Chicken Shack are the support act, a fairly noisy band, but pleasing. They run over time due to the prolonged, nauseating ad libbing of StanWebb in between every number, as he drones on ad infinitum, not only cringingly unfunny, but odious and offensive too. Amazingly, people laugh when he says ‘fucking’ and again when he defiantly holds up a pint of beer. What a naughty boy, he’s managed to get a glass past the vigilant staff at the Hall for Cornwall in Truro. I must be hallucinating; I thought he was adult; he looks as though he was born around 1940. He comes out into the audience during their encore, which is deeply disturbing, as he gives off a really nasty vibe. I hide behind other people. There’s no way I want this creep anywhere near me. He tells us he’s had four wives. Well, there must be four crazy women then. I am alarmed to see a very attractive young woman go up to him, hug him, rub her hand all over his whale-like stomach, press her little face into his shoulder, hug him again, and kisses his face. He kisses her fully on the lips, and I wonder what enormous sum she must have been paid to go through with such an ordeal. The Bluesbreakers come on, to a really stripped stage, minimal and adequate. The heaps of Marshall amps have been taken off and, with just red lights making the ratty old blackout curtains look something like, they slip into an instrumental railroad blues routine until John Mayall minces and scampers onto the stage. It’s a slick set, the band so tight that it creates an atmosphere of absolute cool, a case of ‘relax, you’re in good hands’. It’s pure class. All the old clichés, polished, smooth, whatever you like. Hank van Sickle plays bass (he’s cute too), Joe Yule’s on drums and Buddy Whittington plays a sophisticated lead. John Mayall’s got keyboards, some guitar, and the harmonica covered. Despite some occasional odd sucking sounds on the harmonica, it’s an impressive set. Good stuff.
The audience of over 900 for these two bands are all about 60, save one or two, and, to my relief, there is one nice looking guy in the audience. He’s just a babe at about 25 but one must have something to look at. The rest are craggy and collapsed, with over long hair and unfilled jean bums. God help me. I look in their eyes as they pass by and see a glimmer in there, of the teenagers they were when listening to this stuff in old village halls or dingy clubs with sticky floors. Some of them complain because, at HfC, they all have to sit down, in regimented seats, with the strict rule not to put their feet on the seats in front, not to smoke, or bring in drinks from the bar. Although the bar is to stay open this evening, to allow for the audience coming in and out of the auditorium, no-one has told the audience this, and how are they supposed to know? They all file in and sit down like good children and no-one goes to the bar. HfC loses out to an evening of steady drinking and a huge profit from alcohol sales. No pre-order interval drinks are possible, which leads to a grumpy queue after old Stan Webb finally gets off. It’s pretty sad that, as teenagers, these crumbled old folk were able to drink, smoke, wander in and out of the bar, press up against the stage, dance even – wow, spill stuff maybe, get into the odd scuffle maybe, get off with each other, and generally have some freedom of expression in the 1960s and 1970s but, now they’re grown-ups, they have to sit tight, not drink or smoke and, well, dancing may be a health and safety problem. It’s so bloody depressing. And it’s not progress. Flat floors are possible at HfC but people having a great time is discouraged.
The audience of over 900 for these two bands are all about 60, save one or two, and, to my relief, there is one nice looking guy in the audience. He’s just a babe at about 25 but one must have something to look at. The rest are craggy and collapsed, with over long hair and unfilled jean bums. God help me. I look in their eyes as they pass by and see a glimmer in there, of the teenagers they were when listening to this stuff in old village halls or dingy clubs with sticky floors. Some of them complain because, at HfC, they all have to sit down, in regimented seats, with the strict rule not to put their feet on the seats in front, not to smoke, or bring in drinks from the bar. Although the bar is to stay open this evening, to allow for the audience coming in and out of the auditorium, no-one has told the audience this, and how are they supposed to know? They all file in and sit down like good children and no-one goes to the bar. HfC loses out to an evening of steady drinking and a huge profit from alcohol sales. No pre-order interval drinks are possible, which leads to a grumpy queue after old Stan Webb finally gets off. It’s pretty sad that, as teenagers, these crumbled old folk were able to drink, smoke, wander in and out of the bar, press up against the stage, dance even – wow, spill stuff maybe, get into the odd scuffle maybe, get off with each other, and generally have some freedom of expression in the 1960s and 1970s but, now they’re grown-ups, they have to sit tight, not drink or smoke and, well, dancing may be a health and safety problem. It’s so bloody depressing. And it’s not progress. Flat floors are possible at HfC but people having a great time is discouraged.
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