"Top Faces. London's top Mod hangout is an ill-lit, black-walled club called The Scene …. Mods change dances even faster than they change trouser-widths. The "Shake" and the "Bird" are both passe, and only the Rockers would be caught doing the Twist. The current dance craze is some thing called the "Face Twist," which has a tricky hand and heel movement that resembles a cross between a hula dance and a High Noon gun draw." From “Great Britain: The Clacton Giggle,”
Time Magazine, Friday, April 10, 1964
Top Face and Scene Club member, Alfredo Marcantonio recalls the Face Twist, he states “we ditched the rotating nature of the Twist and began to move forward and back, with a lot of 'heel' action.”
I remember the Face Twist well and wrote about it in 2009 before I’d read any of the Mod literature. It was based on the regular Twist, but done much slower, leaning forward and with one arm extended forward with the hand in a thumbs up position (or "High Noon gun draw"), and swaying the rump from side to side ("hula") with the heels pushed back. Although it was real slow it could be done to fast or medium tempo music. See http://www.themodgeneration.co.uk/2009/06/rob-london-mod.html
John Barratt, 60, who grew up in Humberstone, was one of Leicester’s original Mods. “Silver Street was our Carnaby Street,” he remembers. “I don’t know why but it was just a big happening for us there.
“I guess it had a lot to do with Irish Clothing and the Il Rondo, and there was also a pub called the Antelope. “I think it just drew us to the area as there were places we could meet.”
Leicester was buzzing with these hip, rebellious kids who wanted to make their mark on the world by dressing smartly and listening to the hottest new sounds. It was their way of getting noticed and making a point to their elders.
John says: “In the 50s and early 60s, young people were almost penned in, everything was dictated to them. “When Mod came along, it was our way of saying ‘we are human beings’. We were trying to put over our feelings that we weren’t going to put up with being told what to do.”
The Mod scene, with its slick fashion and fascination with black American soul music, had spread north from London, fed by newspapers reporting on violent clashes between Mods and Rockers in Brighton and Margate in 1964, and by on Radio Caroline. Young people in Leicester were quick to pick up on the idea. John says: “The first Mods were in Leicester by 1964. It was sweeping the country at that time. “I was still at school and started getting into the music and the fashions. I knew I wanted to be a Mod.
“When I turned 16 I bought my scooter. At that time, I had a good job in engineering. I needed it. Being a Mod was expensive. You had to keep up with all the latest fashions, for a start.
“Then you had to run your scooter, keeping it taxed and on the road before buying all the accessories to make it look as good as possible.
“Then there was the music. You had to keep up with all the new music coming out, plus the wild life that went with it and on top of all that you had to try to keep a girl on your arm.
“I earned good money in engineering, but I didn’t save a penny.”
Another young Mod was Chris Busby, from the West End of Leicester. He recalls choosing to be a Mod when he was still at school.
“I was 14 in 1964 and we thought ‘should we be Mods or rockers?’. I looked at the rockers, they were greasers and horrible. I looked at the Mods, they were so clean looking and smart with their scooters. I wanted to be like that.”
Chris remembers Leicester was a great place to be at that time.
“There was so much going on,” he says. “The music was fantastic, there were some great places to go and lots of house parties.”
Chris was part of a Leicester Mod band called CERT X. Other notable Mod acts from the city’s scene were The Cissy and Legay. John saw them perform at several gigs in the 60s. He says: “CERT X was a really good local band, really good.” The highlight of the band’s career was supporting Cream at Nottingham University. The music scene was vibrant at that time.
Chris remembers: “A place called the Night Owl opened, in Newarke Street, in 1966, which put on all-nighters. I think (soul singer) Geno Washington recorded an album there. “Bands like Amen Corner also appeared there. There were a lot of people taking drugs like blues and dexys, and I think that is why it got shut down quite quickly. “The Green Bowler, in Churchgate, was popular too.”
Leicester in the mid 60s was already something of a cultural melting pot. Lots of young black kids were mixing with white lads at nightclubs and gigs.
Chris says: “It was a good time. We were friends with a lot of the black lads, there was never any trouble between us – we all respected one another. The only time we ever had aggro was with the rockers.”
The Mods’ cats-v-dogs relationship with the rockers is well documented. Seaside skirmishes at Brighton and Margate and made national news but there was plenty of trouble in Leicester, too. John says: “The rockers used to hang out down at the Roman Cafe, in Humberstone Road. It was part of the life of a Mod to have problems with the rockers, or Hell’s Angels. “They were so different from us. We would roll up at the Roman Cafe on our scooters just so we could have a scrap. They would come looking for us, too.”
Chris remembers one incident: “We were at the Casino Ballroom at the top of London Road. “A popular boxer, Alex Barrow, was there, a black guy, with two of his friends. Two rockers walked in, and one of the lads with Alex said ‘you hit my mate’ and knocked one of them flying. Within 30 minutes, hundreds of rockers were flying down London Road on their motorbikes heading for the club.”
There was an unwritten hierarchy within the Mods. If you were particularly cool, you were a ‘face’. If you could not keep up with the pace of the scene, you were seen as a ‘ticket’.
Chris says: “The older lads, who were about two or three years older, were working and could afford better clothing. We looked up to them, they were the faces to us. “There wasn’t a rank as such, but we were subconsciously aware the differences were there. We knew the older ones to nod at, there was never any problem between us.” John says: “There was a lad called Tony Weston. He was king of the Mods to us. “He was the organiser, our leader, always coming up with ideas and things to do. We all looked up to him because of the way he dressed and his scooter.” John had a Vespa 125cc GL scooter. “Registration 461 BBC,” he says. “I’ll never forget it. It had all the gear – spotlamps, a big aerial at the back, a slimline windscreen and so many mirrors it was a wonder it moved, it was so weighed down. “I had so many spotlamps that if I turned on the lights without the engine running it would flatten the battery.” “But keeping your scooter up to scratch was a big part of it. It cost a bloody fortune. “The main place for buying scooters at that time was a place called Readers, in Aylestone. We all went there.” “Scooters were appealing at the time because you could do hundreds of miles on a tank of petrol. “A group of us went to Yarmouth. It took us the best part of six hours to get there. It was a steady run and we only used a tank-and-a-half of petrol there and back.”
Chris had a Lambretta li 150 with green and white stripped side panels and fur on the seats. “It cost me £30 in 1966 and wasn’t anything special compared to some of the scooters around but it was special to me,” he says. “It would be worth £2,000 if I still had it.”
Chris also did his fair share of going to Mod events at coastal resorts, even taking a job in Skegness. But there was plenty going on in Leicester. Wednesday at Il Rhondo, in Silver Street, was Mod night, on Sunday, Mod music was played at The Palais de Danse, in Humberstone Gate, and the Casino Ballroom, in London Road, held regular live events. Music was the lifeblood of the scene. All-night dances, or parties were often fuelled by the use of amphetamine-based drugs. Some were known as blues, or purple hearts. John says: “People were taking them because, if you didn’t there was no way you would last the amount of time you were awake for. “The main thing was the music,” says Chris. “It was so new and fresh.” John says: “There were certain songs that were important to us, for example the Sir Douglas Quintet’s She’s About a Mover and Louie Louie, by the Kingsmen.”
The fashion and hair styles still have a huge influence today. Chris has been a barber for 36 years and now has a shop, in Northampton Street. But when he needed a Mod cut back in the 60s, there was only one place to go. “Everybody went to Ron’s, in Church Gate. It is still there. “At the time, there was a look that was something close to how Paul Weller wears his hair now. “Another was how Roger Daltry (singer in The Who) wore his, with a parting, although some people just wanted a close-cut, clean look.” Mods felt the way they looked set them apart from the rest. Attention to detail was vital. Clothes would be made-to-measure and tight fitting. Shirts and suits would be sent to the tailor for more buttons to be added or taken away, depending on the mood. “We’d have bigger vents put in or more buttons put on our shirts, just to make them different. We were always trying to stay one step ahead,” says Chris.
Having such smart clothes proved a problem motoring around town on a scooter. A US Army fishtail parka was ideal for keeping clean on the move. John says: “I had a parka and a mohair suit – well, several. We were always buying clothes, trying to have something new and to stay ahead of everyone else.” Chris says: “I never really got into the suit thing. Lots of people did, though. On a Saturday, there was Jackson’s the Tailors, in Gallowtree Gate, and Burton’s, in Church Gate, which would have queues outside all day from the moment they opened, with people collecting clothes they had ordered, or being measured up for something. “Jackson’s was seen as a cut above the others because the staff would offer advice to the customers. “Personally, I preferred wearing Levi Jeans, desert boots and a Ben Sherman shirt rather than a suit. I wanted to feel comfortable. Also jumpers with targets on, or shirts similar to those Roger Daltry was wearing at the time. “I bought an overcoat from Irish for £22. That was four weeks wages to me. I have still got it.”
By 1967, the Mod scene was changing. Some were moving away from the slick looks and sounds and moving into psychedelic music. “They were what we called the ‘flower children’, says John. “They were getting in to what became the hippy thing. I guess bands like The Who and Small Faces had become more psychedelic, particularly the Small Faces with their album Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake. I moved on to other things but I have never stopped feeling that I am a Mod. Even now, I’m still a Mod. I love the Mods.”
Some stuck to their cause of being a Mod and others became interested in the skinhead scene, which was emerging in the late 60s.
Chris, a married dad of three, remembers: “I was working in Skegness in 1969 and I could still see running battles between Mods and rockers. “I went on to become interested in other things, but years later I was thinking about the look and how much I enjoyed wearing the clothes, so I went back to it. “So now I wear a Ben Sherman, Levi jeans and desert boots. I love it, and the music, of course.”
In 1979, The Who brought out the movie Quadrophenia. It told the story of the Mods, their clashes with rockers, the girls, the drugs, the parties. The film was to coincide with and widen the impact of a Mod revival, which had started in London a few months earlier. Chris said it was very true to life. “It’s pretty close,” he says. “Particularly a scene in Brighton as Jimmy (Phil Daniels) walks along the seafront with all the other Mods. “Somebody asks him what the best thing about being a Mod is. He says something like ‘being here, amongst all this’. And it was spot on. “That buzz, the buzz of being part of it at that time, that is exactly how being a Mod felt.”
Detroit may be the home of Tamla Motown and Memphis the home of Stax but for my money the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg did more for English Mods than either of the other two. Let me explain.
It’s 1960. Rock and Roll from Sun records rules the America airwaves. Elvis is King and in Detroit and Memphis the sound of Soul music was just getting off the ground. People like Berry Gordy (of Tamla) and Jim Stewart (of Stax) were recording the R&B and gospel acts that had, up to now, only been on the local circuit but were destined for the Soul hall of fame. Marvin Gaye, Jr. Walker, Wilson Pickett, and Rufus Thomas to name but a few. It was a seminal era for 'that driving beat'
Meanwhile in England it’s still World War II at the BBC. Vera Lynne is still singing 'We’ll meet again' Billy Cotton is still doing his 'Armed Forces Band Show' and the hottest dance tunes are played on the BBC light service. Real toe tappers like 'Chattanooga Choo Choo' and 'Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B' There wasn’t a top ten of *anything* and kids like me didn’t have any say whatsoever in what 'tin pan alley' was foisting on the public as 'pop' music. Things weren’t looking too good for our Sheffield hero, Steve.
Then my uncle Alf (bless him) gave me a transistor radio for my birthday. Wow, my very own personal sound machine that actually ran on batteries and I could carry around with me. Very nifty indeed. Of course, the choice was still limited to the four BBC radio stations on the long wave and whatever you could pick up on the medium wave, which consisted of mostly foreign language stations broadcasting cooking recipes in Czechoslovakian for all I knew. Then late one Sunday night I hit that magic 1440khz and suddenly out of the ether the voice of my personal saviour DJ Chris Denning was saying 'hey kids, get your dancing shoes on, your tuned to the US Top Forty show on fabulous 208, Radio Luxemburg' Good God in heaven! Was I dreaming?
Little Richard, The Everly Brothers, Fats Domino, The Coasters, The Drifters, The Contours and of course Chubby Checker doing 'The Twist' all poured out of that magic box and into my heart and soul. I was hooked. For the next five years I was one of the late night 'under the bedcovers' kids that made Radio Luxembourg the lbed coversegend that it has become. We listened nightly to DJ's spinning new chart records from the US. There were R&B shows with Howling Wolf and John Lee Hooker. Jazz shows with Ramsey Lewis and Ray Charles and the one that truly made it all worthwhile 'Soul Sounds' from the US billboard charts. It was from Radio Luxembourg thaLuxembourgt I learnt about the Detroit sound, The Philly sound and that new funky Soul music being made in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. Later on the famous UK pirate radio stations added to this bounty of dance music that was being pumped into my ears. In particular Mike Ravens R&B show was a 'not to be missed' broadcast especially as he opened with Phil Upchurch’s 'You can’t sit down' – my kind of guy.
Of course I bought a record player and started going out with the girl who worked at the local record shop. Hey, a Sheffield soul man’s got to do what he’s got to do, right. It was with this wonderful girls help I managed to order ultra rare imported records direct from the US. How she managed to do it I will never know but when toothy Ken Dodd and those insipid, always smiling 'Bachelors' were topping the charts and putting Britain to narcoleptic sleep I was rocking my kitchen roof off with Fontella Bass’s 'Rescue me' and Shorty Long’s 'Devil with a Blue Dress on' Unfortunately, although the music said 'you can’t sit down' I had to. There was nowhere to go to dance to 'that driving beat' except the local youth club and the church hall dances held every Saturday afternoon but, trust me here, you really don’t want me to tell you about them. It was, again, a bad time for our boy Steve. Talk about all dressed up and nowhere to go, I was all tuned up and nowhere to go.
And then my other uncle, who was a Sheffield bus driver at the time, came to visit us and upon hearing one of my precious records said 'bloody hell fire Jack sounds just like that jungle music them idiots play at that fucking Esquire club round the back of the bus station'. Words that changed my life. Thank you Uncle Frank. Eloquently put.
The next day I declined the charms of Mr. White’s English language, P.E and Physics, took the day off from school and went in search of the Esquire. Didn’t take too long to find it. I mean it had a reputation in Sheffield and everybody over 40 who you asked, knew just where it was and why it was to be avoided. – my kind of place.
My first night at the Esquire was in many ways better than my first night of sex. Well almost. I walked into the club to the beautiful sound of Sam Cooke singing Chain Gang and saw a dance floor full of kids, all my age, actually dancing and enjoying themselves. Talk about coming home. Talk about my generation. I felt like crying. In fact I think I did. It was a revelation. So, I wasn’t the only 'nutter' in the city after all.
"I’m in with the in crowd, I go where the in crowd goes, I’m in with the in crowd and I know what the in crowd knows"
From then on I lived only for the nights when I could jump on the 6:30 bus to Sheffield, pay my two shillings and sixpence entrance money and dance the night away. I made some great friends, learnt about clothes, drugs, girls and above all the music. The Northern Mod scene started there and I was part of it. We travelled around to other clubs (The Wheel, Clouds etc) and wherever we went we met other kids, who dressed like us, talked like us and above all liked our music. We were bound together by a common love of the music. We were Mods and this was our generation.
So while England and the rest of the world were going Beatle crazy we at the Esquire were in a way insulated from it. After all we knew who the Beatles, Stones, Yardbirds and Small Faces were copying and we preferred the originals, thank you. It was a good time for our boy Steve.
Now, I don’t claim to be an expert on R&B or Soul music. I don’t have an encyclopedic memory of record titles, artists and labels. Dave Godin once tried to turn me onto some ‘real deep soul’ recorded by some obviously very depressed guy in Chicago who sounded so miserable I really thought he was having a nervous breakdown on the record. I like my soul music fast, snappy and above all danceable. I suppose I am a shallow self-centred old school Mod but we all have our faults right.
Eventually I had to go to the US and see it all for myself. I went to New York’s Apollo theatre and saw The Impressions. I went to Chicago and saw Sam & Dave. I went to Detroit and actually sat in the studio while Martha and The Vandellas recorded ‘Heat Wave’ It was all good and I had a great time. Sometimes my oldest kid likes to quote Cicero (106-43 B.C.) at me "No Sane man will dance" but what the fuck did Cicero know, he never went to the Sheffield Esquire now did he?
Well, it's dance time Out on the floor each night I’m really moving The band is wailin right, I feel like groovin The chicks are out of sight, and I am approovin The crowd is in tonight beggin for more While I’m getting my kicks out on the floor’
Mod Dance!England won the World cup in 1966, Alf Ramsey became a knight and every kid playing football in the school yard and in the park wanted to be Geoff Hurst or Bobby Charlton. I didn’t. I wanted to be Charlie Foxx. Well every kids got to have a hero right, mine just happened to be a bit more esoteric than most. Ah - such is the stuff of an OM (original mod) Read on…..
By 1966 I was well into the Mod way of life. My backcombed hair was the spitting image of Steve Marriot (ala Small Faces), my shirt collection was the envy of the western world, and my scooter had more headlights on it than Fireball XL5. To say that I lived for the weekends would not be an exaggeration because after an amphetamine fuelled Saturday and Sunday I felt like death for the rest of the week.
Yet strangely, what I had become seemed to be out of sync with what was going on in the wider world of youth culture. The Beatles had all grown mustaches, started wearing Mexican rugs for clothes and singing about ‘purple raindrops in my eyes’ Phrases like ‘peace, love and brotherhood’ and ‘turn on, tune in and drop out’ could even to be heard on BBC radio I – my God even Tony Blackburn was wearing a paisley shirt and bell bottom trousers. Mike Raven (my R&B hero) had been usurped by John ‘hey cool man’ Peel (who I personally consider to be the fucking Anti-Christ when it comes to dance music) and trying to talk to my dad about my life was leading nowhere as you can imagine.
'Dancers are the athletes of God.' -- Albert Einstein
Steve, our hero, was happy enough but frustrated. After all I was Mod – which means modern, not a hippie freak, not a nasty greaser, a Mod, a sophistiCAT, at least in my mind that is but nobody seemed to appreciate it or understood it except my weekend mates. Then I had an epiphany. My uncle Alf (of portable radio fame) came over for Xmas dinner and in-between The Queens’ speech and the Morcombe and Wise show we got to talking. Turns out my mom and dad had a secret past, well at least one they could talk about to their friends, but never with me, after all I was just their only begotten. They were – wait for it… Ballroom dancers. Don’t stop reading just yet - it gets better. They had been Yorkshire champions five times in a row and my dad had represented England in the World Championships. So that’s what they had been doing Friday and Saturday nights. Of course I never knew – I was never there. Even if I had been – all I knew about ballroom dancing was from a TV show called ‘Come Dancing’ – which might still be on the TV by the way. From what I saw Ballroom dancing was a bunch of stuck up women being pranced around a wooden floor by these fellas dressed up like Fred Astaire and who I seriously suspected of being ‘poofs’ – the PC word these days is gay but these were the more coarser 60’s. Ballroom dancing – fuck me. I could dance but I didn’t think mom and dad had any idea what kind of dancing I was doing. Still it was something to talk about Sunday afternoon sitting around the telly watching match of the day reruns.
'One may judge a king by the state of dancing during his reign'.--Chinese proverb
So in between runs to the bathroom to throw up my guts (remember it’s the day after the all nighter) I got to talking about what my dad had done for entertainment before the war (could have been cave drawings for all I knew) – so he says…..
‘Oh I did a bit of socializing’ ‘Oh yeah – how’d you mean?’ ‘Well you know go down to the local dance club a few nights a week’ ‘Oh yeah – dancing eh’ ‘Yeah – nothing much – just the odd waltz – foxtrot, tango you know’ ‘I like dancing’ ‘You do?’ ‘Yeah, that’s what I did last night’ ‘All night?’ ‘Yeah – lots of fun’ ‘Oh well I know what you mean, let me tell you…….’
Suddenly my dad remembered he had a son, he turned off the telly, called my mother in from the kitchen (washing up) got out a photo album I’d never seen and we spend the next five hours just talking and talking and talking. I never had to explain myself to him again. I was a dancer and my dad was proud of me.
’A good education consists in knowing how to sing and dance well’.-- Plato
Going to the Mojo in Sheffield was like attending the holy mother church of dancing. Mods dressed well, rode scooters, liked soul music and took blues and bombers but all that wasn’t the heart of being a mod – dancing was. It was on the dance floor that everything made sense. It was no good being high without something to do with the energy. It was no good loving the R&B beat without being able to jump up and express it through physical action.
The whole reason for all-nighters was dancing. Get dressed, meet your mates, wait outside the dance club, meeting and greeting all the out of towners as they arrived by scooter, car or bus. Hello to ‘the Notts crew’ ‘the Donny boys’ (hi Mick) ‘the Wheel crew’ all of them mates and all of them there for just the same purpose as you. Get blocked, dance all night, and go home. Funny no different from today if you think about it.
I met all my friends in the Mojo toilet. No, hold on don’t stop reading, Yes, the toilets were dank, smelly and crowded all night but they were the haven you went to when it all got too much, when you wanted to cool down and catch your breath for a few minutes. Of course you were as high a weather balloon and just about everything you said came out sounding something like from ‘Bill and Ben the flowerpot men’ but who cares, you loved everybody and everybody loved you. You could stand there your mouth as dry as a bone , masticating furiously (I said MAS ticating) your eyes as wide as Blackpool tunnel and you felt as if you were on top of the world.
‘Of course I like you – I dance with you, don’t I?’ - Me
The Mojo was a converted all time dance hall – when I say converted I mean all they did was to turn down the lights, remove the revolving ballroom globe and put in strobe lights which made all the girls panties shine bright white through their mini dresses. Actually that’s about the only time girls got noticed, nobody really was bothered too much with ‘chatting up the birds’ and even if you did nothing was going to happen. Amphetamines have a rather startling effect upon your ‘wedding tackle’ – a fact which tended to make male bonding all the more fraternal. Twenty functional eunuchs standing around the Mojo toilet all talking about how great a time they were having and nobody is talking about sex. Try explaining that to your kids.
’Every day I count wasted is one in which there has been no dancing’. -- Nietzsche
The Mojo stage was recessed into one wall at the front of the club with the DJ’s corner off to the left and a raised runway stretching across the front. This runway was the realm of the Gods. It was here that the best dancers climbed up and showed off their stuff. It was here that reputations were made or broken. Nobody, no matter how charged on blues they were would have had the temerity to get up there without the tacit acceptance of the dozen or so ‘gangplank’ regulars. Yes folks I was one of ‘em and we guarded our status like Gordon Banks guarded the English net. We knew we were ‘the faces’ we knew we were the leaders, the guvners, the elite. We were the Gods and it was a like nothing I have every know since. Forget the anonymous adulation given to rock and roll stars by the stadium mobs and stage door groupies. This was acceptance and fawning admiration by your mod peers. Your mates looked at you with awe and respect and yes a little fear. Your word was law and you had kids falling over themselves to talk to you, dance with you, eat and drink at your table. You ‘could have’ had any bird in the place but we’ve already covered that particular depressing aspect to the Mod scene at the Mojo haven’t we. Ho hum
'La danse, c'est le mouvement, et le mouvement, c'est la vie'.--Ludmilla Chiriaeff
The highlight of the dance scene at the Mojo was the Christmas all nighter. Pete Stringfellow (owner, operator and DJ) lined up all the best acts for that one night. Geno Washington, Zoot Money, and Georgie Fame all on the same night with one big name US act headlining. Ike and Tina Turner, The Drifters, The Miracles, The Temptations all played the Mojo Christmas ‘nighter’ plus the whole staff of ‘Ready Steady Go’ were invited up from London. It was during this night that the Mojo dance contest was held. First prize was always something like free admission for year – don’t laugh we considered that a very valuable prize but actually it was the format of contest that provided all the interest. You see RSG had several resident dancers whose job it was to circulate through the studio crowd beforehand and sort of get everybody charged up for the live broadcast The undisputed ‘Queen’ of the RSG dancers was a 16 year old blonde chick called ‘Sandy Sargent’ – I never knew if that was her real name or not. (Later in life Sandy got married to Ian McLagan of the Small Faces in a secret ceremony at Marylebone registry office. Unfortunately the planned honeymoon was dashed when McLagan was caught with a lump of hash on him at the airport and they both got arrested. The band had to get them bailed out)
’Those who dance are considered insane by those who can't hear the music.’. -- George Carlin
The idea of the contest was that after several rounds of dancing, in which the best dancers were selected by the milling crowd cheering or booing for them as Pete Stringfellow pointed a spotlight at them, the finalists would have two minutes to do their stuff up on the gangplank partnered by, yes you guessed, Sandy Sargent. Kids would live for months beforehand dreaming of those two minutes of fame. I know I did. Finally, when the winner was announced the whole floor was cleared and the winner together with Sandy would do a two minute dance of honor – Those two minutes were as close as any Mojo Mod could come to beatification – you were made for life. I won in 1967 and I have lived on that reputation ever since. No shit. Thirty five years later grown men, now fat, balding and distinctly over the hill (which of course I’m not –grin) still come up to me at Soul do’s throughout the world and say ‘Fucking hell - Steve Bellamy. I saw you win the Mojo dance contest in ’67, you were great mate – buy you a pint?’
Hey, life doesn’t get any better than that, now does it?
new facebook page created by Lloyd Johnson (original modernist) This group is for all the original Modernists to post their old photos and memories...the cut of date is 1966 as I think it is fair to say the that was the end of the first Modernists...
the online mod/ern/ist archives . Where you one of the original mod/ern/ists or R&B enthusiasts in the sixties and would like to share some stories, information , memories, pictures , .... All subjects are welcome : clothes, clubs, local hangouts, music, scooters, ... Where you a regular at the Scene , Flamingo, La Discotheque, Twisted Wheel, King Mojo, Dungeon, ....
welcome (back) to the world of a touch of french je ne sais quoi, italian style, black american and jamaican music .
keep it in style .... all aboard the night train .
please only join if you were around at the time or you are interested in the pre '70s modernist period (the following sites have forums who cover the later periods http://www.modculture.com and http://www.modrevival.net)
It’s not widely known but Georgie Fame was slightly connected to the Profumo affair, the political scandal that led to the resignation of John Profumo the Secretary of State for War in October 1963, and ultimately the Conservative government a year later in 1964.
The board of directors meet in John Stephen’s flat. Left to right : Dean Rogers, Myles Anthony, Angelo Uragallo, Ivy Dean, Frank Merkell, Keith Dodge, Bill Franks (managing director) and John Stephen. Except for Uragallo, everyone in under 30.
He’s the Mod King of Carnaby Street. Ask if he’s a millionaire and he says : “I don’t think I’ve got that much in ready cash – but I must be just about there in assets.” Ask about the diamond rings on each hand and he grins and says: “I think I paid about £300 for that one … and this one, not more than £200. If I remember. I love diamonds. Ask if he’s happy and he replies in his Glaswegian accent: “Oh, aye well enough – but I’d like to be REALLY satisfied with something I do.”
His name is John Stephen and he’s only 29. He’s the working class boy who made a fast fortune – not out of the SOUND of the Beat groups but out of the LOOK of them.
Fringe
In Carnaby street on the fringe of Soho London. John Stephen has seven shops all in a row, all selling the same thing – Mod clothes. Beat music pours out of each shop on to the pavement. In Carnaby Street the Beatles first bought the collarless jackets that became known as Beatle jackets. The Rolling Stones shop there. So do The Mojos, the Dave Clark Five and the boys of the Manfred Mann group. Not to mention such switched on leisure wear connoisseurs as Peter Sellers and the Duke of Bedford.
Away from Carnaby Street John Stephen has fifteen more Mod shops around London – boutiques for boys called His Clothes. He also owns two clothing factories, an estate agency, a driving school and a vegetarian restaurant. And this week he’s negotiating to take over a hire-car firm with a fleet of Jaguars. “Oh aye, I’ve come a long way since Glasgow.” Says John Stephen “My father’s mind boggles when he hears I’m giving the mills orders for things like £60.000 worth of trouser material …” His father has a corner grocery shop in Glasgow. John who was expected to take over the shop one day left home ten years ago to see what London had to offer. He got a job selling uniforms in a big store.
A YEAR LATER he opened a boutique for a friend who put up the money – and turned a revolutionary line of striped denim trousers into a best-seller.
A YEAR LATER with his savings and the extra money he had made working nights in a coffee bar – he opened his own boutique. “And with a lot of flair and a lot of hard work” said one of the young directors who now help to run The John Stephen Organisation “ he has got where he is today. The flair was in gambling on such things as men’s fleecy mohair sweaters eighteen months ahead of anyone else – and in getting singer Cliff Richard to buy one. The hard work was putting in twelve hours a day, six days a week. And he’s still doing that.”
THIS IS THE LOOK THAT MADE Mr. STEPHEN A MILLION
The Beat Look worn by folk singer Peter Martin: Candy-stripe denim suit, £ 9 10s.; white shirt with collar and cuffs, £2 9s. 6d.; black knitted tie, 12s. 6d.; blue belt, 24s. 6d.; shoes, 55 s. All by John Stephen.
The board of directors of The John Stephen Organisation were holding a meeting in his smart Chelsea flat when I called there at 8.30 at night. Only one of them was over thirty – and they discussed with enthusiasm the “ new English double-breasted, slightly waisted suit with slant pockets.” John Stephen told me: “One big secret of success is getting the right people around you. Each one here can do something better than I can do it myself.”
Restless
He got up and suggested supper at a club. ”I get so restless” he said “Often I can’t sleep at night – and I relax by getting up and wandering around the streets studying the windows of my rivals…” At weekends he drives down in Brighton in his Rolls Royce with his white Alsatian, Prince to gee up the decorators in his luxurious new house on the sea front. He thinks he owns dozens of suits, knows he only drinks Scotch and smokes 8s 6d apiece cigars, but feels he is basically still an ordinary Glaswegian.
Image
“A year ago.” He said “I thought it might be better for my image if I tried to change my accent.” But I decided it was better to sound like a working class man who knew what he was talking about – d’you follow? “ When I left John Stephen he was discussing a new girls wear department, the wholesale supplies for stores throughout Britain – and world export markets. I had the distinct impression he knew what he was talking about.
The 60's in Brum were the best for live bands, specially at The Whiskey a Go Go above Chetwyns on the corner of John Bright Street and Hill Street. The whiskey was unique in the fact that not only did the local bands King Bees, Modernaires, Jugs O'Henry, Moody Blues, Denny Laine, Spencer Davis play there, but also people from the states. "Motown" & "R&B" greats like Sonny Boy Williamson sang there, and all night on Fridays till 8am Saturday mornings and again on Saturday nights till Sunday morning. The owners Chris & Steve Healey were two great guys who were there to welcome us all every night the Whiskey was open. They both wore lowed striped jackets as I remember.
I have been told that Steve still has a book that records all the bands and singers of that time that they booked up, such as The Faces, Long John Baldry, and Gary Farr and The Knockouts. I remember Georgie Fame playing virtually all night. They couldn't get him off the small stage until he collapsed with exhaustion, or lack of stimulation's. Great Brummie characters also frequented The Whiskey; Sean MaHoney, Billy Sutton, Billy & Dodger Thompson, Colin Mythan, Noel Barnes, Chris and Gary Burgess, Jock Ellis, Duffy, Bugsy, Chris Wolsey, Kenny Frazer, Rob Marsh, Popeye, Dicky Martin, Bobby Summers, Henry O'Neil, Eddy The Jew, Jonnie Hutton, Dorian Walford, Black H and Spencer, who were both Brummie DJ's with Caribbean and soul backgrounds.
The place buzzed for three years until it changed hands and became the Marquee in 1967. And the chicks that went there were out of this world. One group were called "The Magnificent Seven". Other male groups of people were nick named "The Martini Set", "The T-set" and the "Coca Cola Boy's". It was cult and leading edge for urban 60's live band music, dance styles and fashions. They used to pack in nearly 250 townies and mods onto both floors, live bands on the 1st floor and DJ's on the top floor. Many dudes where "knocked back" at the door if you weren't part of the crowd, as they could not get everybody in the gaff.
After we crashed out in the mornings at the KD (Kardoma) coffee bar in New Street, we went on to the West End Saturday afternoon dance. We then had the energy to go to the "All Nighters" at the Town Hall. Spencer Davis with Steve Winwood were classic, along with the other Brumbeat bands. The Whiskey attracted people from all over the midlands, including Coventry and London scene, to dance and hear live music of the era that was very ahead of pop culture in England at that time! If the Town Hall gigs weren't on we used to go to "The Twisted Wheel" in Manchester that also played Motown & Blues".
Other live band venues we frequented where the "Lafayette" and "The Connaught Suite" in Wolverhampton.
Some extracts from the personal diary of 18 year old Bernard Schofield – October 1964
(Originally published in Extraordinary Sensations fanzine 24 years ago)
October 3
Thank God for Saturday night. Downed five blues. Took a tube to the Dilly + waited for Maureen. She was dead late, I thought she’d never turn up.
We walked up to Wardour Street and met Mick + co. Something tells me Maureen fancies Mick, she kept glueing him in Smokies. Up the Disque watching those guys dancing and it’s quite easy to analyse, I hope I learn it soon. I mean I know the basics but I don’t want to look stupid out there.
Maureen had to go home so I walked her down to Charing Cross. I met Sniffer in his new suit, and me & Sniff walked round for a bit. There was plenty going on tonight. We saw a fire in Leicester Square and a fight near Charing Cross. We went back to the Disque, met Bob then made it round to The Scene. Spent some time up there tonight as Viv and Thelma were up there. Ralph pushed us some of those new yellow pills called Dexes which made you feel sick. I had to to have a Coke to settle my stomach but it only made it worse. Varnie said Ralph was on the con with those pills, he reckoned they were Pro-Plus. Whatever they were, they had piss-all effect and I felt ill. I really dug it up there tonight – plenty of people about.
October 7
Those photos arrived today, of me & Maureen in Hyde Park – Christ I look awful, like I was on some terrible come-down (probably was!). I was thinking about my very first fashion that got me hooked. It was Sinclair at school who came one day in a real sharp pair of Italian-cut Prince Of Wales check trousers and a pair of Denson Pointers. It seems like a life time ago, yet here I am, still out for fashion kicks!
October 8
I guess I’m really attached to Maureen now, yet still it’s not completely fixed. Tonight could be my big night. Met her in the evening and she was pleased with the photos. Had some kinky dress on. Eventually Dave left for the Disque and we got down to it straight away. Dammit, she just wouldn’t let me shag her, I just couldn’t get her sexed up. I soon had both her dress & my trousers off. She didn’t like my hairy legs at first but she got used to them afterwards. We had our usual row about why she won’t let me – I think it’s because I won’t use anything.
October 9
Feeling desesperate now, I’m literally wasting my time doing nothing, going nowhere.
I don’t fit in anywhere.
Bought a blue polo neck today.
I really must organise my life.
Back home Dave went up the Disque.
Not looking forward to Saturday and I’m not taking any pills…
October 10
Didn’t go to work today and my hair’s a bloody mess. Met Maureen down the Dilly – she had a smart polo neck and a grey skirt on. We decided on the Flamingo so that’s where we went. It was incredibly hot and packed. There was a guy doing the most fantastic dance and his girl was good too – really sexy – you should have seen her arse! The Supremes weren’t on ‘till midnight so we had to stomach the boring Chessmen and the Topics, who both played the most played out number in the ‘Mingo – Green Onions -.
We came out at one stage and met Bob, Dave & Pete – Bob was as stoned as a newt. Maureen had to go home (what a drag!)so I dropped her off at Leicester Square and made it back to Wardour Street. Bumped into Polly Perkins who was staying out all night. I was glad to see him, especially when he said Roma & Co were coming up too.
By the time we actually got to Wardour St. it was packed with people – the Whisky crowd stared down with disbelief at the mob in the street – it made me laugh really.
Saw Dave, he said the fuzz were about to raid the clubs again tonight – he’d just been searched again.
Somehow I didn’t fancy the risk tonights so I sodded off home … I woke up to the usual invasion from the Disque. Dave walked in with Sniffer, Pete, Brenda and a load of others. That Jackie’s a right little darling. That love bite I gave Maureen was 3 inches square!
October 13
Maureen rang and said that the police had been round about that drinking fiasco & that they know all about our flat & our scene at Putney. They told her I would be best advised not to move – Bloody cheek!! Dave wants me to move up to the Kings Road with him & Ralph to some dive for a fiver a week. He’ll be lucky!
October 22
Up the Disque tonight with my girl. A fight flared up at one point and some guy got it in the back of the head with a bottle of Hubbly. We were watching the dancing. It drive me wild to see those guys move! I just can’t get those complicated steps.
Don Middleton turned up with Dave who had picked up some right old scrubber. Later we all made it back to the flat. Buckingham was already there with his sort. I went to bed but couldn’t sleep cos Don was setting to with the scrubber and Buckingham was humping away on the floor.Dave’s bed was creaking and groaning away ten to the dozen. I just can’t stand it any longer…
(Part two of Bernard’s tales of (lack of) sex and drugs and r&b follow soon …)
Social revolution on Speed, Side Vents & The Scene club.
"I'm the face baby Is that clear? I'm the face if you want it.
All the others are third class tickets by me
Baby is that clear?"
Pete Meaden for "The High Numbers" (1964).
The late Pete Meaden was he man who introduced The Who to the hardcore mod cult of 1963. He became their manager, christened them The High Numbers, and wrote their first record. These interviews uncover the sometimes disturbed visions of one of the leaders of the original mod movement.
By Steve Turner. (New Musical Express 17th november 1979).
Typing by Àlex M. Franquet.
(The story was reprinted in NME's Originals Mod issue - but some bits were missing ... so here's the first part of the unabridged article )
Towards the end of his life, Pete Meaden told me that he'd read an interview in which Nik Cohn, writer of the story that becaume "Saturday Night Fever", attributed the origins of the tale to his own memories of Shepherd's Bush mod society circa 1963.
In particular, it was from this experience that he took the idea of "The Face", an idea which focused itself in the movie when Travolta swept into the 2001 Odyssey disco to hushed whispers and respectful glances. Travolta was The Face.
The connection Meaden was making was that if the Goldhawk Club equalled 2001 Odyssey, and if The Face equalled The Face, then Pete Meaden was John Travolta. The last time something like this had happened was when The Who released "Quadrophenia" in 1973. He had listened to it and thought: "I am Jimmy. Townshend's writing about me!"
Even if neither connection was justified, Pete Meaden deserved to feel that he was the stuff of legend. After all, it was he who saw the possibility of calculatedly making a rock group the focal point of a teenage revolution. The Who, being the group. The mods, being the teenage revolution. Without his style, his "suss", it's doubtful whether The Who would carry the cultural weight they do today and it's doubtful whether Modism would have spread so far, so fast.
What Meaden had was a flair for image, a love of music and a gift for gauging the spirit of the times. What he didn't have was organisational ability and a tough business edge. His shortcomings saw him virtually giving The Who's management away just as the group were making it on the strength of his ideas.
I first met Meaden in the summer of 1975 when I was researching for a book, "A decade of The Who" (Fabulous Music Ltd.) After a series of 'phone calls, I tracked down the man nobody had heard of for years. He was a patient in a mental hospital just outside London.
Our first talk together on the 'phone got us off to a good start and resulted in the two interviews combined below – one of which took place in my flat, the other back at his room in the hospital. He’d talked to the press only once before and it was as though all the accumulated history was bursting out now he’d found someone to listen. He also seemed to feel that he’d found an opportunity to establish his role in the history of The Who.
Later I talked to Pete Townshend who admitted that there have been no Who as we know them today if it hadn’t have been for Meaden. Daltrey was too quick to confirm his role. “He didn’t really have to force his ideas on us very hard. He thought we could pick up on the mod thing and he was right because mods had no focal point at all and The Who became that, we became the spokesmen. When Kit and Chris took over management they basically just took Meaden’s ideas and made them bigger”.
I saw a lot of Pete Meaden during the three days following our interview. It was a time during which he pulled himself together after years of drug abuse, a nervous breakdown and a divorce. He got back into the music business co-managing The Steve Gibbons Band along with Who manager Bill Curbishley. A decade or more after The High Numbers, here he was back again in The Who camp.
The last time I saw him was in June 1978, when he came along to hear me read my poetry at a small theatre club in Waterloo. He was full of smiles but there was a vacancy behind it all. We went for a drink and his conversation was disjoined, abstract. All I can remember now are some apocryphal visions of the end of the world and some questions about religion: “Who’s the one then – Meher Baba or Jesus?”
Within a month, he was found dead in bed of barbiturate poisoning. He was 36 and back living with his parents in the home where he’d dreamed up The High Numbers and written “I am the face”. The coroner passed an open verdict although close friends feel that Meaden knew too much about drugs to die of a careless mistake.
It seemed a very mod place to die, a cramped terraced house in an Edmonton cul-de-sac, and also a very mod way to die. Before his death he’d been feeding in ideas to the writers and producers of Quadrophenia. I think he would have liked the result but I can’t imagine him being more than amused at the mod revival: the spirit of modism was after also much against re-creating the past. Modism was pushing forward.
- Where do we begin?
- Existing is what it’s all about because with society as we know it breaking down, I think that survival is of the utmost importance. It’s all very well being immensely talented, having a good time and making great music – but not being able to sustain it. This sustaining bit is the most important of all, and The Who are survivors. That’s what I’m interested in, what I’ve always been interested in. There was a long period of time when The Who didn’t have any hit records at all, but their music is survival music, by the pure power of sustaining, sustaining power. That’s what you have to say about The Who. This is what I built on in the first place. I say I, because I think nodody’s had more effect on their career, as I did, in putting together The High Numbers. I met them with a guy called Bob Druce and another feller called Helmut Gordon. Bob Druce was an agent who booked them and he said he had a contract on The Who in his desk. I was introduced to The Who by my barber, via a friend of mine who was a mutual friend called Phil The Greek. Phil The Greek was later to appear on television on Ready, Steady, Go! with a loaded sawn-off shotgun, you know? He was one of the great legends of folklore and pop history.
- Do you think the Mod thing is still alive?
- I wonder actually where all the old Mods went. They’re probably all in garages, second-hand car outfits, scrap-yards, something like that. ‘Cos there’s such a thing as Mod Suss – you know – sussing out a situation. That’s what Mods are about – suss out a situation immediately, its potential, controlling it. Rather than letting the potential control you. So I would think they’d get in the car game – that’s were most money is made very quickly.
- Are you in touch with some of your old mates?
- Yeah, one’s a coke dealer, one’s in prison, and another one’s Phil The Greek, the guy who appeared on TV with a shotgun with The Who on Ready, Steady, Go! who was a great Mod leader of them all. Pete Townshend and I talk about him often.
The black girls are Mod chicks of today. Those little spade chicks you see running round in stacked heels and wedges, wearing sort of Ossie Clarke clothes. The blacks were always there in ’64, there weren’t so many of them – they were late-night kids like us – you’d go out on a three-day bender, you know? Hit out on a Friday night, high on speed, down to Ready, Steady, Go!, down to The Scene Club, dance all night till Saturday morning. Saturday, you’d go shopping, to buy a pullover, or scarf, or something – pair of socks, ‘cos your feet hurt dancing all night in Desert boots. And then all through Saturday night again at The Scene Club all through to Sunday morning, that’s when the come-down comes down, ‘cos you can’t sustain it much more than three days, two nights. Three days and you start heading home to Mama’s place, you know ‘cos you live at home, you can’t afford to live anywhere else. And then you crash, round about Sunday morning, if you can get a lift home to North London, where I was. And that was the life – It was the most amazing sort of life you could imagine – it was so amazing.
- What do you mean when you say ‘you got The Who together?
- I got them together in that I love the life so much. I got The Who and I dressed them up in Mod clothes, gave them all the jingoism and all the paraphernalia of Modism, boxing boots and fashionable things, right on the buttom, timing just right, ‘cos timing is where it’s at.
- You were already a Mod by then?
- Yeah, I was a Mod. It was my life. There was as little club called The Scene, just a Ham Yard, off of Great Windmill Street, and there, on several nights a week the greatest records you can imagine were being played. There were records like “Ain’t love good, ain’t love proud” by Tony Clarke; Major Lance’s stuff; Smokey Robinson, early Curtis Mayfield’s Impressions stuff, you know, which was eminently danceable by people who where not emotionally involved with other people. There was a lack of women in those things. I mean we all dig women, but if you are in the West End, you know that you pay for your women, and well, you don’t get them, ‘cos the girls that come up are mysteries, right. You get girls that come up and dance around, little girls that just dance around in the pubs, just having a little dance, just having a little groove. The records were played by loud over those big speakers, like fairground speakers, and in a small room, which was what The Scene Club was, with concrete walls, so it comes bouncing back, hitting off the floor – there was no wooden floor, hits off the ceiling, so you’re getting saturated with sound, and then they start pulling down the stops, you’re getting a psychedelic record in ’64. So you’re picking up on the body all the time. This is what Mods are about, they’re very physical people. Drynamil is a drug for Mods, because it’s a functional drug, it’s a drug you can work on, you can steal in the shops on it, do all the things you need to do, you can dance on it – you lose all lack of confidence, you lose guilt. It opens up the capillary vessels of the body, therefore, with the aid of this drug you have your own society, you have Nirvana, in a single purple heart pill. Plus you got your togs, which is your clothes, you have the confidence, plus you have the sustaining power three days up, two nights up. I think it’s a groove, I think it’s fabulous, man!
- When did you first notice all this happening?
- When my doctor gave me Drynamil for anxiety. She gave me the original Drynamil, the original Purple Hearts. And I went back that night to my place, my parent’s house where I was working from, and I took one. It’s probably doing something physically way down your system and you don’t notice it. Then, suddenly, Bang! I was free! I was unburdened by chains of resistance. I was able to write and draw and do all the things I wanted to do, without the restraints of normal civilisation bothering me, like feeling it’s late, and having to go to bed. It was just as simple as that. I sat up through the night and finished the book in that one night.
- Were pills very popular then?
- No, well this is how I discovered them. This was 1962, actually.
- So the Mods weren’t in existence then?
- No, they weren’t in existence, but Jack Kerouac was. So anyway, I took the Drynamil. I finished the book that night and I was up for three nights trying to wear my energy off. My own personal feeling is that the debt you have to pay for drugs is too much to compensate for taking the drug in the first place. I always say don’t take the drug whatsoever. A few smokes, a few beers, speed a little bit now and again, be careful with anything else. That’s all.
- Did you sort of think that you were the king Mod at the time?
- No. I was the feller who saw the potential in Modism, which is the greatest form of life-style you can imagine – it’s so totally free – totally anti-family London – In so much as that there were lonely people having a great time. Not having to be lonely, not having to be worried about relationships, being able to get into the most fantastic interesting, beautiful situations, just out of music. You could dance by yourself, you could groove around. I saw this as a weekend. I mean, imagine this, on a Friday night I would go to Ready, Steady, Go! groove around there, and one weekend I had three people on there: I had The Crystals, Chuck Berry and The Rolling Stones – doing publicity for those three people. They used to say, The Weekend Starts Here and weekend would begin there. I would get my speed and go down there, I would go up to the Green Room, and watch my people, that I was working for having a great time at television. There’d be all the faces and people I knew. A face is just someone you recognise, you might not even know his name, but he’s known as a face.
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