Boomer Babes

By Frank Wall

Featherstone is lead singer with a fabulous 60’s rock band. This all-round lovable rogue with no ear for music but balls that make up for it, sets out to take his friends into the big time, and it is up to him to get them there with no map.

Finding sexual encounters is no longer a problem, but making money is. He gets further involved with London’s criminal underworld; not a smart move, but when does Featherstone ever do ‘smart’?

Sex, drugs, rock and roll; Featherstone does it all. And all leads to one thing: Trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Wall
• Release date: Sep 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301086207

Frank Wall

Like his characters, Frank Wall imagines his life to be more exciting than it actually is. When it came to writing a biography he stated, “Make something up; I’ll go along with it.” This attitude has muddled him through life, 3 marriages and six wonderful children. That is the truth. Frank has been a writer since he became a grown up, not seeing the point when at school. For twenty years he wrote; mostly advertising copy and letters to creditors. He started using joined up letters at the turn of the century, producing five reams of manuscripts fit for the shredder. In 2013, Frank Wall introduced Featherstone, an affable young man who meets life in the mid 1960s. It is seen by some as an account of the author’s own experience. Sadly, that isn’t the case. FEATHERSTONE Rogue Tales is now available POD through CreateSpace and also Ebook at Amazon.com. Well, it’s a good place to start.

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F E A T H E R S T O N E

R O G U E T A L E S

* * *

V O L U M E F O U R

B o o m e r B a b e s

Published by Frank Wall

Smashwords Edition / Copyright 2013 Frank Wall

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I got stoned with Jimi Hendrix.

I don’t suppose I’d ever bother telling anyone that if he hadn’t gone on to stardom. But he did, and I do.

It happened on Boxing Day, 26 December 1966. Steve suggested we go to the Upper Cut Club in Forest Gate. Hey, you must come and see this band. They have the most amazing drummer. He’d seen The Jimi Hendrix Experience at The Ricky Tick Club in Hounslow a few days before, where he’d befriended Mitch Mitchell. He made no mention that the guitarist could play pretty well.

I arrived to find Steve unloading the last of the amps from a van, and helped him carry them through the stage door entrance. Hey, Featherstone’s here, at last, he called out. Keith and Rob came scooting down the corridor to greet me.

You gigging as roadies? I asked. What’s the pay?

"Just helping unload, we get in for free this way. Smart eh?

Yeah, I guess it beats dressing as chicks to get in for half price.

Did you get the gear? Keith whispered. He meant the purple hearts I’d just scored.

Of course. I flashed the plastic bag and rattled the little pills.

Keith snatched them, and swiftly stashed our uppers into the breast pocket of his brand new denim jacket. Christmas present, he proudly boasted, turning around so we could admire the object of our envy from every angle. What it must be like to have rich parents.

This is Mitch, Steve said, delighted to present his new friend.

Hi, Mitch, we chorused.

Hi guys. Listen, Steve, did you get any gear? Only we’ve been up two nights straight, we’re like, really spaced, man.

Featherstone? Steve enquired.

Keith’s got it, I replied.

Great. Hey, why don’t you guys come backstage? Dressing room, if you can call it that, still, been in worse.

Jimi Hendrix had his back to the door as we entered. He sat on a sofa strumming a dead guitar while humming a tune. He stopped and scribbled some scribble. I took little notice. The two girls grabbed my attention. They crowded a guy with huge hair, and were sharing a joint. Jimi shared another with himself, but held it above his head without wasting an ounce of the concentration he held for a riff.

Don’t mind Jimi. He can get intense with his music. Here, wanna a toke? Mitch took the joint and handed it to me, I drew the smoke deeply. Good shit? he asked.

I nodded, holding my breath as I counted to the customary ten in my mind.

Mitch turned away. Hey, Keith, I hear you got some pills, wanna share?

Keith looked at me. I shrugged. 8, 9, 10. Sure, I said, as I exhaled, my head spinning inside. Yes it’s good shit. Share the wealth.

What’re these? Jimi asked, as Keith dropped two pills into his palm.

Purple Hearts. Genuine Smith Klein shit, courtesy of the Kray twins.

Yeah, well I can see a triangle can be called a heart, but blue ain’t purple, man. He popped the pills, took a swig of beer, and carried on scribbling.

I sidled over to the guy with big hair and two chicks. Hi, Featherstone, I announced.

Noel, he replied. This is Lulu and Lumpy.

Toni, Lulu corrected.

Lydia, Lumpy smiled.

Purple haze all in my brain, Jimi sang out. Kray twins don’t sound the same. Funny, I don’t know why. Excuse me while I kiss this guy.

Jimi was looking at me when he sang that, but he must have meant Keith. We found out that afternoon, what Jimi Hendrix meant, when he played Purple Haze for the very first time.

The greatest song in the history of rock and roll, written under the influence of amphetamines manufactured by Smith Klein Pharmaceuticals, sold at Boots the Chemists on prescription, distributed throughout London’s streets, by a criminal empire controlled by the Kray family, bought by Featherstone, and fed to the man with fuzzy hair by my old mate, Keith Shadwell: - My claim to fame.

None of that meant a thing as we stood at the back of The Upper Cut Club. I was busy getting better acquainted with the girls, snogging with both on Noel Redding’s behalf, as he stood on stage alongside Jimi Hendrix and Mitch Mitchell. The Experience played wild. The atmosphere was surreal. Grandfathers danced with mothers, daughters and nieces on a near empty floor. Crazy sounds of feedback screamed and echoed. The sound was full on, loud and passionate, but I had a feeling most of the audience didn’t think it proper music.

Steve passed me the joint, but I waved it away and kept my tongue in Lydia’s throat. Toni sandwiched me hard against both their bodies. I reached behind and held her arse while she slid her hand between my legs to fondle my balls and tickle Lydia’s pussy. As great as the band was, I had an urge for another kind of music.

I left my gear backstage; do you want to help me look for it? I asked the girls. Hey, Steve, d’you wanna share the wealth? I indicated the groupies with a nod.

What? And miss this? History in the making, I tell you. These guys are going to be big, I just know it.

Keith and Rob were obviously engrossed in the music. I didn’t even bother offering to share my wealth with them. Toni couldn’t keep her hand off my cock, and Lydia, her tongue, out of my mouth.

We didn’t need to press through the crowd. It wasn’t there. We did need to squeeze past the huge doorman. Where’re you going? he asked.

Dressing room, I answered. We’re with the band.

It’s locked.

I got a key.

I used my shoulder to get into the dressing room. The method of entry had obviously been used before. A couple of bent nails were all that kept out unwanted randy intruders. The girls were clearly as wanton as me. They pulled at my belt as I’d shoved a chair under the door handle. We fell to the floor, knocking over a small table. Ashtrays and glasses rolled under the sofa that we had no time to use. They undressed themselves, and were naked before I could get my 501s over my boots.

My cock was free. He was at least glad of that, and so it seemed were the girls. Lydia took him into her mouth. Toni pushed her away, and straddled my hips, held the tip to her pussy and slid him in. Lydia stood up, placing a foot either side of my head, wiggling her bum, as I looked up at the glorious sight, and watched it slowly descend.

I lay on my back in the cigarette ash, with Toni bouncing up and down, and Lydia rubbing herself on my chin and nose as I experienced that sensation of all my Christmases and birthdays rolled into one. I didn’t think for a moment that my promise to take them on the road with my band had anything to with my luck.

* * *

That night, I formed my own band, and named it The Quorum.

Jimi Hendrix was our inspiration. We thought we might learn to play guitar just like him. Burt Weedon was our teacher. He taught us to ‘Play In A Day’, though it did, in fact, take a little longer.

Keith picked up the instructions in Burt’s booklet fairly quickly. Rob eventually managed to keep a rhythm going. I just couldn’t get the hang of it. Keith told me: Featherstone, pretend the guitar is a beautiful woman. Caress the strings, slide your fingers along the fret gently, tease the chords, softly, amorously, as if you’re making love.

I fucked it.

Fortunately, Steve was a pretty good drummer, and that proved a great asset when playing rhythm & blues with no bass. I should have tried harder to cover that weak point, but, hey, it was my band. I wasn’t about to stand to one side, bass guitar in hand, looking dopey. We covered the standards, as did all the other bands: Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf, Bo Diddly. I tried harmonica, but was crap at that too.

So, the line-up was: Keith Shadwell: Lead guitar, Robin Darcy: Rhythm guitar, Steven Down: Drums, and me, Featherstone: Lead singer and all-round flash git, with no ear for music, but balls that made up for it. Our destination was Big Time and it was up to me to find it with no map.

* * *

I walked into the Upper Cut Club, figuring we may as well