Reviews
Artist: High Society
Venue: Red Lion
Town: Isleworth
Date: 15th November 2009
Website: http://www.highsocietyband.net/
Chapter 1
"Crikey" I squealed, as a bread roll, loosed from a well-armed Drone narrowly whistled by my ear. Luckily, the aforementioned b.r. collided squarely on the cranium of "Barmy" Phipps, before rolling harmlessly under the chaise lounge.
I was reaching for what looked like a particularly aerodynamic roast potato when my manservant, Internet, inched slowly into the room. "You have mail, sir", he entwined. I believe he had once witnessed some Meg Ryan cinematographic event at the Gaumont, and since then his conversation was of little else.
All thoughts of retaliation on the comestible front evaporated as I tore open the epistle. It was not, as I had feared, from my cousin Spam. He often exhorts me to purchase copious quantities of a rhomboidal tablet that he assures me will do marvels for my standing. No, this was from Lindsay, editor of, amongst other things, a magazine known as The High Society Myspace. The exact wording of her letter is now lost in the midst of time, but the basic gist was: "I say, you chaps, Hud's put together the old band again."
What spiffing jinks.
Chapter 2
Loaded the charabanc with ample supplies of batteries for my photographic equipment and set off via Bushy Park towards the sleepy little village of Isleworth. The Red Lion hostelry there is a frequent host of musical concerts, and High Society have, I believe, played there before many years prior.
The bar was packed. This was clearly going to be a popular event. I spotted my chums Lindsay and Richard Greener, known to his friends as either Dick, or The Webmaster, so I joined them, with a rousing cry of, "What Ho, chaps."
Couple of other chaps there that I should mention. Brain Willoughby, of Craig and Willoughby fame was there. Knew, of course, that Brian had played with Hud in various bands including Strawbs, but hadn't realised that Brian had also played guitar with High Society in the past.
Also met Ginny Brown there as well. She fronts her own band, The Ginny Brown Band, that also features Hud and Simon Bishop, (who also plays with High Society). Again, hadn't realised that she used to sing with High Society as well. What a small world.
Current line up, though, is Terry Cassidy, lead vocals, Simon Bishop, guitar, Richard "Hud" Hudson, guitar, and Dickey Baldwin, bass. As you'd expect, the band were sartorially elegant, though the manservant of a fellow Drone, one Bertram Wooster, would have much to discourse on, concerning Terry's red bow tie and red shoes. There are standards, after all.
Their style of music is similar to that of, say, the Ink Spots, the Pasadena Roof Top Orchestra, or possibly even Manhattan Transfer. At one point, someone from the audience called out, "Who wrote that one?". "We did," Terry replied. "Are you sure it wasn't Cole Porter?" came the response. Their songs are very much in the style of the 1930s, but with the occasional reference creeping into the lyrics (such as computers or Millenium Domes) that authenticate the claims to their origins.
A dashed fine evening's entertainment, with plenty of audience participation. At one point we were urged to make a noise like the sea, whilst Simon made seagull cries and ice-cream vendor noises with his guitar.
I stole the set list from Terry. Think they deviated slightly from it, but it's close enough.
Don't Call Us
Sitting On A Rainbow
Got To Get Out Of This Rut
A Talk With Your Father
Pie In The Sky
You Don't Really Care About Love
No-one But You
Movie Star
I Shouldn't Fall In Love With You
I Could Never Live Without You
Dancing In The Moonlight
Paper Cup
Beautiful Evening
Dance 'Til Dawn
The Late Late Train
I Never Go Out In The Rain
Top Hat And Tails
I Can Sing High
Down By The River
All My Life
Politician's Armpit
Swingtime
Chapter 3
A couple of Drones had stumbled across the bread roll and were using it to practice their golf swings. An inverted umbrella had become an imprompu niblick. I was trying to construct a witicism about slicing the bread when my manservant, Internet, crept in.
"You have Mail, Sir".
This time, of course it was from Spam. It seems I have become the beneficiary of a Kenyan business man who has left me a fortune which I can claim simply by furnishing him with my bank details.
What spiffing larks.
By P.G. Wodehouse (with a little help from Pete Bradley)