Behind the Rock and Beyond

By Leon Isackson and Jon Hayton

Teen Time, Bandstand, Dig Richards, Johnny O'Keefe, Sing, Sing, Sing, Col Joye & The Joy Boys, The Delltones, Sydney Stadium, Saigon ... some of the names to be found in Behind The Rock, the refreshing frank reminiscences of Australian rock musicians, Jon Hayton and Leon Isackson. Based on personal diaries, Behind The Rock is a humorous and honest account of life in the Australian rock'n'roll scene from its birth in 1956 to the mid-sixties (and Beyond).

With the changing fortunes of the band, the R'Jays, the authors take us behind-the-scenes of Festival Records, 'live' television, stadium concerts and dances, band tours in Australia, New Zealand and war-torn Vietnam and the world of adolescent sex, fans and 'band vultures', bungling managers, and hard-living and heart-broken rock stars. A no-holds-barred, eyewitness story, Behind The Rock is a vital document for understanding the history of 'Oz Rock'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456604592

Book preview

Wendy

FOREWORD

One of my fondest rock’n’roll memories takes me back to 1982, when I accompanied The Mighty Guys — a rockabilly band I had signed to my Rivet Records label — to the ABC TV studios in Sydney’s Gore Hill, where they were to appear on Countdown. As we walked through the main studio, Leon Isackson, the trio’s drummer commented, Gee, this place hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. And when was that Leon? "When I used to do 6 O’Clock Rock."

I can’t imagine there were too many Countdown performers who could claim to have been part of the origins of rock television in Australia. Then again I can’t imagine there are too many Australian musicians who can claim the incredible array of experiences of the genial, genuine Leon Isackson and his buddy-for-life, Jon Hayton.

As they point out themselves, they are hardly household names in Australian entertainment. Rather, they are the loyal foot soldiers, the engine-stokers who enabled innumerable stars to shine and Australian rock to climb inexorably upwards. Indeed, their vantage point was near perfect: on the edge of the spotlight without being withered by its fickle glare. Leon and Jon were present at the birth, puberty, adolescence and middle-age of Australian rock’n’roll.

This book is nothing less than a vital social document. It is one of the very few honest accounts ever published of an appallingly over-eulogised era. Notwithstanding the emergence of a rebellious new music form, the fifties and early sixties were far from the finger-poppin’, sock-hoppin’ happy days that mass media manipulation would have us believe. There was, as Leon and Jon make plain, neither sophistication nor sweet innocence about these years. It was a time of inhibition, uncertainty and soiled naivety, particularly in Australia.

Australian performers didn’t create rock’n’roll — it created them. With the sole exception of the explosive catalyst Johnny O’Keefe, local rockers really had no idea of the forces controlling their destinies. They held on to the saddle-horn, eyes closed, and tried their damnednest to stay on for the short ride; rockin’ and rootin’ for all their worth. When the initial explosion fizzled, most of the young stars were found sprawled in the dust, left behind by the dizzying pace of changing public taste.

As is often the case with clever second-level players of any game, Leon and Jon survived the cyclic rock’n’roll house-cleanings. Their good humour, adaptability and realistic expectations has enabled them to continue playing rock music in this country for almost thirty years — no small achievement, to be sure.

Behind the Rock is based upon the ‘Crazy Books’ of Leon Isackson, a set of diaries so precious that in any other country they would have been purchased by a national museum by now. Dutifully, day in and day out, Leon documented — in language half strine, half rock’n’roll — his activities in a pop scene that few took seriously for at least the first two decades.

These jottings, added to the extraordinarily clear memories of the nefarious duo for dialogue and colouring, have provided us with a blow-by-blow description of a fascinating lifestyle carried on during a transitional period of Australian history. Nothing is hidden from our view. The pair present the salacious adolescent sexuality on both sides of the stage, the bumbling ignorance of most of the power brokers of the day, and the outrageously unsophisticated behaviour of undeserved overnight sensations who found themselves in the right place at the right time. Yet, although there is vast evidence of the plagiarism and opportunism of the time, there is equal evidence of an endearing cunning, an instinct for survival and a latent talent which have all contributed to the internationally acclaimed Oz Rock of which we are so conspicuously proud today.

It is not possible to fully appreciate the array of Australian music of the nineties without having some idea of how the cottage industry evolved into a global force. Up until the publication of this book, that has been an exceedingly difficult task. As far as I am concerned, this is as valid a slice of our history as the accounts of bush settlers and ground-breaking sportsmen. Anybody who has ever hummed a tune should read it!

— Glenn A. Baker, 1990

PREFACE

JON & LEON: There is nothing special about Jon Hayton and Leon Isackson. We were never big famous rock stars. We were just a couple of ordinary Australian kids who became teenagers at the same time that rock’n’roll appeared on the Australian music scene. In fact, our main claim to fame is the fact that we were THERE in the beginning.

We often discussed the possibility of writing a book about this period of our lives, using Leon’s personal diaries for a reference. The memory sometimes needs a little nudge here and there and we found the accuracy of the diaries invaluable. After all, we wanted the book to have the same credibility. Everything had to be as accurate as possible.

Although this book is written in autobiographical form, it is not meant to be a confessional of two sinful rock’n’rollers nor is it meant to be a concise history of Australian rock’n’roll as such. It is more of an observation by two musicians who found themselves in the thick of it. Our rule has been: if that’s the way it happened, then — that’s the way it happened!

The characters in this book are all true — some famous, some not so famous and some who had a fleeting taste of fame and never quite got over it. It’s not just our story either; it’s everybody’s story and the only reason that Jon and Leon remain the central characters is not because we were the heroes but because the story is told as seen through our eyes.

While sorting out this information in chronological order between 1956 and 1966 in a semi-documentary form, we found that a strong story line was emerging before our very eyes. We both experienced the eerie feeling that our hands were merely tools of some ghost-writers, who appeared to be writing the text for us. We hope they like the finished product!

As two individuals, of course, our personal reactions to these events will be very different. It depends on who’s telling the story. However, the things we do have in common are, that we were both born in 1942 and we both shared a passion for rock’n’roll. We also shared quite a few beers, hotel rooms, a number of girls and many other experiences that we would like to share with you as we show you what it was really like BEHIND THE ROCK.

PART ONE

1 JONNIE BE GOOD

JON: As I begin to write this story, I get flashes, little pictures, of incidents long past. Browsing through Leon’s personal diary, nicknamed the Crazy Book; I see towns, halls, pubs and clubs. I see cars, aircraft, apartments and yes, GIRLS! And I can see you too! Ready Mister Music? (for those of you who remember Romper Room and the Magic Mirror).

Names leap out at me from the pages of the diary: Bandstand, 6 O’Clock Rock, Festival Records, Sydney Stadium, Melbourne Town Hall and the memorable mouldy Marlene! Names and faces of many musicians, singers, promoters, screaming fans. All the fascinating people from the wonderful, fickle, rewarding, heartbreaking but always interesting Music Business. Never a dull moment. Being dragged out of a rock’n’roll dance by two burly coppers; now, that was a good one! Keith Walshe and the Teen Time clan. Many tours of sunny Queensland and friendly Western Australia. The antics of friends like Johnny O’Keefe and many others, clawing their way through a unique time in the birth of Australian rock ’n’roll.

I remember too the uneasy transition from one band to another, the music of a new era such as The Beatles, The Twist, Surf Music and the general sights and sounds of the early sixties. The name Vung Tau Airbase. Mortar fire. The battle of Dang Dung. Spending all night on the toilet in Saigon! These memories keep flooding back.

Later on in life, long after this story ends, I can recall walking down the darkened corridors of Royal North Shore Hospital on my way to visit my old friend Digby, knowing in my heart that I would never see his smiling face again. But I should start from the beginning.

The cool green waters of Sydney Harbour slid beneath the ferry as it nosed into Kurraba Point wharf. It was one of those great, sunny, winter days. Not too hot, not too cold but just right. Everything was right with the world. I was fifteen and it was 1957. Rock’n’roll came to Australia at the beginning of that year in the form of Bill Haley & the Comets at the Sydney Stadium. My mother and I were on our way to my godmother’s mansion at Kurraba Point.

Her name was Lorna Crowle and a more gracious lady you could not wish to meet. Her home was an amazing place, a three storey oval-fronted house right at the wharf. Inside, there was the most elegant collection of objets d’art you could ever hope to see. One showcase had a bracelet rumoured to have once belonged to Queen Victoria. There were also some very interesting musical instruments: a full-sized Wurlitzer organ, a nine-foot Steinway grand piano and a very expensive Italian piano accordion. But the least expensive and most interesting item to me was an old beat-up acoustic Hawaiian steel guitar, which I used to pose off with, pretending to be Bill Haley or Elvis or Eddie Cochran. It was during one of these posing off sessions that my godmother said: My God Gwen (my mother, Gwendoline Hayton, nee Woods), doesn’t he look a natural with that thing? I think I’ll buy him one. Would you like one, dear? Is the Pope a duck and can a Catholic swim? So saying, my dear godmother, whom I remember very fondly, bought me my first guitar.

It was a Levin round-hole acoustic which cost £19, purchased from J. Stanley Johnston’s which was then the hang-out for all budding musos in their lunch-hours. Also, I signed up for a series of lessons from Fred Butler (the guy who sold me the axe, man!). He lived and gave lessons at Taylor Square, right above Kinselas. Fred taught me the basics of the guitar — how to read chords and dots. I was never really good at dots but who really needed it for rock’n’roll? I am very thankful though for some of the things that Fred taught me and still use them today.

Fred wanted me to play classical guitar, which he played beautifully, but my first love was rock’n’roll and pop music in general. One night I came for my lesson with a Chuck Berry record (Schoolday) and asked Fred to teach it to me. He said: You don’t want to play that rock’n’roll shit, boy! Learn those classics, play those Combo Orchestra arrangements, learn to read, tote that barge, lift that bale, blah, blah, yacketty-yack!!!

Well that was when Fred and I parted company and I began to learn my beloved rock’n’roll songs by ear from records.

I was nearly discouraged from playing the guitar altogether by looking at all those silly little dots. Tom and Ted Le Garde once asked the great country and western guitarist Grady Martin if he could read music and his reply was: Yair ... but it don’t help my playing none. Fortunately, music teachers now take a more tolerant attitude towards different kinds of music and many a budding muso won’t be discouraged to learn just because they can’t tell you the name of Beethoven’s aunt!

I also had a rather unpleasant piano teacher when I was about seven, who had a habit of hitting me on the knuckles when I played a wrong note. His name eludes me now and it’s just as well forgotten. My mother provided the best encouragement by teaching me some tunes on the piano from about age four. Our favourite key was Eb, which is not the easiest key to play in by any means.

After my split with Fred and his Combo Orchs. which were full arrangements of big band swing era tunes and some acceptable but usually very schmaltzy pop songs, I started learning a lot of rock songs and guitar solos note for note. In those days you didn’t have to write all your own material. Very few did. There were songwriters and there were singers. And of course let’s not forget about a big hand for the band!

Consequently we used to learn all the American hits. It was taboo to play another Aussie band’s hit. I mean they wouldn’t play yours, would they? The rivalry was deadly, especially between our R&R leaders, Col Joye and Johnny O’Keefe.

While I was at school, my dearest friend was a guy named Grant Fleming. Grant and I knew every note, every bar and every beat of all our favourite songs, which were mainly Bill Haley, Elvis, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Freddie Bell, Chuck Berry and some jazz artists such as Buddy Rich, Louis Bellson, Karl Kress, Tony Mottola, Gene Krupa and Harry Dart. I always thought that Grant should have been a drummer, the way he used to bang rhythms out on a table or whatever was handy. Still, I guess he’s happy being an engineer or whatever he is now.

I TAKE THEE, ROCK’N’ROLL

Even at this age, I felt totally committed to rock’n’roll. It belonged to me. It was the music of my generation.

"I take thee rock’n’roll to be my lawless wedded wife.

To have and to hold, from this day forth,

for richer or for poorer, in time or out.

To live happily together from this day forth,

till death do us part."

— I TAKE THEE by Jon Hayton.

While I was learning all this sinful rock’n’roll, I was still at school — Trinity Grammar primary school at Strathfield and secondary school at Summer Hill. Most of them were stuffed shirts and snobs. The happiest day of my life at school was when I jumped up on the desk during Tech Drawing class, holding a T-square for a guitar. The kids in the class loved it but the teacher decided that the T-square would be better used on my backside.

When I left school, my father, Noel Hayton, found me a job at Gowings (Walk thru’, no one asked to buy) and I spent my lunch-hours at the aforementioned J. Stanley Johnston’s and also at Nicholson’s, Palings and the Nock & Kirby’s record bar. It was one lunch-hour at Nock & Kirby’s that I met BARRY LEWIS who was busy shoving records under his coat. Barry told me he was a drummer and he had a band of sorts called the RED JEANS. He asked me would I like to come and have a jam with them as they wanted to get rid of the guy they already had, ‘cause he loved himself too much!

Well, the band consisted of lots of people holding guitars, a guy playing tea-chest bass (tea-chest, stick and rope), a guy on saxophone and clarinet and Barry on drums. After much rehearsal we got rid of some guitar holders and played our very first gig at Castle Hill Golf Club. The band consisted of Kenny Konyard and Gary Eyre on guitar, Roger Paulfreeman on tea-chest bass, Barry Lewis on drums, Peter Marris on sax and clarinet and yours truly on guitar! I don’t remember too much about this job like if we were paid and, if so, how much but the next performance was much more memorable.

It was Desmond Tester’s Channel 9 Pins on which Gary sang the Johnny O’Keefe song Wild One. I played rhythm guitar and we were paid the princely sum of ten shillings and a bottle of coke. Not quite award rates for TV but we were very happy to be doing our second gig on the box so money was our last concern. Desmond was very patronising and smarmy. Here’s a little combo who tell me they play this new rock’n’roll, I really don’t know what it’s all about but take it away, the Red jeans.

So endeth the only gigs ever done by the Red jeans.

I continued to hang around the Castlecrag area with Barry and the other guys although I was still a westie from Strathfield. I eventually got the sack from Gowings (Walk thru’, no one asked to work) and started a new job at Nicholson’s’ record bar. I thought that would be great but I was very wrong. They stuck me out the back in the record packing department and I never sold a record the whole time I was there, which wasn’t very long! Barry was still at the CBC bank and we spent our lunch-hours at J. Stanley Johnston’s trying out new guitars and drums.

It was during one of these lunchtimes that we met the guy who would change our lives forever.

DIG THAT CRAZY BEAT

Barry Lewis and I walked into J. Stanley Johnston’s for our usual jam session one day and as I opened the door to the guitar booth there was another guy in there trying out one of the guitars and singing Ooob scoobly doobly-lena go gal go. Now the right words without the L’s, were Oob scooby dooby-lena from a song by Ronnie Self called Bopalena. Anyhow, this guy didn’t sound too bad. Barry and I said Hello and he said, G’day in a very friendly country-sounding voice.

What’s your name? said Barry.

Dig, he replied.

Dig? we both chorused, looking at each other.

That’s right, it’s short for Digby, he said.

Where do you come from? I asked him.

Narooma, originally, he replied, but now I live in Sydney. I work at Waltons at Town Hall.

Well Barry and I thought that Dig was a very cool name for a singer of R&R songs. He was pretty good-looking and sang okay as well. What more could we ask? So we asked him if he would like to sing with our band and he said he would give it a try. Much to Barry’s father’s disgust we started rehearsals at Barry’s place with the Red Jeans. Even more guitar holders dropped in for the rehearsal. They were Johnny Highfield, Terry King and Lance, whose last name I forget.

We knew a lady at Castlecrag named Connie Gibbs who said she would like to manage us and would arrange a dance for us at the Castlecrag Community hall. She also had a very beautiful daughter called Wendy who was the first girl I was ever really serious about. I don’t know if Wendy was ever that serious about me. I think I only got to kiss her once or twice!

We decided at this time to change the name of the band. I mean it was just possible that red jeans could go out of fashion. We kept the initials ‘R.J.’ and made it DIG RICHARDS & THE R’ JAYS.

Our first dance was held at the Castlecrag hall on August 8, 1958. We had to get rid of a few guitar holders — I think we had six! We also had to put up some posters to advertise the dance. This was no fun. I remember putting my foot in a bucket of glue and ruining a new pair of black suede ripple-sole brothel creepers. Anyway, the dance was a roaring success. The line up for the band was: Barry Lewis on drums, Roger Paulfreeman on tea-chest bass, Kenny Konyard on rhythm guitar, Peter Marris on sax and clarinet, Jonnie Hayton on lead guitar and Dig Richards on vocals. The dance was hosted by popular top radio DJ, John Laws, who at that time was vying for first place with Bob Rogers and Tony Withers.

Our equipment for the dance was as follows — sound system: One hired AWA 20 watt amplifier plus two grey painted speaker-boxes with 12 speakers and one Ronette crystal microphone. Kenny had a Framus guitar. I had a new Levin F-hole guitar with a sliding Moody pick-up and a four (count them!) four watt Moody amp. Barry had a Dandy drum kit — Dandy" was the brand name, not the sound! Roger had a tea-chest, stick, rope and sore fingers. Not quite your quadruple four-way sound system with pyrotechnics, but it did the job and the kids at the dance had as good a time as they would have at a top venue with a major band of today. All with no booze — and certainly with no drugs.

Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll were merely seeds in the mind of the 1958 teenagers. There were no drugs or booze at dances. The rock’n’roll was beginning to gain a toehold but après dance sex was very hard to accomplish, especially with the ironclad step-ins that some of the girls wore. I was still a virgin at this stage but definitely in there trying to change that! We started up dances at Northbridge, Chatswood, Fairfield, Cabramatta and the Sky Lounge and Phyllis Bates Ballroom, both in the city. This was hard for me as I didn’t have a car (most kids my age didn’t) but fortunately Barry bought an ancient Fordson van and he would ferry most of us and the gear to all the dances. A lot of times though, I had to get a train or a bus. We also had a dance at the old Brookvale Theatre where I used to take my latest girl, Sylvia Reeves. She was the TOTAL girl in the petrol ad. It’s great to see your girl up on a sign selling petrol when you don’t even have a car to take her home in! I was in love again but still no amazing rumpo — not for want of trying, mind you. The dance at Brookie Theatre and Sylvia’s home at Seaforth, were both a long way from Strathfield and a long haul for me on bus and train, carrying a guitar and amp.

We were still wearing the red jeans and black and white striped Ivy League shirts and shoestring ties. After a while, my mother made us some light blue drape-shape coats with black lapels, which we wore with the ever-popular black pants. Dig had a horrendous leopard skin pyjama-type suit with moccasins to match.

Most of the dances are a bit of a blur to me but there are a few other shows we did that stand out in my mind. One was Australia’s Amateur Hour, recorded at Lane Cove Town Hall. We won! But the most memorable part of the night for me was autographing the inside of a girl’s thigh.

We also did a series of Coca Cola beach shows at a lot of Sydney beaches. They were good fun and we met a few other bands as well. Johnny O’Keefe was on the Manly show with us at the old pavilion. By this time JOHNNY O’KEEFE & THE DEE JAYS were more established than us. His band had been going since 1956. On another show we met Alan Hurst & the Wildcats. They had a guy playing the first pedal steel guitar I’d ever seen — and playing damn good rock’n’roll on it too. His name was Kenny Kitching and he became one of Australia’s best pedal steel players.

Another rather interesting show was at the Manly Embassy Theatre. They had a movie for one half of the program and bands for the other half. Johnny O’Keefe was on the bill and so was COL JOYE & THE JOY BOYS. We were all pelted with dog bones, light globes and anything else the audience could lay their hands on!

After playing on Howard Craven’s Rumpus Room on radio, we thought it was time to move to TV. We knew a few people at Channel 9 because we hung around the general area, Willoughby. Brian Henderson had a show called Accent On Youth, which was later to become Bandstand. Somehow we got on and really went well. Like most TV shows then, they had a live audience with kids dancing and general pandemonium so you could gauge the reaction to your performance. Dig got into much trouble from the soundman for lifting the mike stand up high and almost ruining an expensive Philips microphone. He also nearly wiped out some of the lighting as well.

Barry had the absolute gall — thank heavens — to put a huge sign in front of Brian’s rostrum saying: DIG RICHARDS & THE R’JAYS — FOR BOOKINGS PLEASE RING (his home number). Believe it or not, we actually got quite a few bookings from that dreaded sign. After all, we were now television stars!

2 THE BEAT OF THE DRUMS

"Hail, hail, Rock’n’Roll,

The beat of the drums loud and bold"

— Schoolday, Chuck Berry

LEON: I have faithfully kept a diary, otherwise known as the Crazy Book to those who couldn’t understand why I bothered, for every day of my life since 1955. There are three days in August 1956 that I circled in my diary as the best days of that year.

DAY 1, SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1956: I had just turned fourteen and was in love for the first time with a girl called Pam Mannile. This day I had plucked up enough courage to ask her Italian parents if I could take her out on a date that night to Ashtons Circus. To my great joy and surprise they said Yes! Pam was even allowed to wear lipstick for the first time. Wow! I was taking out a real live girl. I don’t remember what the circus was like. I was too busy holding her hand and looking at her every minute.

My thoughts of kissing her goodnight were soon dashed by her father lurking patiently by the front door. But it didn’t matter. I was so excited that I danced all the way from Chiswick to my home at Abbotsford where a party was still in progress with a real live band.

This was often the case at Abbotsford. My sister Borise was married to a bass player, Alby Hawtin, whom I absolutely idolised. He was forever bringing his musician friends around for a jam. My trick at these parties was to mime Spike Jones and Stan Freberg records. It was quite a big two-storey house next to the Animal Quarantine, the Quag — my favourite hangout, where I could pretend to be Tarzan. I lived at Abbotsford with my Aunty Glad and Uncle John, their son Ray and my elder brother Van.

Apart from the occasional live band, lots of weird and wonderful people came to our house at Abbotsford. Even Jack Davey, the star of stage screen and radio-taxi, came one night, which really impressed the kids at school. So much so, I sold them all autographed photos for a penny each. Cousin Ray seemed to know everybody! He was engaged to Dawn Lake, who later married Bobby Limb when they swapped girlfriends. I remember Dawn quite fondly. I thought she was beautiful. She bought me a pair of football boots for my birthday and I wore them to bed. I think I must have been in love with all of Ray’s girlfriends.

Cousin Ray was truly amazing; he was my hero. He took me to the Sydney Stadium and introduced me to Louis Armstrong and his band. I can still remember the thrill I got when Ray introduced me to my idol Buddy Rich who seemed to know him. I got his autograph. Here you are kid, he said patronisingly. A couple of Ray’s ‘real’ musician friends Terry Wilkinson (piano) and Johnny Green (sax) didn’t even have day jobs and had actually played with Frank Sinatra! Ray really did know everybody. He probably knew Al Capone. After all, Ray was a used car salesman!

Aunty Glad and Cousin Ray both played the piano and even my dad, Andy, played the banjo. I used to refer to dad as the man who comes around as I had always thought that my aunt and uncle were my parents. I had been living with them ever since my mother was killed in a traffic accident when I was two years old. Much to my father’s disgust, my first drum was one of his old banjos, which I used to bang on for hours, playing along with every record in the house. My brother Van had started learning the drums and when he gave up I took over. It all seemed to come so naturally. This was better than playing the piano. This was something I could get my teeth into. Meanwhile, back to my three great days of 1956. The best was yet to come.

DAY 2, AUGUST 12: Spent a pleasant Sunday on our pushbikes, following Pam around Abbotsford like a puppy dog.

DAY 3, MONDAY 13: My Aunty bought me my first real drums! Bought on hire purchase from Harry Landis for £49/10/- (forty-nine pounds, ten shillings) — a gleaming white set of Olympic drums consisting of a bass drum, snare drum and cymbal. I spent the rest of the day and night playing for anyone who would still listen. I was on top of the world despite the shattered look on my aunt’s face as she pondered the wisdom of her purchase.

Nothing could stop me now. They were indeed the best three days I could ever wish for. I might even get to kiss Pam Mannile next week at the pictures. (For the record, I did!) From then on, when we had parties at our place or any place for that matter, I could play the drums and pretend I was a real drummer.

Well I didn’t set the world on fire right away. After all, I was still at school. The records I used to practise with on my radiogram (remember radiograms?) started to change towards the end of the year. I remember my brother Van brought home a 7", 45 r.p.m. record and we marvelled at the look of it. That was only the half of it — when we put it on it blew my head off! It was Bill Haley & the Comets singing Rock around the Clock. A novelty fox trot. And I’ve still got it!

Later in 1956, on Monday, October 1 to be exact. I went to the pictures with — you guessed it — Pam Mannile — to see the movie Rock Around The Clock. Now I’d been impressed by some movies before that, namely The Glenn Miller Story, The Benny Goodman Story and The Man With The Golden Arm (or was it The Man With The Golden Horn?). I nearly took up the trumpet on the strength of that one. Thank God I didn’t as I nearly passed out when I first blew one.

Anyway, this movie was different. The whole audience was bopping and shaking in the aisles and wearing strange new clothes. Something was happening. Rock’n’roll was rearing its ugly head and I wanted to be right in there!

By the start of the next year, January 1957, there they all were at the Sydney Stadium — Bill Haley and his Comets and Freddie Bell & the Bell Boys. This was no movie. This was real! Even the fact that Bill played the songs a little faster than the records didn’t put me off, or anyone else, judging from the reaction of the crowd.

By this time, I’d practised with every rock’n’roll record I could get my hands on. Not to mention all my old jazz records that I dearly loved — Gene Krupa, Buddy Rich, Louis Bellson, etc. I was very passionate about my records even then. They were like personal friends. I remember wearing out one record and when it finally broke I buried it in the garden with a little cross inscribed, "Here lies Rudy’s Rock". Playing the drums with records was all good practice but it was about time I got out and played with a real band (or anybody for that matter!)

My best friend, Johnny Ryan, RYANNY, who looked like James Dean, had an elder brother Vince, who played saxophone in a band at the rock n’ roll dance on Sundays at the Parramatta School of Arts. It was hardly a rock’n’roll band but Ryanny and I would hang around hoping that I could play the drums with the band. I thought I was pretty good at this stage and so did the band. I had absolutely no fear. Vince actually got me my first paying job in 1957 on Saturday August 3 at the Callan Park Hotel, opposite the Loony Bin. I was paid three pounds, ten shillings (£3/10/-) — fantastic! Saxophone, piano and drums were not exactly rock’n’roll but who cared! The next job at Ryde Masonic Hall paid the princely sum of £4. A bloke working a few nights a week could get almost £20 at that rate. In 1957 the average weekly wage was less than twenty pounds.

But back to the real world. I had left school and would no longer hear those endearing words Get out Isacka, ya mongrel! I had also left my beloved Abbotsford and moved to a small house in Enfield. Yuk!

Now it was time to get the obligatory day job.

After failing an interview with Channel 7 (Cousin Ray said he knew the General Manager), I got a job in the record department of Eric Andersons for £5/8/9 (five pounds eight and nine pence) a week. Record and music stores were the meeting place for all would be musicians so I thought I would be right in the thick of it. I mean even the guy in the office was a real musician. Harry played the tuba in Graeme Bell’s Jazz Band. The guy working with me was Richard Meale who later became quite a distinguished classical composer. No wonder he was disgusted in my choice of records! Not only was I a musical troglodyte but I played the drums as well!

My dad was never impressed with me taking up the drums either until I sat in with the band at the Enfield Boulevard Hotel, just around the corner from our new house. The band was Serge Ermol Snr., Johnny Golden and Mickey Kaye. On Tuesday September 24, 1957 I won the talent quest playing The Golden Wedding and my dad just couldn’t believe it.

MASSACRE AT MASCOT

As 1957 and my job at Eric Andersons’ drew to a close, Ryanny and I went to one of the first rock’n’roll dances at the Sydney Town Hall on Monday, December 16. It starred Johnny O’Keefe whom I had seen earlier that year at the Stadium on the Little Richard Show. We paid our seven and sixpence admission and the dance started with Alan Dale and the Houserockers. Ryanny and I weren’t too interested in dancing, although I do remember cracking onto a chick called Coralie who was jiving around in a white, flared skirt. We were there to see the bands.

The line up of the Houserockers was Don Prouse on drums, Keith Sharratt on slap bass, Brian Turvey on piano, Sonny Neville on guitar and Alan Dale on vocals. They certainly had the right spirit for rock’n’roll. It looked like we had come to the right place. The next band was Col Joye and the Joy Boys, who didn’t sound too bad either except they didn’t have a bass player. Their guitarist was fantastic! The line up of the Joy Boys was Dave Bridge on guitar, Laurie Zeke Irwin on sax, Kevin Jacobsen on piano Col Joye on vocals and rhythm guitar. At that time, younger brother Keith Jacobsen had not joined the band on bass. He was still busily trying to build one as it was impossible to buy an electric bass anywhere in Australia.

When the final band came on — Johnny O’Keefe and the Dee Jays — it was magic! This was the first time we’d seen an Australian band with an electric bass and not one sax but two! JO’K came out in his canary yellow suit with a cape and the crowd went crazy. This really was a rock’n’roll band. The line up was Lou Casch The Witchdoctor on guitar, Dave Owens from USA on sax, Johnny Greenan on sax, Keith Williams on electric bass, John Catfish Purser on drums and Johnny O’Keefe on vocals and occasional piano. After talking backstage with JO’K and some of the guys in the Dee Jays, I was really inspired to get out and form a band.

I notice at the end of my 1957 diary that cousin Ray came good and conned up a gig at Mascot RSL on New Year’s Eve with his friend Bruce the Goose Hyland on bass. Ray played the piano and we were paid seven guineas each! I even attempted to sing my first song (You Hit The Wrong Note), Billy Goat. I imagine that I must have hit quite a few wrong notes, myself!

1958

With my ever-trusty friend Ryanny by my side, we went off in search of musicians who could play rock’n’roll. We had heard about a band called Warren Williams & the Squares playing at Mascot Masonic Hall. The band wasn’t too bad but the guy on the piano, Jimmy Taylor, must have been the best rock’n’roll player we had ever seen. He could play all the Jerry Lee Lewis solos, note for note. I sat in with the band on drums and Jimmy and I must have decided then and there to form our own band.

Although there was no booze allowed in the hall, (Sydney was still operating under the dreaded ten o’clock closing laws for hotels) just after 10pm all the older drunken rockers would crash into the dance and try to pick up chicks. Failing this, the next best thing was to pick fights. Ryanny and I seemed to be a prime target that particular night. We had just sung the vocal backing for the song Daddy Cool with Warren Williams and were sitting on the stage surrounded by girls. A procession of guys came up to us, saying We’re going to get you after the dance. I could feel myself getting more and more unnerved as sporadic fighting was breaking out all over the hall. One rather obnoxious looking bodgie with slightly protruding teeth was bugging me continuously. Do you guys wanna fight?, We’re gonna get you guys!, You guys are poofters!, Are you guys too scared to fight? etc. Too scared? He was right.

Suddenly my fear was shattered by a blow to the side of my face. I felt a rush of adrenalin as I stood up and instinctively threw a punch, which happily landed right in the middle of his ugly face. He landed flat on his back. I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me!

I felt somebody grab my arm. It’s all right, we’re on your side! he said. After moving back to safer ground near the very nervous band, I saw more fights break out. One guy was being mercilessly pounded up against a wall. Much to my horror, I recognised him through the blood on his face to be the one who said he was on my side. All too soon the dance was over. I was reminded by a few comforting souls that the bodgies were all waiting for us outside the front door. While Bert Gobbe was anxiously carting his drums to the front door, a voice called out, Quick, follow me. There’s a side exit. You can come in my car! It was the guy who ran the dance, Harold Haggerty. Ryanny and I quickly shuffled out the side door and into Mr. Haggerty’s little Morris Minor. As he put the key into the ignition I could hear a voice calling There they are, there they are! A pitiful sound came from the ignition: un nu nu nu nu nunnah err!"

All at once we were surrounded by a gang of bloodthirsty rockers clawing at the windows. Then hun nu nu nu nunnah ...BROOOOOM! What a beautiful sound! The little Morris Minor sped out onto the road with fists pounding on the doors and bodies falling off the bonnet. We had escaped with our lives. The one consolation was we had found a piano player for our proposed rock’n’roll band. Not only that, but the guy I had smashed in the face no longer had protruding teeth!

GET ‘IM FOR THE BAND!

Jimmy Taylor and I did form a very short-lived band called The Thunderbirds. Our only claim to fame was that we went in a talent quest at the Kirribilli Hotel and won ten shillings each. We gave up the idea for that band when we realised the singer, Clive Glover, couldn’t really sing. In those days it was a bit hard to tell right away because the P.A.s were so bad.

So it was back to the search for band members. On Wednesday September 17, 1958, we decided to go to the Johnny O’Keefe dance at the Leichhardt Police Boys’ Club where we finally found a singer — Ray Hough. Ray got up and sang with the Dee Jays and all the girls went crazy. He looked a bit like Eddie Cochran. Jim and I were impressed. This was the right guy for our band. We signed him up for rehearsals in Jimmy’s lounge room. Get ‘im for the band, said Jim.

We now had a singer and a name for the band RAY HOFF & THE OFF BEATS, managed by our failed ex-singer Clive Glover. After overhearing some people in the train talking about a new band called Ray Hoog & the Hoof Beats, we decided to get Ray HOUGH to change the spelling of his name to HOFF, to go with OFF Beats. Getting an electric bass player was another story. They were about as scarce as rocking-horse shit. We found a guy called Laurie Skewes whose claim to fame was that he played for a couple of weeks with the Dee Jays while their bass player, Keith Williams, went on holidays. Laurie wasn’t too keen on practising with the band. He had a home-made bass that looked like a boat paddle. We didn’t get much joy out of Laurie but his paddle returns to the story later on.

At that time procuring any halfway decent rock player was difficult. Jim, Ray and Leon, the faithful trio, practised on. We seemed to go through an endless succession of guitarists and sax players who couldn’t pass the audition. Most of the sax players came from the Neville Thomas School of rude players and soon got the hook from Jim who sneered at them from the piano. Jim didn’t suffer fools gladly, especially if they couldn’t play rock’n’roll.

We were afraid that it would be all over by the time we got a permanent band together. I remember one day we were practising at Johnny Debien’s place. Johnny was a friend of mine from across the road at Abbotsford, whose father drove us around in a left-hand drive 1957 Oldsmobile Rocket convertible — Wowee!

We stopped practising Summertime Blues to watch a live band on Bandstand, DIG RICHARDS & THE R’JAYS. See, someone moaned, even those guys have got their shit together!

Jimmy finally left his band the Squares after being caught practising with the Off Beats and was replaced by Billy Hucker. Clive lined up a few more jobs for Ray Hoff & the Off Beats, the most memorable being the dance at the Mascot Marina Theatre the same week that Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens, Ray Hoff’s hero, were killed in a plane crash. We still had no sax player, so good old Vince, Ryanny’s elder brother played with us.

Meanwhile, I continued my drum lessons with my favourite drummer, Frank Marcy. I wanted to be able to read fly shit off the wall just like he could. I used to watch Frank playing in Bob Gibson’s huge Ford Show orchestra at radio 2GB and would marvel at the way he knew just what to play and when to play it. And he always played it beautifully.

Reading music didn’t help much at this stage of my musical career, so I took a few paying jobs with a rock’n’roll pub band called the Stoneagers with Teddy Lees on vocal and guitar and Roger Keyes on piano, of course (Keys on piano, get it?). They played in some pretty horrible places.

One night, June 17 to be exact, after playing at the Erskinville Hotel (I still wasn’t old enough to be allowed into a hotel!), Teddy had a girl in his 1939 Buick and I was sitting in Roger’s car with Roger. Suddenly, Roger disappeared and I was sitting in Roger’s car with Teddy. What was going on?

Roger reappeared after a short time and said to me, She wants you now. I didn’t want to appear too young and uncool so I went over to Teddy’s car and looked in the back seat.

Come in, beckoned Shirley. I looked around feeling rather embarrassed, then opened the door and got in. My embarrassment turned to trembling trepidation when I saw that Shirley had absolutely not a stitch on! Shirley threw her arms around me and grabbed me in a sensitive place. You don’t feel too excited, she whispered. I was too numb to speak. We’ll soon fix that, darling, she said in my ear and well ... she did!

Another embarrassing moment of a different kind occurred when the Stoneagers and Ray Hoff & the Off Beats were booked to do a spot at the Matraville RSL, on the same night. I was playing the drums in both bands! We played to a somewhat bewildered audience of elderly people. Here is a quaint extract from the local Matraville ‘Rag’ dated July 12, 1959:

FOUR O’CLOCK ROCK AT MATRAVILLE R.S.L. CLUB

Great how-do-you-do at the Club last Sunday afternoon when Rock n Roll music was the vogue. Two bands competed for honours and favours during the afternoon and fears were held for the safety of the roof, which very much looked like lifting.

First the Stoneagers took the stand and promptly went to town led by guitarist and vocalist, Ted Lees, a very self-assured and capable entertainer, who gave us the whole book, ending up with Why Am I A Teenager In Love?.

The next band, the Off Beats, led by vocalist, Ray Hoff, started off their repertoire with the classic, I Met A Big Fat Woman. The pianist in this group, as with the first, forsook the piano stool (strictly for squares) and stood on his own two feet, giving as many gyrations and facial expressions as the vocalist, who of course, these days is expected to go through these gymnastics. All these boys gave an excellent example of modern day rhythm and entertainment and, from the expressions and foot-tapping that went on, it could safely be said that the afternoon was very enjoyable."

Because of the lack of suitable venues for rock’n’roll, Johnny O’Keefe conned the Police Boys’ Club to run rock’n’roll dances on a permanent basis. These became a bit of a showcase for the limited amount of good rock’n’roll bands and singers in 1958-9. Col Joye & the Joy Boys also had a permanent dance at the Paddington Police Boys’ around about the same time.

Along with Jimmy Taylor and of