THE TRAPDOOR FOLK CLUB

It was hot; very, very hot. One of those rare but glorious summer evenings when, even in England, everyone glows in the warmth of the evening sun. Pubs were serving up chilled cider and sizzling sausages, cooked on barbeques overlooking village greens. Cooking smells mingled with those of honeysuckle and warm woody hedgerows; the sounds from laid back lovers sprawled across greens, were interrupted only by the peppering of happy bird song in the bluest of skies.

In the old barn, up a flight of well-worn wooden steps, The Trapdoor Folk Club, once used as a hayloft to store food for hungry animals, was now the centre of much excitement and anticipation. The top half of the door, from which hay was once thrown to waiting carts, had been flung open to let the stifling heat escape, but unavoidably allowed even more hot air to enter. Draped across the top half of the door, a dusty old orange velvet curtain gave away the fact that this was now a makeshift stage, upon which singers and poets performed.

Although this is a programme for a concert in Wycombe Town Hall it mentions that tickets could be bought from The Trapdoor Folk Club. 

The splintered wooden floor was covered with denim-clad youths, arms wrapped around bent knees to allow yet more bodies to squeeze in. On hearing another knock on the trapdoor hatch, they would pause, exhaling smoke from dubious cigarettes and look around expectantly as another body stepped gingerly across a tangle of legs. Half empty wine and beer bottles clattered and rolled under knees as entries caused yet another shuffle of bums across the floor. Those lucky enough to have grabbed a seat on one of the benches nailed to the rafters, looked on smugly, waiting. Next to the opened door, you could just pick out the outline of one half of the star turn. He was crouched over his guitar, head bent as short stocky fingers twisted the cogs at the top of the guitar and ears strained to pick out the sound of the string as the artist tuned up for the first half. Finally satisfied, he threw the guitar strap over his head, across his shoulder and looked over to his partner.

All further knocks and pleads to be let in were ignored and silence fell as a panic-fuelled “shshshhhh” swept round the room. Under the trapdoor hatch, figures, deprived of a view, froze on the steps outside, not wanting to miss a note. The two singers stood. A solitary spotlight on to the makeshift stage picked out the two men as they nodded and bowed in response to the rapturous applause.

The one on the left was short and stocky. Large soulful eyes stared out from a pale, rounded face, framed by a thin layer of dark baby-fine hair. Lips moved to silent lyrics as he strummed through some of the chords on his guitar. The figure on the right was tall, lanky and thin. His hair was a contradiction. A tight mass of blonde girlish curls, brutishly beaten back by a receding hairline. The first figure stopped strumming and nodded to his partner. They both focused on the audience before launching in to their emotive hit. “… and the light was stabbed by the flash of a neon light …” 

Tom and Jerry were so popular that the tickets had sold out months before.

Some years later, my friend and I stood on the same stage. We were nicknamed the “Loo Ladies” as we had a habit of fleeing to the downstairs loo – the acoustics being to our liking - to practise our harmonies before going on stage before the main act of the evening. These acts included: Johnny Silvo; Cliff Augier; Jeremy Taylor; Martin Carthy and Diz Disley.

We, of course, wrote our own naïve, 60’s styled songs, as did most amateur singers. In these we put the worlds to right, convinced ourselves that all wars would end and birds would fly high in the sky and life was one long merry-go-round. But we also picked up on a few of the favourites of the time and these songs became our standards: Mingulay Boat Song; Last Thing on my Mind and – The Sound of Silence. The Sound of Silence had been taken in to the charts by two of our favourite Trapdoor singers – Tom and Jerry, who later changed their names to Simon and Garfunkel. 

Oh! and do you remember the song: Homeward Bound? Paul Simon wrote this during his tour of the folk clubs around England – one stop being at The Trapdoor Folk Club in Chesham, home to the infamous “Loo Ladies”.

(This is a fictional account of an actual event. Tom and Jerry (aka Simon and Garfunkel) performed at The Trapdoor Folk Club in Chesham. Alas, it was before I joined. However, I have created an amalgam of my experiences and of those relayed to me.)

http://www.folkandroots.co.uk