OWEN O’NEILL revisits some of the true events that inspired his debut novel.

The character, Emmet McCrudden, in my new novel TOM JOAD AND ME was formed from my experiences in London in the 1970s. My first experience of live music was towards the late sixties, 67 68. I was 12 or 13. I would sneak into the local dance halls with my friend Patsy Acheson to watch the Showbands. Bands like The Plattermen, The Miami, The Millionaires, The Freshmen, Big Tom and the Mainliners.

They were all very talented musicians and could play anything from the latest hits to old Country and Western favourites but they were very much about showbusiness. They all dressed in flamboyant suits and had slight American twangs when they introduced the songs. Their presentation aside, Rob Strong, the lead singer of the Plattermen and Derek Dean of the Freshmen were both brilliant performers.

It was only when I saw a band called The Crypt that everything changed. They played covers from Led Zeppelin, The Doors, The Kinks, Them, and some of their own stuff. I’d never heard of any of these bands, so this was my baptism into the realm of rock blues and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

The Crypt were a tight five piece unit from Rathfriland in Co Down and they played at our school dance in 1969. I have no idea who booked them or how they were allowed anywhere near the place. The dance was marshalled by a very strict nun called Sister Mary Malacy and when the band ripped into Whole lotta Love and I saw the look of horror on her face, I knew immediately this music was for me. I’ll never forget that moment. It seemed as if the lead guitar, drums and vocals were vibrating out of my chest. The thrill and noise of it in such a small space was unbelievable.

They never played our school again – Sister Mary Malacy knew a thing or two about the Devil having all the best tunes – but we travelled to see them in neighbouring towns and villages. There I was educated about Steppenwolf, Hendrix, the Cream and Velvet Underground. I think The Crypt split in 1971 but by 1972 I was on my way to London with my school friend Eugene McVeigh. Aged 17 and a half I arrived in Chiswick West London and stayed with my aunt in Woodstock Road which was in a tree-lined well-to-do residential area called Bedford Park. My aunt and uncle had a two bedroomed top floor flat plus a tiny box room. I got the box room. Eugene found a bedsit three streets away. We saw a poster on the window of the John Bull pub on Chiswick High Rd advertising live music. COME AND SEE THE FUSION ORCHESTRA SAT NIGHT 50P ENTRANCE FEE. The name almost put us off but the fact the barman wasn’t much older than we were meant he didn’t ask for I.D. Although I was almost 18, I looked about 15.

The Fusion Orchestra were a mixture of prog rock and jazz folk. The lead vocalist was a very attractive blonde woman called Julie Saward. I had never seen a woman lead vocalist before, especially one that swore like a trooper and kept pulling the mic lead up through her legs. The pub had a tiny back room that held about 60 people. It had a hippy vibe, but Hells Angels also drank there, so it was quite a weird atmosphere. But despite that, the John Bull became our regular haunt on a Friday and Saturday night. I later learned that The Who, Thin Lizzy, T Rex and Joe Strummer all played there.

Eugene only stayed a year and went back home. By then I had moved out of my aunt’s flat, was working on a building site in North End Road, Fulham and living above an antique/junk shop in Valetta Road, Acton. The shop had a guard dog called Goering, a German Shepherd, and I used to have to run the gauntlet to get out of the door in the morning. Even though the dog was on a chain in the front yard it managed to sink its teeth into my thighs and rip my coat and trousers on at least three occasions. The guy who ran the Junk shop was also a drummer in a terrible band called Jailbait. When I asked him to keep the dog in a shed overnight so I wouldn’t have to risk my life trying to get to work, he said, ‘I love that dog man and it will keep you on your toes, keep you vigilant. London can be a dangerous place and that dog won’t let you forget it. My dog is doing you a favour.’

Three weeks later I had moved out and was sharing a flat in Castletown Rd, West Kensington with three other guys who also worked on the same building site. For me 1973 was the year that Pub Rock really blossomed in London. It’s not an exaggeration to say it was both my salvation from loneliness and boredom and also the start of a very heavy dependence on alcohol.

There were six pubs that I went to on a regular basis: the Greyhound, Fulham Place Road, the Red Cow, Hammersmith, the Kensington, in Kensington; the Golden Lion, Putney; the Nashville Rooms, West Kensington; and Dingwall’s in Camden. My favourite of those was the Red Cow. It was usually free, wasn’t too big, you could lean against the bar and have a good view of the stage which was at the back of the pub. There I saw bands like Meal Ticket, Ace, The Winkies, Ducks Deluxe, Eggs Over Easy, Chilli Willi and the Red Hot Peppers, Tony McPhee and the Groundhogs, Salt (with Stevie Smith, one of the most talented harmonica players) and, probably the best of them all, Dr Feelgood.

The wonderful thing about these bands was they had a loyal following but weren’t famous. I hated the prog rockers, bands like King Crimson, Camel, Tangerine Dream, Yes, Soft machine. The twenty-five-minute drum solo. Mother of Jesus, whoever thought that was entertaining? A lot of the guys in the Pub Rock bands would stay after the gig and have a pint, people like Lee Brilleaux and Wilko Johnson from Feelgood. There was nobody asking for autographs or taking photos and that was because we felt we knew them already. We had a connection with them. Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe were probably the nearest thing to famous and they were also very down to earth.

One night in April 1976 I was in the Nashville Rooms with three mates listening to a singer songwriter called Bert Jansch. A very talented guitarist, but not really my type of thing. We decided to head off to The Red Cow which was a fifteen-minute walk. As I entered the pub I could hear quite a few Aussie accents… the band that took to the stage that night were truly incredible. The lead singer wore insanely tight denim jeans and was bare-chested. The lead guitarist was a little guy with black curly hair and was clad in… a schoolboy’s uniform with short trousers white socks and sandals. Yes, you’ve guessed it. ACDC. At one point the schoolboy, Angus Young, got up on the bar and hopped all the way along it playing a Gibson SG. His head bobbing up and down so violently, it looked like it would fly off at any moment. They played the best version of Baby Please Don’t Go that I’ve ever heard before or since.

If everybody who said they were there on that night was true, the pub would have to have held about 25,000 people. Well, I was definitely there, along with about 40 maybe 50 lucky punters and we witnessed a band who were soon to become one of the greatest Rock n Roll bands on the planet. What a night, my ears were ringing for four days afterwards. I saw them again in June at the Nashville Rooms. This time word had spread and the place was rammed. It was also a great night but nothing ever came close to seeing them in a half-empty Red Cow.

They are playing Wembley in July this year 2024. The cheapest ticket with a decent view I could find was £410. Glad I saw them I when I did. RIP Bonn Scott. Malcolm Young.

Tom Joad and Me can be ordered now from the Thirsty Books Shop

London Pub Rock Scene 1973 - Owen O'Neill