Getting to grips with America...continued

The Young Man

From 1957 to the end of 1962, I saw service in the Royal Air Force and was posted all over England and abroad; but still no US citizen crossed my path.  The nearest I came—something I remember very clearly (still got the snaps)—was of sitting beside the wreck of an American Landing Craft on the island of Masirah, which lies just at the entry to the Persian Gulf.

Everywhere I went in the Near-East and Kenya were plenty of white Rhodesians, South Africans, Australians and Europeans, as well as the whole black and coloured populations of Africa, Asia (India especially) and Arabia—but where were the Americans to fuss and gush over. There was no one to talk with about Norman Mailer, or about the fate of the 'Okies' that Steinback had let us glimpse in 'Grapes of Wrath'. I wanted to ramble on about Bix Beiderbecke, Buddy Holly and the Crickets; about Country and Western music, Blue Grass, Marty Robbins, Jim Reeves and the rest. It never happened.

It was funny that my years in the RAF had not led me to knock into any Americans that I could talk to, as I toured around such a large part of the world and back—but I can't remember meeting and talking to one, Until, that is, I was back in Scotland, posted to our frozen north, near the town of Peterhead. There, of all places, for the first time, at the age of 22, I actually talked and spent some time with a one hundred per cent American—a lady I met in the local dance hall, and 'dated'. (Before the influence of the talkies, it was a term not used much in my part of the world; we would 'winch' a pretty girl).

Can you imagine that! After all the moving around and the tidal wave of Americana that had flooded over me—and still kept a comin', this was my first encounter with the American form of the human species; and she was a humdinger too! At the time, Frank Ifield was singing, 'I Remember You'. Huh, he's not the only one who often sings that!

Yet I did hear and see lots of Americans during these years, but, they seemed to be living a separate life; aliens to be observed through a glass-sided box, so to speak. We didn't converse. Why, I don't know. In London, you couldn't visit a pub or restaurant without hearing the loud voice of an American, usually a sailor or soldier. In Scotland, near where I lived, there was an American Air Force base at a place called Kirknewton; and they would descend upon Edinburgh Palais de Dance in vast numbers, with lots of money and good looks. I suppose they had been better fed!! Well, they liked a good fight, and they certainly got one.

Picture the massive rectangular dance hall, with an upstairs balcony that ran all around the place. A stramash (punch up) would be going on upstairs, and maybe two more on the dance floor below; this was all happening while the huge revolving bandstand at one end was in the midst of rotating, exchanging one noisy orchestra for another. If I remember right, Sean Connery (or Big Tam, as he was known hereabouts) would occasionally work as a bouncer there. 

 

Sean (Tam) Connery

At that time, he lived literally only yards from the Palais.  It could be bedlam, but great fun, with only fists flying. I don't remember anything serious—there seemed no real desire (on either side) to hurt anybody. The fights were usually over a girl, of course; and through Scottish jealousy of the smart American uniforms, the money their rivals could throw around, and how attractive this made them seem.

Meanwhile, in America, even the movie industry wasn't able to escape the hysterical upheaval caused by Joe McCarthy and his anti-communism drive—or rather, charade. Quite a few of the big film stars (and producers) lost their good reputations in Britain because of their perfidious testimonies—sending many good and talented people into la-la land.

Richard Nixon's presence, fresh from Eisenhower's side, was noteworthy during this farce: his cunning intelligence was more useful to these sorry persecutors, rather than his swarthy looks. It was no surprise that he would come to figure large in the later history of the US—he was 'pressing palms' building bridges, stacking up support for the future—making connections.

While all this was happening, Elvis was blowing everyone away—the whole world rocked, jived and rolled to American rhythms and rhapsodies. Bill Haley and the Comets arrived among us: 'One, two, three o'clock rock'. Tony Bennett sang about little cable cars travelling to the stars and of leaving his heart in San Francisco. Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Roy Orbison, Fats Domino—on and on, the goodies just kept coming.

Performers like Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash ('the man in black') who would sing in Folsom gaol. We were hit with Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger songs; Ginsberg and Kerouac's 'On the road' books—what a fabulous combination of new and exciting wonders tumbled into our hearts and minds in these years—and most issued forth from America.

So, where am I going now with what is starting to look like an Amercan love in? Well, in the celebrated sixties, after being in the armed services, I saw action as a 'Redcoat' with a famous British holiday organisation; went on to meet the girl I was going to marry, and then to University—much later than was the usual.

It was at this time that the British musical fight-back, so to speak, began: first 'The Beatles', then 'The Stones'. Cliff Richard had paved the way along with 'The Shadows'. A stream of mediocre imitators also surfaced, but, fortunately, there were bands and performers of real talent, such as 'The Who', 'The Searchers', Marty Wilde, Billy Fury et al.

I suppose my memory of the early '60s—of sex, music, sport, is the same as that of everyone else who lived through these years. But I had one or two ingredients of my own: as I said, marriage, university—and finding casual work outside term-time.

Getting into the Edinburgh University faculty that I fancied meant a good pass in another subject. I chose History, and sat down with a 'History of England'—yeah, that's how a history of the UK was (and still is) described.

Infuriating isn't the word to describe the anger and frustration this engenders among Scots, Irish and Welsh in these here British Isles. Imagine someone talking to an American and referring to the USA as Canada or Mexico and you can get near the feeling.

Neither is she the Queen of England alone; she is Queen Elizabeth 1, of Scotland and Elizabeth 11 of England!! And when we appropriated our own Stone of Destiny that Edward 1, 'Hammer of the Scots', pinched in the late 1200s, the same English even accused us of stealing. What a cheek, eh!

But where was I? Yep, the other tome I had to study was a History of them there United States of America. I gobbled it all up, from Indian Wars and American Revolution, to the coming of JFK—and I passed the exams with ease. I had already studied the geography of that amazing country, and would go on to learn American History at Honours level (to major in it, in the American language). I was smitten. 

While at Uni I met two fascinating Americans, among the hordes who flocked there. One, a fellow mature student was called 'Kinch'. I have forgotten where exactly he came from, but will never forget the memory of him; he was so laid back it made me gasp. That was the first time I had come across this 'hail fellow, well met—and 'let's have a beer' feature of American sociability—and I liked it. He lived and breathed manyana.

The other, absolutely awesome, breathtaking American was my lecturer, Dr James (Jim) Compton. He was something else. His lectures, sometimes to two hundred people at a time— they packed in—were a riot of laughter combined with penetrating analyses.

His tutorials (consisting of about ten people) that I was privileged to attend were a revelation. We also learned from him what he considered the perfect tutorial class: around three English people—because, he said, they will talk non-stop, irrespective of whether they know anything at all about the subject in question; at least two Americans, because they shout loudly and sound convincing, though again, they might know very little; an Irishman for his sense of humour; and some Scots, because though they might be able to think, they generally keep quiet until hearing the idiocies coming from the others, and then happily join in with some of their own.

Jim would play the banjo and guitar; and his farewell party, before heading to one of the California Universities, was transformed into a series of send-off extravaganzas, enjoyed by one and all.

To be continued...