The Lively Set celebrating the Scots and rock 'n' roll

by PHEME YOUNG

King Creole blasted from the loudspeakers of the old movie theatre. I sat rooted to the chair, eyes agog, staring at the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Those brooding eyes. That sexy curl of the lip. The voice. The swivelling hips. This was it. I was in love!

My four year passion for Bing Crosby ended with my first glimpse of Elvis. I knew that this was the ‘real thing’, and I went home in a state of euphoria, much to the amusement of my older brother. It was 1958, and I was seven. My seventeen-year-old brother had treated me to a matinee, an afternoon that I never forgot!
I was born in 1951 in Kilmarnock, a small provincial town on the west coast of Scotland with a population of around 50 000. The town was built in the 15th century and had cobbled streets where some tradesmen still trotted along in their horse-drawn carts to deliver their wares. A few shops had original bulls-eye windows, and the local butcher’s shop, with its floor covered in sawdust, advertised ‘Meat & Game’, its front display-window exhibiting grouse, pheasant and venison along with the usual meats. The River Irvine ran through the town and into the countryside where keen fly-fishermen would stand patiently, waiting to catch the salmon and trout that swam there.
Those were the days when it was still possible to buy a penny’s worth of ‘sweeties’. The shopkeepers would expertly roll a square of paper into a cone shape and fill it from jars of dolly mixtures, boston (sherbert), sticks of sugarally (licorice), gobstoppers, humbugs, granny sookers, and other sugary delights. Surrounded by dairy farms, the area was famous for breeding Ayrshire cattle. Kilmarnock was also the home of the Johnny Walker whisky distillery, and the distinct aroma of our national brew was carried cheerfully by the breezes to waft intoxicatingly across the town.

The centre of the town was called The Cross and boasted a large, raised, circular flower bed where, in the centre, stood a statue of our great bard Rabbie Burns (Robert Burns). He was a man known not only for his poetry, but for his enjoyment of frequenting the local hostelries for a ‘drap o’ the craitur’ (a drop of whisky). I’m sure that Rabbie would have enjoyed the irony of ending up perched above the crowd that gathered at The Cross at Hogmanay (New Year’s Eve), where he was surrounded by his ‘ain fowk’ who were full of whisky, laughter and camaraderie as they waited for the church bells to strike midnight.

Amidst this old-fashioned ambience - where parents were strict, children were told to be ‘seen and not heard’, women still scrubbed and boiled the clothes on Mondays, and where men doffed their caps to the ladies in the streets - came the advent of the teddy-boys. They stood on street corners slicking back their coifs with combs, or swaggering through the town in groups, where they were watched with either amusement or disapproval by the older residents.

On Saturday nights the teddy-boys frequented the Bobby Jones Ballroom in a nearby town called Ayr. They would arrive dressed in their knee-length draped jackets with velvet collars, drainpipe trousers and thick, crepe-soled shoes. To add a little extra panache, they always wore pink or lime-green fluorescent socks. Of course, they sported their DA haircuts, which were greasily sculpted and held in place by a large glob of Brylcream, and had long side-burns, or ‘side-breezers’, as we called them. The girls wore dresses with dirndl skirts, frilled knickers, and layers of petticoats, and had their hair back-combed and glued in place with layers of hairspray.

The dancehall was illuminated by a huge mirrored ball that spun from the ceiling. Different coloured spotlights were aimed at the ball and the light reflected back onto the crowd in a myriad of tiny, spinning, multi-coloured squares. To add to the effect, ultra-violet lights were shone over the dancers, which made some objects fluorescent and the smiles of the crowd gleam eerily in the dark. White shirts and clothing dazzled the eyes. More embarrassingly, anyone who had dandruff discovered that it would glitter like fairy-dust across their shoulders. Sometimes the girls’ dresses appeared to vanish, revealing the white underwear they wore underneath.

In this atmosphere of flashing lights and euphoria, the Bobby Jones throbbed to the music of Elvis, Little Richard, Bill Haley and the Comets, and all of the exciting rock 'n' roll music of the era. Girls were tossed into the air, spun around, and flung across the backs of their partners to the reverberating beat of Jailhouse Rock or Teddy Bear. The dance floor was a sea of sweating, pulsating humanity. The music was loud, the place rocked, and boy! could those dudes dance.

I spent my time dreaming of Elvis and wishing that I could learn to rock ‘n’ roll, but I was still too young. However, a few years later, I decided to have a fifties party so that I could really experience the era. Everyone got into the swing of things. Girls turned up in dirndl skirts with lots of petticoats and beehive hairdos,and the boys borrowed or rented teddy-boy suits to ensure they looked the part.

We had a fabulous time, and at last I fulfilled my dream of dancing with someone who could rock ‘n’ roll with the best of ‘em. Until that night I hadn’t known that one of my friends was a fantastic rocker. As the house shook to Hound Dog, he invited me to dance. I’ve never forgotten the initial shock and then dizzying excitement of being tossed across his back, through his legs, and over his head. No matter that we smashed the ceiling light - I DID IT! Where are you now John Cunningham, you old hound dog you? Rock on!

About the Author

Pheme Young (pictured top right) was born in Scotland but now resides in Australia. She loves travel, and has also lived in England, Solomon Islands and Austria.

As well as Elvis, Pheme loves all kinds of music. She has a passion for wild, gypsy violin, which she first heard played by Hungarian gypsies in an Austrian tavern. She describes herself as a romantic at heart who has always wanted to learn the Tango.

Pheme writes for the love of it and recently completed a book, a farcical comedy which she hopes to have published. She has always enjoyed writing and is renowned for dashing off funny and quirky poetry for special occasions.

She is also an artist who enjoys sketching and painting, and occasionally tries her hand at sculpture.

One of Pheme's ambitions is to visit the USA, especially Graceland in Memphis. To this day, she melts when she hears Elvis' voice, and maintains he is still The King.

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