A rock’n’roll epic poem about a band who weathered many musical storms. Click on the hyperlinks to hear each song as the poem goes on, or listen to the complete album here
The Three Mulleteers, all shorn the same way,
Met with the barber the very same day.
Two dead and gone now, only one at play,
For those Three Mulleteers, our glasses are raised.
There’s Pauly, the oldest by 15 months
And Jimmy, who overcame the mumps,
And lastly Richie van der Crump:
Three Mulleteers, pals from the jump.
These teenage rebels, dirty-faced,
Would jive and wrestle all over the place:
Pauly, Jimmy and Richie wasted
Months and years, forever braced
For trouble from the other lads,
Who took issue with the trio’s dads
For letting them wind up like that:
Three Mulleteers, loyal to a man.
One summer’s morning Pauly said,
‘Let’s form a band and earn our bread.’
Richie nodded, Jimmy tapped his head,
‘I’ve got some songs that’ll get us fed.’
Pauly the oldest, he grabbed a mic;
On guitar was Jimmy, quick as lightning,
And Richie slammed his snare with bite.
Those Mulleteers were dynamite!
In nineteen hundred sixty-one
When all you had to do for fun
Was make a din and crash those drums
And harmonise about the moon or sun,
The Mulleteers played the honky-tonks,
Would go all night but for curfews and cops.
Pauly, Jimmy and Richie all popped
Two-minute hymns that took ‘em to the top.
They stirred the souls of every crowd.
You thought you knew how rebellion sounds?
They cranked it up till it was beyond loud
Three Mulleteers, all solemnly bound.
They gigged in rain, they traipsed through snow.
‘Where tonight boys?’ Lord only knows
For Pauly, Jimmy and Richie’s toes.
And thus their anthem Jim composed:
‘Billericay, Batley, Guildford,
Maidstone, Tunbridge Wells and Bradford
Bournemouth, Rugby, Kettering, Watford
We’re a town away from you-ford!’
The girls did scream, boys curled their lips,
Their parents right near flipped their lid!
They’d never seen such insolent kids
Than when they heard The Mulleteers.
In nineteen hundred sixty-two
They made their television debut.
Pauly roared and Jimmy’s blues
Made some watchers quite bemused:
What was this rock, and what this roll?
Had Lucifer purloined their soul?
And what, pray tell, was the trio’s goal?
That drummer Richie looks like a mole.
But thousands heard the Mullet call:
They queued for concerts at local halls,
They cried for Richie, Jimmy, Pauly
And dozens of them wet their drawers.
At last they put their album out
Ten awesome cuts, without a doubt.
Their acolytes were so devout
And they went wild for the Jimmy Pout.
‘I got a girl and the girl’s got me
More lust than love, it’s clear to see…’
The record was spun eternally
On the pirate ships and the BBC.
They made a buck with merchandise
On posters that were A4 sized.
Kids were besotted, energised,
Richie and Pauly and Jimmy-wise.
In nineteen hundred sixty-three
The murder of President Kennedy
Appalled the world, but set the scene
And left a heartthrob vacancy.
Out they came at 12.15
The kids staying up to hear the beat
And those non-converts to the creed
All heard the fuss and clattering.
There was Pauly, quiff stuck true,
There was Jimmy, he bent the rules,
And there was Richie, oh so cool.
Those kids would be exhausted at school!
And headlong, hurtling at speed
Into bedlam were the Mulleteers,
Locked in hotels with room service
And when they tried to relax – they’re on TV!
Every syllable was sacrosanct,
Each new jacket a signal for fans
To change their look, adopt a stance,
Music and clothes going hand in hand
And every week came classic hits
From Stones and Beach Boys, young people singing
A soundtrack to a global twist.
And, through it all, were The Mulleteers.
There was a love song made for teens
Named for a girl whom they called Tina
And on the flipside they sounded keen
To have a rumble, vent their spleen.
And so album two announced itself:
More power chords and, with some stealth,
Some angst and worries; the critics felt
They’d crack if they kept at full pelt.
Pauly sounded better than ever,
Richie rumbled like bad weather,
And Jimmy, wearing biker leather,
Strummed guitar as no-one better.
With imitators now behind them,
The rock’n’roll sound became uninspiring.
Each act had their fans admiring
But dilution of quality began to stymie them.
But the Mulleteers kept getting booked
For radio shows and, on account of their looks,
For TV too, though viewers brooked
That their goose was overcooked.
Not that our heroes overminded.
The crowds were massive, cheers subsided
When Jimmy hushed their unrequited
Love with ‘Let’s not get overexcited!’
The Mulleteers’ loyal acolytes
Cheered louder as the band took flight,
Which informed their jolly enterprise
Of playing music, as was their right.
For album three, they slowed it down,
Taking their cue from the hot blues sound
Imported from that fertile ground
Of Mississippi, where it abounds.
So Richie, with his shuffling beat,
Played under Jimmy’s blues conceit,
And Pauly, drinking Bourbon neat,
Crooned brand new numbers about Easy Street.
A greaseball no-name circumscribed…
Jack needs a Jill or he’ll start to cry’
A doowop pastiche, the critics surmised.
The kids still listened, growing up
And growing their hair out, smoking stuff.
The Mulleteers were good enough,
They proved they’d not run out of puff.
Then came the drugs in moderation.
Pauly adored girls’ adoration,
Teenage prayers and incantations
All seemed a lovely indication
That rock’n’roll can buy you love,
And everything that people want
Contained in one three-minute song
That chimed with almost everyone.
And when pop music was psychedelic
The Mulleteers leaned more electric:
Solos longer, more dyspeptic,
Their material at a pleasing nexus
Between four-four beat and waltz-time swagger,
Like Winwood, Daltry, Hayward, Jagger,
Voices like the antimatter.
Young folk were all over gladder.
‘I’ve got one ready,’ Pauly spoke.
Jimmy said, ‘I’ve already heard that joke.’
‘No, hear him out,’ said Richie, mid-toke,
And Pauly gulped his bottle of Coke.
‘It’s a protest song for our ill times.’
To which guitarist Jimmy replied,
‘Well someone’s killer instincts died.
The fans won’t buy it. It’s suicide.’
‘The kids need to find a common cause,
Our Vietnam, a proxy war,
And rock’n’roll is how it’s fought – ‘
Thus Pauly spoke, but said Jimmy, ‘No more.
‘We’re not in San Francisco, Paul,’
Screwing up his face, appalled.
‘The times have changed, Jim. Heed the call.
Don’t shirk this challenge, stand up tall!
‘Don’t let your pride precede the fall…
We plant the seed against the wall.’
A guide to life for one and all
He told the kids to stand up tall.
Thus did cracks threaten to appear
Among our Three Mulleteers.
Jimmy, outvoted of the three,
Wrote an angry solo to the words of Pauly.
And lo, a hit did come to pass.
To this day the sentiments last.
A lyric so deep, a cause so fast
Plus the copyright made the proceeds vast.
There’s money in protest as there had been in youth.
Ask Bob Dylan and he’ll wink you the truth.
And with cryptic lines aided by vermouth
The record sales were ample proof.
And so in sixty-eight and -nine
The Mulleteers made noise from the times.
And when the decade’s end arrived
The cheques had bought them country piles.
Rockers fled to the country or to France,
Hendrix overdosed, bad circumstance.
The glitter sparkled and youngsters danced
To Bolan, Holder, Wood – what a cast!
Androgyny was the specialty
And none more hip than David Bowie
Who used the power of TV
To convince the kids to join the party.
The Mulleteers invited themselves
Making the personal political
For Jimmy, Richie and, yes, Paul,
Were elder statesmen of rock’n’roll.
The amps got louder, the girls became women,
The venues got bigger, the trio still filled ‘em.
Some bands split when really they shouldn’t have
And other slogged on but lost their spirit.
Through three-day weeks and union strife
The palais and ballrooms, from Hove up to Fife,
Welcomed old friends like swans for life;
The badges worn, the passion rife.
New songs were strummed, new choruses
Using those old chords: one four five six.
Where else could that triumvirate mix
But the world of drumskins rapped with sticks?
Two hundred shows per annum played
Through disco’s four-four cavalcade.
The Mulleteers would not be swayed
From service station mayonnaise.
Jimmy put out a solo record,
Reception of which was rather chequered,
But the guitar played was under no pressure:
He’d earned the right for experimenting.
‘Colour in a black and white world
A better life for every boy and girl…
You squares won’t understand’; lip curled,
A battle-cry where feelings swirled.
But for his band the fifties revival
Was kind to their UK touring cycle.
Nostalgia made them a top live draw,
Weekenders brought the mod disciples.
Thirty-year-olds felt eighteen,
Old in tooth but when they were green
Could twist and jive with graceful ease.
Thus they grew old disgracefully.
Pauly’s twins and Richie’s lad
Would kiss goodbye to all their dads
Who headed off in a rusty van
To fans donning their gladdest rags.
‘This one’s from nineteen sixty-three’
Went the rehearsed patter of our Jimmy.
The usual cheers, the same routine,
And nowhere else he’d rather be.
Some lads worked for the milk marketing board
Or determined the stock in a local store.
The Mulleteers, dreaming of much more,
Rocked and rolled and were adored.
They weren’t averse to old nostalgia
And brought out a dance called The Caterpillar
‘From Tokyo to New Orleans to Paris’ – silly,
But at that time folks wanted things frilly.
In the nineteen eighties, MTV
Made the older guard think visually
And, helped by video visionaries,
Rock grew exponentially.
Surviving rockers were dinosaurs,
Not yet the legends they’d be called;
Even Paul McCartney, worst of all,
Was lampooned as a star mid-fall.
Live Aid rescued the repute of Queen,
Which was no great mystery:
The stellar Freddie Mercury
Hit every line note-perfectly.
Millions were raised for the noblest cause.
The Mulleteers, without a moment’s pause,
Did as to the manor born:
Plugging in and, matchfit, performed.
‘This one’s from nineteen sixty-two’
Went Jimmy’s patter to familiar whoops
Reporting like medallioned troops,
Still fighting, flying through the hoops.
That song was about feeling ‘California fine,
Join the traffic…pay attention to the signs’
In a Thunderbird; pretty asinine
But at that time folks wanted things divine.
And so on and on, until two thousand
With rickety backs and hair more tousled
A farewell tour was the announcement.
Richie, Pauly and Jimmy pronounced:
‘The abdication has arrived.
For one last tour we promise to try
To stir the well-worn battle cry:
“Bemulleted until we die!!”’
A retrospective CD box
Flew off the shelves of record shops
It tided fans over before they stopped,
A decision many thought codswallop.
The night of those three’s final show.
The queue sprinkled with curtain-call snow
And voices primed to re-explode,
As happened forty years ago,
Jimmy checked his guitar strings’ tension
Pauly prepared for his old-age pension
And Richie prayed in genuflection
For the Mulleteers’ invention.
‘Guys,’ said Jimmy, overcome,
‘For all these years we’ve had some fun.
We owe it now to everyone
To go out there as champions!
‘Let’s play those hits one final time.
Richie, if you’re feeling so inclined
Ad lib awhile on Single Kinda Guy.’
Then Jimmy stifled, surprised, a cry.
The lights went down, the fans erupted.
A couple set aside their crutches.
To most of the world it was much of a muchness
But that night they were all set to party.
The count-ins were yet more full-throated,
The basslines were hard, blood-coated,
Jimmy’s guitar parts all emotive
And not immune to showboating.
They played an oldie that sounded fine:
‘We work all day so we can jive all night…
And when Monday comes, we’ll remember why
We fight to save our soul.’ They all jived.
Each song would never be repeated.
With reputation undefeated,
As years went on their fame accreted.
Their throne would never lie unseated.
Rock magazines would commission scribes
To document their rise and rise
And, though prone to philosophise,
Their words were mostly true and wise.
‘Well, the three of us were strong as steel
We always aimed to keep it real.
At nineteen we had sex appeal,
At fifty-nine our blood congealed.
‘But,’ Pauly added with glistering eyes,
‘You want to know the real surprise?
We thought guitars were on the slide,
But rock’n’roll can never die!’
Last May Jimmy passed away
And wretchedly, just yesterday,
Richie’s heart beat its final quaver.
Only Pauly, of The Mulleteers, remains.
So before his mind can remember nought
I dedicate this epic stream of thought
To a trio of such fine import
Who won every battle, every war.
The greats are mourned, frozen in ice,
Then legend starts to spin their life.
We cannot separate myth from right
And all that is black is left out from the white.
So take these words as you wish to hear them,
Take down the box sets, give them a listen,
And say a prayer to those rock’n’roll spirits:
Jimmy and Pauly and Richie: The Mulleteers.
Amen.
You can find all 10 tracks in one playlist here.