This is a beautifully crafted piece of writing that achieves something rare: it makes you *smell* the room.
The atmosphere is intoxicating from the first paragraph. "The rancid, melancholic dim of every nightclub on earth by day" is a perfect line, capturing not just one place but the universal soul of all such places. You feel the sticky naugahyde, the dead makeup bulbs, the cigarette haze — the setting becomes almost a character itself in a Fritz Lang film noir.
The voice moves fluidly between the intellectual world of Huxley and Beckett and the raw carnal world of pasties and rim shots. That tension is the engine of the whole piece. The writing about drumming is particularly outstanding — "you become her telepathic lover across a dozen feet of space" captures something true about musical accompaniment that most music writing completely misses.
The social panorama is rendered with a craftman's sharp eye, each figure landing in a sentence or two and staying with you. And the ending is perfect: all that sophisticated bravado dissolving into a mumbled retreat. Funny, honest, and completely human.
I'm loving this series! It has a cinematic quality that pulls me right in.
I've been leafing through Philip Norman's 'JOHN LENNON,' a biography that tracks the band's trajectory from John's own perspective. I just hit the chapters detailing their legendary Hamburg residencies, and reading about their exploits brought a flood of my own adventures and misadventures rushing back from when I followed that same path.
The years between 1960 and 1962 were the crucible for the Beatles; it was where they shed their amateur skin and emerged as a tight, professional live unit. They were pulling marathon five-hour sets at joints like the Indra, the Kaiserkeller, and the Star-Club. By 1961, they'd graduated to the Top Ten Club at Reeperbahn 136, a far more professional setup where they locked in for a staggering 92-night residency. Nested in the heart of St. Pauli, those five residencies spanned over 200 nights, forging the stamina, stage presence, and vast repertoire that would change everything. I recently revisited the film 'BACKBEAT' (2016)—highly recommended, by the way—and it captures the grit and atmosphere of playing those rooms with remarkable accuracy.
Our own journey to Hamburg involved cramming ourselves and a mountain of gear into a Ford Transit van, catching the ferry from Harwich straight to Bremerhaven. That meant braving the North Sea—easily some of the most treacherous waters surrounding the UK. I can still recall that green-around-the-gills sensation, feeling queasy from the second we cleared the harbor until we finally hit dry land. Having slogged through six years of German at school, I was academically fluent, which was a total revelation when it came to making local friends. We were buzzing with anticipation; we knew exactly what that city had done for the Beatles and we were eager to find out what it had in store for us.
I eventually clocked two sixty-day stints there in '69 and '70. During that first run, the club billed two bands a night, playing from 8pm until 4am—four hours of heavy lifting each. By the second residency, it was just us, grinding out seven-hour shifts from 8pm to 3am with only a fifteen-minute breather every hour. Coming from the UK, where a two-hour set was considered a long night, it was a sharp, brutal learning curve. We had to pad out our sets with every genre imaginable, often stretching tracks like Santana's 'Evil Ways' into twenty-minute odysseys filled with endless solos and percussion breaks.
We were stationed at the Top Ten Club right on the Reeperbahn, with digs tucked away in the Turkish quarter. The accommodations were the definition of basic—bunk beds and a kitchen and shower that were frankly filthy—but when you're young and playing in a vibrant foreign city, you don't give a toss. The club was always buzzing with Frauleins who were more than happy to ease the strain of the long hours. We noticed a particular surge around 1am, which we soon realized was a 'rest break' for the local strippers and night workers. Most had a favorite musician they liked to corner for a chat; thanks to my German, I was often the lucky one hearing all about their night's business, customers, and cash flow—just another day at the office for them!
During those short breaks, I'd wander out for a change of scenery and a quick bite. I can still taste my staple diet of the time: "Bockwurst mit Kartoffeln und Mayonnaise"—basically sausage and chips. That, washed down with the free beer and soft drinks from the club, was what kept me going. The Reeperbahn was a permanent gauntlet of locals, tourists, and sailors, yet it never felt threatening. The whole place felt cosmopolitan and electric, a world away from the familiar streets of my hometown, Birmingham.
Just a stone's throw away was the Herbertstrasse, a street guarded by staggered, walled-off entrances at either end, restricted to those over 18 and under the strict watch of the local police. For me, arriving there was a total revelation; it was the archetypal image of the European sex industry, the likes of which simply didn't exist back in the UK. Strolling down that street felt like running a pleasant gauntlet, being accosted by scantily-clad women seated in windows, framed by partially open lace curtains and flattering red lights that illuminated the rooms behind. I always harbored a curiosity about what actually happened if a deal was struck, but I never quite had the courage—or, more importantly, the cash—to find out for myself. However, I did get a vicarious look when a girlfriend of mine working in a sex-parlor invited me to witness the proceedings through a spyhole in the wall. The one time I actually looked, it was a bit of a letdown; by the time the client had been scrubbed down in the shower, it was all over in a flash—an easy hit for her. I have plenty more stories about those adventures and misadventures for another time, but let's get back to the music.
Much like the Beatles and the many bands that preceded us, those marathon playing hours meant our band tightened up until we played like clockwork, allowing us to write and debut new material every single night. Those very songs formed the core of our first Galliard album, 'Strange Pleasure.' I composed the majority of the tracks during my time there, and by the time we finally entered the studio to record, most were captured in just a couple of live takes. Funnily enough, we recorded that album at Abbey Road Studios, in the exact same room where the Beatles tracked their debut.
When we returned for our second residency, we reunited with all the friends we'd made during the first stint. Although the hours were even longer, we were, like the Beatles before us, fortified by the Fraulein stationed downstairs outside the bathrooms. She was always ready to provide us with 'Prellies'—Preludin, an amphetamine that ensured we could play through the longest of nights, though it also kept us awake long after the gig, wandering the Fischmarkt waiting for the buzz to finally wear off.
It seems like all the strip club band leaders are Italian. Most are crazed. I played the Largo on Sunset strip and the band was on a platform 20 feet in the air so we could see the stage. The first night, the Italian trumpet player leader told me to watch the girls and follow their movements with accents. While doing this, he's yelling at me, "Watch me, don't watch the girls." I watch him, he yells, "Why are you watching me, watch the music." I watch the music, "Don't watch the music, watch the girls." During the breaks the band was allowed to go either under the stairs or out in the alley. NEVER, talk to the customers or the girls. I think I quit after 3 nights.
What an education, a strip club and offers nightly. Certainly a growing-up phase that leaves an inviting mark...on the tuxedo.
You really got down on this one, Tony....you have a true talent, hit it right out of the park. I really loved it.
Thanks, Scott. Hope all is good with you and yours in Ojai.
This is a beautifully crafted piece of writing that achieves something rare: it makes you *smell* the room.
The atmosphere is intoxicating from the first paragraph. "The rancid, melancholic dim of every nightclub on earth by day" is a perfect line, capturing not just one place but the universal soul of all such places. You feel the sticky naugahyde, the dead makeup bulbs, the cigarette haze — the setting becomes almost a character itself in a Fritz Lang film noir.
The voice moves fluidly between the intellectual world of Huxley and Beckett and the raw carnal world of pasties and rim shots. That tension is the engine of the whole piece. The writing about drumming is particularly outstanding — "you become her telepathic lover across a dozen feet of space" captures something true about musical accompaniment that most music writing completely misses.
The social panorama is rendered with a craftman's sharp eye, each figure landing in a sentence or two and staying with you. And the ending is perfect: all that sophisticated bravado dissolving into a mumbled retreat. Funny, honest, and completely human.
I'm loving this series! It has a cinematic quality that pulls me right in.
Astute! Thanks, Bret.
Reminds me of my time in Hamburg in the 1960s
THE REEPERBAHN: The Beatles and Me!
I've been leafing through Philip Norman's 'JOHN LENNON,' a biography that tracks the band's trajectory from John's own perspective. I just hit the chapters detailing their legendary Hamburg residencies, and reading about their exploits brought a flood of my own adventures and misadventures rushing back from when I followed that same path.
The years between 1960 and 1962 were the crucible for the Beatles; it was where they shed their amateur skin and emerged as a tight, professional live unit. They were pulling marathon five-hour sets at joints like the Indra, the Kaiserkeller, and the Star-Club. By 1961, they'd graduated to the Top Ten Club at Reeperbahn 136, a far more professional setup where they locked in for a staggering 92-night residency. Nested in the heart of St. Pauli, those five residencies spanned over 200 nights, forging the stamina, stage presence, and vast repertoire that would change everything. I recently revisited the film 'BACKBEAT' (2016)—highly recommended, by the way—and it captures the grit and atmosphere of playing those rooms with remarkable accuracy.
Our own journey to Hamburg involved cramming ourselves and a mountain of gear into a Ford Transit van, catching the ferry from Harwich straight to Bremerhaven. That meant braving the North Sea—easily some of the most treacherous waters surrounding the UK. I can still recall that green-around-the-gills sensation, feeling queasy from the second we cleared the harbor until we finally hit dry land. Having slogged through six years of German at school, I was academically fluent, which was a total revelation when it came to making local friends. We were buzzing with anticipation; we knew exactly what that city had done for the Beatles and we were eager to find out what it had in store for us.
I eventually clocked two sixty-day stints there in '69 and '70. During that first run, the club billed two bands a night, playing from 8pm until 4am—four hours of heavy lifting each. By the second residency, it was just us, grinding out seven-hour shifts from 8pm to 3am with only a fifteen-minute breather every hour. Coming from the UK, where a two-hour set was considered a long night, it was a sharp, brutal learning curve. We had to pad out our sets with every genre imaginable, often stretching tracks like Santana's 'Evil Ways' into twenty-minute odysseys filled with endless solos and percussion breaks.
We were stationed at the Top Ten Club right on the Reeperbahn, with digs tucked away in the Turkish quarter. The accommodations were the definition of basic—bunk beds and a kitchen and shower that were frankly filthy—but when you're young and playing in a vibrant foreign city, you don't give a toss. The club was always buzzing with Frauleins who were more than happy to ease the strain of the long hours. We noticed a particular surge around 1am, which we soon realized was a 'rest break' for the local strippers and night workers. Most had a favorite musician they liked to corner for a chat; thanks to my German, I was often the lucky one hearing all about their night's business, customers, and cash flow—just another day at the office for them!
During those short breaks, I'd wander out for a change of scenery and a quick bite. I can still taste my staple diet of the time: "Bockwurst mit Kartoffeln und Mayonnaise"—basically sausage and chips. That, washed down with the free beer and soft drinks from the club, was what kept me going. The Reeperbahn was a permanent gauntlet of locals, tourists, and sailors, yet it never felt threatening. The whole place felt cosmopolitan and electric, a world away from the familiar streets of my hometown, Birmingham.
Just a stone's throw away was the Herbertstrasse, a street guarded by staggered, walled-off entrances at either end, restricted to those over 18 and under the strict watch of the local police. For me, arriving there was a total revelation; it was the archetypal image of the European sex industry, the likes of which simply didn't exist back in the UK. Strolling down that street felt like running a pleasant gauntlet, being accosted by scantily-clad women seated in windows, framed by partially open lace curtains and flattering red lights that illuminated the rooms behind. I always harbored a curiosity about what actually happened if a deal was struck, but I never quite had the courage—or, more importantly, the cash—to find out for myself. However, I did get a vicarious look when a girlfriend of mine working in a sex-parlor invited me to witness the proceedings through a spyhole in the wall. The one time I actually looked, it was a bit of a letdown; by the time the client had been scrubbed down in the shower, it was all over in a flash—an easy hit for her. I have plenty more stories about those adventures and misadventures for another time, but let's get back to the music.
Much like the Beatles and the many bands that preceded us, those marathon playing hours meant our band tightened up until we played like clockwork, allowing us to write and debut new material every single night. Those very songs formed the core of our first Galliard album, 'Strange Pleasure.' I composed the majority of the tracks during my time there, and by the time we finally entered the studio to record, most were captured in just a couple of live takes. Funnily enough, we recorded that album at Abbey Road Studios, in the exact same room where the Beatles tracked their debut.
When we returned for our second residency, we reunited with all the friends we'd made during the first stint. Although the hours were even longer, we were, like the Beatles before us, fortified by the Fraulein stationed downstairs outside the bathrooms. She was always ready to provide us with 'Prellies'—Preludin, an amphetamine that ensured we could play through the longest of nights, though it also kept us awake long after the gig, wandering the Fischmarkt waiting for the buzz to finally wear off.
Happy days... I think!
What a delightful recollection as well as a detailed look inside the Hamburg scene back then. Thanks, Geoff!
It seems like all the strip club band leaders are Italian. Most are crazed. I played the Largo on Sunset strip and the band was on a platform 20 feet in the air so we could see the stage. The first night, the Italian trumpet player leader told me to watch the girls and follow their movements with accents. While doing this, he's yelling at me, "Watch me, don't watch the girls." I watch him, he yells, "Why are you watching me, watch the music." I watch the music, "Don't watch the music, watch the girls." During the breaks the band was allowed to go either under the stairs or out in the alley. NEVER, talk to the customers or the girls. I think I quit after 3 nights.
I don't blame you!