Cat, Scratched

If Memory Swerves™, ‘twas on this day in music history (April 26, 1967), that Yours Truly, Dooley® found himself policing a legendary, if oddball, assemblage at the Capitol Theater, 'cross the way in Cardiff. Concerts at the Cappy were ragtag 'n bobtailed as it 'twere 'n 'twas 'specially so this evening. The Fabulous — if forgotten — Walker Brothers — jugglers or acrobats, I can’t bloody recall — opened the affair, followed by a trio of unspectacular buggerers we hustled off stage in short order. Next up was geetar sensation Jim “Jimini” Hendrix, a likeable, left-handed gunslinger playing with his teeth, bloodying his gums in embarrassing fashion and such. Headlining was the unlikely, golden-throated British army brat Arnold George Dorsey — aka, Englebert Humperdink, go 'n look it up — a crooner as famous for the manly endowment in his velvetine corded trousers as the velvety tenor of his vocal chords. But before the swiveling mutton-chopped hipster took the stage, Marleyborne, London's own Stevie Georgiou — “Cat Stevens” — had his turn in the spotlight. I first met Stevie when he was a young Catholic or possibly Muslim schoolboy, as his family operated a Greek restaurant on Shaftesbury Avenue and they were always kindly to a hungry foot soldier walking the beat. I had promised Stevie’s father Stavros to look after the lad at the big gig and so I did, knocking on his dressing room door before show time. Stevie was hit with terrible stage fright and told me with all certainty that he would be leaving the music business to become a food broker. I knew him to be a lad of some musical talentry, so I hoped to dissuade him of that dismal food servicing notion and offered counsel to that end: "It's not time to make a change, Stevie,” I began. “Just relax and take it easy. You're still young, that's your fault, there's so much you have to know. Settle down, find a girl — possibly American actress Patti D'Arbanville — if you want you can marry. Look at me, I am a old, but I'm happy." He began to strum his guitar and his eyes got to twinkling. "I was once like you are now, my son,” I continued with something of a paternal spirit, “And I know that it’s not easy to be calm when you’ve found something going on. But take your time, think a lot. Why, think of everything you’ve got, young citizen! For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.” And at that, master Stevens was up and out the door, Cat-like, and proceeded to steal the show in remarkable — which is to say paisley-topped, bell-bottomed — fashion.