Post by sneakypete77 on Feb 20, 2019 7:56:02 GMT -5
I say encountering, rather than meeting, because in my own experience at least, on the day it happened Doctor Landy seemed to be blowing hot and cold, oozing charm one minute and barely able to contain some underlying niggle the next. He didn’t exactly invite eye contact, but instead went about his business with a confident swagger and he was undoubtedly a commanding presence. But he was definitely pissed about something, which I hope I may be able to address at the end of this piece.
And what a day that was. It was the day that Brian Wilson came out to play, when the curtain across the stage at the Beach Boys Stomp Convention at Geenford in September 1988 parted to reveal a lean, tanned special guest sitting behind a nifty little Yamaha DX7 keyboard. Yes, he looked terrified, and that translated into his forgetting lyrics to the few songs he played, but dammit, he was Brian Wilson, and he was here. The Stomp Convention hall was normally filled with the noise of dealers and punters haggling over the prices of collectables, but from that moment a new dynamic entered the room, and the rest of the afternoon became unreal, perhaps also a little surreal, but more than anything, it became weird. Very weird indeed.
Because Brian, of course, was merely at the head of a phalanx of support personnel, watching his every move, filming him (and the rest of us) with camcorders, and recording in notebooks anything that they deemed important. After his set, Brian retired backstage while preparations were being made to set up a meet and greet table, and the team of assistants which accompanied him began to insinuate themselves into the Stomp throng. Marvellous.
I was there helping a much loved and now sorely missed stalwart of the BB collecting community, John Porteous. For years, JP had the busiest and noisiest dealing tables and he was the go-to guy for your rare and hard-to-find artefacts. That year he had a few boxfuls of C60 cassettes which were of dubious provenance that you certainly couldn’t buy at your local HMV, and they were flying off the table at a great rate of knots. Before we knew it, chief of staff Kevin Leslie had slid his way to the front of the crowd at John’s table, and had promptly begun poking around at these tapes, writing furiously in his little notepad. When he left we both expelled a sigh of relief, but only until he then appeared on the stage showing his notes to the good Doctor and pointing in our direction.
In no time at all Eugene came hurtling across the room and both John and I instantly regretted not having made our last wills and testaments. He found one of the boxes (JP had managed to hide the others underneath one of his tables) and took out a C60 cassette, scrutinizing every detail. The professional looking artwork seemed to convince him that this was indeed a genuine tape, so he replaced it in the box and fixed us both with an intense stare. John and I feared the worst, but what the Doc did next surprised the hell out of not just us but everyone else who had seen what was unfolding and who were gathering around eagerly anticipating a flashpoint.
His foul demeanour evaporated into a wide beaming smile, and he held out his hand as if to proffer a handshake to a couple of mightily relieved lads who believed that they had just jumped out of the fireplace into the fire and then back out again, surviving to tell the tale. We each extended our hands but were summarily dismissed by a booming voice that said, “No, no….what would you like me to sign; give me something to autograph”. Totally nonplussed, we just stood there with mouths agape until he grabbed a few of John’s yellow Pet Sounds Record Shop flyers and began scribbling signatures on them. He then flung them in our direction and bulldozed his way through to the adjacent dealer’s table where he gave a repeat performance, eventually doing a complete circuit around the hall.
John just looked at me, looked at his signed flyers and while he was pondering what to do with them he said, “Jeez, what was that all about…. that daft bugger thinks that he’s the star in here today; what a fu**in’ arsehole”. An unassuming young guy who had been patiently flicking through a box of vinyl LPs while all this was happening looked up and chuckled, and John asked him if he agreed. “Oh yeah”, he said, “but he gets called a lot worse than that at home; hi, I’m his son, Evan Landy”. I just thought ‘cheers John, we’ve been out of trouble for thirty seconds and now you’ve gotten us both back deep in the shite’. But Evan laughed, and said “Don’t worry guys, my Dad knows exactly what he is, and it doesn’t bother him one bit”.
What had been bothering Eugene that day was something that puzzled me for a long time, but I couldn’t help but laugh out loud when I was told much later what had actually happened. The reason that he had a monk on (and that’s especially for Silken, another example of good old northern England vocabulary) was that in keeping with the grand British tradition of Working Men’s Clubs, the astute doorman responsible for admissions, and who I was told knew exactly what he was doing, had charged every one of Landy’s retinue, including the good Doctor himself, the full price of a ticket to get in to the Stomp Convention. Now, I did hear from someone else that our plucky doorman had also tried to charge Brian for admission to the venue, but I’m not sure whether this is true or just another urban myth. There’s at least one other member here who could maybe verify that tale, but I’ll leave that up to him to decide.
All in all, and for a multitude of reasons, a memorable day for everyone concerned. JP has been my dear friend for almost forty years, and I’ve lost count of the number of times his gob has got us both into trouble. He has more or less withdrawn from the whole BB scene and has been going through some tough times in recent years. But I love him to bits, I’m off to see him next week and if there are any of his old acquaintances on here who might wish me to pass on their good wishes then please feel free.
And what a day that was. It was the day that Brian Wilson came out to play, when the curtain across the stage at the Beach Boys Stomp Convention at Geenford in September 1988 parted to reveal a lean, tanned special guest sitting behind a nifty little Yamaha DX7 keyboard. Yes, he looked terrified, and that translated into his forgetting lyrics to the few songs he played, but dammit, he was Brian Wilson, and he was here. The Stomp Convention hall was normally filled with the noise of dealers and punters haggling over the prices of collectables, but from that moment a new dynamic entered the room, and the rest of the afternoon became unreal, perhaps also a little surreal, but more than anything, it became weird. Very weird indeed.
Because Brian, of course, was merely at the head of a phalanx of support personnel, watching his every move, filming him (and the rest of us) with camcorders, and recording in notebooks anything that they deemed important. After his set, Brian retired backstage while preparations were being made to set up a meet and greet table, and the team of assistants which accompanied him began to insinuate themselves into the Stomp throng. Marvellous.
I was there helping a much loved and now sorely missed stalwart of the BB collecting community, John Porteous. For years, JP had the busiest and noisiest dealing tables and he was the go-to guy for your rare and hard-to-find artefacts. That year he had a few boxfuls of C60 cassettes which were of dubious provenance that you certainly couldn’t buy at your local HMV, and they were flying off the table at a great rate of knots. Before we knew it, chief of staff Kevin Leslie had slid his way to the front of the crowd at John’s table, and had promptly begun poking around at these tapes, writing furiously in his little notepad. When he left we both expelled a sigh of relief, but only until he then appeared on the stage showing his notes to the good Doctor and pointing in our direction.
In no time at all Eugene came hurtling across the room and both John and I instantly regretted not having made our last wills and testaments. He found one of the boxes (JP had managed to hide the others underneath one of his tables) and took out a C60 cassette, scrutinizing every detail. The professional looking artwork seemed to convince him that this was indeed a genuine tape, so he replaced it in the box and fixed us both with an intense stare. John and I feared the worst, but what the Doc did next surprised the hell out of not just us but everyone else who had seen what was unfolding and who were gathering around eagerly anticipating a flashpoint.
His foul demeanour evaporated into a wide beaming smile, and he held out his hand as if to proffer a handshake to a couple of mightily relieved lads who believed that they had just jumped out of the fireplace into the fire and then back out again, surviving to tell the tale. We each extended our hands but were summarily dismissed by a booming voice that said, “No, no….what would you like me to sign; give me something to autograph”. Totally nonplussed, we just stood there with mouths agape until he grabbed a few of John’s yellow Pet Sounds Record Shop flyers and began scribbling signatures on them. He then flung them in our direction and bulldozed his way through to the adjacent dealer’s table where he gave a repeat performance, eventually doing a complete circuit around the hall.
John just looked at me, looked at his signed flyers and while he was pondering what to do with them he said, “Jeez, what was that all about…. that daft bugger thinks that he’s the star in here today; what a fu**in’ arsehole”. An unassuming young guy who had been patiently flicking through a box of vinyl LPs while all this was happening looked up and chuckled, and John asked him if he agreed. “Oh yeah”, he said, “but he gets called a lot worse than that at home; hi, I’m his son, Evan Landy”. I just thought ‘cheers John, we’ve been out of trouble for thirty seconds and now you’ve gotten us both back deep in the shite’. But Evan laughed, and said “Don’t worry guys, my Dad knows exactly what he is, and it doesn’t bother him one bit”.
What had been bothering Eugene that day was something that puzzled me for a long time, but I couldn’t help but laugh out loud when I was told much later what had actually happened. The reason that he had a monk on (and that’s especially for Silken, another example of good old northern England vocabulary) was that in keeping with the grand British tradition of Working Men’s Clubs, the astute doorman responsible for admissions, and who I was told knew exactly what he was doing, had charged every one of Landy’s retinue, including the good Doctor himself, the full price of a ticket to get in to the Stomp Convention. Now, I did hear from someone else that our plucky doorman had also tried to charge Brian for admission to the venue, but I’m not sure whether this is true or just another urban myth. There’s at least one other member here who could maybe verify that tale, but I’ll leave that up to him to decide.
All in all, and for a multitude of reasons, a memorable day for everyone concerned. JP has been my dear friend for almost forty years, and I’ve lost count of the number of times his gob has got us both into trouble. He has more or less withdrawn from the whole BB scene and has been going through some tough times in recent years. But I love him to bits, I’m off to see him next week and if there are any of his old acquaintances on here who might wish me to pass on their good wishes then please feel free.
