Over the Moon Read online

  7

  ‘DON’T YOU MEAN GOSPEL?’

  DANDINI MIGHT HAVE been a bit of a drip but at least he helped to put a roof over my head. Despite my alcoholic excursions with Dailey and Wayne, I had managed to save some money from my stint in Cinderella in Manchester, and when the panto ended and I got back down south, Maureen and I decided to buy a house.

  It was a big decision, but also an easy one to make. Maureen and I were in love and getting on great. We had been together for nearly two years, and our relationship had survived all of my absences in shows or on tour. It felt like the real deal.

  It was March 1971. Like most parents, my mum and dad and Maureen’s would have preferred us to get married before we moved in together, but they approved of us as a couple and agreed it made better economic sense for us to buy a place than to rent. Maureen’s dad, Alfie, was doing well with his car dealership and chipped in towards the deposit.

  We settled on a Victorian terrace house in Vicarage Lane, Seven Kings, near Ilford in Essex. It cost £3,950, it had three bedrooms and a small garden, and we loved it. Figuring we needed some help with the mortgage, we invited Maureen’s inseparable mate Kath and her boyfriend, Mike, to live with us.

  We all got on well and the arrangement worked nicely, although the house got a lot smaller when Mike made the decision to get an enormous Pyrenean mountain dog, Hector. Mike thought it hilarious occasionally to give Hector a saucer of brandy and milk, after which his mutt would slobber all over us and carouse and crash around the house.

  Domestically everything was hunky-dory but my career remained a serious worry. Derek had now been guiding my solo fortunes for five years and the big breakthrough simply hadn’t come. All we had to show for our efforts were a string of flop or near-miss singles, a handful of film cameos, theatre understudy roles and provincial pantos.

  After Cinderella finished, I had been forced to sign on, and was still unemployed as we moved into Seven Kings. Derek was still trying to find auditions and would lend me a fiver so I could get into town to attend them, but he was feeling the pressure too and began suggesting things I didn’t fancy, like cheesy cabaret club gigs.

  He could not have tried harder to make things happen for me but failure was driving a wedge between us and my relationship with Derek began to cool. I never asked to be this ‘David Essex’ character, I reflected daily as I kicked my heels waiting for Maureen to come home from her latest job, delivering flowers. It wasn’t my idea. It had been a mistake. I just wanted to be a jazz drummer.

  Which was when Maureen told me that she was pregnant.

  It came as quite a shock. Maureen and I had not been trying for a baby but I guess, thinking back, we had not been trying not to have one, either. The news was a bolt from the blue and made me decide two things: I had to get a steady, proper job, and we should get married.

  Maureen and I had never really discussed marriage before then but we were young and in love with a baby on the way so it was clearly the thing to do: we didn’t want our son or daughter being called a bastard in the school playground. But we had no money so we decided to keep the day as simple as possible.

  Maureen can have been no more than ten weeks pregnant when we tied the knot at Seven Kings Registry Office. The day’s sole extravagance was that Alfie was determined to lend us a white Rolls-Royce so he borrowed one from one of his car-dealer mates. It turned up outside our gaff and my blushing bride headed off in it, followed by Frank, my best man, and me in Frank’s Mini.

  After the ceremony, our handful of guests followed the skint but happy couple in their Roller back to our place for sandwiches and a cuppa. There was no reception, no speeches and, it goes without saying, no honeymoon. It was a lovely day but could hardly have been more low-key.

  So suddenly I was married, a father-to-be … and unemployed! Full of resolve and driven by panic, I began to scour the local rag’s small ads for options. My gypsy soul has always rebelled against the idea of a nine-to-five, but I figured there must be plenty of jobs that would allow me to earn a living while also giving me some freedom: long-distance lorry driving? Back to mini cabs?

  In the meantime, I threw myself into doing up the house, which I painted and decorated from top to bottom ready for the baby’s arrival. I even replaced the windows, which is what I was doing the afternoon that the phone rang. It was Derek. Again.

  My manner was curt and brusque as he explained that he had an audition he wanted me to go to. Psychologically, I had given up on the whole process, but I decided to hear Derek out even as I thought, ‘This is the very last time.’

  ‘What show is it?’ I asked him.

  ‘It’s called Godspell.’

  ‘Don’t you mean Gospel?’ I snapped back, sarcastically.

  ‘No, David: Godspell.’

  He explained. Godspell, a musical, told the story of Christ as related in the Book of Matthew. It had already opened off-Broadway in New York, and now its producers were keen to bring it to London, with a British cast. Reluctantly, I agreed to attend the audition.

  Even though I auditioned a lot back then, I never enjoyed them. Beforehand, I would get ferociously nervous; afterwards, if it had gone badly, the rejection would be hard to take. I was deeply unenthusiastic about Godspell, and my mood wasn’t helped when I turned up at the Globe Theatre at 11 a.m. the following Thursday to find literally hundreds of other hopefuls milling around.

  It was early afternoon before I was called on stage and greeted by the play’s co-writer and producer John-Michael Tebelak, a soft-spoken, bearded American hippy in overalls. Accompanied by a pianist, I sang ‘Going Out of my Head’. When he wanted to hear something a bit more music hall, I followed up with my old stand-by, Tommy Steele’s ‘What a Mouth’, which he seemed to enjoy.

  John-Michael took my number. Thank you, we’ll let you know. Next!

  How had the audition gone? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was done with showbiz. The following Tuesday I fixed up an appointment for an interview for a job as a van driver. Maureen was at home, and as I painted what would be the baby’s room, lost in my thoughts, she answered the phone and called me.

  Was it the Godspell people? I half-wondered as I made my way downstairs. No: it was the van depot confirming my interview. Then the phone rang again. Godspell wanted to recall me for a second audition.

  When I arrived at the Prince of Wales Theatre, the situation was very different from the crowd scene at the Globe. No more than twenty of us had made the cut, and the producers soon had us singing, dancing, miming and impersonating trees and animals. I didn’t terribly enjoy jumping around being a monkey.

  During a long and wearying afternoon, John-Michael Tebelak also guided us through some hippy-dippy, very American ‘trust-enhancing’ exercises. We took it in turns to fall off tables and not try to break our fall, trusting our fellow actors to catch us. We even walked hand-in-hand through London’s traffic, one person with their eyes firmly closed, the other leading the way.

  This stuff didn’t come naturally to me but I stayed with it and my perseverance paid off. I got home to Seven Kings to a phone call from a very excited Derek. The producers had called him already, saying they were thinking of casting me as John the Baptist, who became Judas Iscariot in the second act. An actor named Murray Head was lined up to play the lead role of Jesus.

  It transpired this wasn’t the whole story. There was a split in the producers’ camp between Tebelak, who favoured Murray Head to be Jesus, and his Godspell co-writer Stephen Schwartz, who liked my stage presence. The standoff was only resolved a few days later when Murray Head was offered – and accepted – a big movie role, in Sunday Bloody Sunday. So it was decided. I was to be Jesus.

  The money wasn’t great but it was a lead role in an interesting-sounding production and the timing was wonderful. At least it allowed me to cancel the van-driving interview. Even so, I was wary about getting too excited about Godspell, especially when John-Michael and Stephen called me in for my first meeti
ng and gave me their vision for my role: ‘We play Jesus as a rednosed clown.’

  Godspell was originally based on John-Michael’s university masters thesis and his interest in a book by a Harvard professor, Harvey Cox, called Feast of Fools, led him to decide that the cast would all wear clown costumes and/or hippy robes. At our first rehearsal, I met my fellow hippy clowns.

  We were mainly young and unknown but it was still a fairly formidable cast. An upcoming actor and part-time busker called Jeremy Irons had taken the dual John the Baptist/Judas role that had originally been marked for me, while the male cast was completed by Neil Fitzwilliam, Deryk Parkin and Tom Saffrey.

  Of the female cast, Marti Webb had already starred as Nancy in the first touring production of Oliver! Julie Covington would also become a household name in years to come, while Verity Anne Meldrum, Gay Soper and Jacquie-Ann Carr were all ferociously talented. I quickly realised that I would have to be on top of my game to carry this one off.

  When rehearsals began, we soon developed into a very tightly knit ensemble, largely because it soon became very clear we would be essentially directing ourselves. Godspell was Jean-Michael Tebelak’s concept and he had written the script, but as a director this subdued, complex hippy in overalls, no older than the cast, was so laissez-faire that he verged on the comatose.

  I wanted to respect Jean-Michael but it wasn’t easy. He gave us so little guidance. Whenever we suggested script or acting ideas, his answer was invariably a mumbled, ‘Yeah, sure.’ A positive side effect of this was that the cast began to feel as if this really was our own production, especially as we were all on stage for the entire duration of the play.

  Our set was basically some big wire fences enclosing a space not unlike a schoolyard. There were planks, and two sawhorses. I had to play a ukulele at one point: at another, I brandished a ventriloquist’s dummy. This was not Jesus as Hollywood or Cecil B DeMille had ever envisaged.

  The rehearsals were going well but outside a storm was brewing around us. It is bizarre to reflect that until 1970 it was illegal to portray Jesus on stage in the West End. When the media learned of the leftfield, arty spin Godspell was to put upon the story of Christ, they quickly scented a story.

  Like most scandals confected by the tabloids in order to sell newspapers, it was disingenuous but highly effective. Papers screamed that the production would be blasphemous, while the Evening Standard’s headline implied that their sense of outrage was partly predicated on my own humble roots: ‘DOCKER’S SON TO PLAY JESUS AS RED-NOSED CLOWN’.

  A few weeks earlier, I had been anonymous, signing on the dole and applying for van-drivers’ jobs: now I was at the centre of a media firestorm. I didn’t like it at all. The Standard’s comment seemed gratuitously offensive towards my parents and the overall coverage was deliberately misleading about Godspell’s intentions.

  I had never been a churchgoer or interested in organised religion but nor was I an atheist. I guess you would call me an agnostic, and from that non-partisan standpoint it seemed to me Godspell illustrated some sensible Biblical teachings very cleverly. The play didn’t dress Jesus as a clown to mock him: it did it to strip away the High Church’s rituals and pomposity and reconnect people with the simplicity of the message.

  In any case, we couldn’t do anything but keep our heads down and carry on rehearsing. The tabloid furore probably brought people in to the show in the long run, but in the short term it had a major drawback. Godspell was due to open at the West End’s Prince of Wales Theatre, but scared by the ongoing controversy, the theatre owners pulled the venue.

  So now we had a show, but nowhere to play it. The rehearsals dragged on slightly aimlessly until one of the producers came up with the lifeline of an alternative. Banished from the West End, Godspell would instead open on 17 November 1971 at the Roundhouse, an old railway building turned arty theatre and gig venue in Chalk Farm, north London.

  One or two of the more showbizzy cast members such as Marti Webb felt we were slumming it outside of W1 but most of us were just relieved finally to have a date for an opening night. I personally felt the rough-and-ready Roundhouse was ideal for our play, with its rudimentary set and four-piece rock band in towers above the stage.

  Stephen Schwartz flew in from New York for the last couple of weeks’ rehearsals and provided a welcome dose of energy and creativity after John-Michael’s insipid direction. We had a full house for the opening night, as religious zealots milled around outside with placards proclaiming us SINNERS who would BURN IN HELL. I guess it made a change from people saying ‘Break a leg’.

  When it comes to epiphanies and life-changing moments, the opening night of Godspell is one I will never forget. Despite the ongoing media outrage, the ten cast members had been in a hermetically sealed little bubble for months as we self-directed and diligently tweaked our audacious, taboo-busting production. It felt good to us, but we were too close to know. Would anyone else agree?

  It soon became clear that the audience who had run the gauntlet of our fundamentalist detractors outside didn’t just like the show – they adored it. Schwartz’s great score went down a storm and the crowd seemed to respond to the moving narrative and our every idea. At one point they were laughing so much that I glanced behind me, convinced something must be going wrong, but no: it was sheer, spontaneous appreciation.

  For the show’s dramatic crucifixion climax, Jeremy Irons as Judas marched through the auditorium to me and I told him: ‘Do what you must.’ On his return, the cast placed me on a beer crate, fastened bracelets with trailing red ribbons to my wrists and spreadeagled me against the fence as I sang, ‘Oh God, I’m bleeding,’ before carrying me through the crowd.

  On paper it probably sounds ridiculous, especially as Christ was being sacrificed on the cross in a Superman T-shirt and stripy deckchair trousers, but the effect on the audience was hugely powerful. As I was held aloft and carried from the stage I heard both men and women crying, some of them uncontrollably.

  Sometimes shows can be loved by the paying punters but slated by the critics, but when the reviews appeared, it was clear that Godspell had wooed the intelligentsia as well. To my delight, my own performance was praised beyond my wildest dreams, with the venerable critic Harold Hobson penning the following rhapsody in the Sunday Times:

  This inward happiness, this fragility, a joyous wine in a frail vessel is the mark of David Essex’s Jesus in Godspell. This Jesus is a man who has found a splendid treasure and is eager to share it with everyone he meets. He is an agile but cheerful debater, with a ready answer to all objections, and a touching confidence.

  There have been many Christs in the world of art; the tormented Christ of El Greco, the benign shepherd of Murillo, the bland Christ of Rubens, the soaring Christ in majesty of Epstein; and Mr Essex’s gentle and innocent figure, as capable of infinite and simple affection as it is incapable of seeing evil anywhere, is worthy to rank with them.

  It is my opinion that Mr Essex’s is the best performance in London, the least histrionic, the happiest, and the most moving. That it should be so at a time when we all marvel at Olivier’s prodigious James Tyrone, one of our greatest actor’s finest creations, is a measure of Mr Essex’s achievement.

  I may not have grasped all the reference points of this erudite write-up, but I knew perfectly well that being compared favourably with Sir Laurence Olivier was the kind of review that money couldn’t buy. My own in-house theatre critic, Derek, was in raptures: he had never seen such first-night notices.

  As they do, the media had totally changed their tune. Godspell was suddenly the hippest show in town. When I arrived for the next day’s performance, the queues of people eager to buy tickets stretched away from the Roundhouse and right down the street. From being pariahs, we were offered three West End theatres within a week. Even the BURN IN HELL placards began to dwindle.

  Having been on the verge of throwing my whole entertainment career in, I was now hot property, but the notable thing was that I fe
lt vindicated not for me but for Derek. He had been the chivvying, constantly supportive figure who had pointed me towards theatre and sent me off into repertory when all I wanted to do was bang my drums. I had not always been kind to him but now I could not have been more grateful that he had persevered and had loosened my blinkers.

  Life now rearranged itself into a high-adrenaline, exciting routine of eight sold-out performances of Godspell per week plus loads of media interviews and promotion. Journalists invariably asked me if I believed in Jesus and I told them the truth: that I thought he was a great teacher and he made a lot of sense to me, whether he was the son of God or not. I would circum-navigate the whole divinity aspect by saying that his teachings were more important than the folk tales and fairy stories about walking on water and the resurrection.

  After years of being a nobody, it was certainly interesting to be having my opinions canvassed on such weighty matters, but there was no danger of my newfound fame going to my head. I had other things on my mind.

  It was mid-December 1971 and Maureen was now eight months pregnant. Our energies were all focused on the birth. It’s a sign of how ridiculous my overnight celebrity was becoming that the Archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey, got wind of my imminent parenthood and offered to baptise our firstborn person-ally. I was tempted but Maureen said no. I guess I can’t blame her.

  Her waters broke on the morning of 18 December and I drove her to Ilford Maternity Hospital in Newbury Park in my beaten-up £150 Mercedes. The nurses took charge and after an hour or so Maureen told me that I should head for the Roundhouse, as there was no way of knowing what time the baby would come.

  We had two shows that day and the matinee passed in a dream-like haze as I waited for our company manager, Tony Howell, to relay any news from the hospital. Godspell had an interesting interval in that audience members were invited on to the stage to drink some frankly disgusting rosé wine and chat with the cast. Normally, overly earnest Americans would corner me and inquire: ‘Do you believe in Jesus? Do you think he was the son of God?’ This particular day, I was far too distracted to give any sentient or coherent replies.