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 …’