Introduction

The Music Scene of the
Late 1950s and Early 1960s

Zoë Howe

It might not surprise you to know that water will loom large in this book. After all, we’re not just talking about an island in the Thames, but an island that, in its 1950s and 60s heyday, rocked so exuberantly that the river itself was said to burst through the bouncing floorboards as the bands played and the crowd jived. Joining in, no doubt. But beyond Eel Pie, the emerging British beat scene itself could only have taken root thanks to a healthy bit of watering – literally.

The beat boom was inspired by sweaty, high octane skiffle and rock ‘n’ roll and a dose of the swampy, emotional blues of the Mississippi delta, brought over to British ports by American GIs and merchant seamen (some say American records were used as ballast in the ships that came over, soon to be sold to eager, bequiffed teenagers who hung out by the docks). These were the same ports that would soon receive the artists themselves who, having been heard on vinyl via this organic musical grapevine, would swiftly become the heroes of the day.

Cities such as Liverpool, Newcastle, Belfast and London, therefore, were early pioneers, merging the new sounds they were exposed to with British style and a flurry of other beloved influences such as folk, skiffle, pop and even swing. The harmonies of folk, the energy and, crucially, the backbeat of rock ‘n’ roll and a pop sensibility all came into play. Bands were formed, songs and sounds were copied and adapted, clubs were started and the music reached even greater numbers of willing ears.

Liverpool’s Merseybeat movement, the launch-pad for the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, the Searchers and many others, is perhaps the example that immediately springs to mind when the subject of British beat music is raised, followed by the names of late night hubs such as the iconic Marquee in London’s Soho, or Liverpool’s Cavern. But while Eel Pie Island’s place within the legacy of the beat explosion is rather less vaunted, it should not be underestimated in its importance for fostering and nurturing the scene, and its many admirers, in a unique and unforgettable way. There really was something in the water.

Before R&B and rock ‘n’ roll really gripped the Brits, trad jazz had these sceptred isles in something of a fever. It provided a whirling maelstrom of jubilant sound, wilder and more free than much of the staid, sanitised pop music of the time that seemed better suited to entertaining children than being the background to a young adult getting their rocks off. Lita Roza’s ‘How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?’ was a huge hit. Say no more. Smooth crooners like Sinatra and Perry Como also dominated the charts and, no disrespect to the gentler moments of Ol’ Blue Eyes and co, you couldn’t tear at your clothes, shake your hair loose and stamp yourself into a frenzy to ‘Catch A Falling Star’. If it wasn’t for Gene Vincent, or the raunchy sound of black American voices belonging to the likes of Little Richard, Etta James and Ray Charles (or those that loved Black American music such as Elvis Presley)… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Fortunately, in 1950s Britain, trad jazz bridged the gap and, crucially, introduced the blues. As well as being fun and energetic, trad was accessible. There weren’t many places across Britain that didn’t have a club or pub where you could hear ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ being blasted out. One of the earliest trad jazz clubs was started by the clarinetist Cy Laurie – a musician whose band would frequently play Eel Pie Island and who claimed to be the reincarnation of fellow clarinet player Johnny Dodds, even though Dodds was still alive when Cy was well into his teens. We needn’t go into that now.

Cy’s club was based in Ham Yard, Soho, a cul-de-sac that was home to a boxing gym, and was where the street traders from the market on Rupert Street could store their barrows; you had a few culture clashes going on there, literally in some cases. The club was famed for its all-nighters and general atmosphere of licentious sexual energy – in fact, it wasn’t unusual to hear of gig-goers claiming to have had rampant sex under the stage while the band was playing.

Jazz and rock ‘n’ roll clubs, coffee bars, dancehalls, they all attracted music-mad thrill-seekers, musicians, and, of course, horny American soldiers, who were key to this scene not only for bringing records from back home, but these snake-hipped GIs also brought dance steps over from across the ocean. Swing dancing and lindy-hopping, of course, came over during the Second World War, but later moves like the twist, the sugar push and the alligator were the dances that slowly replaced skip jiving in youth clubs and venues across the country, before taking off properly in the early 1960s.

However, in the early 1950s, the ‘teenager’, supposedly a