A man recently sent me a clipping from an English language newspaper printed in Spain for consumption by British exiles that leads me to believe Ricky Valance is still alive; older now, silver-haired, alas, but recognisably the pop idol I had known so well.
The clipping told me that Ricky had appeared unannounced in a local bar and had, for no immediately-apparent reason, mounted the stage and sung ‘Tell Laura I Love Her’. There was even a photograph of him doing so.
In the early sixties, Ricky Valance hit number one in the UK charts with that very song; at a time when having a number one song meant something, a time when a singer could make a living for the rest of his life on the back of a hit song, even if it had just barely slipped into the lower reaches of the charts.
I met him in 1967. This was a bad time for solo singers like Ricky. His star, and those of others like him, had waned significantly in the wake of young, singing, guitar bands like The Beatles. The pop world had no time any more for solo ballad crooners.
On the other hand, showbands in Ireland were thriving and the dancers didn’t care what was on stage providing it smiled and wore a shiny suit.
At the time, I was a teenager living in Dublin and playing in a band called the Chessmen. We didn’t like to call ourselves a showband but everybody else did. Our singer gradually tired of this and left to grow his hair and starve. We needed a new man out front.
I told the boys in the band the story about what a grizzled band leader in Derry used to say when singers periodically left his band. He would smile and say: “Let’s just open a new can of singers and take the one that falls out first.”
Musicians didn’t take singers seriously, didn’t have much time for drummers either. It was just the way of the world.
After some thought and a number of phone calls, our manager told us he had compiled a list of six former chart-topping English singers who would jump at the chance of a paying gig. I was amazed when I saw the names. My, I thought, how the mighty have fallen. I will say only that Ricky was on this grim roll-call of the unwanted.
We selected him because we liked the sound of his name. When we were all introduced, we thought him an oily but civil enough creature. He acted like a star but that suited us.
His first gig with us was the Castle Ballroom in Banbridge. We chose there because we were playing support to a big English group, I think it was the Kinks.
Our strategy was to introduce Ricky just before the Kinks came on. This meant a large ready-made crowd gathered in front of the stage excitedly anticipating the imminent appearance of their hairy foppish English idols.
We had brought a photographer with us from Dublin – a faintly sleazy character whom none of us really warmed to. His brief was to cop a few shots of Ricky singing to the large crowd seemingly surging forward to better adore him.
But this wasn’t enough for the dodgy photographer. He had given two dozen young local girls a ten-shilling note each to push their way to the front of the stage and drag Ricky to the ground as soon as he opened his mouth to sing. Girls such as these were then referred to in the trade as ‘scrubbers.’ Yes, I know the term is demeaning to women but people didn’t care then.
Thing was, we knew this was going to happen but Ricky didn’t. When Ricky strode manfully on-stage and opened his mouth to warble the opening lines of ‘Tell Laura I Love Her’ he soon moved within range of the scrubbers, who earned their pay by tearing at him fiercely, eventually trailing him bodily to the ballroom floor. The camera flashed repeatedly.
Disentangling himself from the scrubbers, he unsteadily made his way back on-stage, heavily interfered with, hair severely mussed. He slipped in behind where I was standing and surreptitiously combed his brilliantined hair.
Almost beside himself with excitement, he could hardly draw breath. ‘Gerry,’ he rasped. ‘It’s happening all over again!’
No, it wasn’t. I felt guilty.
Good luck, Rick, wherever you are. Hasta la vista?
Originally published in The Belfast Telegraph