The Red Lion in Spalding Market Place is proud of its blue plaque that states Jimmy Hendrix stayed here after appearing at Spalding’s Barbeque ’67 gig. It is possibly one below the blue plaque on Jimmy Hendrix’s London home and one above Tynemouth’s blue plaque stating, “Jimmy Hendrix ate fish and chips from this shop on a bench overlooking the sea after playing at the Club A GoGo Nightclub in Newcastle”
I wonder how many blue plaques Jimmy Hendrix has in the UK.
On May 29th the Tulip Bulb Auction Hall in Spalding held an event titled Barbeque 67 featuring the Jimi Hendrix Experience, Cream, Geno Washington and the Ram Jam Band, Pink Floyd, and Zoot Money all for £1 with hotdogs and a licenced bar.
Local reporters John Thorne, Fay Young and Sheila Robson gave the following reports:
Bank Holiday Monday will be remembered as the time the action switched from the sea front to Spalding, of all places. And Spalding is still recovering from its first frightening experience of the swinging life – debauched youth – the explosion of the old town routine.
And we all know why. There we were, swingers all of us, in our thousands, waiting for the fun to start. And when it didn’t we just helped it along a little. The older generation – whoever they may be – were all waiting for something to attack. Like the drugs, the clothes, the hair, the music, the behaviour, the living – and they got it.
From the music angle Barbeque 67 was a mixed success. Geno has a football match effect, Jimi Hendrix (chief crowd puller) fits music to sensationalism, the Cream are good, to see the Move is to forget, to see Zoot Money is to see everything, to see Pink Floyd is to laugh.
The whole thing was pretty funny anyway and when it is described as a riot of terror through the streets of respectability it becomes ridiculous.
And the clothes – everyone had tried to outdo the other and didn’t want to show it. Nobody looked interested, but there were a few crafty glances at some of the more way out. After a while even the weirdest looked commonplace but it amused the cynical to stay and watch. It should keep them in small talk for a long time.
A daring venture for a small town (probably the only one), the event itself was of little importance – strictly for the in crowd. But if you managed to get in, had a strong stomach and a small oxygen mask you probably enjoyed it.
Those who came to see the show did so, those who came to cause trouble achieved it. But at least it gave you all something to criticise perhaps something to remember “in these troubled times”. And as for excitement Barbeque ’67 was the best thing to happen to Spalding in years.
Trouble? – just wait till the tulip parade gets out of control.
FAY YOUNG
Monday in Spalding should have been the scene of the greatest riot since Margate. There should have been broken heads, broken bottles and broken windows down every street in town.
The conglomeration of puff-haired mods beats 17th century hairstyles and plain old-fashioned greasers, who refuse to dress up, should have meant the biggest punch-up since England beat the West Indies in the Caribbean.
It was like inviting the Klu Klux Klan and the Black Muslims to share a stadium for a rally. And things could have reached these proportions around five when the mass of ticket holders and those hoping to buy at the door were still milling about the car parks because they were not being allowed in quick enough.
But the police changed all that. Or they did for me, anyway. Inside the bulb auction it was a Turkish bath. But without the room for masseurs or masseuses. A great pity.
For seven hours little 12-year old girls stood alongside great tall boys of all shapes and fashions to watch the “heroes” of the modern music world.
And there was absolutely no trouble.
Even when the more energetic climbed onto the rafters and sent down a spray of dust and rust on the crowd below, nobody stepped out of line.
Even when Zoot Money dropped his trousers to reveal…………a pair of golden shorts, there were no hysterics.
Even when the pass-outs were not passed out fast enough between the big groups, the crush for fresh air did not lead to any punch-ups.
Nevertheless this will be the first and last time that Spalding plays host to such a music gathering.
Those with pre-conceived ideas; those who said at first that the barbeque would never happen; whose who said it should not have been allowed to happen, will grab at the few isolated incidents around the town and demand that the town powers put their feet down. Which is a great pity.
JOHN THORNE.
“Put down Geno’s the greatest” – squealed the girl from Coventry, as my pencil dug her in the ribs. “But is he?” I yelled in her ear. The answer was an ecstatic smile. Not a pitying one, at the effrontery of a middle-aged Mum let loose among 7000 teenagers, but one that generously included me in her delight.
I’d come to see what a ‘rave’ looked like. What was it that persuaded youngsters from all over the country to spend seven suffocating hours just listening to a few bands in a bare concrete hall?
I was quite unprepared for the beauty of it; it was beautiful like some splendid savage painting by El Greco. Pitch dark, except for the pool of light that flooded over the performers arena.
Pitch dark except for the ever moving light that transformed a shirt or a dress into a whiter white that a detergent manufacturer’s dream, and bathed faces and hands for an instant in an unearthly radiance.
Thousands of hands dropped in unison, thousands of voices shouted “Geno” as their perspiring idol gave all he’d got in number after number. They wouldn’t let him go, and when he finally did it was a gesture almost like a papal blessing.
Sounds unhealthy? Well it wasn’t. I’ve never been in a crowd that frightened me less. For all our tribal chanting (it got me in the end) and jam-packed as we were, nobody pushed or shoved to get nearer the stage.
And an immediate path was made for the many who felt faint in the under-ventilated hall, and what “smooching” there was, was very discreet.
I came away reassured, but a little sad. I’d been expecting jeans, jumpers and general scruffiness. But most of the girls looked delightful in flowered trouser suits, patterned coats with matching dresses, frilly bloomer suits, and every variety of ‘tent’.
It just seemed a pity to me remembering far-off cricket matches and the intervals of summer dances, that this generation couldn’t find a more romantic spot in which to promenade their plumage than the concrete wastes of Winfrey Avenue car park.
SHEILA ROBSON
Years ago I chatted to a policeman who was at the event. The Barbeque was 2 hot-dog vendors that ran out pretty quickly and the only thing that cooked were the teenagers massed inside the unsuitable hall. He recalled one shop window was broken in the town and a group of youths played football with an electric kettle. The main problem was public safety with some drunk and drugged kids being ill and others suffering heat exhaustion.
The event was never repeated, as it was of its time. But Barbeque ’67 is part of the folk lore of the town and even inspired a radio play that was broadcast on Radio 4.
Enjoyed reading this - what a wonderful experience it must have been for music lovers in Spalding! I've often heard about the event and know some who were there - but never seen any photos - do they exist?