THE SCOTCH OF ST. JAMES, 1966

Excerpted from my book You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

The epicentre of the swinging in the summer of ‘66 was The Scotch of St James, a split-level disco that replaced the Ad Lib as the top spot and came across a touch more chic than The Cromwellian, which was number two.

      It was best to get there round midnight. The club was situated at the end of a cobbled yard in the middle of St James, just a stone's throw from Buckingham Palace. You knocked and someone auditioned you through a peephole. If you were one of the chosen few, you'd be quickly let inside to play your part in the cast of gossip-column fantasyland.

      The lights were dark, the atmosphere glossy, the music was Wilson Pickett or Otis Redding. Mick Jagger and Keith Richard were invariably in a corner with a selection of skinny blonde girls, who all looked alike. The ubiquitous Jonathan King was always there, leaning against the bar, blinking through his glasses like a wise old owl and never looking like the pretty teenage voice on 'Everyone's Gone to the Moon'. He was intolerably teetotal. And Eric Burdon was usually close by, intolerably verbose, with a drink in his hand.

      Viv Prince looned endlessly around the milling celebrities, playing the raver's part that Keith Moon would later take over as the show ran on through the late sixties. And sitting like an emperor at the largest table, Lionel Bart always had an entourage of at least five young men, one of whom always glowed brighter than the others, distinguishing him as the star attraction for that evening.

      Lennon and McCartney were permanent fixtures, and so too was Andrew Loog Oldham, The Stones' manager. And Tom Jones, The Kinks, Gerry, with or without his Pacemakers, The Koobas, The Cream, The Moody Blues, The Hollies, John Baldry with Rod Stewart (who always called him 'mother'), The Searchers, The Swinging Blue Jeans, and every other famous name from the British music business, and most of the famous names from the film business, too. And on Friday night, Vicki Wickham, who booked the acts for Ready Steady Go, would arrive accompanied by a clutch of pretty black girls, the latest American singing group to pass through town. They'd be The Shirelles or The Ronnettes or The Toys or maybe The Supremes.

      The Scotch was more than just a club or a place to show off your status and position - it was a positive celebration of being part of what was taking place in the world's most happening city. It was a nightly indoor festival, a carnival, a theatrical event, and everyone played their parts to the full, co-operating with all the other stars around them in trying to make this the longest-running show of all time. The entries and exits had to be perfectly timed and the dialogue had to match.

      Ned Sherrin had recently taken an option on the film rights to a novel about called The Virgin Soldiers and was taking an extraordinarily long time to cast it. One night he arrived with a smouldering bruise under one eye.

      'Looks like one of the young soldiers got a bit out of hand,' Lionel Bart whispered to me.

      Turning to Ned, he asked, 'My dear, aren't you taking rather a long time to choose your actors?'

      Ned explained, 'When I bought the rights to this book, I thought of it like a pension. It was to ensure that I'd have a little something coming in each week for the rest of my life.' And, sure enough, one of the 'little somethings' would usually be trailing along behind him.

      Business rumours abounded in The Scotch. Talk of fiddles and rip-offs and coups against record companies. We learnt just how little Brian Epstein had got from EMI for The Beatles, and how Don Arden’s henchmen had hung Robert Stigwood from an office window by his feet for chatting up The Small Faces. We found out who was on the verge of bankruptcy, and who'd given whom the clap.

      One night Robert Wace, the Kink’s manager, very tall and public school, arrived in a white fury and said to me, 'Groups? They deserve nothing. Never give them more than ten per cent of what they earn. Remember... when you talk about groups, you're talking about human garbage.'

      I never found out what had caused that outburst, but a few minutes later I saw Ray Davis peer nervously through the door and run away again when he saw his manager.

      By two o'clock most nights, I'd be downstairs where the disco was situated. With enough drink inside me I'd be tempted onto the very small and crowded dance floor. The dancing that summer was of the feet-standing-still variety, while the arms thrashed about wildly, and you’d have to watch out you didn't accidentally smash someone in the balls. Tom Jones was usually the star attraction on The Scotch's dance floor, looking three inches shorter than his publicity would have us believe. He made up for it by whirling his arms around like a windmill, and most nights he'd be with a rather tall girl who looked down fondly at the top of his head.

      Another night a manic dancer arrived from America: Barry McGuire, who'd just had a monster hit with 'The Eve of Destruction'. He turned up wearing thigh-length jackboots and leapt about the dance floor like a demented Nazi, while upstairs on that very night the German invasion of the British music industry was actually starting with the arrival of Horst Schmaltzy from Hamburg. He was in London to take over the running of Polydor and was sitting with Roger Stigwood discussing the launching of the new Reaction label with The Who's 'My Generation'.

      Towards the end of any Scotch of St James evening, most people noticeably flagged. I'd usually sneak away to a seat by the wall and collapse in a half-awake, half-asleep daze, with the music throbbing erotically and my mind sliding drunkenly from image to image in a gentle circular motion. One night, I remember slipping softly off my chair and under the table, where I stayed, comfortable and happy.

After a while I opened my eyes, and there crawling towards me through a forest of under- the-table legs, was John Lennon. He came up to me on all fours and stopped. I managed to slur out a question. 'What you doing, John?'

     He fixed me with a long, serious stare. 'I'm looking for my mind,' he said, and turned and crawled away again.

     I would've liked to help him find it but I was busy trying not to lose my own.

EXCERPTED FROM MY BOOK ‘YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY YOU LOVE ME’.

PUBLISHED BY EBURY BOOKS