to make the occasion as dark and dour as the black brooding stone of the city. But on the day before his brother’s wedding, as Ronnie was standing in the pub near Kenny’s flat and agonizing over the speech he was expected to give as best man, he felt a massive paw clamp down on his shoulder. “Eh, yew. Gie-us an eighty, will ye? Me throat’s a wee bit dry.”
Ronnie wheeled around and laughed. “If it isn’t Tommy Mac …”
“Aye, mate, still kickin’. And lookatcha, ya fuckin’ tossel. I dinna reconize ya with a pint in yer hand. Naughty boy. Dinna falla yer old man there, didjiz.”
Tommy Mac, even at the age of twelve, had been more man than boy, with thick wrists and fingers, a massive neck and chest, short stumpy legs and a forehead like an anvil, hard and flat and punishing. Ronnie had seen several noses broken by that forehead and, although he well knew the higher standards expected of him as a minister’s son, had managed to spend time each summer in Tom’s boisterous company. When Tom left home at the age of sixteen, lured into the darker side of Glasgow with Alec Walker and his gang of thugs, Ronnie grieved like a brother.
The afternoon of their reunion they worked through several pints, calling up old haunts, old faces. And the more they talked, the more they discovered it was not just the past they had in common. They were also reunited by a love of soul music. (“Aye, Ronnie, it’s trew, the Scots are the nignogs a Europe. Lift tha’ barge. Tote tha’ fuckin’ bale.”)
After their fifth pint they hatched a plan: they would rent the banquet hall of the East Kilbride Benevolent Society and put on a concert. Ronnie would handle all the paperwork and the promotion. Tom and a few of his mates would provide the heavy lifting and security. From there it was concerts in Glasgow and Edinburgh. A year went by in a blink, with the two making more money than they had ever made before. Then Bobby Mason, the manager of Scot Free, approached Ronnie with a proposition.
“We’re off to America,” Bobby said. “Crazy about us over there, it seems. Dates from coast to coast. Disneyland,
American Bandstand
. We could use a road manager with your kind of smarts, mate. A fixer.”
Ronnie agreed on the spot. It put an end to the successful operation he and Tom had going, but that was a small price to pay for a pilgrimage to the holy sites of one’s belief—New York, New Orleans, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, Los Angeles. When Scot Free returned to Glasgow at the end of the tour, Ronnie stayed behind to live the dream. Working out of New York, he hitched up with other tours and made a name for himself.
But late in the winter of 1968, on the road in Western Canada with Aaron Maxx, the dream began to unravel. The tour had been a fiasco, as Ronnie had predicted it would be when Aaron insisted on using theBelko Brothers, a pair of local promoters who normally booked wrestling extravaganzas in mid-size cowtowns. They ran ads on the wrong radio stations, put posters in the wrong places, greased the palms of the wrong people. Worst of all, they booked Aaron into towns so far apart, in the dead of winter, that it was physically impossible to make it to the gigs on time, even if the crew packed up right after a show and drove all night.
Two concerts had already been cancelled, and in Staghorn, Alberta, after driving through a blizzard, they arrived at the arena at eleven at night, three hours after showtime and a good hour and a half after the last person had claimed a refund. The hall was dark, the parking lot empty save for a black Mercedes idling by the side door. Inside the car were the Belkos, large men with large voices. When they spoke, only their heads were visible through the open window. In the clearest possible terms they indicated that this was their last warning: one more screw-up and they would sue Aaron and impound the bus and gear. For emphasis, their bodyguard, an ex-wrestler by the name of
Ronnie wheeled around and laughed. “If it isn’t Tommy Mac …”
“Aye, mate, still kickin’. And lookatcha, ya fuckin’ tossel. I dinna reconize ya with a pint in yer hand. Naughty boy. Dinna falla yer old man there, didjiz.”
Tommy Mac, even at the age of twelve, had been more man than boy, with thick wrists and fingers, a massive neck and chest, short stumpy legs and a forehead like an anvil, hard and flat and punishing. Ronnie had seen several noses broken by that forehead and, although he well knew the higher standards expected of him as a minister’s son, had managed to spend time each summer in Tom’s boisterous company. When Tom left home at the age of sixteen, lured into the darker side of Glasgow with Alec Walker and his gang of thugs, Ronnie grieved like a brother.
The afternoon of their reunion they worked through several pints, calling up old haunts, old faces. And the more they talked, the more they discovered it was not just the past they had in common. They were also reunited by a love of soul music. (“Aye, Ronnie, it’s trew, the Scots are the nignogs a Europe. Lift tha’ barge. Tote tha’ fuckin’ bale.”)
After their fifth pint they hatched a plan: they would rent the banquet hall of the East Kilbride Benevolent Society and put on a concert. Ronnie would handle all the paperwork and the promotion. Tom and a few of his mates would provide the heavy lifting and security. From there it was concerts in Glasgow and Edinburgh. A year went by in a blink, with the two making more money than they had ever made before. Then Bobby Mason, the manager of Scot Free, approached Ronnie with a proposition.
“We’re off to America,” Bobby said. “Crazy about us over there, it seems. Dates from coast to coast. Disneyland,
American Bandstand
. We could use a road manager with your kind of smarts, mate. A fixer.”
Ronnie agreed on the spot. It put an end to the successful operation he and Tom had going, but that was a small price to pay for a pilgrimage to the holy sites of one’s belief—New York, New Orleans, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, Los Angeles. When Scot Free returned to Glasgow at the end of the tour, Ronnie stayed behind to live the dream. Working out of New York, he hitched up with other tours and made a name for himself.
But late in the winter of 1968, on the road in Western Canada with Aaron Maxx, the dream began to unravel. The tour had been a fiasco, as Ronnie had predicted it would be when Aaron insisted on using theBelko Brothers, a pair of local promoters who normally booked wrestling extravaganzas in mid-size cowtowns. They ran ads on the wrong radio stations, put posters in the wrong places, greased the palms of the wrong people. Worst of all, they booked Aaron into towns so far apart, in the dead of winter, that it was physically impossible to make it to the gigs on time, even if the crew packed up right after a show and drove all night.
Two concerts had already been cancelled, and in Staghorn, Alberta, after driving through a blizzard, they arrived at the arena at eleven at night, three hours after showtime and a good hour and a half after the last person had claimed a refund. The hall was dark, the parking lot empty save for a black Mercedes idling by the side door. Inside the car were the Belkos, large men with large voices. When they spoke, only their heads were visible through the open window. In the clearest possible terms they indicated that this was their last warning: one more screw-up and they would sue Aaron and impound the bus and gear. For emphasis, their bodyguard, an ex-wrestler by the name of
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