Doomsday On My Mind

 Then

Later

Only two rock stars have ever said to me, "You don't look so effing good yourself." One was on a balmy Sunday night under a big top at Straffan House in County Kildare in the middle of September 1975, the other on a steamy Saturday night in a Long Way to the Top concert arena in Canberra in late August 2002. I guess I asked for it, on each occasion. I had no good reason to refute their rebuff. Eric Clapton and Stevie Wright had no doubt taken some mild offence at my suggestions to the contrary, given they were two of the great survivors in the history of rock 'n' roll music, both once held tightly and longingly in the crippling hug of drug and alcohol addictions which had taken them to the brink of death so many times. I say "were" because one of them has now finally shuffled on this mortal coil.

You can compare this with the Bruce Springsteen
 tribute version in Sydney in 2014 here.

Stephen Carlton Wright, aka "Little Stevie" of the Easybeats, described by John Paul Young as the greatest rock frontman in the whole wide world ever, died from complications of pneumonia in Moruya Hospital on the New South Wales South Coast at 6 o'clock on Sunday evening, one week after his 68th birthday. Yes, Moruya, the starting place of my own (in its own way) deadly addiction, for collecting typewriters, the some time home of Red Hot Chili Peppers' bassist Flea, now the death place in the past 15 months of two old friends, Stevie Wright and historian Bill Mandle. For Stevie Wright, the end came almost 39 years to the day after his prolonged dance with Dr Death, fuelled with speed, reached the point of him singing at the elevator doors, thinking them to be stage curtains. To live another 39 years after that took some effort.

Stevie Wright's comment at the AIS Arena in Canberra in 2002 come back to me yesterday, when one of the glowing tributes paid to him included a clip from the Long Way to the Top national tour. An interviewer had the audacity to ask whether Stevie really did need another drink, to which Stevie more of less snarlingly responded that the journalist could, in the words of Dr Sheldon Lee Cooper PhD ScD, "go and have sexual relations with himself". This was the same time I last saw Stevie, and after the experience of Jack Marx's 1999 biography Sorry: The Wretched Tale of Little Little Stevie Wright, lauded and reviled in equal measure, he was naturally feeling wary of reporters. And I duly wary of him.

I'd gone backstage to catch up with blues guitarist Kevin Borich, who I'd known for almost 40 years, from his days with the La De Das in New Zealand in the mid-60s. Kevin was lead guitarist when a new, literally Allstars backing group was put together for Stevie by Michael Chugg in 1974. As Kevin and I chatted, I was surprised to spot what looked for all the world to me to be a derro, sitting outside one of the dressing room doors. It was Stevie. The years had been far from kind. He'd been living in relative obscurity in Narooma - relative, that is, to the heady days of the Easybeats, not to mention the Allstars and sundry other quickly aborted comebacks. For 12 years Stevie hadn't been able to stand, on stage or off, without a great deal of pain and some assistance. He'd smashed one ankle twice, each time - perhaps not all that surprisingly - at two in the morning. Once by jumping out a Chelmsford rehab window in February 1976, the other time trying to break into his own apartment in Balmain on the dark and stormy night of February 7, 1990, shimmying up a rusty drain pipe in Cuban heels to his bathroom window two storeys up. The injury led to Golden Staph. But that was possibly the least of it. Now the torture is over. And the tributes flow: "Australia's first international pop star","simply the best rock 'n' roll talent we've produced", "took Australian music to the world", "a pint-sized ball of kinetic energy, a backflipping foot-stomping streak of pure electricity who taught Australian kids what it meant to be a rock ’n’ roll star", "an amazing performer and one of Australia's greatest rock 'n' roll stars, "one of Australia's most beloved rock stars in the 1960s", the last from Billboard itself. None of that was around 13 years ago, when it still seemed a short way to the bottom.

As for Eric Clapton, now 70, there's happily no end in sight. And the memory of our rather differing roles in Circasia still burns brightly. 

Eric Clapton: The Autobiography

The Chieftains: The Authorised Biography, by John Glatt

Pádraig Ó Maoldomhnaigh, founder, leader and uilleann pipes and bodhrán player with the Chieftains, and author Glatt have got a little confused here. It was me who hadn't initially recognised Slowhand out of costume when we went outside Straffan House to listen to the whole of the Chieftains playing beside a brazier, and to smoke something I don't tell the kiddies about. And couldn't get back in. It was while standing around that I remarked on what I had perceived as Eric's purple pallor. And was told I didn't look too effing good, myself. In my case, at least, with very sound cause.

Titillation With Typewriters

Around the time Tim Berners-Lee was born, in 1955, young boys got their sex education from their almost equally uninformed schoolmates and, if their older brothers conveniently left them hidden under the mattress, girlie magazines. These teachings were, obviously, far from comprehensive, and usually only succeeded in considerably heightening curiosity. Then TimBL grew up and invented the World Wide Web, and wonderment turned into a weird world of false expectations.

Dealing with sexual puzzlement and frustration was once a critical part of the process of growing up. This wasn't in any way constructively helped by going to James Bond movies or reading Carter Brown pulp fiction (frankly I couldn't get enough of the Qantas PR man, though my family thought he was bad for me). The temporary solution, at least for me, was to pour out the testosterone on the rugby pitch then go home and pump out my own secret agent slush fiction on an Underwood Universal portable typewriter. My classmates thought this stuff wasn't half bad and sometimes I wish I hadn't pulped it before it fell into the wrong hands. I guess if it had fallen thusly, it would have been pulped pretty promptly anyway.

Hugh Hefner

Gabi Grecko

James Bond and Carter Brown notwithstanding, I naturally needed to rely entirely on my hugely fertile imagination to write the many lurid sex scenes (I was, after all, just 14 at the time; admittedly the www has made me no more equipped to write them now). My inspiration in 1962 was, I readily admit, fuelled by such alluring magazines as Man. The far more explicit (if airbrushed) Playboy, Oui, Penthouse and Mayfair had not yet reached our shores.

Looking sexy while typing with a Smith-Corona Corsair - surely that's an oxymoron? 

In Britain, it seems, that yawning gap in the sexual enlightenment of young men was in large part filled by such pinup magazines as Spick, Span and Beautiful Britons (what a sexy masthead!) - though one can only imagine they merely hastened a loss of innocence along with the advance of failing eyesight! These classics of cheesecake ran for 23 years from 1953 and are reputed to have published pictures of more than 4200 different mostly British women (plus a couple of Aussies wishing to show off their ample wares). 

The early editions featured movie stars such as Brigid Bardot (above), Diana Dors, Sabrina, Joan Collins and Anita Ekberg, but Town and Country Publications soon found a far cheaper way of titillating  its readers - by asking them to send in semi-nude photos of their own wives and girlfriends (and in at least a couple of cases, a sister and two daughters). The demand had become one for legally obtained glimpses of the undressed “girl next door”. A female reader wrote in 1958, "Don’t you think Spick and Span would be even more popular if you increased your features on the pretty girls who work in factories and offices and concentrated less on showgirls? As a housewife and mother of two attractive daughters … I’m sure the ordinary working girls retain their charm while showgirls lose a lot of theirs.”

In the introduction to his 2003 book Sexy Legs: Women in Office-Related Advertising, Humor, Glamour and Erotica, Dutch typewriter collector and historian Paul Robert concludes, "typewriter collectors ... tend to regard the typewriter as the single most beautiful and sensuous machine in history, coming second only to the girl touching it".  This does not fully explain, however, why among the 4200 ToCo images, photos of half-naked young women at typewriters pop up so frequently.

The typewriter, admittedly, is just one of a widely diverse and often bizarre range of props for these pinup pics. Others go from real horses to rocking horses and trikes (uncomfortable, I would have thought, in just a pair of panties), vacuum cleaners, a rifle, pruning shears, teddy bears, umbrellas, a scooter and fancy (and not so fancy) cars, record players and cocktail cabinets, ladders (pretty obvious for the upskirt shots), guitars, tennis rackets and paint brushes (!), pots and pans and clothes baskets, trunks and, most oddly, baths, some empty and some half full of presumably freezing cold water.

Generally, the photographer's instruction has not been so much "Say cheese!" as "Stick out a brave chin and a fulsome bust." Otherwise bored housewives have been told to "hoik up ya skirts, show ya knickers and smile." Often the subjects were asked to drag out of mothballs an old school uniform, or, worse still, skip in high heels. Many appear demure, most quite brazen. There is too much makeup and insufficient modesty, and the photos are not so much genuinely sexy as gratuitously suggestive. Without that, I guess, they'd be pretty much just lingerie ads - all panties and bras, stockings and suspender belts. I was interested to note that so many of them came from Ayrshire in Scotland, where, I'm happy to vouch, the lassies can be most forthcoming with their favours.

Sylvia Martin, who I've featured heavily in this post so far, and who featured, aged 20, in Spick in July 1965, was not one of them. She came from London and was a professional dancer with a modern jazz troupe who loved show jumping.  

Jackie Murray (aka Helena Borland and Jackie Summers) did come from Ayrshire and was also said to be a journalist and a short story writer. Now, if you can take your eyes off her knickers for a second, can you tell me what typewriter Jackie/Helena is using? It's the same typewriter which appears in many ToCo images (for example, the two below). Clue: Richard Polt featured one on his Writing Ball blog (as it was then) on October 9, 2011. You can cheat by going there, or by going to the end of this post.

 

Maria Martina, 1960

Like my one-time lady friend, the well-endowed Ruth Cavendish (aka Adele Romain) was a raven-haired stunner from Ayrshire. Ruth, seen here with an Olivetti Lettera 22,  won Miss Arbroath when she was only 15. She was one of those unhappy ToCo models subjected to the rocking horse.

Jane McKay (aka Patrina Sargent) was a shorthand typist in London and lived in Kent - or possibly a hairdresser from Bristol who “models for the fun of it” - and was an amateur pop singer. In December 1959 a reader wrote, "I am writing to introduce you to my sister Jane, who I think is very sweet and who has the kind of personality to make life gay for everyone who knows her. I am enclosing two photographs of her and do hope you can feature her. Shelley McKay, Erith." Strangely, however, it looks like the same typewriter as featured above.

Susan Douglas (aka Patricia Garland and Pat Garwood) was by far the most prolific model used in Town and Country Publications. She came from Kent and was, variously, a secretary, an early TV adverts model, a housewife and shorthand typist who enjoyed dancing, fencing, decorating and cordon bleu cookery. 

Hazel Powell (yes, it's the same mystery typewriter) had flaming red hair and big blue eyes, came from Streatham and was an extra in A Night to Remember. She liked riding, ice skating and dancing. Note the double entendre in the caption.

Angela Jones starred in Naked as Nature Intended, All Steamed Up and Dream of Fair Women, but hopefully not dressed like this.

Toni Frost (with same typewriter) (aka Margaret Frost) was a happily-married Londoner. When she was not busy taking shorthand and pounding a typewriter, she loved reading and cooking – her speciality was cheese soufflés that melted before they even got into your mouth. 

Margaret Coates from Cardiff with a Royalite.

The unfortunately named Jenny Piece of Worcester.

Answer: It's an Adler Privat:

Out to Christmas and Ridin' the Range with a Underwood packin' Colorado Cowboy Columnist - the man who brought Butch Cassidy back to life

Legendary Denver Post journalist Robert Wesley "Red" Fenwick - the man behind the "Ridin' the Range" column and the 1977 rebirth of the "Hole in the Wall Gang" - left this "Out to Christmas" note on his Underwood standard typewriter at his Post post at Christmas 1951. "We Will Be Closed" he added. But just to cheer up colleagues who had to work through the Christmas break 64 years ago, Fenwick also left behind his favourite Gil Elvgren typewriter pinup girl, the one inspired by the famous Marilyn Monroe photo.

Fenwick wasn't "out to Christmas" long. He was back on duty on December 29, 1951 - and what a "duty". "Red" turned red and sweaty as he ran the tape over the vital measurements of actress Joan Caulfield (He recorded her 24 1/2-inch waist and her 35 1/2-inch bust):

Christmas 1951 aside, Fenwick usually filled a large space in the Post office. He was a larger-than-life character. One of his many enduring claims is that he knew a woman who was Butch Cassidy's doctor. And, yes, you guessed it, Robert Leroy Parker didn't die, aged 42, on November 7, 1908, in a hailstorm of bullets from Captain Justo Concha's Abaroa Regiment at Bonifacio Casasola's boarding house at San Vicente in Bolivia. Apparently, about 40 years ago now, Fenwick told writer Ivan G. Goldman, then a reporter at the Post, that he was "acquainted with Cassidy's physician, a person of absolute integrity" who claimed she had continued to treat Cassidy for many years after he was supposedly killed.

No raindrops on his head: Butch Cassidy

As "the champion supporter of the West's culture", Fenwick kept the Cassidy legend alive - even though he was born seven months after Cassidy allegedly died - and in, of all places, Howell, Evansville, Indiana - not his much cherished Wyoming. (This was a "whopping mistake of nature," according to Bill Myers in the Post in 1976).

Fenwick was born the son of an Evansville telegraph operator on June 10, 1909. To water down the embarrassment, Fenwick later claimed he was born in Kentucky. Indeed, the family had moved to Madisonville by the time he was one, and then on to Brandenburg and finally Douglas, Wyoming. Fenwick died on beloved territory, in Depaul Hospital, Cheyenne, Wyoming, on November 4, 1982, aged 73. His obituary described him as "a friend of children, cowboys, Indians, rodeo, the US flag, hot-wire linemen, horses, dogs, yucca and everything American".

Long yarn: Red Fenwick bangs away at his Underwood while a sub-editor, foreground, tries to work through the corrections in the Denver Post office in the early 1960s. The sub's got a long way to go!

Until he retired in 1975, Fenwick roamed the Rocky Mountain Empire for the Post's Empire magazine and even in retirement continued to write his "Ridin' the Range" column - which in the end chalked up 40 years from 1942-82. Fenwick's love of the West led to some vivid yarns, rewarded by his 2006 posthumous induction into the Cheyenne Frontier Days Hall of Fame at the Old West Museum and, just before his death, the Old West Trail Foundation's Western Award for being "the champion supporter of the West's culture and heritage and for devoting his entire life to all aspects of recording the West". As well, in 2009 he was inducted into the Denver Press Club's Hall of Fame.

He was also the first winner of the Citizen of the West Award (1978) and was honoured by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, the National High School and Collegiate Rodeo Association, the Colorado March of Dimes and with a Doctor of Law degree by the University of Wyoming. Fenwick often rambled on at length about the mythical jackalope, a "fearsome critter" that was a jackrabbit with antelope horns. Fenwick claimed this animal originated in his "hometown" of Douglas, and could imitate the human voice. He even took to interviewing parrots (11 months before going "out to Christmas"):

Two months after this chat, on March 26, 1950, Fenwick started an epic journey in his 1949 Lincoln with a borrowed pinto horse called G-Boy in tow, travelling to 13 states and presenting gold-plated, silver-mounted spurs to each state governor. One wonders whether his choice of the pinto might have been inspired by that famous Remington Model 2 portable typewriter poster. It was said that his "compassionate tales of life on the Indian reservations showed he was as steady at the typewriter as he was in the saddle". I'm sure Fenwick would have loved to try this out:

I love this letter written by Fenwick to a Dr Walter Ervin Reckling of Lusk, a town in Wyoming which considered changing its name to Rawhide (after the TV show) in 1962:

"So you Lusk characters are going to make your city go incognito? Or rather I should say, you're assuming an alias. It sounds like a good idea in one way, on the other hand I hate to see a community lose its identity.

"Take Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, for example. Of course, there was less sense to that change from Hot Springs than your proposed change has. The actual fact is that TOC, NM, is famous for its hot springs and as such has become a popular winter spa with the older folks.

"Your change, however, would seem to identify Lusk with something for which it is famous, too. So maybe the switch will be logical.

"One of our editorial writers called to ask me about the proposed name change the other day, and I understand you're going to be blessed with one of our lofty opinions on the subject - possibly already have. I haven't seen it because I don't always read the editorial page. I'm too damned busy trying to write things for the pages in Empire magazine.

"Have you ever thought how the change might affect some business enterprises? Will Jim Griffith go along with the Rawhide Herald - Rawhide National Bank? Think how beauty parlors will react? Rawhide Beauty Parlor? May be a more accurate description at that.

Have you considered Skin and Bones, Wyoming? And think what a tourist shop could do with that name for a slogan - Rawhide Tourist Novelties - Come on In. You Won't Be the First Tourist We Skinned.

"You go ahead, Doc, and change the name of your town. And by gad we'll change the name of Denver to Raw Deal, Colorado.

"Feelin' better, flag at about half mast but coming up. Look forward to a good summer. The dope is that tourist business will boom on account of World Fair in Seattle. Better get the name changed.

"Right cordially,

"Red Fenwick."

Also enjoyable reading is this April 1974 column about Fenwick from Billings, Montana, columnist Addison Bragg (1918-2009):

You will find Bill Myer's lengthy story of the life of Red Fenwick in a Gerald R. Ford Presidential Memorial Library and Museum PDF here. Scroll down to third page.

You're Simply the Best (Blog Followers)

What to Get Dad for Christmas

This photograph was taken by John Chaloner Woods for the British version of Good Housekeeping magazine for its Christmas 1963 edition. It was captioned "Suggested Christmas presents for a working man - a typewriter, a paisley dressing gown or perhaps a slim suitcase."
The portable typewriter in the stylish front-clip case is, surprisingly, an early Japanese-made Nippo Rexina, very much like the Clipper owned by Typospherian Mark Petersen.

Also in the mix is a then-fashionable address-contact book with a rotary telephone dial. These can still be bought. Indeed, they'd be an awful lot easier to find than such an early Nippo typewriter.

The Chaloner Woods Studio specialised in lifestyle and fashion feature spreads for British magazines, for more than five decades from 1930 until 1986. While women's fashion shots dominate its vast portfolio, images of everyday English life are usually fascinating and remain of considerable historical value. Woods, born in Acton, Middlesex, on May 14, 1903, died in Fulham, London, in April 1986. A travelling salesman, he switched from selling sweets to shopkeepers to photographing sweets for advertising. Assisted by his wife Mary, a former fashion model and dress designer, Woods was soon receiving commissions from the biggest advertising companies in the country. The couple used clean, modernist lines to seduce the public into buying products as diverse as shoes and light bulbs to knitting patterns and lipsticks. However, fashion was their forte and seeing the potential of colour work for the exploding women’s magazine market, the husband and wife team soon set the tone for a now classic style of 1950s fashion photography for designers including Teddy Tingling and Elizabeth Arden and magazines such as Vanity Fair and Harper’s Bazaar. Here is a 1938 "selfie":

Chaloner Woods often liked to include typewriters in his set pieces:

 Corona 4, 1930

 Royal? 1953

 Christmas gift suggestions 1955, including Lilliput toy typewriter.

 Above, 1964: This looks like a Groma Modell N

Below, 1966 Royal

Another unusual staged shot in 1938 promoted Australian wine (Emu Burgundy) , a good 40 years before Australian wines developed any sort of international reputation: