ST. JOHN’S WOOD, WESTMINSTER, LONDON, ENGLAND | 1967
Three-quarters of the National Loaf sat in the cavernous expanse of EMI’s Studio B laconically smoking cigarettes and waiting, as usual, for their leader and—according to London’s music trades—resident musical genius. The combined fumes of the proletariat Woodbines favored by the pianist and the Player’s Navy Cuts that kept the rhythm section awake and in sync added up to a furious funk matched only by the prevailing mood.
“Where the bloody hell is he?” Wilkie hissed, tossing his spent cigarette on the floor and stepping it out with a pointed Italian boot, polished to a painful shine.
“Oi, mate! You’re not down at the pub,” Woodrow remarked, casting his eye up at the waiting technicians that crowded the control booth that loomed over them.
“Yea, well we might as well be,” interjected Cornell. “At least, there, I could chat up yer auld one.”
“You leave her out of this,” Woodrow parried. “The poor woman is a saint.”
“Yea, Saint Bernard,” Wilkie joined the scrum. “I have never seen that gal without a barrel of brandy at hand.”
“She’s comforted many a stranded traveler, I’ll tell you that much,” Cornell delivered the killing stroke, having perfected playing the dozens on countless interminable van trips with his bandmates.
“Tell ’im what?” A unfashionably late Cole swung into the space and the conversation. “Have you lot read this bit?”
“Cole, where’ve you been mate? We were about to pack it in,” Woodrow sided with the rest of the frustrated band against his childhood friend.
“Oi contraire, mon frère,” Cole tossed a music trade into the center of the gathering like a grenade. “We have work to do! Bunfight Magazine there says that we are the hottest group in London this week. Of, course ‘you know who’ are off in Wales contemplating their navels or some bollocks. So, that helps. Even so, read it out loud, will you, Jere?”
“Let me see that,” Wilkie grabbed the periodical, pre-folded to the section dedicated to the local music scene.
“When did you learn how to read?” Cornell snatched the magazine from the bassist and cleared his throat. “The latest pop group to take London by storm hails from an unlikely corner of the city. The National Loaf has emerged fully formed from the area of the massive Barbican Estate project that, even now, is rebuilding from the ashes of Cripplegate.
‘I think it gives us something to prove,’ said guitarist and singer Lucious Cole. ‘No one expects anything from the edge of good auld Londinium but cranes… come to think of it, that’s a good name for the band right there: The Cranes! Oh well, next time.’ ”
“Cheeky fucker,” Woodrow chimed in. “Come on, what’s it say about the music? Especially, the extremely handsome and talented drummer!”
“Hold yer water, Ringo, let’s see what is says about the masterful keys, first. ‘We named the band, National Loaf, because we’re fortified with calcium and vitamins,’ according to bassist Simon Wilkie, name checking Britain’s infamous wartime staple. ‘We’re really a mix of everything left in the larder. A little R&B, a little skiffle, lots of rock ’n’ roll.’
‘We’ve got a tough crust as well,’ added Cole. ‘We’ll last forever!’ ”
“Bollocks,” Woodrow chided. “Get to the meat of it, will you?
“Patience is a bloody virtue, Jere,” Cole stepped in and took back the magazine. “Listen to this; ‘The Loaf’s latest single, “What Time Is It, Mr. Wolf?” has the swinging crowds down on Wardour St. doing the pony and the frug until the wee hours at clubs like The Marquee and La Discotheque. Songwriter and frontman Cole’s peculiar mix of R&B and psychedelia give the Loaf’s rhythm section a lot to work with, and work they do. The sinuous, shifting dynamics of the heady material is navigated with naval aplomb, especially when the big waves hit. Drummer Jere Woodson drives crowds to higher and higher levels of frenzy as bassist Simon Wilkie lays down a better foundation than a Midland brickie.’ ”
“Ace!” Wilkie exclaimed. “Finally, a reviewer who knows from which he speaks!”
“The Keys, mate! What does it say about the bloody keys?”
“Here it is; ‘The Loaf’s secret weapon, and one that sets them apart from organ-grinding groups like The Pink Floyd or Burdon’s Animals, is avowed pianist Koda Cornell’s work on the 88s. Cornell can tickle the ivories as well as Liberace or pound them like they owe him money like Jerry Lee…’ ”
“For fuck’s sake,” Cornell exclaimed, “Liberace? They’re going to ruin my reputation as a cocksman nonpareil!”
“Now don’t be so quick to discount all the new attention you might get,” Cole jibbed.
“Yea, don’t knock it, Koda,” Woodson piled on. “Or do, we won’t judge.”
“Are we going to bloody play today, or are we going to waste the studio?” Wilkie threw the pianist a rope.
“Hear, hear! Gather around boys, I’ve got lyrics for that song we’ve been working up,” Cole announced. “I ducked into the Windmill to catch Bergman’s crazy flick…”
“Persona?” Wilkie asked, doing his best to light another cigarette as if he were in a French new wave film.
“The same.”
“I couldn’t make heads nor tails out of that one,” Cornell admitted. “The birds sure do love it, though. Makes them feel all European.” “If you can get your mind off the miniskirts for a moment, let’s take it from the top.”
Woodson counted off and the National Loaf broke into a straight-ahead rocker that had just been waiting for words as Cole slid up to a microphone and began to sing.
Pick a persona right up off the shelf
Change your name to something else
Whatever you want to call yourself
It’s only on the surface
You gotta voice like a megaphone
You’re well connected just like Al Capone
Peripatetic and you’re never home
Wandering the surface
You, you gotta great big face
You have no natural grace
You gotta real nice place
See if you can keep it
You, you gotta rock hard heart
It’s got no moving parts
You gotta jump it to start
Come on, keep it going
“Peri, what now?” Wilkie dropped the bass line, bringing the song to a clattering halt.
“Peripatetic,” Cole explained. “Wandering from place to place; like us in that bloody van.
“Like you don’t love it,” Cornell punctuated his comment with a glissando.
“Who wouldn’t love to smell all your air biscuits after night after night on the tiles,” Cole bemoaned.
“Come on, now; we’re the only touring group that makes its own gas!” Woodson tossed off a bon mot and paradiddle.
“There’s more, you uncultured louts,” Cole broke in. “Take it from the chorus!”
You fool the people to depend on you
Camel the needle, baby, push it through
Whatever it is that you’re going to do
It’s only on the surface
You gotta mojo, gotta black cat bone
Agents calling on the telephone
Telling you you’ll never be alone
Calling from the surface
The band kicked back into the chorus and capped it off with a short solo by each member before bringing the whole thing home in a rousing crescendo.
“Did you get that?” Cole shouted up to the control booth where the coterie of white shirts and ties were actually smiling for a change.
“We got it,” the talkback announced. “That’s a take.”
A cheer went up from the entire Loaf before Woodson asked the important question, “Who’s thirsty?”
Román Leão 
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