March 11-12 — The Iron Door Club | ‘Rock Around The Clock’ 12-hour all-night gig | Liverpool’s very first ‘Saturday night and Sunday morning’ rock session for Sam Leach.
“LADIES AND GENTLEGERMS, welcome to the Iron Door Club and ‘Rock Around the Clock’…Liverpool’s first ever all-night rock session. Now, to open the show, we proudly present the best group ever to come out of…Where did you say you come from, lads?”
Rock Around The Clock
Terry McCann, minder-cum-compère, threw a wink at his boss, Sam Leach, standing down by the side of the stage. Johnny Rocco and The Jets were making their first professional appearance anywhere and Sam was as nervous as a newly neutered cat the band wouldn’t be up to scratch. But there was no time for a snappy comeback line. The Jets’ drummer bashed a cymbal, yelled “Onetoofreefawr!” and led the group straight into ‘Rock Around the Clock’.
Terry laughed, ran off stage, waving to the crowd.
“You know, Tel,” Sam shouted. “I’m sick to death of that bloody song, but they don’t sound too bad, do they? Clever of them to start off with it, I should’ve thought of it myself and I will next time.”
Sam Leach
The club had barely been open half an hour and the dance floor was already one heaving mass of beat fans. Sam shook his head in wonder. “I knew they’d come in droves if I gave them what they wanted.” He waved at a poster on the wall. Read it aloud. “‘Twelve groups for twelve hours. Price: only six shillings and sixpence’. But that’s me. Isn’t it? Sam Leach, the only Liverpool music promoter who’ll never get rich, because he always gives it straight back to the fans. Who else has the balls to turn this old ‘Trad-jazz only’ dive into Merseyside’s very first Mecca of rock ‘n’ roll?”
“Nobody’s got your balls, Sam,” Terry said. “And even if they did, none of them have got a pair of trousers big enough to fit them in.”
Sam sniffed. Nodded. How true. “I don’t know how much I’m paying you, Tel, but give yourself a bonus.” Suddenly feeling peckish, he turned, his eyes alighting on a fresh-faced teenager with an unruly mop of hair. He called the lad over. “Here, Spike. I know I said you being the new boy meant you had to get your feet wet, but I didn’t mean for you to go swimming in your soddin’ clothes.
“When I sent you outside to check on the size of the queue you obviously didn’t see the great, big, bloody umbrella by the front door did you? You’ve got to learn to use your head in the music business. Anyroad…do us another favour, will yers? Pop upstairs and get Tel and me some hot dogs…lashings of tomato sauce, onions…whole lotta mustard. And get one down your neck, too. You look like you could do with it.”
Beat fans were still pouring down the stairs into the huge basement cellar that served as the dance floor. Glory be, thought Sam, there must be well over five hundred of the lovely buggers and The Beatles aren’t even due on until eleven. He turned and shouted into Terry’s ear, “You know, Tel, I think it’s going to be a very successful night. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, I hear the sound of cash registers a-ring-a-ding-dinging.”
Sam sang along to ‘Hound Dog’, the Jets’ third number—and when Spike handed him a hot dog in a paper wrapper, he paused, curled his lip and mumbled, “Thank you, very much.” Then he bit the head off his hot dog and yelled, “This is the life…rock ‘n’ roll!”
Check back for Part 2
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The One After 9:09
A DISAFFECTED LIVERPOOL TEENAGER BECOMES INVOLVED WITH THE BEATLES WHEN HE’S HIRED TO HELP PREVENT THE MURDER OF THE GROUP’S MANAGER, BRIAN EPSTEIN.
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