September 2013 | 37 MB
I was sorry to read in last month’s Uncut that old-school country star Slim Whitman had died, news that had otherwise passed me by. Slim was a great favourite in our house when I was growing up, my father much enamoured of “Rose Marie”, which Slim had taken to No 1 on the pop charts, where it stayed for 11 weeks in 1955. Years later, my dad was still playing it, and moved on occasions, usually inspired by drink, to actually serenade the household with his game if not entirely tuneful rendition of it.
I recalled brushing shoulders once with Slim, backstage at a show in Aberdeen. This was March, 1975. Slim had just come through the stage door, a big, raffish man. It was a foul night, rain sweeping the streets. Slim, I was impressed to notice, was dressed for the weather. He was sporting a Stetson that had been fitted into a clear plastic mould, shaped to accommodate every contour of his hat to protect it from the rain. It made him look like he was wearing an upturned chamber pot on his head, but seemed effective enough, even if when he doffed it to one of the ladies on the door he fair drenched the pour soul with the rainwater that had accumulated in its brim.
English | HQ PDF | 140 pages | 37 MB
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