MELODY MAKER :
On the sound assumption that pop stars have no homes to go to at least, that is, until the early hours of the morning, many have been the businessmen who have tried to woo the pop world to one particular late, late club in London.
But, like the cat who sniffs at several saucerfuls of food before be finds his favourite brand, the night people of pop were never really satisfied until they stumbled on the Speakeasy.
Even if you live in the Outer Hebrides, you will have to have heard of the Speak. Among pop people, it gets nearly as many namechecks as the Beatles. Purely because it’s the place where everybody goes, apart from Dusty Springfield and Singing Vicars.
And everybody means just that. On any given evening, you could pass through the funeral parlour entrance, almost knock Michael Caine’s drink out of his hand as he talks about the Supremes to Laurence Harvey and Terence Stamp; fight your way through to the bar, bumping into Alan Price, assorted members of the Who and Hollies en route; get your four-shilling Scotch and go inside to sit at the next table to Brian Jones, or the Duke ol Bedford’s son and daughters, listen to, the Fairport Convention for a whiIe before elbowing your way back to the glass-partitioned restaurant, being sure not to tread on Terry Downes toes and find your self ordering off the menu Jimi Hendrix has just used, while John Bloom negotiates a business deal at a nearby table.