I’m making good
progress with the massive Beatles biog Tune
In, about which I posted a brief review last week, and I’ve now reached the
skiffle boom that gave birth to the Quarrymen, John’s first band. The touch
paper beneath skiffle was lit by Lonnie Donegan, a tight-fisted Scotsman whose recording
of ‘Rock Island Line’ reached number eight in early 1956 and encouraged John to
get his first guitar. Lonnie, the banjo player in Chris Barber’s jazz band, was
paid a £3.50 session fee by Decca for the track, a source of deep resentment to
him after it became a hit and which led him to forsake Decca and sign with Pye. I thought he was
brilliant until he switched to making novelty records. Much later in life I had
two close encounters with Lonnie, both unusual to say the least.
The first occurred circa 1989 in an Italian restaurant in Brentford in
West London called La Rosetta, where I had a nodding acquaintance with the
proprietor, Roberto by name, who used to run a similar establishment round the
corner from me in Shepherds Bush. One Friday night the future Mrs C and I
decided to take a chance on his new place. The meal was great, but I was
bemused by the fact that the canned music being played was Lonnie’s greatest
hits, over and over again, not what you would expect to hear in an Italian
joint in Brentford in 1989. A bit odd, I thought. Then I chanced to go to the
loo and passed a solitary diner in a corner. I know that face, I thought. It’s
Lonnie Donegan himself. What’s going on? Emboldened by the wine I’d consumed, I
approached him and confirmed his identity. He told me he lived nearby and dined
at La Rosetta regularly. “Why are they playing your records?” I asked. “Because
I told them to,” he replied.
The second occurred in the late '90s at Nomis Studios around the back
of Olympia where Donal Gallagher, younger brother of Rory, had an office. Donal
had a casual managerial relationship with Lonnie at this time and had
approached me because Lonnie wanted to write his autobiography and needed a publisher. A meeting was arranged and Lonnie was present. First
we discussed potential ghost-writers, it being clear that Lonnie was not up to
actually writing it himself. Then we discussed timing and, eventually, money.
Lonnie stated that his book would definitely outsell David Niven’s The Moon’s A Balloon and Bring On The Empty Horses, two books he
evidently admired. “But they sold millions,” I pointed out. “So will mine,” he
said confidently. I offered him an advance of £10K. He demanded £100K, all paid up
front, excluding the ghost writer’s fee. End of meeting.
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