Liverpool, Saturday
Beyond the gangway was a private world, where the adult stranger was likely to suffer the fate of the middle-aged chauffeur from Doncaster who sat gloomily at a porthole as if yearning for home and more familiar surroundings. When a teddyboy peered through the porthole at the darkness and asked, “Where are we, mister?” he stared at the couples jiving near him and said with ironic laughter, “Tha’ guess is as good as mine.”
On guard over this private world was a tall, thin man in the black shirt and suit of a Mississippi gambler, who carefully examined you before allowing you aboard. Next to him was a trumpeter, red-faced already from his exertions, who played a welcome in choice jazz that must have been audible on the opposite bank of the river Mersey. You were a guest at the coronation of the “King of Jive” and as close to the “beat generation” as you might get.
After three hours of jazz afloat with several hundred young couples keeping time on the four decks to the beat, it was easy to understand why this is the “beat generation.” Hands clapped, glasses rattled, and feet stamped to the beat all evening long. The glasses indeed rattled and the bars from experience demanded a deposit of 6d on all glasses, but in fact, from casting off to docking at closing time, there was no real drunkenness on any of the decks. The few couples who towards the end staggered and flopped down on the benches, gasping like long-distance runners were more likely to be suffering from exhaustion. Crowning the “King” was a strenuous and dedicated ceremony.
The ten-knot blues
The procession to the throne was up the river Mersey at a steady ten knots and then down again towards the sea, the captain turning the ship around whenever the rough waves threatened to upset the delicate balance of the dancers. Jazz from a seven-piece band came through the loudspeakers over the dark choppy water, with the lights of Liverpool in the background, and the crews of several loitering vessels rushed to the rails in wonder as the Royal Iris (1,234 tons) passed them to the beat of “Where did you stay last night?”
The Lancashire Society of Jazz Music was experimenting to find out if the great days of the Mississippi showboats and the “blues” could be recaptured on the Mersey, and the enthusiasts - the “cats” - had come from as far as London to do their best. The chauffeur from Doncaster had brought over a party of a dozen “cats” and was driving them back as soon as the Royal Iris docked.
Hardly anyone was over 20. Their concentration was astonishing. The sweat rolled down their faces and they carried on dancing, puffing and panting as they touched hands and turned, too weary to talk, and often towards the end chewing gum with the grimness of war-time fighter-pilots to keep going. At last, after more than an hour of this, their numbers were reduced to the best six couples, who then jived for a little longer while the judges selected the “King.”
He was Wally Blasbery, aged 20, who had already won several prizes for jiving and had competed for a world championship in London. His face was bathed in sweat like a boxer’s after a morning in the gym, and he emphasised how fit he had to be for jiving. To keep in training for dancing three nights a week he swam, played football, and regularly took part in athletics. He worked as a driver for a bread firm in Liverpool. What was his ambition? asked a reporter as if this might be the key to the “beat generation.” The “King” replied: “Well, my present job. I’m just a driver now but when I turn 21 I become a salesman. That can lead to anything, see.”
At ease
Why did he devote so much of his spare time to dancing? He did not even have to ponder over his reply. “It makes me feel at ease.” His only concern was that he had not been at his best because of the rough state of the Mersey and the occasional rolls of the ship. “ It’s all balance,” he said.
That was a question for experts; for the ordinary dancers the floor might have been on dry land and they did not even bother going up on the top deck to look at the stars. But when they left the confines of the dancefloor for a brief rest they usually descended to the fish-and-chip shop on “D” deck where extractor fans prevented the smells from penetrating to the dancefloor.
Coming home over the dark Mersey to the pier head after a trip upriver almost as far as Eastham towards the entrance to the Manchester Ship Canal, someone tried to start a chorus of “Old Man River,” but the call of the band was too strong, and the solitary figure was left on the top deck, a black silhouette looking like one of the Negro slaves at the birth of the blues, while the “beat generation” rushed for a last dance before returning to the reality of shore.
