The heading number blog (47 b) fits into the other blogs time- line between blog 47 and blog 48.
Seventeen-going-on-eighteen, one and a
half thousand miles from home and playing in a professional rock
band. No wonder I thought I was a man of the world... in fact, however, nothing could be
further from the truth. In reality I was extremely naive... as the following incident illustrates.
We were playing our regular Sunday Lunchtime Session at The Grand
Prix Night Club in Sea Point, Cape Town .
As usual the place was choker block. We had been playing for half an hour or so and announced we were going to 'take five'.
The Chequers on the tiny Grand Prix stage
As we extricated ourselves from the cramped stage we were approached by a half dozen girls who looked like they’d just stepped off the cover of Fab. (60’s Teen magazine).
As we extricated ourselves from the cramped stage we were approached by a half dozen girls who looked like they’d just stepped off the cover of Fab. (60’s Teen magazine).
They turned out to be hostesses who worked at the Moulin Rouge Night Club. The owner of the Moulin Rogue, Madame Marguerite, had asked them to accompany her to our session as she wanted to hear us play. Apparently Madame Marguerite thought we were terrific and wanted to buy us a drink. Anyone who thought The Chequers were terrific and offered to buy us a drink were considered our kind of people.
We followed the girls through the mass of bodies to a corner booth where an elderly woman sat nursing a cocktail. I say elderly, and at the time she certainly seemed so, but elderly to me 'then' doesn't equate to what I consider as elderly now…looking back in all probability Madame Marguerite was in her late thirties, early forties.
We followed the girls through the mass of bodies to a corner booth where an elderly woman sat nursing a cocktail. I say elderly, and at the time she certainly seemed so, but elderly to me 'then' doesn't equate to what I consider as elderly now…looking back in all probability Madame Marguerite was in her late thirties, early forties.
Anyway, Madame Marguerite invited us to
sit down sent one of her girls off for our drinks.
What follows speaks volumes of the staggering magnitude of my naivety. For it never occurred
to me, that this large, heavily made-up woman, with big
hair, big bust, big hairy hands and a large prominent ‘Adam’s Apple’...
... who spoke with a deep gravelly baritone voice, was a man. The thought never entered my head. I had never heard of a 'Transvestite'. Never. I was totally clueless.
... who spoke with a deep gravelly baritone voice, was a man. The thought never entered my head. I had never heard of a 'Transvestite'. Never. I was totally clueless.
As far as I was concerned women wore dresses. Madame Marguerite wore a dress therefore Madame Marguerite was
a woman.
We sat around lapping up the praises dished out by Madame Marguerite. "Wonderful, dear boys." "Marvelous, dear boys." "So talented, dear boys." Then she asked us if we’d ever consider leaving the
Grand Prix…adding because if we did the Moulin Rouge would welcome us with open arms.
I had a mental image of being welcomed with open arms by the hostesses at
the Moulin Rouge and it certainly appealed to me…and I'm guessing it appealed to the others as well.
Madame Marguerite must have sensed our interest because she invited
us to her club that night as her special guests…we couldn't wait.
That night we arrived at the Moulin Rouge Night Club and knocked
on the door. A small hatch slid open to reveal Madame Marguerite's beaming and heavily made up face.
With a husky, “Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, dear boys” the door was thrown open and we were ushered in.
With a husky, “Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, dear boys” the door was thrown open and we were ushered in.
What struck me first when I stepped into the Moulin Rouge was the lighting, by which I mean the lack of it. They had taken subdued lighting to a whole new level...basically a dim red glow which when combined with the smoke from countless cigarettes...it was hard to make anything out.
It seemed everybody always had a cigarette on the go in those days...and at 1/6d (7 pence) for twenty
Rothmans Kings Size who could blame us.
Being a kindly soul who tries to give people the benefit of the doubt - bear with me while I polish my halo - I would like to think Marguerite felt the subdued lighting gave the club real atmosphere but in all probability the reason was to hide the tatty décor.
Anyway, we were escorted to a table and plied with drinks…and
the drinks just kept on coming.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning Madame Marguerite
presented us with a sheet of paper. At first we thought it was a bill but it turned out to be a contract…a six month contract for the Chequers to play at
the Moulin Rouge six night a week, Monday to Saturday, plus Sunday Lunchtimes.
Marguerite’s hostesses were all over us, encouraging us to put our signatures to paper…I can’t remember if we did or not…but seeing as we never actually
ended up playing there I can’t see how we could have.
There is a coda to the story. All the hostesses lived in rooms above
the club. Madame Marguerite kept a tight rein on her girls...it seemed they provided other services to customers other than plying them drinks.
Anyway, Jack, who had his eye on one of the girls, arranged for her to leave her bedroom window open.
In the early hours of the morning Jack made his way furtively along the open corridor that ran the length of the block, found the open window and climbed in. A couple of minutes later he was out of there like a bat out of hell, butt naked, clutching his clothes.
Anyway, Jack, who had his eye on one of the girls, arranged for her to leave her bedroom window open.
In the early hours of the morning Jack made his way furtively along the open corridor that ran the length of the block, found the open window and climbed in. A couple of minutes later he was out of there like a bat out of hell, butt naked, clutching his clothes.
According to Jack he had peeped through the open window - seen what
he thought was his intended lying in bed - climbed through the
window, stripped off, and jumped in beside her.
Jack recounted how he slide his hand over the girl’s shoulder and instead of it being soft and smooth it felt wrinkly and decidedly hairy. The figure, according to Jack, gave a shocked and disconcertingly deep grunt of surprise sat up and switched on a bedside light ...and Jack found himself face to face with
a bald but otherwise extremely hairy Marguerite.
I'm sure you've noted that I have made capital of the crowds we attracted for our Sunday Lunch time sessions at the Grand Prix. Banged on about how they flocked in their droves to the club...something I'm sure Marguerite had noted and what prompted her offer. Recently, however, while writing this blog in fact, I have question this. Not that there were crowds - but why they came. Up until now I believed it was because they wanted to see and listen to us. But a gnawing doubt has entered my consciousness. Was the youth of Cape Town flocking to the Grand Prix on Sundays because The Chequers we were so darn good or was it because there was hardly anywhere else to go to on Sundays, if you were into rock music that is. In that respect Sundays were pretty dead in Cape Town and the Grand Prix was among only a handful of venues open, and who had a live group playing...although it pains me to say it I believe this to be the case.
I'm sure you've noted that I have made capital of the crowds we attracted for our Sunday Lunch time sessions at the Grand Prix. Banged on about how they flocked in their droves to the club...something I'm sure Marguerite had noted and what prompted her offer. Recently, however, while writing this blog in fact, I have question this. Not that there were crowds - but why they came. Up until now I believed it was because they wanted to see and listen to us. But a gnawing doubt has entered my consciousness. Was the youth of Cape Town flocking to the Grand Prix on Sundays because The Chequers we were so darn good or was it because there was hardly anywhere else to go to on Sundays, if you were into rock music that is. In that respect Sundays were pretty dead in Cape Town and the Grand Prix was among only a handful of venues open, and who had a live group playing...although it pains me to say it I believe this to be the case.
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