#1 Behind The Green Door

BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR...


I have an overwhelming passion for American Rock n Roll and Rockabilly, yet remain dismissive & disparaging towards British Rock n Roll. In fact, I’ve often, unashamedly, declared that there's actually “no such thing as British Rock n Roll”; allow me to illustrate, expand and explain….

In the late 70s / early 80s there was something of a Rockabilly/50s R&R revival on both sides of the Atlantic, and  in 1981 both the U.S and U.K’s (arguably) leading exponents of the genre chose to release cover versions of Green Door; 2 Green Doors but also 2 horses of VERY different colours.....

In America, The Cramps used their version of Green Door to perfectly close their monumental 2nd album, Psychedelic Jungle; one of the greatest, most important & influential cultural & artistic gifts ever bestowed upon undeserving humankind.
Indebted to Jim Lowe's original version, The Cramps lovingly exude a dark, brooding menace, and with its inherent hints of danger & undertones of (same) sexual deviance it also serves as the perfect accompaniment to the Marilyn Chambers porn classic of (almost) the same name.

So, Exhibit ‘A+’ oozes and throbs with sex, violence, deviancy, claustrophobia, danger, excitement.... all the hallmarks of what classic, 'proper' rock & roll was, could & should always be.

Meanwhile, in a different country (&, to all intents & purposes, a different reality) the song also languished in the #1 spot at the top of the UK music charts, courtesy of a certain Mr. Shaking Steven (“who’s VERY good” – Kevin Turvey).
Suffice to say, both the source material & execution of this all-ages crowd pleaser comes from completely the opposite end of the spectrum to The Cramps, as Stephen (aka 'the Welsh Tommy Steele') unabashedly tips a top hat to the high-kicking, gammy-eyed Showbiz schtick of Frankie Vaughan.
The overriding feeling here is of mild, yet still jovial, exasperation with the Treasurer of the local Miner's Welfare Club as Shaking revisits his inability to simply gain access to the establishment and fulfil his desire to grab a quick pint of bitter & chomp down a cheeky jar of cockles in vinegar before peeling off a couple of cartwheels for the ambivalent regulars. It's pleasant, safe & inoffensive. It's good-time, parochial, toe-tapping vaudeville.... and there's nowt WRONG with that - I'm no hypocrite; I love Madness - but they are not what characterise Rock n Roll.

And to be fair, I have to admit that part of this dichotomy is due to an incorrect & unreasonable image of a non-existent mythic  50's America that this music conjures up in my mind's eye. Rock n Roll is ‘imaginary film’ music; it's escapism. U.S Rock n Roll transports me to a fantastic, unknown world that only exists in my head. U.K Rock n Roll, however, is just a soggy, pale reflection of the soggy, pale reality of living in a soggy, pale land.

Imagine the scene; the strains of the Cramps version of Green Door fades up as the glow of a freshly struck match lights the tip of a cigarette, dangling from the lips of a partly illuminated, monochrome visage. The brim of a trilby is pulled down squarely, the collars of a trench coat turned up full, protecting this mysterious, lone figure from the lashings of the elements. The old street light paints mystical circles on the pavement out in front of the bar, and he splashes through the puddles before disappearing left down a seedy, nondescript alleyway. A barely-lit green doorway reveals a barely-perceptible hatch and he draws a steely breath and knocks. The hatch flips back a touch; not enough for him to SEE, but enough for him to KNOW…
He tries his best Philp Marlowe impression, but
               “Joe sent me”,
Is all he can come up with.
The heavily made-up bull-dyke behind the Green Door pulls on a fat Cuban cigar, laughs in his face and slams the hatch shut, leaving him spluttering in dense cloud of smoke.
Fade to black…..

 Now, cut to the image of a partly-lit, litter-strewn car park on the cusp of an industrial estate just outside Merthyr.

The rain is heaving buckets and a hefty lass in white stilettos tries in vain to wipe stray vomit off her cornedbeef calves, after it splashed back unceremoniously when she drunkenly missed the bin. Behind her, and slightly to the left, her boyfriend and his cousin (her ex-boyfriend/2nd cousin) ritualistically lamp 7 shades of shit out of each other, whilst her best mate gets fingered on the bonnet of an Allegro by the Saturday boy who helps out at the butcher's.

And there, framed in the doorway of a single storey concrete edifice, stands a man alone.
His stonewashed jeans are crisp & expertly ironed; the crease remains razor-sharp.
His non-branded pumps dazzle with the glow of freshly anointed liquid whitener.
His partly exposed chest & best denim jacket appease the noses of strangers with that unmistakable lilt of Hai Karate.
He IS Shaking Steven.

Yet here he stands, locked in a battle of wills with a septuagenarian ex-miner & shop steward who simply WILL NOT BUDGE and betray neither his principles nor the rules of the establishment; "I don't care if you have been on Swap Shop sunshine, you're NOT affiliated..!"

No amount of knock-kneed shuffle-buckling or 'up on your tiptoes' gusset-thrusts are gonna win this little Hitler over. And, as Mr. Shaking finally accepts he won't be discovering what secrets it's keeping, the dense fog of futility descends & he wipes a tear from his eye in realisation that his last remaining chance to indulge in a bit of swift, late-night, pickled sea-phlegm is fading faster than the travelling, white-jacketed shellfish purveyor, as his van & wicker basket silently & eerily disappear beyond his dreams and over the horizon, destination: Porthcawl.