In the serious world of quizzing you're labelled mentally deficient if lacking knowledge of - or interest in - pop music. There! I have stated my stance.
I sense readership rumblings. "OMG! Get a life. LOL."
Not really, because as a youngster I remember my toes curling to match my hair as I saw a newsreel of young Frank Sinatra warbling I'll Never Smile Again to the background screams of chubby-faced bobby soxers.
The age of fawning fans was ushered in.
It was hinted that - God forbid! - those young lungs were lubricated by PR cash. Anyway, this article was inspired by the recent wave of antique road show bands reforming to relive their previous glories. It's based on personal experience so read on, if you must.
The Man in the Bar
When in the 1970s I relocated to North Surrey, as exercise I walked to a riverside bar on the Thames. In a corner sat a man clutching a banjo (or maybe ukulele), with two musical compatriots. One was a trumpeter and another, whose instrument I forget, except to say it wasn't a trombone.
The banjo man suddenly broke into song and his cultured voice - reminiscent of 1930s tenors - immediately drew my attention. It belied his seedy demeanour; a few strands of ginger hair covering a bald pate, straggling moustache and beard. When the non-trombonist came to re-charge their mugs, no cash was exchanged.
'A troubadour earning his liquid oats,' I whimsically thought.
At evening's end a man entered, looking every inch (or 2.54cm) a taxicab driver, and escorted the 30s tenor to the waiting cab outside. "Goodnight, Viv," chortled a few voices; his drunken wave of the hand acknowledged their adios.
On my next visit, during conversation with the beer-fetcher, he asked me if I had any musical skills. That's when potential stardom blinded my brain.
"Blues harmonica," I jazzily drawled. In short, I ended up being introduced to Viv and occasionally blowing in the background. One liquidised night Dutch courage took over.
"Do you know Marie, the Dawn is Breaking, Viv?"
If his bleary eyes glazed over, I didn't notice. I was too wrapped up with my own music dreams. He actually took up my suggestion, whilst I was relegated to waiter and occasional riffs. I did notice that Viv used a tattered notebook, scribed with basic letters, to guide his fingering of strings. Could he not sight read? I didn't dare ask.
He then began offering me lifts, rambling on about his own literary efforts for the BBC. The name Sir Henry Rawlinson cropped up, leading me to think he was the nutty black sheep of some wealthy family. One day his hired wheels failed him. I was tasked with escorting Viv back to his floating home. Samaritan instincts wilted as I negotiated the daunting gangplank: would my wife swallow the excuse I'd felt an urge for a midnight dip - in early winter and fully clothed?
An Eccentric Farewell
My last meeting with Viv was on a Sunday afternoon, where he was crouched at a table, cradling his usual tankard.
"Hullo, Viv," I chirped. "How's life?"
He replied with a short word rhyming with halls.
I sympathised with a few tongue clicks as he pointed to an article in a music paper, cussing at the journalistic errors when describing his coming tour to the USA. I was stunned. Not just a mere busker?
At that moment the bar tender came over, saying that he'd called for Viv's transport early as, being the Sabbath, his language was disturbing the pious other imbibers. I politely rejected his offer of a lift - or walking the gangplank - (incidentally, his boat did sink later), and watched as he shuffled out. I never saw him again.
Later research revealed he was co-founder of the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. Along with a string of other talents, his two main gems were a natural eccentricity plus a surreal squint on life. Even in his declining years he had a mocking approach to the pop scene; a sort of musical Monty Python.
That's why I would like to see the revival of Viv.
Who Needs Viv
His working class (not aristocratic) life and background is detailed in Wikipedia, including his unfortunate death in an apartment fire. Look up his surprising musical contacts and connections on YouTube, which has - yes - that mad drummer Keith Moon of The Who, who (Cripes! I'm sounding like a barn owl) was a close friend of his.
Keith also lived in the town. He auditioned for The Who, who (that pesky owl's back again) no doubt liked his talented, but manic beating of the skins. He gave the necessary Oomph! To The Who who (I swear I'll shoot that bird) then went on to better things.
Both had alcohol and drug problems (Viv's were antidepressants), which led to Keith's early demise at the age of 32. Yet they bonded as pranksters and one legendary tale relates Keith driving his Rolls Royce into a swimming pool (or garden pond?) to prove, maybe, it wasn't amphibious. As an aside, he also bought a milk float!
The Viv Stanshall Appreciation Society would love to see Viv's memory revived: maybe a tribute band? It certainly would be a refreshing alternative to the adulatory dominance of Rock and Pop!
If so, the following are musts:
Donkey Serenade
Begin the Beguine
And finally,
Goodbye-ee.
(PS: I can play all three on my harmonica).