32. The night Aliens landed in Sipolilo

We never knew how The Chequers would be received when we played one of the more outlying towns. In some cases arriving at these places was like stepping back in time. They seemed rooted in some bygone age where 60’s music and fashion seldom ventured. The small farming community of Sipolilo, about 80 miles north of Salisbury, was one such town.

We had been booked to play at the Sipolilo Sports clubs annual 'dinner and dance' held at a hotel in town. 

When the club secretary called to engage our services she told us that we were an experiment. The trio who had played at every one the Club’s annual dinner and dance since day dot had cancelled but instead of booking another three piece - piano, double bass and drums - she thought she’d turn her back on convention, throw caution to the wind and try something new and hire a beat group. Us. The Chequers. 

...And then it started. At least twice a week for the month or so leading up to the engagement  the said club secretary would phone asking a myriad of questions such as: Did we play ‘real’ dance music adults could dance to - by which we took her to mean waltzes, cha-chas, rumbas, etc.   “Yes we did”. Did we understand that the majority of the people attending the dinner and dance  were over forty and played bowls?  “We do now and will most definitely take it into account”.   Did we amplify our instruments?  “Yes, we did. Why?"  Because the trio who usually played at the club's annual diner and dance never amplified their instruments and it could prove a problem with club members if the music was too loud. Lea explained that our amplifiers came with volume controls and we could turn them down to whatever level the members were happy with...Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...

...And so it went on. Lea would hold the phone away from his ear and when the secretary paused interjected with a “don’t worry, everything will be fine...it’ll be great”. The poor woman only wanted reassurance but her constant questioning should have flagged up warning signals.

The day of the Sipolilo Sports Club’s annual dinner and dance arrived and an hour and a half after leaving Salisbury we passed a sign that announced, ‘Sipolilo one mile’. 

A minute later we rounded a bend and there it was in all its majesty andslendour. I’m sure you have heard the joke, ‘the place was so small if you were driving through and blinked you’d miss it’. Well the joker who thought that one up had to be driving through Sipolilo at the time. It consisted of a few buildings clustered either side of the road. One of the buildings was the Hotel where we would be playing that night.

We pulled off the road into what we thought was the hotel’s parking lot which ran alongside the hotel.  It was full of cars, rows of cars, which for a back-of-beyond hotel was surprising in itself, but even more surprising was the fact that all the cars were covered in canvas tarpaulins... and were all facing a large white square painted on the hotel wall.

It turned out to be town’s drive-in cinema.

Farmers would drive their families into town in their 4 wheel drive Land Rovers park up and wandered round to the drive-in cinema side of the hotel, remove the tarpaulins from their more comfortable saloon cars, climbed in and watch the movie. When the movie was over they’d cover the saloon cars up again, jump into the Land Rovers and drive their families back to the farm.

Presumably the saloon cars were never used from one week to the next. It sounds unbelievable but it’s the gospel truth.

The hotel manager seemed ‘put out’ by our Beatle haircuts and kept “tut-tutting” and shaking his head as he led us into the garden where the dance was to be held.

Tables had been set up in a semi-circle around the 'dance floor', a large concreted area plastered smooth and painted red. The manager directed us to the stage which stood at the far end and with the parting shot, “I don’t know what they’re gonna think of you oikes”, left us to set up.

It was just before 8:00 pm when we left the room provide by the manager, dressed in our now familiar fake black leather trousers and jerkins, and made our way out the hotel into the garden. The place was packed. All the tables were taken and people stood around the outer perimeter. 

The reaction our appearance evoked could not have been bigger...and not in a good way...well only if stunned, suspicious, indignant, hostile silence is good. I kid you not, it was like we were a bunch of weird invading aliens who had landed in Sipolilo from some far flung planet. 

Hundreds of pairs of hostile, suspicious eyes followed us as we made our way across the dance floor to the stage...the only sound to be heard was the unnaturally loud 'click' of our Cuban heeled Chelsea boots on the concrete.  

Jumping onto the stage we picked up our guitars and switched on our amps. Lea climbed behind his drum and Jack picked up a tambourine. With a “one, two, three, four” we went straight into the Beatles' song “Hard Day Night”. Finishing we awaited the expected applause. Nothing...complete and utter silence. ‘Uh-oh’. We looked at each other, ‘so they don’t like the Beatles’. We went into a slow ballad, “Al Di La” an Italian song which Jack sang in Italian, or so we thought. Later when we had turned pro and playing in Cape Town an Italian guy came up to us after we had performed “Al Di La” and said Jack was singing gobbledegook...complete and utter nonsense.  It transpired that Jack couldn't be arsed to learn the Italian lyrics and had made up words he thought sounded Italian-ish. 

Anyway back to the Hotel in Sipolilo...after finishing a heartfelt version of “Al Di La”, again we were met with a deafening wall silence. We tried an instrumental with a cha-cha beat, “Never On A Sunday”. More of the same.  A waltz version of “Green Sleeves”, the Tudor classic, followed but again the audience just sat and stood staring at us.

Song after song and number after number was met with a disconcerting silence and aggressive stares. They didn't want music they wanted blood.

After thirty minutes of non-appreciation we announced we were taking a break. The club secretary hurried over in a complete flap and pleaded with us to do something.

“Like what?” we ask dejectedly. 

“How the hell should I know!” she hissed at us, “Yous are the bleedy musicians! Oh, God, I should never have hired yous. Never. What was I thinking? I must’ve been crazy, outta my mind”.

She looked around desperately at the somber crowd, “Maybe yous could try and play some Afrikaans music. How about Sarie Marais?"

We looked at her blankly.

"Ja, that's it," she continued. "Play Sarie Marais"

“I’m sorry, we don’t know Sarie Marais”, said Lea.

She stared at us in disbelief. “You must know Sarie Marais!  Everyone knows Sarie Marais”.

“I’m sorry but we don’t”, said Lea.

“I do”, piped up Hodge. “I know a whole bunch of bokkie songs. We used to do them with the speciality group I was in...I’ll give it a go if you want”.

So Hodge got back on stage picked up his guitar and accompanying himself he sang “Sarie Marais”.

The crowd went absolutely bonkers. They got up on mass and danced around the floor. When Hodge finished the song there was a deafening roar. Hodge immediately went into “Marching to Pretoria”...then "Jan Pierewiet".

We left Hodge to exhaust his vast repertoire of bokkie songs and took the rest of the night off.


Incidentally the Sipolilo Sports Club tried to book us for the following year...which we couldn't accept as in the interim we had turned “pro”.