The Rules of Geno Washington’s Fight Club
Another weekend, another corporate fete in a London park. This time it was Innocent’s ‘Village Fete’ – less generous with the freebies, smaller name bands, earnestness down a notch or four, larger crowds and even more faux Englishness. Not only was there bigger a Helter Skelter, there was a real ale tent, an accoustic ‘bandstand’, Morris dancing, duck herding, dog agility demonstrations … At one point I even heard that common London phrase: “I want to touch the ferrets.”
It should have horrible, but with today’s weather and company it was actually rather magnificent. The atmosphere was fab. The largest continous bunting in the world, the myriad of stalls. It was not just trying to evoke simpler, kinder times, it was managing to be them. Not even the village fetes kissed by the sunshine of childhood nostalgia offered the chance to read free copies of Penguin classics, be given Top Table and Alpro goodies or see Geno Washington. Then again, today’s event did not give you the chance to win a lamb like my brother did at the ’81 fete in Ruan Minor.
Towards the end of the day we drifted into the main music tent. I stretched out on my back as Corrine Bailey Rae danced to the side of my rug. Determined not to move, despite the fact I could feel the funkiest 1970s cop film soundtrack never recorded vibrate through my body courtesy of some ballsy brass, everything changed when Geno came on.
Before he had even launched into his second song, we were getting the rules of Geno Washington’s Fight Club. The first rule according to Geno was: “No one leaves the frickin tent or I’ll frickin bust your frickin kneecaps.” The second rule was: “You have to make some noise, you have to move.” The third rule was about “Putting soul into the pot.” I am not really sure what the rest of the rules were because by the time Geno was ready to launch into Hand Clappin’, Foot Stompin’, Funky-Butts his last sentence was: “If you send freak waves we will put more funk in the pound Shakespeare!”
Back when I was a local newspaper hack/features editor, I interviewed Mr. Washington every time he played certain dubious Essex clubs. He was both showman and gentleman, a rare combination. I have seen him shake and work crowds to a frenzy nearly a dozen times, but his energy never ceases to buckle expectation. There can be no funkier 65-year-old on the planet. You only have to see him once to get the lyrics forever: ‘That man took the stage… This man was my bombers, my Dexy’s, my high … Oh Geno …’
It should have horrible, but with today’s weather and company it was actually rather magnificent. The atmosphere was fab. The largest continous bunting in the world, the myriad of stalls. It was not just trying to evoke simpler, kinder times, it was managing to be them. Not even the village fetes kissed by the sunshine of childhood nostalgia offered the chance to read free copies of Penguin classics, be given Top Table and Alpro goodies or see Geno Washington. Then again, today’s event did not give you the chance to win a lamb like my brother did at the ’81 fete in Ruan Minor.
Towards the end of the day we drifted into the main music tent. I stretched out on my back as Corrine Bailey Rae danced to the side of my rug. Determined not to move, despite the fact I could feel the funkiest 1970s cop film soundtrack never recorded vibrate through my body courtesy of some ballsy brass, everything changed when Geno came on.
Before he had even launched into his second song, we were getting the rules of Geno Washington’s Fight Club. The first rule according to Geno was: “No one leaves the frickin tent or I’ll frickin bust your frickin kneecaps.” The second rule was: “You have to make some noise, you have to move.” The third rule was about “Putting soul into the pot.” I am not really sure what the rest of the rules were because by the time Geno was ready to launch into Hand Clappin’, Foot Stompin’, Funky-Butts his last sentence was: “If you send freak waves we will put more funk in the pound Shakespeare!”
Back when I was a local newspaper hack/features editor, I interviewed Mr. Washington every time he played certain dubious Essex clubs. He was both showman and gentleman, a rare combination. I have seen him shake and work crowds to a frenzy nearly a dozen times, but his energy never ceases to buckle expectation. There can be no funkier 65-year-old on the planet. You only have to see him once to get the lyrics forever: ‘That man took the stage… This man was my bombers, my Dexy’s, my high … Oh Geno …’
Labels: Geno Washington, Soul, Village Fetes
5 Comments:
It's great to hear that Geno's still gigging.
Back in the 70's I was present at one of Geno's soundchecks. I was perplexed and amused when I saw the tiny Bose speakers he was using, especially as I had given the Talking Heads roadies a hand with their massive and heavy kit in the same venue a few weeks before Geno's appearance.
I was unfamiliar with the Bose brand at the time, but when the bass player struck a low note and my chest suddenly felt like it was caving in, I was pretty impressed, to say the least.
Great memory. Thank you for sharing. The magic of bass gets you every time and I am sure that Geno pushed the Bose to the limit.
Thanks for your reply, David. Yes, Geno did give it some welly as I recall, even though the knobs on his amps only went up to 10.
To be honest, I was a bit horrified at what I'd written in my first comment. Shortly afterwards I had downloaded an episode of Saxondale to see what the fuss was about (on account of not having a telly). When I heard Steve Coogan's dialogue I thought Jesus aitch Christ, that sounds like me going on about the old days. :-)
Kind Regards
martin
I have been enjoying Saxondale. It is very black, very dry and has flashes of genius. Anyone who can get both pathos and bathos out of a tin of boiled potatoes is one smart bastard. There are worse things to sound like than Tommy.
Hi again David. Thanks for the beautifully worded reassurance. I will have to search out more episodes. I only watched the one where his old mate comes to stay and has his leg amputated, plus my media player was mucking about something rotten while I was trying to watch the bugger. Been a Coogan fan since his Paul Calf days, but then again I go all the way back to great stuff like Waterloo Sunset by Barrie Keefe(think it was a Play for Today on the BBC or something).
It was a great mix of Lambeth scenes, Kinks music, and the story of a spunky old lady who refused to grow old gracefully.
Okay then, in that case I'll feel better about telling the story sometime of how I nearly got nicked in Trafalgar Square twice, once with Mink deVille (Cadillac Walk & Spanish Stroll) and the other time with the Crazy Gang (WFC). Nah, not really. I wouldn't inflict that on ya, haha.
Kind Regards
martin
P.S. Your book Secrets and Lies must be popular, ordered it through my local library along with a couple of other titles. I've got the other 2, including a reference Not for Loan 1912 copy of Life In a Wiltshire Village, but still awaiting yours. I picked up The Happy Dust Gang by David Leslie to tide me over but it's not really cutting it.
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