SESSION shenanigans
The studio guitarist’s guide to happiness and personal fulfilment, as related by session ace Mitch Dalton. This month: Everybody dance!
“Everybody dance, do-do-do
Clap your hands, clap your hands Everybody dance, do-do-do” (Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1809-1892. Or Nile Rodgers, 1952- present. Not sure.)
Back in the day, where would an impecunious plectrist have been without the all the gigs that offered employment to bands for dances, weddings and anniversaries? And, since the dark day of the DJ had yet to dawn, music-making was digital only in the anatomical sense. If your alcohol-fuelled, family feud-ridden, acrimony-filled function needed musical accompaniment, it had to be either live or lacking. Hence the opportunity to fill your Ryman’s career-to-view diary with two or three jobs per weekend, a fortnight of pre-Christmas office orgies and well remunerated New Year’s Eve descents to the depths of Auld Lang Syne, The Conga, and Twist And Shout. Throw a few hours of teaching in to the mix and - Good Golly Miss Molly! - you were earning a living through music. Or The Birdie Song, as we called it.
You and your tuxedo would show up with enough time to find the venue, park where you could and drag a hernia-inducing Fender Twin onstage. Whether the venue was The Dorchester Hotel or the room above The Dog And Duck, the same principles applied. You’d play some tasteful bossa novae and instantly be invited to turn down, even as the first morsel of smoked salmon was impaled on the cutlery.
However, since no one was listening, there were often ample opportunities to indulge in some sophisticated jazz stylings. (Bandleader -“Hey Brian, what was that chord you played at the turnaround to ‘Wave’?” Pianist
- “Er, A13 with a flattened 9th.” Bandleader - “On a barmitzvah?”). As the last morsels of creme brûlée were washed down with a perfectly unacceptable Sauternes, the orchestra would repair to the kitchen and feast upon a platter of ham and cheese sandwiches.
Dancing would then commence, punctuated by barely coherent identikit speeches, a raffle, a row concerning the table plan and occasional fisticuffs on eventful nights. And that was just the band.
Having vowed never to repeat this horror until the following evening, the mood would be lifted by the pressing of crisp notes into sweaty palms. My experience is that, while E45 lotion has its place, cash is nature’s own emollient.
Which is how I came to answer an ad in the classified columns of Melody Maker and join The Robin Hurst Four. The delightful Mr H ran our combo in traditional style. We sported music stands emblazoned with his moniker, a PA system which combined the dead weight of a cruise liner with the inability to publicly address a house mouse, dubious blue dinner jackets and a collection of sheet music alphabetically arranged in plastic ring binders marked ‘Quicksteps’, ‘Waltzes’, ‘Foxtrots’, ‘Pops’, ‘Latin’ and ominously, ‘Specials’. My debut took place at The Thatched Barn in Borehamwood. It was notable particularly for the location - on the first floor, with no lift. It was a dinner and dance for Alfa Romeo and was the catalyst for me to motor off the next morning to trade in my valve amp for something a tad more portable. I’ll say this - I learn fast. The gig itself was a revelation. Everything I played sounded dreadful. The bass consisted of a collection of dull atonal thuds and the pianist seemed to have drawn upon Karlheinz Stockhausen and Pierre Boulez as his main influences. From the drum chair,
Robin intoned Moonlight Becomes You, There’s A Small Hotel and Call Me Irresponsible both mellifluously and obliviously. A baptism of dire, you might say.
Matters improved incrementally, to be sure. Robin wanted out of the airport hotel and the outer London function room circuits. The bass guitar and piano chairs were filled by Andy Grossart and Brian Dee respectively. And it didn’t get much better than that. The Four became a Five and then a Six with the addition of saxophone (Martin Dobson or Martin Hathaway) or trumpet (Harry Beckett or Mark Chandler) plus a variety of superb female guest vocalists and their personal problems. The West End was duly conquered and we resided at The Ritz Hotel at weekends for an extended period.
Latterly my career took me in altogether different directions, but I still played with the RH5 or 6 for old time’s sake if available. And when Andy Ross and then Laurie Holloway came calling to the original, clearly less disciplined version of Come Dancing, I had acquired a fairly good grip on what to expect, albeit in the more pressurised environment of live TV. And so it has continued in randomly peripatetic fashion, 12 arena tours of ‘Strictly’ included.
Thus, it came to pass last month that the gentleman that is Ross Mitchell took me to Moscow with his excellent orchestra for The World Professional And Amateur Ballroom Championships. I must admit that it came as a gratifying compliment when - after sightreading my way through every permutation and combination of styles from Santana to Sinatra - our terrific drummer, friend and colleague Jeff Lardner turned to me and remarked, “Hmm... you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
I have, Jeff. I so have.
THE SAME PRINCIPLES APPLIED: YOU’D PLAY SOME TASTEFUL BOSSA NOVAE AND INSTANTLY BE INVITED TO TURN DOWN
For more on Mitch and his musical exploits with the Studio Kings, go to: www.mitchdalton.co.uk