Open Writing

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Disclaimer. (Yes, one of those again.) The cosmically horrible Betty Bombastic is NOT based on any jazz singer of my acquaintance, nor any I’ve even heard of. She’s an amalgam of a certain type of ac-tor and a few rock band “divas” encountered when I was a mere teenager.

Regular readers of this column may be wondering what happened to Betty, our old, faded punk diva friend. Well, she’s been lying a bit low after her disastrous Method acting lesson with Ada Scroggins. Ada hasn’t quite recovered from it either, and has been hammering the rum and pep lately as a result. But that’s another story.

Betty always has had ideas above her station. (Pratt’s Bottom, I think). Now she’s got it into her head to diversify into jazz. Oh dear. “How difficult can it be?” she asked herself. “Buy Rod Stewart’s standards CDs, learn some songs, do a bit of boo-boo-boo, ba-ba-ba and I’ll be away!”

Any jazz singer would quickly bring her down off that one (you do realise how hard you’re going to have to work?) but she doesn’t talk to the likes of us. She was FAMOUS, remember? In her mind, she still is, and she dreams of dusting off that frock with the safety pins that’s at the back of her wardrobe.

So she hied herself off to her local CD store (she hasn’t mastered ordering from Amazon) and stocked up on a selection of “pop goes jazz” CDs (a genre, incidentally, for which I have very little time). Once home, she eagerly ripped off the cellophane cover of the first CD (mind telling me how, Betty? When I do it, it involves digging with nail scissors and a lot of swearing). It was by a singer I’ll call Fatuous Felicia, who made a whole career in the Seventies of sounding like she was six years old, and is now ploughing the same furrow as Betty. First track to catch Betty’s fancy was “East of the Sun”. Betty, Betty, Betty! Start slowly and work up, for goodness sake! That is NOT an easy song.

But she doesn’t talk to the likes of us, if you recall. So over a few weeks, she sort of mastered the melody. But as Felicia’s diction wasn’t great, Betty fell into the trap of mishearing “we’ll build a dream house of love, dear” as “we’ll build a greenhouse of love, dear”. I believe this kind of mishearing is called a mondegreen, and that there are websites devoted to samples of them. Must check it out.

The end result of Betty’s efforts was an all-round disaster. Tinny, nasal timbre, fake Yank diction and a habit of breathing noisily mid-phrase. Not to mention the mondegreenhouse. As she ran out of breath, which she frequently did, the sound she made resembled the expiring squeak of a deflated party balloon. But as she had always had a penthouse suite halfway up – erm – a place where the sun don’t shine, she was well pleased with her efforts.

Over the next month or so, she learned (after a fashion) a set’s worth of standards, both warhorses like “Sweet Georgia Brown” and “Bill Bailey” and more challenging material – “In a Sentimental Mood”, for example. Only she heard “In a Semi-Mental Mood”. Well she would, wouldn’t she?

Once she had got those off pat, she thought she’d venture on a bit of doo-be-doo. She had a listen to Anita O’Day singing “Four Brothers”, but I’m glad to relate that even Betty realised that some things cannot be attempted by novices. No sensible nun would try it, in fact.

So she picked another one. Oh gawd. She doo-be-doo’d herself round and round in circles until she was in danger of disappearing into that penthouse suite of hers, making a nice song (Ain’t Misbehavin’) quite unrecognisable in the process. The doo-be-doos were OK I suppose – but somewhat lacking in melody. Poor Betty One Note. Incidentally I once knew a trad bass player, who played two-in-a-bar the whole time – the same two notes, irrespective of the melody or its key. Known – surprise – as Two Note George.

And now – the sixty four thousand dollar question. Did Betty get a gig?

I’m afraid so – eventually. First she “went into the studio”. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? But it was sadly unlike her first recordings, which took place at Universal Studios. She recorded her first punk album there, from which came her only hit – entitled “Oh Bum”. What it lacked in subtlety, it made up in volume and a certain shock value amongst those of a prudish disposition (the packers in the pressing factory insisted in shrouding its cover in a plain brown wrapper).

Her jazz recording debut was, shall we say, a little less prestigious. A little man (name of Alonzo Burke) with a little van, which contained recording equipment that he toted from gig to gig, setting it up at the back and twiddling a knob or two. For a small fee, he agreed to set up said gear in Betty’s front room and suffered her yowling and yodelling her way through her new repertoire, accompanied by a pub pianist she’d accosted in the Motherboard and Microchip. Poor chap. And poor Alonzo! She nearly blew the cans off his head and he twiddled for all he was worth – but no miracle worker, he. The result was beyond dire. Not to Betty’s ears, of course – they are fashioned of the finest, exquisitely-woven flannel.

So she punted her recording round the jazz clubs and pubs of London. The air was soon filled with the crash of dropped jaws, and gales of hysterical laughter. Needless to say there were no takers, and the word got round like wildfire, as it would. The jazz scene beats any Mothers’ Meeting hands down as a gossip shop.

What was a poor girl to do? Eventually she swallowed her pride and crawled back to Ada Scroggins, who as we know has a few contacts in showbiz. The Balls Pond Road Cocoa Rooms had recently opened – named after the mythical venue favoured by the Temperance Seven. So Ada got to work (a few double scotches worked magic on the manager), and based on Betty’s – erm – notoriety, she got the gig.

She put a band together and was pleased with herself for being able to book some jazz names. She didn’t realise that pro musicians won’t turn away a well paid gig, even if it’s with Queen Kong and her Band of Banana Pips. A quick rehearsal caused considerable strain to the facial muscles of the “chaps” but they managed to give a good account of themselves – and no puddles round their feet.

Betty tapped her old man for some money (lucky old her – my old man didn’t have any) and splashed publicity far and wide. Soon all the tickets were sold and she was delighted. Never heard of the saying “curiosity killed the cats” and didn’t realise that soon the cats, hep or otherwise, of London would be killing themselves laughing.

The great evening arrived and Betty dusted off her frock with the safety pins. They felt the strain as much as the musicians had at the rehearsal, but Betty looked into the mirror with optimistic eyes and failed to see the bulges.

What can I say about the vocal performance? I think the word “don’t” about sums it up. What’s that old joke? “How do you tell when it’s a singer knocking at your door?” “She can’t find the key and doesn’t know when to come in.” Oh, lordy, lordy. She stank more than a crateful of Billingsgate eels left out in the sun for two days. But she was more than pleased with her efforts, and failed to realise that some of the reviews were not meant to be complimentary. “The Florence Foster Jenkins of the jazz world” was the worst.

Betty was rather hurt not to receive plentiful offers of gigs, a record deal, the whole nine yards. She was last heard muttering darkly about “Philistines” and “it’s like giving a pig a strawberry, singing for those peasants.” Poor old Betty. A swift kick in the penthouse suite, accompanied by some sound, commonsense advice, would do her the world of good. But who would dare?