“Honey, calm down,” she said with a sigh, and then a wily grin crossed her face. “Ask your father.”
Looking upward with wide eyes, he stared at Nadine. “Ask Pop?”
“Yeh, your father. If he says yes, then I’ll get yeh the guitar.”
Alex had to think fast. He didn’t want someone else to buy the guitar on sale, but how to confront his father—after he had a few ales after work? In the morning while he was eating his breakfast? When he was on the toilet? Alex contemplated his plan. Rarely could he get anything past his pop.
Shite
, he thought.
That night, after dinner, Alex pressed his face against the back screen door and watched Leon tend to his small victory garden. His tomatoes were beginning to ripen, as well as Leon’s pride. Glancing sideways, Leon saw Alex in the doorway. “Look it here, son. I bet this is the biggest tomato in the city.”
Stepping outside with his hands in his trousers pockets, Alex said, “Sure is, Pop. I bet no one can grow bigger tomatoes than you.”
Leon rested one of his large hands on Alex’s shoulder. “If you think
that
is great, I have something else to show you.”
Alex gave Leon a quizzical stare. “What?”
Leon, looking bright-eyed and wearing a scruffy grin, gestured for his son to follow him to the small shed at the back of the house. Behind the shovel and rake, Leon retrieved a small guitar and handed it to Alex. “Your mother warned me. I thought I’d head yeh orf.” Alex’s eyes widened, but Leon maintained a firm grasp on the handle of the guitar. “Yeh gotta promise me something.”
“Anything,” sighed Alex.
“That yeh are going to make mint use out of this thingamajig,” said Leon. “Make me a proud pop.”
Alex took the guitar in arms and positioned to play. He strummed the strings; it sounded god-awful, but it was pure musical bliss to Alex. “I promise, Pop.”
The first song Alex taught himself to play was “Johnny B. Goode” by Chuck Berry. He played until bloody blisters formed on his fingertips. Nadine grew concerned for her son, but it was Leon who reminded her that a little blood and sweat never harmed anyone. Leon was proud of his son for putting forth such an effort to learn to play. The Rowleys found the guitar to be a good investment. Not only was it giving their son a skill he would keep for the rest of his life, it also structured Alex’s free time and kept him focused instead of climbing walls or spinning around with a bucket on his head.
A year later, the guitar was the only thing Alex cared for—that and his friends. There was no need for an education while Alex was learning to play guitar; his schoolteachers were a bunch of geezers who inspired only mind-numbing boredom. Oftentimes, when class broke for lunch, Alex headed out past the school grounds to behind the air-raid shelter.
One day in late spring of 1956, Alex was leaning against the cement wall of the shelter and lit a cigarette as he waited impatiently. Finally, after a few long minutes, he saw his mates—Peter Barton and Chase Crawford—approaching.
Alex stood tall against his older mates, even though he was few inches shorter. “What took yeh chaps so long?”
“Chill out. That jacksie Simmons’ll get us tardy,” said Chase, playfully shoving Alex.
Alex tripped over a piece of rubble and fell on his backside.
Peter laughed as he gave Alex a hand up. “You gotta learn to stand up for yourself, big man.”
“Ah, sod off. You’re only a year older than me. What makes yeh so smart?” asked Alex, dusting dirt from his jeans.
Peter shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Eh, I’m not you.”
“Ha-ha, a comedian,” retorted Alex.
Chase lit a cigarette. “Come on, chaps, knock it orf.”
The three boys cut through garbage-filled alleyways, careful not to get caught by any coppers who might suspect them of cutting class. They headed into a construction site through a huge concrete cylinder and out to the high grassy banks of the canal. Trekking along the shores toward the outskirts of town, they came to their secret haunt—a deep part of the canal covered by the low-hanging branches of a large tree.
In the privacy of their secret getaway, Chase and Peter stripped down to their underwear and dove into the canal. Alex, on the other hand, stripped to his underwear, climbed the tree and swung into the canal, screaming like Tarzan. They all started laughing and splashing each other.
After spending a few hours of basking in the sun and smoking cigarettes, the boys were surprised by a bunch of girls who happened upon their hideaway. The girls were giggling as they stood on the edge of the canal, looking down at the boys below. Peter boldly stood up in his underwear. “Oi! Girls, want to come down and join us?”
“What the hell are yeh doing?” asked Alex, reaching for his pants.
“We play our cards right, we'll at least see ’em in their knickers . . . and maybe less,” said Peter.
Alex sat upright, hugging his knees to his chest. At thirteen he wasn’t ready for girls to see him in his underwear. He lit a cigarette and puffed nervously, pretending not to pay any attention, while Peter coaxed a couple of the girls out of their dresses. It was a very hard act to put on, playing it cool in his underwear, while his body reacted to half-naked girls. Somehow, he managed.
Ellie Norton, a pretty curly-haired brunette with freckles and green eyes, sat uncomfortably close to Alex. It was hard for him to take his eyes from her cleavage and her panties. She nudged Alex. “Do yeh have a ciggie?”
He did in his pants that were a few feet behind him, but he was afraid to move. Alex stared deep into her green eyes, dragged on his cigarette, and said, “Aye.”
She giggled and then, noting the serious expression on his face, didn’t press any further. “Oh, okay.”
After a while, Alex stopped showing up at school. He really had no concern for the future. He expressed no interest in what he would become; he simply wanted to
be
—no authority and no rules. The only thing he made time for was playing his guitar, hanging out with his pals, and luring the occasional girl behind the air-raid shelter.
When Leon learned that his son had dropped out of school, Alex was strongly encouraged to get a job. Leon and Nadine were getting tired of supporting their dropout son’s social agenda, and even Alex himself was beginning to feel guilty. His issues with authority, however, remained prevalent as he tried to maintain a job. Everything he did, and every person he worked for was idiotic in Alex’s mind; and he certainly wasn’t going to work for a geezer.
Fortune reigned upon Alex when he found friends who also shared his same musical interest and overall contempt for authority—Nick Newsome, a born cynic who had a certain amount of disdain for anyone who didn’t see the world through his eyes; his childhood friend Peter Barton, whose naturally sweltering ego elevated him above all others; and Josh Marsden, a swashbuckling, hard-partying drunk. Alex rounded out the group with his strong will, sharp tongue, and quick fists—boxing lessons he learned from his pop.
After a few years torturing their parents with noise, Nick, Peter, Alex and Josh finally had enough skill to perform live. The problem for Alex, however, was one of attire; he had nothing to wear to their gigs. His older brothers didn’t have much in the way of fashionable hand-me-downs suitable for a rising rocker on the scrawny side of puberty. Nick, Peter, and Josh’s old clothes hung on him like a dress. He looked ridiculous. After the ability to whine and plead his parents for money wore off, Alex was left to his own devices.
Alex casually walked into Parson’s department store one day, wearing an oversized golden-yellow satin sports coat that Nick had given to him. He hated the damned coat; it was the ugliest thing he had ever seen, not to mention he was embarrassed to be seen in it. He did find some use for it. After trying on some sports coats that fit his slender physique, he found one that was suited to his taste. He left it on, and then threw Nick’s oversized coat on top. As he confidently strode out of the store, no one even suspected what he had done.
Upon arriving backstage before the show, he received many compliments on the coat and questions about how he had acquired it. He simply replied, “Parson’s was having a five-finger discount.”
Nick whipped his golden-yellow sports coat back from Alex. “And to think yeh used me coat for your deceit and thievery.”
“I wouldn’t have had to do if yeh had better taste,” retorted Alex.
“Well, now we found something else Alex can do with his fingers other than play guitar,” said Josh with a twirl of his drumsticks.
Nick roared with laughter. “Ask Ellie Norton. I think there’s other things Alex can do with his fingers.”
“Schtum up,” said Alex as removed his guitar from its case.
Peter leaned in toward Alex and whispered. “Hey, mate, do yeh think yeh can pick up one for me?”
“Aye,” added Josh “You can go in there and just layer coat upon coat. Pick up one for each of us.”
“Exactly—go in as a squirmy little twig and come out looking like a ball player. No one will suspect a thing,” said Nick.
“You are just jealous ’cuz I’m looking good, and yeh chaps look like a bunch of squares.” When the announcer introduced the Dark Knights, Alex slung his guitar over his shoulder, gave the others a smug grin, and walked out onto the stage.
They came to the stage with different musical influences. Alex was without a doubt an Eddie Cochran fan; he was his idol—cool and slick. “Summertime Blues” was Alex’s usual go-to song which warmed up the crowds. Nick, a trained piano player, fueled the fans with Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire.” Peter seduced the audience (especially the girls) with his imitation of Elvis Presley singing “Hound Dog.” What transpired was an energetic, heart-pounding sound that had everyone dancing in the aisles, even in small night clubs.
Like many struggling English rock-and-roll bands of the early 1960’s, The Dark Knights started at the bottom. Their first opportunity to perform publicly was in a shitty club called The Cellar located on Brewer Street in London’s seedy Soho section. It was a crappy gig in one of London’s worst neighborhoods with relatively no audience, but it paid the rent for the small two-bedroom flat the four mates shared.
Despite living with friends in London and doing what he loved, all by the age of seventeen, Alex missed home. There he could always count on a home-cooked meal and his mother to do his laundry. The Dark Knights really didn’t have much to entertain themselves with except for finding new ways to annoy each other. Alex’s constant plucking of the strings of his guitar worked on Nick’s nerves, Josh was constantly releasing loud, smelly beer belches, and Peter walking around only in his underwear and heavy work boots. The annoyance paid off when it inspired a song for Nick, “Street Beat” which would soon become the song that gained a crowd at the Cellar and also the attention of a manager a few months later.
Mischief began, however, the first night in London when they visited the porn shop next door to the Cellar. Apparently a man could sneak in the back and pay a couple of shillings for a cheap peep. Alex and his band mates were hardly innocent lads, but they all found the porn shop quite amusing. While Nick giggled at the fat lady nudies, Peter and Alex compared themselves to a rack of dildos.
Alex wiggled a rubber cock in his hand. “Is this what they refer to as a ‘stiff woody’ in the South?” he asked. “How sad. We got ’ere just in time.”
Peter held a large dildo by his crotch. “They used me as a model for this one, yeh know.”
“Yeh have a black dick, do yeh?” responded Alex.
Waving the dildo casually in the air, Peter replied, “I come in a various array of colors.”
Alex laughed. “Or do you
come
in a various array of colors?”
Peter stepped back with one arm arched up in the air and the other holding the dildo aimed at Alex. “En garde!” Alex smacked Peter’s dildo with his own rubber cock.
“Look, mates,” Josh said, holding a string of beads around his neck. “I found a necklace.”
The East Indian shopkeeper appeared and ripped the beads from Josh’s hands.
“They’re not a necklace, yeh fool,” the shopkeeper said, gripping the beads in his fist. “Yeah, yeh shove ’em up your arse! You roughkins have no respect.”
“Not for a cock as limp as this one,” commented Alex, wagging the rubber dildo he was still holding.
The irate shopkeeper grabbed the rubber cock from Alex. Meanwhile, on the other side of the store, Nick was laughing uncontrollably over the obese nudes and knocked over the entire display.
Fumes came from the Indian shopkeeper. “All right, out! All of yeh!”
Nick, Peter, Alex, and Josh stumbled out of the porn shop and all looked up at the neon sign consistently flashing the word SEX.
“Nice going. Now we didn’t even get to the peep shows,” said Alex, lighting a cigarette.
“Eh, you just keep jerkin’ off, little man, and maybe one day you’ll see a naked lady,” Nick replied with a playful shove.
“At least I’ll find a bird that can fit in the door. Yeh’ll have to break down a wall to fit in your girlfriend,” joked Alex.