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*MUSIC

The Tale of Two Keiths and the No.64 Bus

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Mark Arbuckle: Glasgow, May 2021

Inspired by the recent Apollo posts I’ve decided to share some of my own gig memories.

On 12th of May 1976 myself and my friend Peter attended The Rolling Stones concert at The Glasgow Apollo. 

I don’t remember too much about the gig but apparently it wasn’t their best as it was beset by sound problems all night.

It’s what happened after the gig that is etched on my mind however.

As we were leaving there was an altercation on the street right outside the main doors.
Peter and I decided to cut along Renfield Lane to avoid whatever was happening. Just as we got to the side door it burst open and a figure hurtled out, slipped on the cobbles and crashed to the ground. I reached down to help him to his feet.

‘Scrag-dab Groog Slubdabahoo!’ spluttered the man and I suddenly realised that the skinny figure I was propping up was a totally wasted Keith Richards!
Almost immediately a black limo screeched to a halt in front of us and a very large man jumped out, removed KR from my arms, opened the back door and threw him onto the back seat!
He grunted ‘Thanks man’ jumped into the car and sped off! The entire incident lasted about 40 seconds!

Peter and I just stared open mouthed at each other and then burst out laughing!

A few weeks later, on 5th June 1976 I was very fortunate to be asked to be part of the security team at ‘The Who Put The Boot In’ all day gig at Celtic Park.

My brother was friendly with a guy (MR) who booked all the bands for Glasgow Tech and he was asked to provide some bodies for the day.
MR was very well known in the UK music industry and even had Pans People at his 22nd birthday party at the old Albany Hotel, where I danced with my long time crush, the gorgeous Cherry Gillespie……but I digress.

My brother and I and 4 other friends duly turned up at Celtic Park at 8.00am and along with 60 other ‘security’ guards were given a briefing on our duties for the day.
We were issued with our yellow ‘Harvey Goldsmith’ security jackets and split up into teams of six.
We were then taken on a tour of the ground’s fire exits, toilets, catering and first aid points.
We were also shown the No Access areas and told that in no uncertain terms that the large, bulky figures sporting the blue ‘Rock Steady’ jackets were the REAL security and we were to assist them whenever asked to!

Our team of six was then told to report to the front of the stadium where the crowds had been gathering for the last few hours. We were to assist the Police confiscating the fans’ alcohol before they entered the stadium! ‘Either drink it where you stand or give it to us!’
We had to open and empty the beer cans and smash the glass bottles into large brick bins. The smell of alcohol was eye watering! People were attempting to consume their entire kerryoot there and then! Especially the ones at the back of the huge queues as the word quickly spread.

I watched a skinny wee guy down a bottle of vodka in the five minutes it took him to get to the turnstile!
I doubt if he saw much of the day’s entertainment!

Though I imagine quite a lot (hunners) of half and quarter bottles of alcohol were missed by our untrained searches and smuggled into the stadium.
(I’m also sure quite a few made it into Yella Jaikets’ zipped pokits!)
After about 2 hours confiscating booze, I was partnered with an older guy and sent to guard the pylon on the right side of the stage. 

We were there to prevent anybody trying to climb up it, but as you couldn’t see the stage from there, nobody did! After a boring half hour my partner announced that he was ‘Offski’ ‘F#€K This’ were his exact words.
I later found out that he was ejected for drinking. I lasted another 15 minutes then abandoned my post and decided to have a wander back stage. Little Feat were on stage and I was enjoying Lowell George’s superb slide guitar work.

Little Feat’s Lowell George

I was talking to a long haired denim clad guy next to me who turned out to be the bass player (Frank O’Keefe… I had to google him) of The Outlaws who had already played their set. 

The Outlaws, Frank O’Keefe second from right

A man approached us and said to Frank ‘Excuse me, this is Alan Longmuir of The Bay City Rollers….’Alan also plays bass’ Frank stared right through him, shrugged a ‘So what?’ and returned to talking to me! I felt really sorry for Alan Longmuir.

A Rock Steady Security Guy shouted ‘Right you! Follow me!’ So I did.

I followed him down a back staircase and emerged outside in a courtyard.

A few weeks before the gig a Sunday newspaper ran a competition to win a gig ticket and the chance to meet Keith Moon and help him smash up a replica of the organ used in Rock Opera, Tommy!

There stood Keith Moon dressed in a leather bikers jacket with tasseled sleeves and brandishing a sledgehammer!

Keith Moon

After posing for press photographs, cackling Keith dealt the first mighty blow to the poor keyboard sending black and white keys flying in all directions! Then he handed his sledgehammer to me and said ‘Your turn’ The competition winner and I then set about the helpless instrument with glee! After 15 minutes our ‘Appetite for Destruction’ waned and we put down our weapons. Keith reappeared and invited us onto The Who’s tour bus for a drink. We were greeted by a stunning 6′ 2″ woman dressed in a black leather basque, fishnet stockings and thigh length leather boots with 4″ stiletto heels! Oh and she was carrying a whip!
The bus had been converted into a fully functioning bar with beer pumps, spirit optics and high stools! We took our seats and Miss Whiplash served our drinks. I had an ice cold beer (very welcome after our exertions) and a Jack & Coke. I did feel a pang of guilt for all the poor sods that had had their carry outs destroyed earlier…but not for long.

Keith was laughing and talking nonstop and it was obvious that he was already quite drunk and had probably partaken of other various substances. It was around 4pm and The Who weren’t due on stage for at least another 5 hours!

Keith offered us a second round but I declined and said I’d better, very reluctantly, get back to work. The competition winner (we never did introduce ourselves) left the bus with me. We were both still on a high after this amazing encounter with one of the legends of rock!

I returned backstage and watched SAHB’s amazing set.
Nobody questioned why I was there and I had a brilliant view!
The crowd went wild at Alex Harvey’s mad antics and Zal and the rest of the band pounded out song after song!

SAHB’s elaborate Vambo set then had to be dismantled and The Who’s much heralded outdoor laser light show (the first in Scotland) was set up.

The crowd were getting a bit restless by the time The Who took the stage about 9.30pm but they played a magnificent set.

However the laser show didn’t really work as intended as it was still pretty light until around 10.30pm.
Then the show was over and I met up again with my brother and his pals as we queued up to be paid.
The deal was ‘Hand in your Yellow Jacket and get paid £1 per hour cash or keep the jacket and get zero. Now if I’d known then that eBay would exist in the future then I would’ve kept the jacket and sold it now for £500!

However I took my  £14.00  handed out by Harvey Goldsmith himself sitting in a little wooden booth. 

HG was beaming as he handed over the little bundles of cash obviously calculating the tens of thousands that he’d personally made from the tour!

I can’t even remember how we all got home from that exhausting but exhilarating day!

Now this last story may not be true…..It was told to me by an older guy who regularly attended gigs throughout 70’s

Fun and substance loving band Dr. Hook were partying hard with their crew and local security at The Central Hotel after their gig at The Apollo.

Dr Hook

One of the band overheard a local guy mentioning ‘Hocken-Shoe-Gal! 
and in their spaced out, inebriated state the sound of this, strange, mystical place must’ve appealed to them and they decided they must visit, so they enquired how to get there.
The local guy suggested a taxi but the band insisted on travelling ‘like the other pilgrims do’ 
‘Then get the No. 64 bus from under the bridge’ They were told, so off they went to Argyle St. and got on the No. 64 bus…. 

Unfortunately they boarded it on the wrong side of the road so instead of travelling east to the magical, mystical Auchenshuggle, they headed west through Finnieston, Partick, Whiteinch, Yoker, Clyebank and arrived at the large concrete terminus of Dalmuir West! 

The band were very confused and didn’t appreciate these surroundings at all! They clambered back on the bus for the return journey back to the city centre to continue their par-tay! Hahaha

True or Not… It’s a great story!! 

Teenage Kicks

Teenage kicks- Pauline Allan

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Pauline Nuremberg 1974

Name: Pauline (O’Rourke) Allan

Where were you brought up: Dalmuir/Clydebank

Secondary school: St Columba’s Clydebank/Notre Dame Dumbarton

Best mates at school: Being the school captain at St C’s  who sang, played clarinet, piano and classical guitar, not many.

Funniest memory from school: On prefect duty at lunchtime found some girls smoking in the toilets. One came towards me pushing her face into mine “You’re claimed! ” To which I replied “ Do you know you have skelly eyes?”

First holiday with your mates in UK: 1972  summer music trip to Pirniehall, Croftamie with Mae, Eunice and many others including a certain Mr Allan. Played Mozart and Vaughan Williams by day, listened to Rod Stewart and the Beatles by night while watching Brian Lynch doing his Thunderbird puppet impressions. 

Pauline in blue suit and John draped over another lass during their early swinging phase
Pauline, Eunice & Mae before they formed Bananarama…

First holiday with your mates abroad: 1974 music trip to Nuremberg, Germany on a chartered coach from Glasgow, with the best of Abba and The Byrds serenading us all the way because our driver was a mad fan. Our German host in Nuremberg welcomed us with “ I hope you are all feeling yourselves at home” as we settled into two weeks of rehearsals and concerts.

Young musicians feeling themselves at home

Thinking we were heading off to perform one day, we found ourselves at the 56,000 capacity Waldstadion stadium in Frankfurt.
The National Wind Band of Scotland once filled Musselborough Town hall to capacity but this would have been a very big ask.

Pauline – an early ringleader in the Tartan Army

We were slightly relieved and very excited to learn we were there to watch the Scotland v Yugoslavia World Cup game, and not to perform.

What was your first job: Instrumental music teacher for Dunbartonshire and Glasgow Schools from 1978 until 1986.

Who was your musical hero in 70s: Lots of musical heroes including Paul Simon, James Taylor, David Bowie, John Martyn.

Rhymin’ Simon
Thin White Duke
The great John Martyn

What was your favourite single: You’ve Got A Friend, James Taylor.

Favourite album: Bookends, Simon & Garfunkel

First gig: Me!! – 1977 at the Ardencaple Folk Club in Helensburgh.
Liam Malone ( honestly! ) an old school friend, invited me to appear at an open mic session. First paying gig.

Favourite movie in 70s: Not exactly my favourite but saw the first Star Wars movie in 1978 at a drive-in, Oakville, Ontario with my Canadian cousins.

Who was your inspiration in 70s: Jimmy Hill my clarinet teacher. Not the pointy chinned sports pundit.

Posters on your wall: Art Nouveau reproduction adverts.

What do you miss most from the 70s: Shopping with mum in Glasgow on Saturday’s. The Danish Food Centre, Epicures, Habitat, Fergusons. Vesta instant meals

What advice would you give your 14yr old self: Don’t be afraid to take up something as uncool as the clarinet because you’ll make a career out of it!

70s pub session: Paul Simon, James Taylor, Carole King and my mum at the Overflow, Yorkhill.

The Overflow – Yorkhill
Pauline today

Work

court in the act (part 1)

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By George Cheyne: Glasgow March 2021

It was the same ritual every Monday morning in that summer of 1976, ever since the “train incident” traumatised my mum.

She’d look me up and down as I was leaving for work, her eyes pleading with me once more… but this time with feeling.

“Make sure you’ve got your spare jacket and cap with you,” she’d say. Every-Bloody-Monday.

Admittedly, this piece of sage advice as I was heading out the door was hardly up there with: “Make sure you’ve got clean underwear on – you might get run over by a bus.”

But it meant everything to mum. She needed to know I’d packed the extra clothes as I headed off to Dumbarton Sheriff Court on Mondays to do my job as a 17-year-old cub reporter for a local newspaper.

This was the halcyon days of All The Presidents Men, the true-life movie about how reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein helped bring down the Nixon administration following the Watergate scandal.

However, mum’s inspiration for making sure I had a spare jacket and cap tucked away, lent itself more to 1960s Cold War spy dramas than a film about a 1970s newspaper exposé.

She had been jumpy ever since I was threatened by two thugs on the train back from Dumbarton after covering a court two months before – and insisted I take this cunning disguise along to avoid any repeat.

Monday mornings at the sheriff court was a regular gig for me because there were plenty of good news stories to be picked up for The Clydebank Press back then.

Anyone who had been banged up over the weekend in Clydebank would be taken to Dumbarton Sheriff Court for a plea hearing. Plead guilty and you were dealt with there and then, plead not guilty and a trial date was set.

I would go down there, ferret around in the clerk’s office to see what relevant cases were coming up and then take my front-row seat to watch the wheels of justice turn.

This particular day my two fellow train travellers had been in court to see their brother sent down for six months after a vicious street assault and had obviously been for a few cocktails to mull things over.

So far, so normal. But then fate put the three of us in the same carriage for the train journey back to Clydebank.

I recognised them straight away but thought no more about it as I began scribbling away in my notebook.

In hindsight, this wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made.

Two stops later the brothers sidled over to my seat and, with obvious intent, one slipped in beside me and the other across from me. Neat pincer movement, huh?

The one opposite said: “I know you…you were in court this morning. What paper do you work for?”

By now – too late, of course – I realised the folly of using my notebook on the train, so I plumped for my best completely-baffled look as I tried to convince them they had the wrong guy.

“Don’t gie’s it – I recognise yir jaiket,” said my interrogator, “Who do you work for?”

The jacket reference threw me. Why did he pick up on that..did it stand out that much..what was wrong with it..did I still have the receipt? So many questions, so little time.

I’d run out of wriggle room. In my head, I was going to say: “Bob Woodward, Washington Post…how can I help you?” But out my mouth came: “Clydebank Press.”

The glance between the two brothers told me I’d made a big mistake giving out this information so freely. What was I thinking?

Anyway, it became pretty obvious what the two of them were thinking. “We don’t want that story about our brother going in the paper,” said my opposite number as he casually flicked a Bic lighter on and off.

I considered putting across a measured argument about freedom of the press, how we were the eyes and ears of the public and how justice had to be seen to be done – but that self-righteous stance only lasted about a nano-second.

Understandably, thoughts of self-preservation kicked in instead and I mumbled something about how that decision wasn’t up to me.

“Aye, but if you don’t write anything then it cannae  go in,” came the reply.

Trust me to get accosted by two guys who seem to have thought the whole thing through to a logical conclusion. Woodward and Bernstein never had to put up with this shit.

The stand-off – and I use the term loosely because in reality it was two twenty-something hard men going up against a teenager who had no aces up the sleeve of his distinctive-looking jacket – ended when the train pulled in to Dalmuir Station.

They were getting off and I was staying on. There was still time for the obligatory last word from the so-far silent brother: “No story, right! Remember…we know where you work.”

The point was rammed home as he jabbed my arm for every one of the last five syllables. 

Message understood. I got off at the next stop, trudged into the office and unloaded the whole dilemma to my boss.

Only he didn’t see it as a dilemma. This was the 70s, the publish-and-be-damned era, so he said: “We can’t give in to these people, George. Write it up big.” Then an afterthought: “Mmm, I can see how the jacket gave you away.”

That jacket again. Clark Kent never had to put up with this shit.

The story went in the paper that Friday and I spent a lot of time looking over my shoulder whenever I left the office – but thankfully nothing ever came of the threats.

Two things happened after that.
I passed my driving test a few months later so that meant I could hightail it out of Dodge every Monday in safety…and I never wore that bloody jacket again!