Yer 'tis
Mike 'My
Disc'* Oxlong finishes off
The Fab Carruthers Brothers.
PART 2:
All good things come to an end.
Fortunately, so do
most bad ones.
Unbridled
The landau drew to a halt, neatly positioned centrally between
the two exquisite Da Vinci statues gracing either side of the
marble steps leading up to the principal entrance. We alighted
and stood a moment, drinking in the view from the house, looking
beyond the fountains to the gardens, then idly watched as the
coachman unbridled and led away the team of unicorns. "We
did want Pegasi - or is it Pegasuses?" observed C. the
younger, "It would've saved time, not having to go around
the Grand Canyon and 1906 San Francisco Earthquake sections if,
which of course isn't often, we were in a hurry. We searched high
and low for a set, at great cost in time and
money, I might add, but we only ever found the one, which after
all our intensive global efforts, we bought from a shifty looking
scouser at a car boot sale in Toxteth, for 25p."
"Peggy, as we call him, lives over at the other side of the
park in our Athenaeum area now. Peggy's the winged horse by the
way, not the dodgy Liverpudlian - although I'm sure I caught a
glimpse of that same ruffian skulking in the Garden Of Eden zone
last Thursday.
But to get back to the point, when I talk to Pegs, he seems happy
enough, especially for someone who has to share with Medusa,
Cyclops and The Minotaur - they can be extremely ill-mannered and
have some pretty boorish habits. Coincidentally, we only found
one each of those too, and in pretty poor,
in fact terrible, condition. It's a good job our Auntie Doris, a
wonderful woman of endless talent, is a dab hand with the needle
and strong thread - says she took lessons from a central European
doctor, a stitching expert, -Victor somebody or other; she also
learnt to change a fuse and install a five thousand amp consumer
unit from him."
Steaming
Once inside the house, a brisk twenty minute walk took us from
the cavernous reception hall along seemingly endless corridors,
to one of the intermediate sitting rooms, where we settled into
plush macro armchairs. Jervis the butler then entered and served
us with his hot steaming vessel of world renowned, exclusively
imported, C. Bros Exotic Blend festive tea, together with several
indescribably delicious slices of what C. the elder called, in
another reference to her infinite flair, as "Auntie Doris'
extra special party cake; a deliciously subtle
blend of sponge piquantly enhanced with the rich aromas set free from
finely ground almonds, tempered with the velvet smoothness of
vanilla and cream, but enlivened by the distinct tang of reserve
cognac and certain secret natural herbs".
Auntie Doris' moist
sponge
Shortly after several cups of exotic festive tea, and a few more
large mouthfuls of Auntie Doris' delectably moist sponge than
perhaps was good for one, try as I might, I could not prevent my
mind from wandering. I began to think how the tables had been
turned between the current situation and the interview with the
esteemed maestro Toots. As opposed to noticing an unexplainable
deterioration in the interviewee, as had been the case with
Toots, this time it was I who began to feel somewhat confused and
bedazzled; possibly as a result of the constant exposure to such
a plethora of strange, nevertheless attractive, stimuli I had
received since my arrival; but whatever the reason, my
concentration was not as it should have been.
Cobblers
However, I did my best to proceed with the business in hand, but
found myself becoming slowly and inexorably consumed by a strong
creative urge, which took the form of an overwhelming desire to
sketch the two C's; to capture them on paper as they appeared to
me at that moment. Having to hand (as always) my pro.
journalist's essential kit of hi-liter and luridly coloured felt
tipped pens, I soon accomplished this. The idea was to slake my
distracting and insistent whimsical thirst; thus, hopefully,
clearing my mind, enabling me to re-focus and finely hone my
razor sharp analytical abilities that slice straight through the
cobblers into the core of the nitty-gritty, which are normally,
as every reader knows, the most recognisable hallmark of my
regular journalistic output. The resulting illuminations seem a
little offbeat in the cool neon lighting and businesslike air
conditioned atmosphere (the windows are open today) of the MNE
(Swilly) Ltd offices but are, I think, endowed with a certain
nebulous quality, so I have included them here.
C. Major, as seen
by Mike Oxlong
Intercourse
As for the interview proper, it appears I have mislaid all my
notes - did I make any? I must have - I always do, after all, it
is my job! To add to the general disarray, my recollection of
post exotic tea events and discussions seem not a little muddled.
I do know we had much intercourse, covering a multitude of
subjects. When I left several days (as I believe it was) later, I
felt The Brothers had a true grasp on the understanding of the
meaning of life, which for a short period I had shared, though
all this rare and tenuous knowledge has now vanished beyond the
outer limits of my perception. All I have left is a vague recollection of the Fabs quoting
Toots Earl as the main influence on their
musical careers - a hazy
half-memory of C. Minor's comment: "Toots is a genius, he's
the main man and we still love him, in spite of the fact he stole
all our stuff . . . . . no, all, not just
the music and songs."
C. Minors, as
almost seen by Mike Oxlong
Feeling myself
Before I left, some time (days? weeks?) later, when I was feeling
myself a little more, the bro's did admit to teaching Toots a
lesson in a bid to help him overcome his problems with the
recidivistic and antisocial side of his character, in such a way
that his usual 'condition' (causing him the inability to
distinguish one C. from another, despite being familiar with them
for countless years), prevented him from being able to bear a
grudge against either one of them. Although I was reliably
informed there has been no spoken reference to the crime or
punishment since, I am certain Toots has never forgotten (unlike
practically everything else) the redress, as the Carrutherly
admonition is almost without doubt referred to in one of Toots'
many songs from his vast collection of masterpieces dealing with
the pithy side of life; Crippled With Love; which sadly is not
featured on the current album; but I quote from verse 2, line 1:
It wasn't funny when
my honey
did a runner with another,
It hurt so much it broke my heart
I was later to discover
it was one of the Carruther brothers,
I could never tell them apart . . . .
© Toots Earl 1991
The complete lack of any
other record, written or remembered, of the in-depth study I
surely must have made of the 'Cruvs'
motivations and life's work, leads me, in lieu, to refer to a
past incident which for me, says everything that can possibly be
said concerning the music of The Fabulous Carruthers Brothers:
Huh, I
could never tell 'em apart.
Balmy
I recall a beautiful,
balmy summer's evening; the final day of the
annual big one, and more superb than ever: Gunnersbury Festival
'99. Toots and The Band, electrifying as ever, were giving a
particularly pulsating performance.
Pulsating at Gunnersbury '99.
All in all, it was an
uncommonly pleasant night for a stroll. I meandered slowly
through the enraptured throng, feeling very dapper; in fact, a
veritable Mr. Festival, being fully kitted out with every
essential fashion accessory. My matching pair of brand new,
non-perforated latest issue Tesco bags, tops tied firmly high
above the ankle, gave me the warm self confident glow of one who
knows he is being stared at, but only with respectful admiration.
This footwear was suavely complemented by the slightly
threadbare, Nondescript Grown, or perhaps Nondescript Brey,
original World War II utility blanket that was 'casually' draped
around my shoulders. Almost like the Carruthers Brothers, for the
layman, it's difficult to tell the two fabulous colourways apart
(I think I may have nearly made a little joke there, but I'm not
certain). Finely woven from only the wiriest of wools, this
pinnacle of the bedding maker's craft, often called the 'Pride of
Yorkshire', is an absolute must for any dedicated and modish
festival goer. A chap calling himself Boggy did try to convince me
these desirable collector's items were worn only for practical
reasons, but their ability to absorb 107 times their own weight
in water during a 14 second light shower [ see Science
Journal, May 1944 ] , and their tog value of minus 12
[ Kite Mark, BS113 ], set against their
strong aesthetic appeal and obvious chic, altogether make a
nonsense of this theory.
Gunnersbury, main
arena
To reinforce my case, according to recently released wartime
government papers, before Barnes Wallace developed the bouncing
bomb, a triple point plan was mooted at the Ministry of Defence:
in a daring daylight raid, a bomber squadron would drop more than
a thousand WD blankets into German dams, followed by a second
wave of powerful aircraft flying at 100 feet, all fitted with
drag-lines and hooks to remove the blankets, and so the water. The
blanket laden lines would then be released over military
installations at various points on the return trip to Blighty,
the massive weight destroying the targets, at the same time
dispelling the valuable water.
The plan was soon abandoned however, as on the first day's
trials, a single sodden blanket hooked by a stripped down and
supercharged Lancaster immediately dragged the aircraft to the
ground, killing the pilot and crew.
Because of this reverse in the blanket bombing strategy, it was
decided that two morale-boosting anthems (lifted from guess
who?), due for release in conjunction with a massive propaganda
campaign centred around the hoped for triumphant return from a
successful raid, should have their working titles; 'There'll Be
Blan-kets Over The White Cliffs Of Dover' and 'How Do you Like-
Our Knitting, Mr Hitler?' changed. But I digress.
A corner of the camp site, Gunnersbury
To add to my burgeoning
apparel pride, the practise of a newly found skill, acquired
after only a few days intensive circumstantial training, served
to increase my feeling of self satisfaction; I was fast becoming
an expert in the avoidance arts; skipping deftly through rapidly
multiplying shoals of escaped turds with an effortless,
Astaire-like nonchalance.
I was just congratulating myself on executing a split second,
technically perfect Torville triple toe loop to soar gracefully
beyond a cunningly submerged Mr Whippee, when I came across an
utterly transfixed Moose Springreen, rhythm ace extraordinaire,
almost as legendary as the brothers of bravura themselves.
At the risk of boring the cognisanti, I insert here, only for the
benefit of high court judges, ladies of a certain age with light
blue or pale pink hair, stray fans of Chris de Aarrgh and his
ilk, untrendy vicars (scarce, I know) and sundry uninformed not
quite cool types who may have happened upon this article; Moose
is the superstar drummer with kickin' northern glam-rockers The
Pink Zeppelin.
With his gaping mouth, lolling tongue and fixed staring eyes, I
first thought Moose had become stuck fast in the mud and starved
to death, but it was not so; on closer inspection, it became
obvious he was thoroughly knocked out by the band. When I finally
managed to break and enter his hypnotic trance, he remarked
"Eh oop, Mike. . . bloody stinks round 'ere, doonit?"
He drifted off for another moment, then snapped himself out of
his reverie and commented awe-fully; "Jus' listen to them
Carroothers broothers man, sooch incredible poewer, "
Moose accompanied this statement with an
almost disbelieving, slight side to side shaking of the head.
"it teks me straight back to '73 - you should remember'em,
Mike, - dead now, o' course; - rhythm section of t' Aussie-Jewish
band, fan-tastic they were. . . -
Aye" - (said with an air of mildly begrudged admiration and
resignation, accentuated by a single sideways movement of the
head, then he continued), "I've got ta say it, lad, I've
'eard nobody like this, ab-so-lute-ly nowt as explosive since
Rodjaliti Svartz and Bluey Zarsov int' ole Brick
Shibboleth."
I could only nod solemnly in
agreement.
As a footnote, I must add something
that has become so blindingly crystal clear to me that I am left
dumb-struck by the deafening resonance of the realisation; in my
entire journalistic career, which has by no means been humdrum
(even my stint with Pig Breeder And Fancier), my trip to Dunnet
Hall and indeterminate sojourn with the Fabulous Carruthers
Brothers was without any doubt whatsoever, the most memorable
experience I have ever forgotten.
I leave you with the
words of the great songwriter, poet (says he - but by now you
know where he stole all his stuff), and part time statistician,
Dylan (Magic
Roundabout):
˛'The Fab Two,
obviously
better than The Fab Four, over 55% as good, but only half as
many.'
©
Mike Oxlong, June 2001.
*You may be
interested to know I picked up the nickname 'My Disc' Oxlong
during my apprenticeship with the fanzine of the same name, where
in just 7 years I rose from junior tea boy to become director of
trollies. The sobriquet fell into general disuse when
inexplicably, people kept confusing me with the famous owner of
that superior organ, Ron Iscox-Tulong. - M.O.
˛Also variously
attributed to Toots Earl and/or The Fabulous Carruthers Brothers.
In his obsessive quest, the next challenge to Oxlong's brilliantly
lit enquiring mind has taken him in search of John St.Clair Lang,
king of the guitar, who, they say, is more difficult to track down
than Toots Earl, or even one of his hits. Be assured, Mike will get
to the absolute bottom of it! Keep your eye on Music News & Echo
(Swilly) for his next incisive report, which will be published as
soon as he returns.
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