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".

lost in space?

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.

bass-man

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."

drum-man

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. sing-man

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. night-play

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

air-play 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

rubbish

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.

string-man 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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