One Way Out - Chapter 1
- 1. Ain't but one way out, baby. Lord, I just can't go out the door, 'Cause there's a man down there, might be your man, I don't know. —From “One Way Out” as recorded in 1961 by Sonny Boy Williamson II (Rice Miller) I East London, 1964 “Where the fuck is Walter?” snapped Joe. “We’re supposed to go on in five minutes.” He was standing in the center of the small stage, holding his Fender Stratocaster. At nineteen, he was too thin and pale, with an unruly shock of black hair and intense black eyes. “Don’t ask me,” said Morgan, the bass player. Also nineteen, Morgan was stocky with powerful arms and shoulders. He had just finished his apprenticeship as a mason and was working steadily. Drummer Harvey Smith, who had just joined the band, wasn’t paying attention. He was preoccupied with tying down his huge drum kit so the pieces wouldn’t fly off the stage as he played. He was a skinny red-haired kid, three years younger than the other two. He had left school when he turned sixteen. During the day, he now sorted parts at an electronics warehouse. The Crypt was a small beat club in a dark, damp basement that stank of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Metal café tables and simple wooden chairs were scattered around the floor. The room was crowded with restless teens, many standing, waiting for the show to start. “I don’t know how much longer we can keep on doing this,” Joe muttered to himself. As he said this, he noticed a man in his early thirties, standing against the back wall. With his cheap blue suit and slicked-back hair, he seemed out of place here. Walter rushed in, out of breath and eyes ringed with fatigue. He threw his leather jacket in a corner and took his place in front of the band. He spent his days as a welder. “Sorry, mates,
- 2. we had a big job to finish,” he said. A full red shirt open to the waist showed off his muscular chest. Walter seated himself at the club’s old piano and the band swung into a cover of Chuck Berry’s “Maybelline.” Harvey kept up a continued high energy stream of drumming, his arms flailing. Joe’s stinging guitar licks cut through while Walter’s strong, soulful voice captured the attention of the largely female teen audience. Several girls moved closer to the stage to get a better look at Walter, whose curly blond hair, blue eyes, bare chest, and unselfconsciously sexy voice drew them like a magnet. They squealed on and off throughout the set. An hour later the band took its first break. There was loud applause and the girls in front shrieked. Morgan and Walter left the stage, and Joe turned to the new drummer. “Harvey, you’re sounding pretty damn good,” he said. Before Harvey could reply, the man in the blue suit pushed his way through the crowd to the stage. “Are you the leader of this group?” he asked Joe. “Supposedly,” said Joe, “but nobody can really lead these blokes.” “I’m Derek Pangborne. You’ve got something here, but you still need a lot of work. With the right promotion and management, you might be able to make some real money at this.” “What do you have in mind?” asked Joe. “I’m not making any promises, but I’ve got a hunch that if you fellows have the right attitude, we might be able to work together.” Harvey cut in. “Aren’t you the bloke who runs the Revue, that girlie club, in Soho?” he asked. Derek’s pasty complexion was that of someone who rarely saw the light of day. “Yes, that’s what I’m doing at the moment, but my associates and I are considering some other options.
- 3. And that’s where you come in.” With a little help from the right friends, Derek had graduated from low level street hustles to managing one of Soho’s largest strip clubs. “I can’t really fancy the Roadrunners backing up strippers,” said Joe. “Actually, we’re planning to close the place, renovate, and reopen as a classy beat club built around an up-and-coming group. With a bit of work, you could be that group.” “You’ve got my attention,” said Joe. He was sick of subsisting on a diet of oatmeal, eggs, and sardines. He’d just taken on a third flat mate and was now reduced to sleeping on the lumpy sofa in the living room. And his old man was still not speaking to him. Joe was the only one in the group who didn’t have a day job. He had decided to devote himself full time to the band and the music for as long as he could. “I’m sure we can come up with a better name than the Roadrunners,” said Derek. “Do you have something in mind?” Joe asked. “Well, be true to who you are. You’re from the East End. Do you really want to name yourselves after a Looney Tunes cartoon character? Let the Beatles be the cute and adorable ones. You could be the ones that the girls wet their knickers for and their dads want to kill.” “Something has to change,” said Joe. “We’re sick of playing dumps like this one.” Morgan and Walter had heard enough to bring them both back to the stage. “Would we tour?” asked Morgan. “Of course, you would tour,” said Derek. “As a matter of fact, I might have you tour first to experience different kinds of audiences. You also need to develop your own sound. You’re on your way, but you’re not there yet.” “Where would we tour?” Walter asked.
- 4. “The Continent is a good place to start. Anywhere I can get you the right exposure, Amsterdam, Hamburg…” said Derek. “What do your partners think about this?” asked Joe. “I run the club and they listen to me,” said Derek. “Do any of you write songs?” “Why?” asked Walter. “Because there’s more money for all of us if you do.” Derek handed Joe his card. “If we can work together, I could really put you lads on the map. Think it over.” “Why don’t I call you in the morning,” said Joe. The next morning, Joe went to the phone booth on the corner near his flat and called Derek. “We talked it over last night and decided to give it a go. And we’ve come up with a new name. What do you think of One Way Out?” Derek paused for a moment. “Sounds promising,” he said. “I saw Sonny Boy Williamson at the American Negro Blues Festival last spring, and he played his song ‘One Way Out.’ It really stuck with me,” said Joe. A truck rumbled by. “I like your thinking,” said Derek. ”This sounds like something we can sell.” “Walter and I have been working on a couple songs of our own that might go with what we’ve been talking about,” said Joe. “Why don’t the four of you come over to my club tomorrow? I’ll have something ready for you to sign and a cash advance waiting for each of you.”