Mr Smith: Just a White Boy Lost in the Blues
As some of you may know, I’m a fan (which is, incidentally, an abbreviation of “fanatic,” which the Oxford tells me means “filled with excessive and mistaken enthusiasm.” I’m not sure I totally agree with ’em but, then again, that’s the sure sign of a fanatic) of that musical genre known as “The Blues.”
If I fail to wrap my auditory appendages around a wee tad of The Blues during any given day then that day is rendered worthless and filed way back in the Smith memory behind the bit on how to change earbells on a yak.
Indeed, I still remember with sparkling clarity the day I was introduced to your genuine Chicago-style electric blues but that’s a story I’ve told elsewhere and it belongs to another time.
The reason I brought up the subject of the Blues is that I find that motorcyclists seem to be rather susceptible to its healing, relaxing and cathartic effects. I am seldom surprised when I see a large contingent of motorcyclists arrive at an establishment which at presents Blues performers. With this in mind, I thought I’d give you a bit of a rundown on what I do during an average working jour and place (in brackets just like these) an appropriate Blues line or phrase after each event.
That way those of you each who don’t know anything about The Blues will be able to understand why Rockabilly fans wear leather jackets.
Okay, here goes…
It was a typical Melbourne at morning (The sky is cryin’/Look at the tears roll down the street). I’d spent the previous evening (It’s three o’clock in the morning and I can’t even close my eyes) with various desperados (Tell Automatic Slim, tell ol’ Razor Totin’ Jim/ Tell ol’ Butcher Knife Totin’ Harry, tell ol’ Fast Talkin’ Fannie) in and out of several pubs and such around and about tasting the wares of all of them to a considerable level of excess (One drink ain’t enough Jack, you’d better make it three).
I’d made several lewd suggestions to several young ladies (Hoist your hood mama, I’m bound to check your oil), avoided a violent physical altercation by the simple expedient of having my compatriots lie about my physical prowess while I hid out in the dunny (He’ll cut you if you stand, shoot you if you run) and finally met a young female who could stand my less than adequate charms.
I returned with her to her abode, there to spend a restless night (She can look up as long as you can look down). Unfortunately, I was now awake and I knew I had a long and gruelling ride ahead of me in order to make it home to Newcastle before I became violently ill.
I decided to be ill first and that act removed some of the urgency from my trip. I did, however, have to go (I’ve got to get up in the mornin’, head out on Highway 49). I decided not to wake the young lady but, when I looked over at her side of the bed, that all that remained to indicate that she’d been there at all was a chewed-off arm (Tomorrow morning at the break of dawn/You going to look for me baby but I’ll be gone).
I decided that the last paragraph was getting too long (All the time yakkety-yak) so started another and stepped out into the dismal weather (They call it Stormy Monday).
The abode of my friends and overnight resting place of my Trusty Steed (I got a coal black mare and Lord, that horse can run) was not more than a kilometre (Struth, they’ve got me saying it … Smith on metric, not Blues) away. I stepped up my uneven pace and, before expected, the paragraph en.
Manhandling the machine out the gate was a simple matter and, after a few prods on the starter, the machine refused to fire. I decided a few choice pieces of invective would assist my plight and threatened the machine with a block of wood (If you don’t go now, baby/I’m goin’ upside your head).
Understandably, the next kick the old Honda fired, proving that one warning is usually enough for even the less than quick-witted (My woman warned me one time, “Don’t come home late”/I walked in at six this mornin’, she shot me with a 38).
I hit the road and I was extremely glad to see the nether end of the place (I’m a poor boy, been in your town too long).
I was glad to do what the ducks do in Melbourne every Autumn. Flock off north. I was nearly stopped by the coppers a couple of times in the first 100 miles or so but my whispered prayer to St Jude, patron saint of lost causes and hopeless cases – I kid you not – seemed to work (Mr Highway Man, please don’t block the road). It was a long trip in the wet and, by nightfall, I was miserable (Black night, black night is fallin’/Gee how I hate to be alone) but I made it to Newcastle and rode over to the house of a friend (Long gone midnight and I need my woman so bad) for a cold drink and somewhere warm to sleep.
Well, that’s about what happened to me, with the addition of the dreaded Blues additions. I find it great to be able to sing away quietly to myself as I ride.
If you reckon you know which songs all those lines were taken from, drop me a line and I’ll come around and drink all of your spare beer. Come to think of it, what a preposterous statement. There’s no such thing as spare beer! Neatest correct entry gets the most dishevelled, incorrect bloke. Me.
Seriously though folks, if you happen to find yourself in Sydney and you want to catch a bit of The Blues, there’s usually a band or two about which plays the stuff. Listen to The Blues What’s On on 2MBS-FM sometime between 9pm and 10pm every Monday. They’ll give you the clues!
Oz’s longest established blues band, the Foreday Riders, pump it out every Wednesday at the Forest Lodge Hotel in Glebe (an establishment which I have previously mentioned) and on Fridays at the Cat and Fiddle Hotel in Balmain (and there’s good tucker in the pub and at a group of nosheries over the road, the Lebanese pizza bar being a special).
The Magnetics (loud, very loud) play in the Cat and Fiddle (used to be the Star … changed its name just after a pub of similar nomenclature was closed in Newcastle) on Thursdays and if you like slide guitar playing, their lead guitarist, Terry Wilson, is a must to observe. Keep your eyes out also for a band called Foreign Lee And The Legionnaires … young Lee’s a great harmonica player and they often have guest artists playing with them.
Lastly, I’d like to mention the Lansdowne Hotel on the corner of City Road and the Broadway (not 200 yards from the Broadway Hotel I have mentioned in the past, and where Foreign Lee plays on Friday nights, but check first). The Lansdowne is open into the early hours of the morning and features a changing menu of food at the late night eatery (which is surprisingly cheap), a changing line-up of bands through the month and a beaut collection of music videos (including rare Blues stuff) which runs non-stop. I’ve had several very fine evenings there over the past year or so and I reckon the place is worth a look-in, especially if it’s past midnight and you’re desperate.
Well, that enough music from me. I’ll capo you later.
By Peter Smith, Two Wheels September 1986
Peter Smith was a motorcyclist extraordinaire, a towering intellect, a bluesman of note, a lover of the grape and a wonderful raconteur, whose Mr Smith column, published in Two Wheels magazine from 1985 until his death in 2009, made him a much-loved and admired writer in the Australian motorcycling community.
Now, his early Two Wheels columns have been collected into a limited edition book: Mr Smith, A Sharp Mind in a Blunt Body. Featuring the complete collection of his Two Wheels columns from 1985-1988, plus some of his best feature stories and personal recollections from John Rooth, Geoff Seddon, Grant Roff and Guy “Guido” Allen, it’s a must for Mr Smith fans and a unique tribute to Australia’s greatest motorcycle writer.
Only 1000 copies have been printed and they are nearly all gone. Priced at $29.95, including postage, you can order a copy here. All profits go to the Black Dog Institute.
