1-2-3
by Michael Smith

 

 

“One, two, three; one, two, three.”

People don’t realize we can watch them. Up here on stage, the most exposed spot in the ballroom; yet, paradoxically, we’re almost invisible to them. We’re just providing the soundtrack to their personal vignettes. As long as we play, so they can waltz and foxtrot, we don’t matter to them. But we do observe. We see clearly what’s going on, and I sometimes wonder who is entertaining who?

As the drummer, I get a ringside seat to one evening of their lives. It’s a chance to observe human behaviour when their guards are down, when they think no one is watching. As the evening progresses, alcohol loosens up any inhibitions, and we get to see the dancers as they really are. The façades fall away, and they think we don’t see. But we do.

Let me give you some examples of what I mean.

“One, two, three; one, two, three.”

Look at that guy over there, the one sitting under the portrait of King George VI. He’s finishing his cigarette, ready to make his next move, his sixth or seventh move of this Barrack Room dance. So far he’s had no luck, every woman he’s approached has either given him the cold shoulder or broken away before the end of their first dance. You’d think with nearly five years of war behind us, young people would be desperate for that sort of company, but no. People, well, some people, still have standards, a way of maintaining their dignity when all around is being shattered by this seemingly endless conflict. But that’s not his main problem, he’s just too pushy, too presumptive. Will he ever learn?

“One, two, three; one, two, three.”

Now look at that guy over there, the one with the smart new suit. Why isn’t he in uniform like all the other men? Hair all Brylcreemed down. Easy smile. A real spiv. Harry, our trumpeter, reckons he’s the same bloke he saw last month selling nylons on the black market. Joe’s his name, up from London, we reckon. A real shifty character. But the girl he’s with adores him. Look at those eyes. A man could forget all about the war looking into eyes like those. But she’s not aware, as we musicians are, that she’s the fifth different girl he’s brought to as many dances. She might be waltzing around in his arms, believing that he’s ‘the one’, but he sees her as just ‘another one’. A quick fling before the next conquest. If a fight breaks out tonight, like it usually does, I’m going straight for him, teach him a lesson.

“One, two, three; one, two, three.”

Of course, we don’t get to see everything that goes on. For one thing, the lighting isn’t good enough. Also, I’ve got to watch out for cues from Ted, the band leader. You know the sort of thing, twelve bars to go or, a bit quieter here or, saxophone solo now, that sort of thing.

Here we go, eight bars left, big finale, crash, bang, wallop. If Ted has any sense, he’ll stroll up to the microphone and announce a fifteen minute break so we musicians can get to the bar before those airmen drink all the pale ale. At least it’s free for those of us in the band, the food too. We do miss out on the women, though.

Well done, Ted. Time for a break, back in fifteen, as they say.

The house lights go on, and the chatter level increases as conversation replaces dancing. There’s a crush around the bar, and I deliberately stand close to Joe and his lady friend for this evening, sizing him up, just in case.

I’ve just time for a bottle of pale ale, a spam sandwich, and trip to the toilet before we’re back on stage.

Here we go. Ted wants to start with another waltz.

“One, two, three; one, two, three.”

We’re back into the old routine now. Who else can I see out there?

Well I never! Look who it is, walking in at the back. Bloody Yanks, that’s who, two of them. Crew-cut, tanned, oozing confidence, and, of course, late. Please don’t ask if we can play any bloody Glenn Miller.

My vantage point on stage allows me to observe those twin sisters over by the blacked-out window. They come to every dance but rarely to actually, you know, dance. They stand around watching. They regularly get asked to dance, but usually decline. Maybe they’re just lonely and want the company? Oh, no, those pair of Yanks are heading straight for the twins. This’ll be interesting.

The twins actually look interested for once, or are they just deceived by the smooth, polished charm of those Yanks. Hang on! A couple of the local lads are moving in on the twins as well. Could be trouble here.

Yes, there they go, squaring up to each other. Two Yanks and two Tommies. I thought it was Hitler we were supposed to be fighting, not each other. They’re getting closer, toe to toe, nose to nose, venomous stares as the preliminaries are drawing to a close. Ted’s spotted the potential trouble. He gives me the nod to wind up this number, and quickly mouths to all of us ‘Star Spangled Banner’. He then grabs the microphone and announces, “Let’s give a warm welcome to our American cousins, over here, away from home.” He turns quickly, raises his arms, and counts us in.

The American anthem has the desired effect on the two Yanks, and they break away from the two British servicemen they were sizing up. They remove their berets, place their right hand over their left breast, and sing, “Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, …”. Their powerful baritone voices carry the words across the entire hall.

“… O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?” As the final note fades, a right hook from the Brylcreemed spiv lands on the square jaw of one of the Yanks.

I drop my sticks. Here we go again …

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