‘Are you Rocky, young maahn?’

‘Uh-huh, no, ma’am.  Rocky don’t tok moch.  Name’s Wullium.’

Uh-huh, yes, mate.  William Penksylvia Jr., it was, these days, though his dad’s name was Archibald, and Penksylvania was only slightly more like his surname than it was like… anything at all.  And he’d got this accent, bless him.

‘But it says “Rocky and the Reverbs.”’

‘Uh-huh, that’s us, ma’am.  Booked to play two gnahts at your beaudiful… movie… thee-ater…’

I knew neither how nor why Billy had got a gig in Ipswich.  Unknown by anybody outside of Three Tuns but for the occasional Low Hillbilly venturing into the Vine, he’d found himself with commitments to fulfil in Suffolk with a band that sent postcards home when they got east of Bushbury.  The gig was a paying one, of course, but with their earnings for the year sunk into petrol costs for the cross-country jaunt it was also a gamble.

Never able to secure a booking agent, Rocky and the Reverbs would go months without a show until Billy woke up in the wee hours with a ‘what-am-I-doing-with-my-life’ panic shaking his heart and dedicated two days and a fortnight’s dole on phone calls and stamps trying to kickstart his career.  A relative flurry of gigs would follow, during which he would consider himself too busy (and broke) to book any more shows and a long hiatus would thus naturally follow, along with, more often than not, enforced changes of personnel and some hefty vet’s bills (Rocky lived the lifestyle in ways the other Reverbs could only envy, with bitches lined up outside the stage door from the soundcheck until the gear was carried to the old Bedford CA van; where Elvis got screams the Reverbs got whining, and it was now part of the band’s routine to check open-backed speaker cabinets for would-be stowaways before embarking on the return journey to Three Tuns. 

I was just glad of the ride.  Our only previous trip to Portman Road had been the previous season, when we lost 2-1 to the newly-promoted side, and the fact that said side went on to become league champions that season provided little comfort.  I was keen for revenge, hoped the Wolves were too, and was more than happy to lift a big of gear to pay for my transport.  Furthermore, as the band was playing consecutive nights, there would be nothing to shift on the Saturday afternoon, allowing for extra post-match pints in what I hoped would be celebration.

It was at that point that Bob Jeffers (Bass guitar, b. vox) arrived at the foyer door with Rocky.

‘He’s done his business now, Billy.  If yow ‘old him for ten minutes I’ll start unlowdin’’

‘Why, satunly,’ said Willium Penksylvania Jr., with a curl of the lip.

‘Ya’ll ahfter stand artside, then.  No dargs allowed.’

‘Ah beg pardon ma’am, but thus dahg is, um, a lidl diff’rent.’

‘Et don’t look deff’rent to me.’

‘Itsan the band.  Access all areas.’

A couple of whining bitches had appeared at the entrance by now, provoking a powerful jerk on the lead.

‘Rocky!  Sit!’ shouting Billy.

‘Oh, so thas is Rocky as art?’

‘Thus correct, ma’am,’ said Billy.

‘Wall than it’ll just be Revarbs tonight.  Strictly no dahgs at the Gaumont.’

‘But he’s…’

‘No dahgs.  Or pets of any kind.’

‘Well actually,’ said Billy, his accent suddenly a lot more Southern Staffs than Southern States, ‘he’s not really a pet.  He’s more like a part of the…’

‘No dahgs or no show.  You decide.’

An emergency band meeting was convened at the nearby (dog-friendly) County Hotel.  Some of the group, it has to be said, were more than willing to let Rocky go, feeling for some reason that he was holding the band back.  Billy flatly refused to work without his dog, and after a couple of rounds, a solution was found:  Rocky would perform from inside the van, parked close to the stage door, via a long microphone cable fed through the dressing-room window.  It was hoped the sound of the backline would reach him from there (the days of full PA’s and foldback monitors were still some years away back then), and I would be sat with him in the van to keep him company and allow him comfort breaks during guitar solos and instrumentals.

The band took the stage at 8.30, to a fairly-decent-sized crowd (there was very little to do in Ipswich back then, and the only other rock’n’roll show Suffolk had ever known, Buddy Holly’s 1958 show at the same venue, was still the talk of the town).  It was a pleasant evening, even a little stuffy in the van, so I wound down the windows to let some air in and allow the twelve-bar-blues song structures to reach Rocky’s ears.  Within a few bars of their opener, ‘Tail Between My Legs’, hoards of bitches had descended upon us.  They were yelping, whining, attempting to climb onto the bonnet and increasing in number with every chorus.  By the fourth song I had to wind the windows up to keep the largest of them at bay, and I was in no doubt that at least two of the van’s tyres had been punctured.  The mic cable lasted another song before it was ripped apart, heralding the end of the Reverbs’ set.  I let Rocky out to meet his admirers, and headed inside to help with the gear.

The frenzied excitement that Rocky had provoked within his own species contrasted starkly with the reception the band had received from humans inside the venue.  Jimmy Grace (drums) likened it to a gig at a morgue, while Bob Jeffers preferred the lounge of the Three Tuns (‘at least you can hear people ordering drinks there’).  Lead guitarist ‘Pucker’ Beesley was more concerned that he had messed up two intros because of the dogs’ noise outside, while the only feedback Billy got from the audience was a disgruntled ‘ruhrbish’ or two.  Rocky’s future in the band was again brought up, a subject quickly dismissed by Billy, before the manageress arrived to inform us that Rocky and the Reverbs would not be required for Saturday night after all and the cheque for their performance had already been posted, so no cash would be forthcoming.  Furthermore, we would have to move the gear out straight away.  After protests and some choice language, Billy grabbed a 4×12 cab and led the way out as Pucker and I grappled gamely behind with his AC30. 

And then they saw the van.

An ill-tempered and somewhat histrionic post-mortem ensued, with everybody blaming everybody else for just about everything.  Then we caught last orders at the County, returned to find Rocky in deep sleep outside the van, and climbed inside for what was to be an even more uncomfortable night than had been expected, given that we were sharing the cramped space not only with each other but also an entire backline and vocal PA.

Fortunately, although the following night’s show had been cancelled, I was still guaranteed a lift home as the band would have to fit the new tyres themselves (all four had in fact been destroyed in the mayhem).  I set out early for the pub and found the Flying Squadron in fine spirits. 

As for the match – things couldn’t really have gone better.  Two equalisers and a winner will always get an away crowd giddy, and a 25-yard rocket from Alan Hinton and two late goals from Pete McParland did just that, blessing their loyal travelling support with a fifth consecutive away win and this particular erstwhile roadie with a surprisingly happy kip on the floor of the 1952 Bedford CA.