How Danny Spooner Saved My Life

     In the mid 60’s, my best friend Jo, and myself were a bit lost.  We read poetry, listened to Bob Dylan, had deep angst about the questions posed in his songs and about the state of the world around us.  The Vietnam war was raging, some of our friends were conscripted to fight and none of us believed it would do any good.  Monks were igniting themselves to demonstrate for peace and our hearts were torn.  We were teaching ourselves how to play guitar and questioned the values of the people who were running the country and our lives.  We were very confused – we were teenagers.

     But what did we do in the weekends?  Our peers were divided between Mods, Rockers, Sharpies, Skinheads and Squares – we didn’t know of any other and didn’t fit any of them.  During the early 60’s we had followed the Jazz scene but it had petered out when the Fab Four and Carnaby Street took over.  So, at a loss, we found ourselves in a queue outside Kew Civic Centre waiting to enter a Mod dance.  A girl ahead of us was chewing gum and whining incessantly to her girlfriend about some guy who was bugging her.  ‘And he said he was gunna do it and I just spewed!  ‘Cos he was spewin’ about that other shit, and I sez to that mole….’  Jo and I just exchanged looks.  Once inside it didn’t get much better.  ‘Let’s get out of here and grab a coffee,’ Jo said, ‘I think there’s a café down the road.’  She led me to the Colonial Inn.  As we stepped inside, the deep bluesy voices of Graham Squance and Kenny White held us fixated.  Ken was playing slide on a sleek silver Dobro while Graham thumped out a rhythm on a Gibson with his R.M. Williams keeping time on the wooden floor.  A harmonica played in a neck brace bent the sweetest haunting blues notes and all that had gone before melted away as we embraced the music, the room and the long haired people in it.  In the break we overheard intelligent conversations around us and then another surprise - Margret Roadknight got up to sing with the duo and we were further blown away!  This Amazon woman with a gutsy deep resonating voice had soul issuing forth that totally captivated the room. There was no turning back.  We enquired and found that Frank Traynor’s was where we could hear more of the same and became ardent followers of the Folk Scene.

     But so far I’ve only talked about how Ken, Graham and Margret turned my life around.  So how did Danny Spooner save my life?  Each weekend I met up with friends at Traynor’s and heard such fine musicians as Declan Affley, Brian Mooney, Marg and Dave Howells, Peter Dickie, Brian Brophy, Dave Lumsden, Martin Wyndham Read, Kenny White and Graham Squance, Margret Roadknight, Shayna Karlin, Bruce Stuchbery, Fiona Lawrence, Mick Counihan, Gutbucket Jug Band, Danny Spooner and Gordon McIntyre and of course Frank himself with his band.  In the breaks between singers, we’d head off to the International Hotel in Exhibition Street for a beer (probably 1965, before they barred the long-hairs whose patronage had provided the money to redecorate).  One particular night, Lynne Stone and myself were caught up at the pub and the main mob had already made their way back to Traynor’s.  Still laughing over whatever had detained us, we made our way along the deserted seedy lanes to Little Lonsdale Street.  As we peered up that dimly lit narrow alley we could make out a bunch of people ahead but they were approaching us, not disappearing into Traynor’s like we expected.  As we got closer we realized they were a gang of skinheads – steel capped bovver boots, a gallery of tatts, scars, missing teeth and their faces looked set with grim intent as they trudged nearer.  Lynne clutched at my arm and whispered, ‘Bloody hell! Teana…’  They were heading straight towards us on the footpath so, with some trepidation, we tried to cross the road to allow them past.  Of course, they formed a line across the road as well.  We returned to the footpath but so did they and by now they had us bailed up and surrounded us.  To say that Lynne and I almost lost our water tight integrity at this point would be no exaggeration and Lynne was gripping my arm like a vice.  One of the fifteen with bulging biceps like Johnny Weismuller’s stepped forward and said, ‘So you’re alone tonight girls?’ and it didn’t sound very friendly.

     I calculated our chances of being heard inside Traynor’s if we screamed and dismissed it because a performer was already playing.  We were only about five metres from that door to safety but with walls of stone and brick the odds were against us.  Suddenly something made me greet the leader with a huge grin and I said, ‘Have you ever heard the story of the Three Piddle-igs and the Wig Wag Bolf?’  Well that pulled his bovvers up short!  His face registered confusion and he glanced at his mates before he said to me, ‘Whaaat??’ ‘It’s a story,’ I repeated and the words were rapidly firing out of me like a speed freak, ‘Once aton a pine there were three piddle-igs and they decided to hilt themselves a blouse…’  This was definitely a do or die effort.  I had listened to Danny Spooner tell this story many times and loved it so much I knew it off by heart and out it all came.  There were no gaps.  I didn’t give the guy so much as a second to butt in and you know what?  Those skinheads actually smiled and some laughed and amazingly, they eagerly crowded around to listen to the whole damn thing!  The only one who still looked uncomfortable and confused was bulgey biceps.

     As they moved about I noticed a gap and with Lynne in tow, backed through it while ending with, ‘…and the bolf chimmed down the slidney and fell straight into a bot of wot hoiling porter!’  They fell about laughing and didn’t bother to come after us as we raced to Traynor’s door and leaped inside.  ‘Blimey!  That was close!’ Lynne blurted out and we nervously giggled.  ‘Shush!!’ said Don Carlos, sternly giving us a harsh stare because someone was performing.  They were very reverent at Traynor’s.

     Thanks Danny me dear.  What do they say about the inner child….?