo — the first I’d ever played.  For the first time since we’d opened, the Trio really hit a groove.

Unfortunately, this meant that Mike started to play ever-more difficult jazz standards, but to my amazement they weren’t all that difficult.  I’d figured it out.  That’s not to say I was any good at it, of course;  but I was well on the way to becoming somewhat competent.

Musical interlude:  One day I was sitting by myself at a cafe somewhere in “downtown” Margate (there was one main drag) drinking a cup of coffee when I happened to glance out the window and saw a familiar car being parked right next to the cafe.  I knew the car, a Mini, because it belonged to my old schoolfriend and GROBS bandmate Gibby.  So of course I raced outside, grabbed him and pulled him in for a cuppa.  His family owned a seaside cottage in a little town south of Margate, and he had come up to do some grocery shopping, I think.  Anyway, we spent the rest of the day together, and then I remembered that Sunday night at the Grove featured “talent” competitions — dancing on Sundays being streng verboten  in ultra-Christian South Africa back then — and so I dragged Andy off to participate.  I don’t think either of us cared about the competition, though:  it was just a chance to play on stage together again.
Anyway, I introduced him to the Shalima guys, but Max didn’t want to let us enter the competition — “Kim, you’re a pro and pros aren’t allowed” — but I prevailed upon him by saying that I didn’t want to compete;  I just wanted to back Gibby and play on stage with him.  So Max relented, and we played, I think, Santana’s Evil Ways with Gibby improvising the whole thing on Max’s Hammond organ, and doing an excellent job of it, too.
As it happened, he didn’t win the competition;  it was won by a tiny, pint-sized girl named Ingrid (“Ingi”) who played a thunderous, virtuoso number on Pete’s drum kit, accompanied by the other Shalima guys.  (We’ll hear more of Ingi later.)

Then one Saturday afternoon the Trio was playing an “extra” set in the dining room — I think it was a wedding reception, booked earlier in the year — when the good stuff happened.

The Shalima guys had never heard the Trio play because our bands’ set times always coincided.  On this occasion, however, they had the afternoon off, they heard the music coming from the dining room and set out to investigate.

I’ve mentioned that our “stage” was really just an area between the small dance floor and kitchen entrance, separated from the latter by an indoor lattice covered with plastic ivy.  So it was behind this screen where Max, Tommy Sean and Richard hid, to listen to us play.

As it happened, Mike had just dropped a piece of sheet music in front of me and asked, ever so casually, “Think you can busk your way through this?”  (If memory serves, I think it was a pared-down version of Deep Purple.)  So seeing that it was a really slow ballad, I just nodded and made sure that I had the key established and off we went.  About halfway through the song I became aware of some half-whispered comments coming from behind the screen, and realized that the Shalima guys were there.  Of course, this made me sweat, but somehow I made it through the piece.

Then Mike winked at me, and launched into the intro to Moanin’.  (He has a special place in my heart for that little act of kindness.)

As it happened, that was the last song of the set, so I put the bass down and went to chat to my friends.  The first to speak was Tommy.

“You can read music?”  I nodded.  Then came Richard.
“Kim, you’re a fucking lying liar.”
“Why?”
“You told us you couldn’t play the bass, you asshole.”
“Eh, you caught me on a good night.”
Then Max:  “Was that the first time you’d ever played that slow song?”
“Yup.  Mike likes to throw different stuff at me sometimes.”
“Cool.”

So my meager stock rose, at least with the guys I wanted to impress, and along with it, some small degree of self-esteem.  I was still very conscious of my shortcomings, even though I’d come quite a long way in the past weeks.

I’d settled into the life of a professional musician very easily, especially so in the company of the Shalima guys.  During the day we had nothing to do, so we screwed around, constantly:  darts matches in pubs, putt-putt competitions, girls, and always, beer in monumental quantities.  This was how we spent our lives together in Margate.  As the wedding reception had been a “side gig”, the Trio had been paid separately from our hotel gig, and to my astonishment I ended up with about 200 Rands as my share. This was more money at one time than I’d seen in the past two years, so of course I blew it all on the aforesaid beer with the guys, not to mention ill-advised bets on the darts matches (Tommy was an absolute wizard, I discovered to my chagrin, and I only managed to get a little back playing putt-putt because I was if not the best, then at least close to being the best player of all of us).

Then one night, after the Trio and Shalima had finished for the night, Max and I went out for a drive in my Fiat, just to chat away about this and that.  Then at about 3am I asked him, “Do you want to listen to some new music?”  His response was immediate.  “Of course I want to listen to new music.  This is my job.”  (Lesson learned:  if you’re going to be a pro, you have to immerse yourself in music and treat it as part of your job.)

I played him a tape of Bad Company’s first album.  Max listened to it without comment, then said, “Play that first song again.”  Then:  “Can I borrow this tape?”

The next night I went down to the Grove, and at the end of the song they were playing, Max said over the PA, “This next one’s for Kim,” and Shalima launched into a note-perfect cover of Can’t Get Enough.  They’d learned it already.  (Another lesson learned:  you’ve gotta stay current, and be good enough to learn a new song quickly.)

Another side note:  just before Christmas, the Trio had a very brief hiatus.  Dick the dick went back up to Johannesburg to get married (!), and returned the very next day with his new bride, a pleasant, mid-forties auburn-haired woman named Moira, and his freshly-high-school-graduated daughter.  I took to Moira immediately — I had no idea what she saw in Dick — and as all four of us were now sharing that tiny cottage, I also took the opportunity to deflower his daughter one afternoon, because Musicians Are Scum.  (Moira will feature briefly later on, hence my mention of her here.)  Fortunately, I was able to keep away from the now-besotted daughter because the Trio was really busy, and when not playing I was always racing off to hang out with Shalima.

About two nights before the gig was coming to an end, I walked into the restaurant to find a stranger sitting with Mike and Dick.  “Hey, Kim, this is Barry,” was the casual intro, “He’s a bassist I know from Johannesburg.”

So I invited him to play a couple songs with the Trio, because that’s the gentlemanly thing to do, of course;  and Barry proceeded to play that old Hofner like it had never been played before.  Very humbling.

At the end of the evening, I was just getting ready to leave when I heard Dick whisper to his wife:  “If Mike had known Barry was available before we came down, he’d have fired Kim on the turn.  Hell, if we’d known he was available after the first couple of weeks we’d have replaced Kim anyway.”

Even more humbling.  Clearly, there was a cold-blooded side to professional music too.

At that point, though, it wasn’t that important, because the New Year came and with it, the end of the gig, my first gig — professional, even — as a bass player.  As I said my sad goodbyes to that wonderful bunch of foul Rhodesians, I made them promise to look me up should they ever get a club gig in Johannesburg or Pretoria.

Somehow, I was going to have to get it together when I got back to Johannesburg, and I had no idea how I was going to do that.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Learning to Play

To say that I was woefully unprepared for life after high school would be guilty of the gravest understatement.  Looking back, I’d been horrendously cossetted against the Shakespearean arrows by protective parents, then by the closed environment of an exclusive boys’ boarding school.  And I’d rebelled strongly and constantly against that protection, always being self-centered and cocksure of my ability to get through life in my own way and under my own terms.

That attitude would come to a screeching halt in 1972, when I was arrested and put on trial for my opposition to apartheid – opposition that was based on nothing but peer approval, really, because at age 17 (yes, I turned 18 long after my final first-year exams at Wits) I knew sweet F.A. about apartheid other than it was Bad, man.  And my 100% academic failure – yup, four out of four courses – was like a bucket of cold water dropped on my head.

Year Two at Wits, so to speak, wasn’t any better.  I lazed my way through the year, playing bridge in the student cafeteria instead of attending lectures, and all the time listening to the music (Cat Stevens, Jefferson Airplane, T. Rex, you name that early 70s music, they played it) that came through the tinny speakers of Wits Radio (not really radio, because it was piped, not broadcast).

Rock music had formed the background to my life in College, too, because it was the time of the Beatles, the Moody Blues, the Hollies, Traffic, the Doors, Cream and In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby. But I’d listened to all this stuff purely as an audience, not knowing how it was constructed.

Which, come to think of it, was strange. When listening to classical music, of course, I could pick apart all the different instruments, identifying the different tones and modalities of clarinet vs. bassoon vs. French horn vs. the cor Anglais, violins vs. violas vs. cello, and so on – what is known academically as “close listening”.  I’d had all the training in the world for that, thanks to Messrs. Barsby and Gordon’s Musical Appreciation courses and of course the choir.

But I’d never done it with modern music.  Oh sure, I could get moved by a lead solo from Eric Clapton or Jimi Hendrix, and of course I could sing any part of a Crosby, Stills & Nash harmony and rejoice in the artistry.  But really, I was just a spectator to the game instead of a participant.

So when I arrived in Margate (having freshly failed yet another year’s studies), I was secure in the knowledge that I’d mastered all three dozen-odd songs Mike Du Preez had given me.  I expected that the next four weeks were going to be a breeze:  play in the band at night, lie by the pool by day, and get paid for it. Living the dream, baby.

Except that I didn’t know how to play the bass guitar.  Oh sure, I could play the notes just fine;  but what I didn’t know was that in modern music, the bassist is tied to the drummer – the two are jointly called the rhythm unit, after all – and most importantly, the bass guitar is tied to the drummer’s bass pedal.  So it wasn’t just getting the notes right in whatever key we were playing;  I soon learned that whenever that bass drum was struck, there’d better be a bass guitar note striking at the same time, or else the band’s sound was as flat as a pancake.  And of course the number of times that happens depends on the key signature, or timing of the piece or even of the bar (because the tempo often changes during the song, as well as the key).

Of course, I only learned of this new thing after we’d arrived, set up our gear and launched into a little practice session.  Also of course, that little practice session turned into an all-day practice session so that the Idiot Ignorant Bassist could learn the differences in beats between (deep breath) regular ballads (2/4, 3/4, 4/4, 6/8, 12/8), up-tempo (4/4), waltzes (3/4), (polka (2/4), all the Latin tempos (cha-cha, samba, rhumba, tango etc.) and of course which one to play for the various ballroom dances such as the foxtrot, quick-step, Charleston, West Coast Swing, Dixieland jazz… I think you get the picture. Worse still, a supposedly-simple song like When The Saints Go Marching In would start off in 2/4, shift to 4/4 for the solo and then revert to 2/4 for the rest of the song – unless the pianist/band leader decided that the song needed another solo, of course – in which case Our Newbie Bassist would get into a sweat trying to play catch-up with the bass pedal, and usually failing.

What a nightmare. And we had not yet played our first night in the dining room.

To my everlasting relief, the only guests in the dining room that first night were not there for the dancing, only the dining, so they were out of the room by 9pm. And so two members of the Mike Du Preez Trio used the remaining three hours trying to teach their Accidental Bassist how to play his instrument.  Then the whole thing began again the next morning at 10am till 1pm, break for lunch till 2, then again practice until 5pm, break to get showered and dressed in uniform (red-and-white striped or white and black-striped shirts on alternate nights, black trousers and -dress shoes – my old school shoes for added humiliation, because I didn’t have anything else), dinner at 7.30pm and then back on stage at 8 for the next four hours of torture.

And the same thing happened the next day and night, and the next day and night, and the next… five days in all till midnight on Sunday, then practice again on Monday, but! we had Monday nights off!  So Mike gave us the night off from practice, too, the first since our  arrival.

By the end of the third night the Mike du Preez Trio’s members were heartily sick of each other – okay, the other two were just heartily sick of me – so at this point I guess that I should spend just a little time talking about them.

Mike du Preez was justly well-regarded on the gig circuit (except by me apparently), and his knowledge of 1930s, 40-s and 50s “standards” was I think unparalleled.  And when I say “knowledge”, I mean he knew the music and the lyrics to all those songs (maybe about three hundred?) and could play them, faultlessly and without any sheet music on the piano, organ, guitar and (to my utter humiliation) bass guitar.  He was endlessly patient with me, but not in a good-tempered manner.  This meant that he’d yell at me whenever I made a mistake or forgot something we’d practiced earlier – which only happened about every half-minute or so – until my nerves ran ragged.  On one such occasion he must have seen that I was about to chuck it all in and leave, which made him even angrier.  “You cannot fucking quit, sonny-boy!” he raged. “You’re supposed to be a professional musician and by God you’re going to act like one even if you’re nowhere close to being one!”  Pause.  “Now let’s do Desifinado again – yeah, I know we just did it yesterday, but you’ve probably forgotten everything about it.” (Which of course I had.)

A side note: I had discovered that if I stuck to playing the bass guitar softly with the treble turned almost completely off at both the guitar and the amp, the sound was quite muddy and indistinct: a bass tone but not necessarily noticeable as being out of tune. It was a trick I was to use many, many times in the future.

In my perpetual state of confusion, the only way I could even remember what key the songs were in was by watching Mike’s left-hand pinkie on the piano. If that finger played E-flat for the song’s opening, the key most likely was E-flat, and any key changes would be indicated by his playing a different note outside the E-flat scale.  So I had to keep looking at Mike’s left hand on the keyboard and hinting for that note’s place on the fretboard while simultaneously trying to watch the drummer’s bass pedal to tell me when to play (a wrong note, usually).

The drummer was an old pal of Mike’s, Dick by name and a dick by nature.  Outwardly a jovial sort, he was in fact mean-spirited and cruel, not just to me but to everyone, and with my residual private-school good manners, I was often appalled by his blatant rudeness.  While Mike had his own room in the hotel, the hotel management had (in a moment of what I can only call cosmic bloody-mindedness) booked a tiny one-bedroom cottage up the road for Dick and me to share:  him in the bedroom and me on a small uncomfortable cot in the living room. (Oh how nice, but as I’d slept on a horsehair mattress for two years in the Prep, this didn’t bother me too much.)  So it was bad enough that I had to put up with his cutting remarks during the day’s practice and evening performances:  I had to endure them in the lousy cottage as well, sleep being the only refuge.  Apparently, Dick had a parallel career as a stand-up comedian, but I’d never heard of him.  I learned that he specialized in a broad, Jerry-Lewis type of comedy, which I’d always hated anyway, and still do.  (When I was a small boy, Lewis had once toured South Africa and my parents had taken me to see him in concert.  Even as a child, I thought he was the unfunniest man I’d ever seen.  So you can imagine my reaction to Dick’s description of his own act.)  There were several times I wanted to punch him in the mouth, especially on one occasion when he said something unpardonably nasty about our employer, Rick the hotel manager.

I was to get on famously with Rick, a tall, slender dark-haired man in his, I guess, mid-thirties, a man who had (I was to discover) endless patience with his staff and a sense of humor to match.  Having no one else to speak to, I bumped into him that Monday off in Reception, my ears still burning and my pride in tatters after yet another fearsome practice session.  Clearly, he saw my distress, took me into his office, sat me down and started chatting with me, asking about my background and so on.  He then told me the most appalling lie: he’d heard us practicing and was truly impressed by our dedication, and especially by my contribution (!) to the band’s sound.  Apparently, after firing me at that first disastrous audition back in Johannesburg, Mike had called Rick and told him he would be doing the gig solo – but Rick wasn’t having any of it. “I booked a trio, not a pianist” he told me he’d said to Mike.

Which is why Mike had called me back for the gig, then.

Anyway, Rick said, “Why don’t you relax tonight? You’ve got the night off, so go down to the Grove and listen to the band, have some drinks and just sign for everything . I’ll tell the barman to comp you for the length of your stay here – but just for you, not for anyone else, okay?”

Margate was the largest of dozens of resort towns strung out along Natal Province’s South Coast, and was justly famous for its beach:

…which changed quite a bit during the holiday season.

The Margate Hotel’s Palm Grove Club deserves an entire book, let alone a few words in a work like this.  Suffice it to say that it was probably the most famous of all the resort clubs on the Natal South Coast, having opened (I think) shortly after WWII, and just about every name band and orchestra in South Africa had played there at least once or twice.  If you’d played the Grove, you’d pretty much made it.

I’d never heard of the place.

It was by then a vast, rather ugly structure (see below), but very much the place to go to when it was open – November through mid-January, and maybe over the June-July period, and only then. 

(pics found SOTI)

So as instructed, I went down to the Grove, to be greeted by two young and very pregnant girls at the entrance. “The cover is one Rand,” the one said (about 25 cents in today’s US$, or the cost of a bottle of beer back then).

I didn’t have any money. I mean, I really Had. No. Money. I’d been surviving on hotel food and water since I’d got there, having used the last of my meager funds to pay for the gas needed for the four-hundred-mile trip down from Johannesburg. (I must have lost 10lbs in weight during that first week alone.)

So I shrugged miserably and turned away, when the other girl said, “Wait; aren’t you in the band in the hotel dining room?  You are?  Well then there’s no cover. Go on in.”

So I walked into the Grove that Monday night, and it was at that point that my life changed forever.

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Chapter 2

Chapter 1