Diamonds by Richard Tearle

originally published on Discovering Diamonds December 2017

DIAMONDS

by 
Richard Tearle

Just hearing that Tony Meehan drum intro took me back to a cold February night in 1963. Back to that Church hall in Friern Barnet, next to the Orange Tree pub. Back to the youth club where me, Mick, Jimmy and Paul were playing our first – and only, as it happens – gig supporting another local group, The Falcons.

And then, following Mick's drums, I came in. It was our last number and I wanted to get it just right. Leave an impression. In order to try and capture the exact sound Jet Harris made with his revolutionary 6-stringed Fender Jaguar Bass, I used a thicker plectrum – it gave the sound an authentic 'clunk' as I hit the lighter strings of my Guyatone standard lead and rhythm guitar.

I had my stance and had been practising my facial expressions in front of a mirror. I closed my eyes and squeezed the notes out of the strings, fingers pressed heavily against the fretboard. I raised the neck of the guitar for the higher notes and dropped it for the lower ones. Front knee bent slightly; back leg straight, not unlike Gene Vincent. The notes dripped like melting chocolate. Paul - who never missed a chord change - kept the rhythm going; Jim plodded out a bass line. Mick's drums threatened to drown all of us out. Johnny Adams, our manager, fiddled with my amp to get more volume.

I ventured a glance at the crowd. Small but growing; they hadn't come to see us, after all. But they seemed to be enjoying our set of bog-standard instrumentals. The Shadows stuff, mostly. Obscure album tracks. We'd played Walk, Don't Run by the Ventures and that had been good, as had Chariot by Rhett Stoller. And an instrumental of Where Have all the Flowers Gone which Paul's dad had liked. A shame none of us could sing.

I stepped back from the mic, played softer and Johnny fiddled with the amps so that we almost recreated the fade out pretty well.

And it was over.

* * *

I bought myself a Coke from the table selling soft drinks and crisps. I hadn't realised how hot and thirsty I'd become and I demolished the drink in two long gulps.

“That was good,” a voice said. Female.

I turned. She was blonde, about five foot five and had the most vibrant green eyes. Like emeralds. Diamonds. She wore a tight white sweater, a flared short skirt and white knee length boots.

“Thank you,” I said. “Erm - Would you like a drink?”

“Thank you. Coke. Please.” Then: “I love that tune.”

“Which one?”

“Diamonds. The last one. I like Jet Harris. My favourite Shadow. When he was with them,” she added needlessly.

“Mine too.” It wasn't just a line to attract more attention from her; it was true. The name, the really cool hairstyle. Jet was 'the man' in my eyes.

I offered her a cigarette. Perfectos I smoked in those days. King size. Impressive.

She accepted and I held out my lighter for her. She bent her head, flicked her hair away from her face and then blew smoke out.

“I'm Stephanie,” she said. “Most people call me Stevie.”

I told her my name.

She smiled and said, “I know.”

I took her arm and steered her away from the table, indicating a pair of lonely chairs on the other side of the hall. The Falcons were setting up.

“You're really good,” she said, sipping her Coke.

I thanked her. I knew that I wasn't really that good, but I'd done alright tonight and was happy. No bum notes and only once did I finish a tune before the rest of the group.

The Falcons began their set. Please Please Me. A song by a new group called The Beatles. Then an obligatory Chuck Berry number.

I sighed. “None of us can sing,” I said. “we would do that stuff if we could.”

“You don't have to be able to sing,” she laughed. “I saw a group last week. The Rolling Stones. They can't sing!”

“But it's having the guts to stand on a stage and do it. That's the problem with us.”

“Never mind, she said and looped her arm through mine. “It'll come.”

“Do you live far from here?” I asked tentatively.

Stevie smiled and confirmed that she was only a few streets away.

“Can I – can I walk you home?”

“Later,” she said. “Let's have a dance first.”

We dropped our cigarettes onto the wooden floor and I ground them both out with my Cuban heeled Chelsea boots. As we progressed from a gyrating twist to a slow and smoochy number, I caught Paul's eye over Stevie's shoulder. He grinned and winked and I gave him two fingers. But there was a smile on my face as I did so.

Later, in the chill of a dark February night, I walked Stevie home. Cloudy and moonless it was and the only stars to be seen were in my eyes. And hers, I noticed, as we shared a first kiss outside her front door.

* * *

There were to be many more times that I walked her home; all carried the same magic as that first, wondrous night. After two years of courtship we became engaged and two years after that I made Stevie my wife. Our first solo dance at our wedding reception was to the tune of Diamonds.

The oh so familiar tune came to its fading end, Jet Harris's bass still true after more than fifty years. I raised my head as an organ began to play and I stared at the coffin as it rolled away to the furnace. Stevie's coffin.

The purple curtains closed silently and I whispered a simple 'Goodbye, Stevie. Love you'. Tears blurred my vision and when I rose I stumbled slightly. Hands supported me and I mumbled my thanks.

I was led outside. Another grey February day. Fitting, I suppose.

Someone somewhere whispered, “Strange choice of music.”

But Diamonds had always been 'our song'. 

© Richard Tearle

Richard says the tale is not autobiographical - but he did play in a band or two... alas, not on the same level as the following...

Diamonds ....