Jimmy Plage

A few thoughts about the plagiarism lawsuit that has been brought against Led Zeppelin by Randy California’s estate over the similarities between “Stairway to Heaven” and Spirit’s “Taurus”. At issue is whether Jimmy Page nicked the intro from the Spirit song, since both are in the same key (A minor), both are played on acoustic guitars, and both feature a descending chromatic bassline.

The trouble is that chord progressions alone are not – or shouldn’t be – copyrightable. In order for a claim to stand a real chance of convincing a jury (or potentially convincing a jury with enough certainty that an out-of-court settlement can quickly be reached), the similarity has to be between the melodies – or, to put it in layman’s or juror’s terms, the “main tunes”. And the melody of “Stairway to Heaven” — i.e., all Percy’s bits about bustles in hedgerows and all that — is nothing like the one in “Taurus”.

Hie thee to YouTube and check out some of these intro and chord-sequence pairings:

ITEM: The intro to Springsteen’s “Born to Run”, with its drum roll followed by that driving one-chord beat, is very similar to how Little Eva’s “The Locomotion” starts. (In turn, the oh-oh-oh outro of “Born to Run” was ripped off by Elvis Costello for “Oliver’s Army”.)

ITEM: The chord progression of Jethro Tull’s “We Used to Know” (1969) is practically identical to that of the Eagles’ “Hotel California” (1976), albeit in a different time signature. Plagiarism? Not according to Ian Anderson, who often points out the resemblance with a wrily raised eyebrow on stage, but he has never bothered to sue over it, preferring — wisely, I reckon — to feel flattered rather than affronted. (The Eagles had apparently opened some U.S. shows for Tull in early 1972,  but the specific Eagle who came up with the guitar part for “Hotel California”, Don Felder, didn’t join the band until two years after that tour, which somewhat weakens any “A-ha!” suspicions we may have about him deliberately having ripped off Tull.)

ITEM: Cher’s “Believe” has the exact chord sequence, in the same key and over the full 16 bars of the verse, as the Ronettes’ “Be My Baby” … on which one of the backing vocalists was none other than the teenage Cher herself. But the arrangements and instrumentation of the two recordings, made 35 years apart, are so different that the similarity hardly leaps out at you.

As for riffs, there are so many that “reference” or “pay homage to” other works, that I’ll just leave one here that you may not be aware of. Think of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” riff. Got it? Now fire up Queen’s “One Vision”. Again, a-ha! But is it actionable? Almost certainly not. (As an irrelevant nerdoid aside, of the two guitar tones there I do prefer Brian May’s over Angus’s for once. There. I said it.)

It’s only when two main melodies match that the cash registers start to ching. “My Sweet Lord” really is a carbon copy of “He’s So Fine”. (What the hell was George thinking? It can only have been “What shall I do today? I know! Slap some new words on an old Chiffons song!”) And the “rule the world” bit of Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida” really is a straight lift of Joe Satriani’s instrumental “If I Could Fly”. (Satriani did file a suit in that case but a private settlement was apparently reached before it could be put to a jury.)

But when it comes to ripped-off riffs, intros and chord progressions rather than upfront melodies, the ripoffees tend to take Ian Anderson’s sanguine well-whaddya-know approach. Tom Petty has never bothered taking The Strokes to task for, er, referencing the “American Girl” intro for their “Last Nite” (as they, to their credit, have happily admitted they did). And Randy California, although he was supposedly quite miffed about “Stairway to Heaven”, no doubt struggling to understand why nobody had ever invited Spirit to reform at the O2, never went so far as to take Led Zep to court over it. It’s his estate that’s behind the current suit. (It’s always the estate, isn’t it?)

The most potentially damaging part of the “Stairway”/“Taurus”ruckus for Led Zeppelin is that the band so notoriously has so much previous in this area. But since a jury wouldn’t be allowed to hear about any of those, er, misunderstandings in court, and if this case hinges only on the fact that the two songs at issue both feature a minor chord with a descending chromatic bass line, then it shouldn’t be Randy California’s estate who’s complaining; it should be the Sherman Brothers, who wrote “Chim-Chim Cheree” for Mary Poppins. 

Now for something completely diff... er, identical. Here's Davy Graham in 1959, when he was the teen Jimmy Page's idol. The "Stairway" suit would appear to have the wrong estate as its plaintiff. (Thanks to Andrew Hill for the wink-tip.)

But that's not the end of the trail. Far from it. We have to go back a good bit further - waaay further - to find the first known iteration of the arpeggiated minor chord with a descending chromatic bassline we've come to know and love. Here's Giovanni Battista Granata struttin' his own Stairway stuff in the swingin' seventeenth century:

Wind this clip on to 0:30 and prepare to hear Randy California's heirs say, "Aw, bugger."

Coruscating Happy People

The writer’s armoury has a red door in the corner with a black skull and crossbones stencilled on it, behind which we keep a select array of showoffy Latinate words.  Nothing wrong with that, as long as they’re used with discernment for rare surgical strikes. All too often, though, writers scatter them around willy-nilly, like landmines in a potato field.

The adjective coruscating, that favourite of arts reviewers keen for the reader not to twig that they have nothing at all to say, is one such – or it would be, if most of those who deploy it actually knew what the damned thing meant. But I’ll come to that. Even on the rare occasion when coruscating is used properly, what’s the point? It’s no smart bomb; it’s surplus materiel — an unnecessary, character-wasteful synonym for sparkling, gleaming or just good old no-nonsense shiny. Even if you’re tempted to use it because you’re convinced that only a showoffy Latinate word will adequately fill a particular hole in a text you’re writing, then scintillating or incandescent should serve your purpose well enough.

But that’s not how I see people using it at all. Instead, they use it to mean acerbic, mordant or edgy. What are they thinking? I imagine that what they're thinking goes something like this. “Coruscating has got cor– in it. Excoriating and corrosive have got cor– in them too. Therefore, showoffy Latinate words with cor– in them always refer to astringent, exfoliating, ominously-smoking-dollop-of-KY-Jellyish-gloop-drooled-sulphurically-in-an-Alien-film, paint-strippy sorts of things.”

                                            

A check of recent uses of coruscating in British newspapers confirms the impression that I’ve had for a while: writers, even professional ones whose copy is subedited, don’t just balls it up often, they balls it up more often than not. What was the exception is the new rule. The cause is lost.

The adjective coruscating has become what American copy-editors — when faced with enervate, decimate, bemused, beg the question or any other word or expression that too many people think means something other than what it’s supposed to mean (hi, misogynist!) — call "skunked”. 

It's stained, it stinks and it's irrecoverably spoiled. There's only one thing for it: throw it away.

Spot marks the X?

In post-war, pre-Krays England, Jacob Comacho AKA Jack Comer — better known as “Jack Spot” — was the self-styled “Boss of the Underworld”.

There are all sorts of stories about Jack Spot — most of them told by himself and lapped up by tabloid hacks slavering for salacious copy. With each retelling of his tales, Spot would embellish, embroider and embarrass himself further. Today it’s next to impossible to separate the facts from the self-aggrandising fiction.

What is beyond dispute, though, is that Jack Spot in his pomp was a particularly vicious street thug. He had a special pocket sewn into his jacket for faster access to the tool of his trade, his straight razor. “Always cut down, never across” was his advice to wannabe vicious street thugs, because an inadvertently severed jugular would get you a murder rap, and, let’s face it, who wants that?

Between 1943 and the end of rationing ten years later, Jack Spot commuted regularly between the Whitechapel streets of his birth and his favoured out-of-town location: Chapeltown in Leeds.

He first staked his claim to the North’s “Sin City” (Jimmy Savile dixit) thanks to Jack “Milky” Marks, who ran a gambling dive there. The club was being shaken down by a cumbersome gang of persistent Poles. Milky had heard on the grapevine of an up-and-coming Jewish troubleshooter down in London who specialised in resolving such inconveniences, so he hired Jack Spot’s services. Spot duly arrived. The Poles duly departed.

The word was passed around the shadier circles of Leeds’s large Jewish community: if you’re getting any grief of an anti-Semitic bent, here’s the man to call. Within a very short time all the city’s rackets were under Spot’s control. He had a piece of pretty much everything that was illegal, illicit or just ill-regarded by society. His main strategic business areas were granting and removing bookies’ pitches at racecourses and dog tracks, protecting clubs and backstreet spielers, and — most lucrative of all — the black market.

In an interview for The Independent last week, Paul McCartney recalled how in the early Sixties the Beatles would often give Jimmy Savile a lift across the moors in their van.

He told us all these stories about his wartime exploits — how he had been buying chewing gum and nylons and all that, and selling them. He had all sorts of stuff going on.

Leeds, 1943. Jimmy Savile was a seventeen-year-old spiv.

But we don’t have to rely on McCartney’s word alone to draw that conclusion. Savile himself admitted as much, and more, in his 1974 autobiography, As It Happens:

I was everyone’s mascot, pet, runner, holder of mysterious parcels and secrets. […] I was the confidant of murderers, whores, black-marketeers, crooks of every trade and often the innocent victims they preyed on.

Since all the “crooks of every trade” in Leeds at that time either worked directly for or operated under the beneficent umbrella of Jack Spot, is it fanciful to wonder whether he and Jimmy Savile might have been acquainted? We don’t know and perhaps we never will. But crooks seldom, if ever, are crooked in a vacuum. They all have a mentor, a father figure, a passer of the baton, a teacher of tricks and a teller of secrets. So who was Jimmy Savile’s?

Even if Savile didn’t know Spot personally, he would certainly have known of him. And judging by Savile’s off-camera boasts to Louis Theroux about his “zero-tolerance” policy towards troublemakers at his clubs — or “slags” as he called them — it looks very much as though the most likely candidate for Jimmy Savile’s rôle model would have been Jack Spot. Right down to the fat cigars.

Captain Beefcake

 

In 1966, the National Amateur Body-Builders’ Association voted in their new president for a five-year term. And in September that year Jimmy Savile presided, as presidents do, over NABBA’s showcase event: the amateur Mr. Universe contest.

“A special day,” as Savile later reminisced. “It was like Indian drums — but it was the beating hearts of all the lads.”

One of those lads was a 19-year-old unknown. His sinews were like steel hawsers but his English was still ropy. Although he wouldn’t win the title until the following year, he still managed to come a close second at his first attempt (his weedy calves let him down, by all accounts) . But second is for losers, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was inconsolable. One of the judges, Wag Bennett, felt so sorry for him that he and his wife took him in as a lodger at their home on the Romford road. Arnie lived with the Bennetts for the next five years, on and off, eating seven meals and popping three ’roids a day, and pumping any old iron in an East End gym to pave the way for the Conan gig, the Kennedy wife and the California governor’s mansion that were to come. 

Sitting demurely in his pinstriped suit alongside the kaftan-clad Jimmy Savile in the front row at the Victoria Palace theatre that ultraripply and lavishly lubed-up evening in 1966 was another very strange man. Very strange and very, very rich, although in this case he’d made his pile by bringing up crude oil from beneath the sands of Kuwait instead of shaking down the dance halls that straddled the Pennines.

Enter J. Paul Getty.

Getty loved bodybuilders even more than he loved collecting classical statues of perfectly proportioned demigods with unfeasibly tiny penises. Despite making it into the 1966 Guinness Book of Records with his $1.2 billion personal fortune, he was notoriously tight with his money. He even had a payphone installed inside his UK mansion, Sutton Place, to stymie any house guests’ plans to make long-distance calls at his expense. Yet whenever NABBA pleaded poverty, which was a frequent enough occurrence back then, he never thought twice about writing out another cheque to save the day. Jimmy Savile was good at getting people to do that.

In 1967, the year Arnold Schwarzenegger won his first Mr. Universe title, but for reasons that are somewhat less straightforward to extrapolate, Getty would also finance the decidedly odd filmmaker and Hollywood tittle-tattle king Kenneth Anger, who was keen to get cracking on his new Aleister Crowley phase. The adventure lurched on for a few years with a few flaky projects that received next to no attention. It all ended rather abruptly when Jimmy Page’s wife threw Anger out and told him never to darken their gates of perception again.

What is this — some kind of joke written by David Lynch? “A peroxide-haired Yorkshire DJ, an Austrian bodybuilder, a gossiping gay occultist and the world’s richest man walk into a bar….”

No, it’s no joke. It’s just Savileana a-go-go: the gift — that’s the German word for poison, as Arnie might point out — that keeps on giving.

________________
(Thanks to @TheOldBatsman for setting me off down this particular rabbit hole.) 

Don Jimmy Gambino OBE

When Dave Lee Travis was released on bail last week he was keen to distance himself from Jimmy Savile in the public’s mind. Fair enough — to be accused of dolly-bird-groping rather than kiddy-diddling is probably a worthwhile distinction to make. But Savile and Travis go back a long way. The future Hairy Monster’s first job was at Manchester’s Mecca-owned Plaza Ballroom. He was only seventeen when the manager, Jimmy Savile, hired him as a trainee DJ. (His age wasn’t a problem because the Plaza didn’t have a licence to serve alcohol.)

The Plaza was just one of many dance halls and clubs that Savile oversaw, managed, disk-jockeyed at, wielded shadowy control over or had some kind of undeclared stake in, not only in Manchester but also on the other side of the Pennines — in Bradford, in Wakefield, in Halifax, over on the coast in Scarborough and Whitby, and especially in Leeds. In his hometown the joints he presided over included the Cat's Whiskers and the Locarno Ballroom in the County Arcade, known by locals simply as “the Mecca” (later rebranded as the Spinning Disc). That’s where, in 1958, his predilection for underage girls first came to the attention of the police. The matter was swiftly resolved by peeling a few hundred quid off the big roll of twenties that he always carried, right up until he died.

Meanwhile, in Manchester on any given night in the late Fifties and early Sixties, if you couldn’t find Savile at the Plaza at lunchtime, he’d surely be at the Ritz later on. Or, if not, try the Three Coins in Fountain Street. He didn’t even rest on Sundays; that was when he span the platters for upwards of two thousand jivers and twisters at his Top Ten Club at Belle Vue.

The man was everywhere — at practically every major dance hall and nightclub in the North’s heaving conurbations, as much of a fixture as the rotating mirror ball.

How did he do it? Criminally, it seems.



He’d started out in the early 1950s, putting on his pioneering “record dances” for any dance hall that would have him. Discreet beginnings, but he was soon Mecca’s “dancing area manager” in Lancashire and Yorkshire, and before the decade’s end he was a director of the company. Most of the fifty-two venues he ran were in the North, but not all of them. We’ll come back to that.

Dance halls back then were — much as today’s clubs largely still are — strictly cash-based operations. The books were easy to cook, and if Eric “Mr. Miss World” Morley had given you the key to the night safe, it was even easier to skim the take. Is that how Jimmy Savile made so much money so quickly? We’ll probably never know, but he already had a Rolls Royce by the end of the Fifties and would soon be parading around the streets of Manchester in an E-Type Jaguar too. How does that work, when he was still only supposed to be a wacky-haired weirdo who acted the yodelling fool and put records on for folk to shimmy and shake to? He already had his show on Radio Luxembourg by then, true, but it’d be another five years before he was a household name with regular appearances on Juke Box Jury, Thank Your Lucky Stars and Top of the Pops.

A clue to just how much clout Savile wielded on the Northern nightlife scene fifty years ago is casually dropped by an anecdote in his official biography. One night he twigged that the doormen at one of his dance halls were operating some kind of scam. Savile went apeshit — not because his staff were contravening company policy, but because they’d had the gall not to include him in on it. He challenged them to explain themselves. He demanded his “cut” (yes, that’s how the official biographer phrases it), or they’d be out on their cauliflower ears. They acquiesced. Jim had fixed them.

Say hello to László

Hang on. Isn’t it supposed to be the heavies on the door who put the squeeze on the management? Not under Jimmy Savile’s regime. He had a whole crew of moonlighting miners, Eastern European bodybuilders — the one at the Mecca in Leeds was called László — and wrestlers at his permanent beck and call. Proper wrestlers they were, an' all, not mere dilettantes like Savile was during his stint as a novelty grappler. One of the three wrestling Crabtree brothers, Shirley, was among them — then still a sheer cliff of muscle billed as Blond Adonis or Mister Universe, many years before he turned to fat and reinvented himself as Big Daddy. Whenever trouble broke out on the dance floor, Crabtree would pick up the miscreants, bundle one under each arm like rolls of carpet and carry them outside. "Yow've been naughteh boys. Very, very naughteh boys.” He mostly worked for Savile on the door at the Cat’s Whiskers in Leeds, and in 1965, when he launched a club of his own (or at least ostensibly his own) in Halifax, Savile duly pitched up for the grand opening.

Meanwhile, back under the glare of the brighter lights of the Mancunian metropolis, things were obviously very different. Oh, wait. No, they weren’t. It turns out that most of the doormen at Savile’s Manchester dance halls were not hardnuts from Harpurhey, Longsight or Ancoats, as you might expect. They were Yorkshiremen. Jimmy Savile had taken his crew with him for company on his trans-Pennine commute. He kitted out the ones on the door at the Plaza with hair clippers to strip off any teddy boys’ offensive sideburns before they’d be allowed in. “Eether them sardboards go, or yow dow.”

Let nobody ever accuse Jimmy Savile of not running a respectable establishment.

What exactly is going on here? Being driven around in a succession of fuck-you flash cars, the big cigars, never spending two nights running in the same house, flitting from nightspot to nightspot with a posse of big-muscled minders, packing a big roll of banknotes to pay off the police, demanding and receiving tithes from his underlings’ illicit earnings.... What does all that suggest to you: the quirks and foibles of a wannabe showbiz personality or the typical trappings of a mob boss?

Beneath the veneer of a Mecca middle manager, it looks as though Jimmy Savile was running a large-scale protection racket at dozens and dozens of Northern dance halls and nightclubs for the best part of two decades.

A lippy little tyke with his hair in a tartan bob (Black Watch, as he liked to point out) is all that most people chose to see. But up North he ruled the night. How’s about that, then?

Smokeward bound

And not just up North. By the early Sixties he’d also secured what is now called a “significant presence” down South. One of the Mecca clubs under Jimmy Savile’s very-much-hands-on purview — he nipped down the A1 to DJ there on Monday nights — was the Ilford Palais. And although he didn’t take his Yorkshire bruisers with him for that gig, you can’t say he skimped on their substitutes. One of his doormen at the Palais was the boxer Billy Walker, who no doubt would have become the British pro-heavyweight champion had it not been for the immovable hegemony of Henry Cooper. Walker’s brother and manager, George, had been Billy Hill’s minder. If you can’t quite place the name Billy Hill, he was the Kray twins’ patron.

On his weekly trips to London, Savile ran a schedule as tight as when he was on his home ground back up North. Before heading out for Ilford, and perhaps to Mecca's flagship Locarno Ballroom in Streatham as well,  he recorded his Teen and Twenties Disc Club for Radio Luxembourg. Then he'd pop his head in at the offices of Decca Records. It was not a courtesy call. By the time he hit the street again, he’d not only replenished his stock of music but also fattened his wad. It was a sweet payola deal. He promised to play the latest Decca releases at all his dances in return for a reasonable consideration. Decca, like most other labels at the time, was very much a mixed bag in terms of the quality of their records (they famously turned down the Beatles, although they struck gold with the Stones soon afterwards). And for every future hit they gave Savile first dabs with, they saddled him with several real stinkers. He caned them all the same, one after the other at the start of his sets. Regular punters soon learned that they wouldn’t miss much if they arrived fashionably late, just in time for the decent stuff that they'd paid to hear.

Not the face!

Even the wrestling was bent. And not just because of the sham fights, with heels and blue-eyes working out all their moves in the dressing-room. The promoters were at it too. The top end of the business — because a sport is something it’s never been — was ruled by a cartel called First Promotions, which in turn was dominated by a tight clutch of Yorkshiremen. They bagged all the public’s favourite wrestlers and froze out any would-be rival promoters. Before long, the cartel was raking in £15,000 a week from TV rights alone. Of that, once “expenses” had been deducted, a couple of hundred quid tops would trickle down for the featured wrestlers to split between them. Jimmy Savile’s own bouts were promoted by Relwyskow & Green, two of First Promotions’ leading lights. By the mid-Seventies one of the Crabtree brothers, Max, was running the whole show.

We may never find out who Jimmy Savile really was: whether the entertainer, the philanthropist, the discotheque pioneer, the loner, the Bevin Boy, the loyal company man, the daft-coiffed eccentric, the secure-mental-hospital administrator, the all-in wrestler, the sociopath, the counsellor to royalty, the morgue attendant, the marathon runner or the serial sex fiend. At various times he was all those things. But it seems that from the early Fifties until at least the mid-Sixties he was, above all, a crook.

The Sorcerer's Apprentice

Ray Teret, 71, was arrested by Cheshire police yesterday for questioning about three rapes that allegedly happened before most of the cops who shook him down were born. He was described by the media, almost without exception, as Jimmy Savile's "chauffeur". But Teret — his name rhymes with ferret, not beret — was not only a good deal more than that to Savile, he was a good deal more than that in Manchester once the two had gone their separate ways.

Ray Teret kickstarted his career as Jimmy Savile's friend, flatmate, flunky and factotum. He stood in for Savile when he wasn't around and stood up for him when he was. He fixed things for the man who was destined to become Mr Fix-It. He was Savile's Mini-me, his H. R. Haldeman, his young ward Robin and his Squeaky Fromme all rolled into one. 

The two met and hit it off on the cusp of the Sixties when Teret won a singing contest run by Savile at the Palace. At the time, Savile drove a Rolls Royce but lived in a grotty council gaff on Great Clowes Street in the Broughton Bridge area. Teret soon moved in. He worked as Savile’s backup DJ at his slew of Manchester residencies: the Top Ten Club at Belle Vue on Sunday nights, the Ritz Ballroom, and The Three Coins — or “The Three Cohens” as it would enter Manc lore because of its predominantly Jewish clientele. In 1964, no sooner had the club changed its name to Beat City than the Moptops themselves graced it with their presence. And Ray Peret was there to grab a snap for his scrapbook. Gear.

Perhaps naïvely, given yesterday's events, Ray Peret dropped some leaden hints in recent interviews about the fun and games that he and Savile got up to with teenage girls in the back of Savile's fleet of flash cars. Blanks duly filled in, Ray. But let's focus on the cultural milieu he moved in; any crimes are sub judice.

As Savile’s success with Top of the Pops took him increasingly farther afield, Ray Teret was there to take up the slack back in Manchester. And when most of Radio Caroline's star DJs jumped ship for the BBC’s new Radio One, Teret was among the first intake of replacements, billed as "Ugli Ray". 

Back on terra firma, he became a local celebrity in the Seventies, thanks to his flagship three-hour daytime show on Piccadilly Radio. Not quite up there with Tony Blackburn or the Hairy Cornflake, perhaps, but in Manchester he was quite a bit more than just the bloke who’d driven Jimmy Savile around, let's put it that way. 

The former NME music critic Paul Morley has described Ray Teret as a "sickly Mancunian reduction of Sir Jimmy Savile", which is accurate enough but sells him short. In the Sixties and Seventies Ray Teret was to the Manchester pop scene what Tony Wilson would be to its post-punk reincarnation in the decades to follow. Indeed, his sub-Savilean style could even be seen strutting its strangely artless stuff when Joy Division performed "Love Will Tear Us Apart" on Fun Factory, the Saturday-morning kids' TV programme that he fronted. He introduced them as "not a female vocalist, but a band". Oh, how we didn’t laugh.

But back when bands were still called groups, Ray Teret had a finger in every Mancunian pop pie. DJ, MC, impresario, promoter, radio star, TV personality and the region's go-to raffle-drawer — he even wrote songs for several local acts, including “My Girl” and "No, No, No" (oh, dear) for The Toggery Five.  For two decades in Manchester, he was de rigeur. He was ubiquitous. A face. He knew everyone who was anyone and was quite somebody himself.

"Jimmy Savile's chauffeur"? Clearly, for the tabloids it's not who you were but who you knew.

Uncle Jim Cobley and all

INT. BELLE VUE – NEW ELIZABETHAN BALLROOM – CARNIVAL NIGHT - 1963

A flamboyant big-chinned DISK JOCKEY, whose hairstyle is a peroxide reimagining of Laurence Olivier as Richard III, is at the microphone:

DISK JOCKEY

(chomping on huge cigar)

Now then, now then. Here's a nice slow

number for all yow loovleh guys 'n' gals

to get up close and let the romance flow.

It's ... smooch time!

(yodels)

INSERT – TURNTABLE: Tar-stained fingertips drop the needle onto a 7-inch record (blue Decca label).

MUSIC CUE: KATHY KIRBY – SECRET LOVE

CUT TO:

A hard-faced YOUNG WOMAN with hard-lacquered big hair that's exactly the same colour as the Disk Jockey's. She's standing on the edge of the dancefloor, tugging at the jacket sleeve of her sour-faced, floppy-quiffed BOYFRIEND.

YOUNG WOMAN

(imploring)

Coom on, Ian. Just one song. Please! Yer

promised!

BOYFRIEND

(with a Gorbals growl)

Luke. I've tawld ye a thoosand times, Myra.

I dinnae dance.

CUT TO OH FUCK IT

__________________

Pfft.  No. Just no. Facile junk. Beyond belief. Bin it.

Except it actually happened, as it 'appens, more or less as scripted. According to extracts from Myra Hindley’s diary quoted in Emlyn Williams’s Beyond Belief, she and Ian Brady were indeed regular punters at the New Elizabethan Ballroom at the now-demolished Belle Vue pleasure grounds, in Manchester’s Gorton district. She daydreamed about the two of them being billed as featured dancers there one day, and we know that they attended at least one of the many "Carnival Nights" hosted by the venue's resident DJ at the time, Jimmy Savile. Myra Hindley was a Gorton girl, living at her grandmother's house on Bannock Street. Savile’s big red fuck-off Rolls Royce was a local landmark, regularly parked on ostentatious display right outside the entrance.

Savile sequenced two "smooch times" in his DJ sessions (still called "record dances" in those pre-disco days): one before and one after the live group that he reluctantly put on as a sap to the Musicians' Union. The second smooch time would segue into an hour of rock 'n' roll, followed by a Ray Conniff-driven proto-chillout to end the evening and clear the room with as few altercations as possible. 

On Boxing Day, 1964, Brady and Hindley made an audio recording as they bound, gagged and photographed Lesley Ann Downey before they killed her. The tape ends with a snippet of the song "The Little Drummer Boy". It was the version by Ray Conniff.

Flash-forward fifteen years. Janie Jones, the tabloids' favourite sex-party hostess with the mostest, answers a summons to appear before Jimmy Savile soon after her release from prison. His grounds for demanding the encounter? To read her the riot act for having the temerity to campaign for Myra Hindley's release. Not for the reason why most people would have objected to the idea of freeing Hindley — you know, her having helped kidnap, torture, rape and murder other people's children and bury them on Saddleworth Moor, all that stuff — but because, as Janie Jones explained, "he said it was disgraceful that I was siding with Hindley against Brady." Ian Brady was Jimmy Savile's pal.

Where and when Savile first met Brady, whether at HMP Parkhurst or at Broadmoor Hospital, is unclear.¹ Savile was famously — now infamously — associated with hospitals and care homes, but not with prisons, yet he definitely pitched up at Parkhurst at least once. That may well be where he met Ronnie Kray for the first time as well.² And it's definitely where he first met Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, before going on to deepen their friendship at Broadmoor. Savile would "drop in" for some old-school Pennine bonding with Sutcliffe in his cell. Yorkshire-born and Yorkshire-bred, strong in t' arm and a ball-pein hammer in t' yed. 

All this is almost certainly a coincidence of little or no consequence, of course. Just because Jimmy Savile seems to have gone out of his way to break bread with two of the most notorious serial killers in British history doesn't necessarily mean he dug where they were coming from. Indeed, as a good Catholic lad and Knight Commander of the Order of St Gregory the Great, he may have just felt sorry for them. But if the Savile story that's still being teased out were a James Ellroy or David Peace novel, the critics would slate it for collapsing under the weight of all its laboured links and heavy-handed happenstance.

It's like Sick Degrees of Kevin Bacon out there.³

Some of the coincidences are weapons-grade credibility testers, like Brady and Hindley falling in love to the strains of the latest Stateside pops blasting out from Jimmy Savile's "Power Sound Disc Deck" (oh, yes); or like Shirley "Big Daddy" Crabtree joining a crew of Hungarian émigrés to fine-tune his forearm-smash skills on the door at Savile's first string of dancehalls. Some of the coincidences are macabre, like those Ray Conniff fadeouts. But most are just messy and confusing, like Savile leaving home on Belle Vue Road in Leeds to work at Belle Vue in Manchester; or like the surname of the 15-year-old suicide being the same as that of a certain litigiously non-licentious peer; or like Peter Sutcliffe committing one of his murders just opposite Jimmy Savile's penthouse in Leeds, and another in Savile Park in Halifax.

Moors Murderers, Yorkshire Rippers, Kray twins, Ray Conniff Singers, Budapest muscle, Kensington madames — all are grist to the subsatanic Savilean mill. As to who'll be the next implausible but somehow inevitable name to be tacked onto the dramatis personae of this megametanarrative, it's anybody's guess. But my money's on Lord Lucan emerging, stiff-legged and blinking, from the secret cellar of Jimmy Savile's picturesque Glencoe hideaway.

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1.     To assume that Savile and Brady's interaction in the Sixties might have gone beyond just breathing the same fagsmoke fug one unfateful evening at Belle Vue would surely be a stretch too far even for this farfetched melodrama. But you never know. 

2. Or maybe not for the first time. And there’s a whole new rabbit hole for us to tumble down right there.

3. No offence, Kevin — although it might be rash to discount an appearance by Francis Bacon in some future chapter.

(Thanks to Dan Waddell for the Twitter-riffing session that spurred this.)