On the very last night of my very first trip to London Town precisely 48 years ago this month, my youth hostel roomie – a young Australian who’d nicknamed himself in honor of the Dave Clark Five as it turned out! – gifted me with, wait for it, a ticket to join him at that night’s Paul McCartney & Wings rock show in the famed Hammersmith Odeon.
However, my understandable excitement at this incredibly touching, not to mention ear-splitting going-home gift suddenly turned to major disappointment when I noticed our tickets were, in fact, for the following night’s engagement. “But I’ll be back home in Toronto by then!” I near-tearfully reminded him. “hmmmm,” Dave winked, grabbing my arm. “No worries, mate. Let’s head over to the Hammer anyways. I’ve got an idea.”
By the time we had arrived at that most legendary, not to mention daunting of venues I was convinced we would gain admittance to this most sold-out of events by simply slipping our thumbs across the following day’s date on said tickets whilst making excited small talk with Security as we rushed inside.
Alas though, that best-laid of deceptions didn’t fully cut muster: “Excuse me, gentlemen. You’re twenty-four hours early.” Nor did our repeated, increasingly panic-stricken cries of “But but but but,” which were met only with a curt, typically British command of “Alright. Out you two go then. Come back tomorrow night.”
Remembering to remember how comparatively innocent the rock ‘n’ roll world of 1975 truly was, we must have kicked up quite the fuss in that Hammersmith foyer because, just as we’d been almost completely, um, escorted back outside onto Queen Caroline Street, a well-dressed man with a most authoritative walk approached our mini-melee. “What seems to be the problem here?” this new addition to the skirmish enquired. As Security explained/complained – and I pulled out my passport plus Air Canada return ticket for twelve hours’ hence by way of supportive evidence – a solution was proffered: “Well, if you wouldn’t mind standing for the entire performance,” this mysterious savior suggested, “you may come with me now.”
No, of course we wouldn’t mind! And then, no, rather than being led to some gosh-forsaken obstructed-view corner of the building, our new friend walked us ever closer… closer… still closer to the restricted area directly in front of the stage (!!) where we were told “You can watch the show from here. Just don’t get in the photographers’ way.”
“And don’t cause any trouble!”
Well, other than my yelling out an extremely inappropriate “JOHN LENNON” as his ex-partner was about to launch into a delicate mid-set “Yesterday,” both Dave and I remained on our best behavior throughout, Paul put on the best show of his I’ve ever seen, and amazingly right on schedule, twenty-four hours later, I was safely back in my all-Canadian bedroom, Macca back on the turntable.
Oh! And if I haven’t already: Thank You, Brian Brolly, for the much-appreciated SRO vantage point that once upon a long ago. You know, I bet even the real Dave Clark’s seat that night wouldn’t have been anywhere near as fab as ours.
