From the Tiger Beat Archives, April 1971
My 26th birthday was just around the corner, and I was filled with wonder. How could it be, I thought that I, a little tailor, only 5 foot 3 1/2 inches tall standing upright, could, at this late stage in life, be nearing the end of no beginning at the fatal age of—twenty-six! Alas! How strange life is, that I, who thought I would never reach the old age of 13, am now nearing twice that! Ah! The joys! The sorrows!
I had been going on in this manner for about three weeks, when I suddenly realized the truth. Genie the Tailor, I said to myself what a fool you are! Age means nothing! Just because you are twice as old as everyone you know! Just stay young in spirit and you’ll be all right.
It happened that about this time, the Cream were coming to town, and as you all know, I could hardly stand to hear their name mentioned out loud, it filled me with such awe (not to mention trembling, palpitation of the heart, etc.), that I could hardly breathe and began to develop sinus trouble. I heard they would be in town for a few days–by that time my nasal passages were unbelievable.
One day the phone rang. “Genie the Tailor,” said a beautiful, magic, high low, sweet, sad, deep, masculine, tender voice, “this is Jack Bruce, and I’m calling to ask you if you have any time to make some shirts for me, as I’m all out of shirts.”
He’s out of shirts. I thought and I’m out of breath. Jack Bruce none other than the lead vocalist and base and cello and harmonica player for the Cream–calling little old ME, Genie
the Tailor–who would’ve thought it? It was all I could do to blow my nose. “Why are you crying?” Said Jack. “No, no, you don’t understand,” I hastened to reply. “It’s only my sinuses,” I said. (How romantic I thought.) “How sad,” he said.
Hundreds of miles later I found myself sitting next to Pamela, Bob Fitzpatrick’s (Cream’s manager) secretary, and she was saying, “Well, how do you like San Francisco, Genie?” “I’m so glad I came, Pamela, you’ll never know.”
On the way to the concert in the limousine, all was quiet. “Which way to the box office?” shouted Pamela and off we ran. In the huge Coliseum in Oakland there was a stall for the press, and I, in my long blue lace floor-length antique gown with no back, was trying to clamber down the steep flight of dirt secured only by the metal railings and ripping my lace at every step. “Hurry, hurry, Genie the Tailor,” said Pamela. “How fast can I go with a dress with no back?” I cried and hurried the best I could to preserve my reputation for being a speedy tailor. Once into the backstage area hundreds of guards challenged us. “Who goes there?” They cried. “Only a simple tailor and a manager,” we said, and they let us in. The dressing room was a table of confusion. Hot dogs and opened Coke cans were everywhere. Publicity people, managers, photographers, the Cream themselves, dealers, were everywhere. I had to fight my way through.
Finally, coughing, bleeding, pushed around with my stopped-up nose and my backless dress, I looked up to find myself staring up at the feet of–none other than–@GingerBaker, world-famous drummer. “How are you, Ginger?” I smiled. “Well, well, look who’s here, it’s Genie the Tailor,” he said. “Soon to be 26 years old,” said I. “Age means nothing,” he said. “I myself world-famous drummer, am 97, and look at me!” There is something in what he says, I thought to myself.
Just then Jack Bruce appeared on the scene. Wearing one of the shirts I had made him after that ill-fated telephone call. In an accent thick with the mysticism of Scotland, he called to me. “It’s Genie my Tailor, isn’t it. Almost 26 too. Who would’ve thought it?” And then a tremendously hasty conference with Felix Pappalardi, his record producer, over the words to “White Room,” a song on their new LP. “Do you know the words, Genie?” he wanted to know. “Seems I’ve forgotten them, and I have to sing it tonight. Can’t seem to remember the last verse.” I was no help at all–could only think of party station, kindness, things like that. “Not good enough, G the T.”
At last–time to go on stage–people were already standing and cheering as they ran on. Jack looks so good in blue, I thought, it really complements his red hair. Eric was wearing an orange jacket with light blue trousers and a black bow tie, huge, a la Paul McCartney. Eric must be hanging out with the Beatles again, I thought.
They sang and played their hearts out and when they finished all 10,000 people stood up to cheer.
I was so happy my head was swimming. Riding back to the hotel where we all stayed, I was dreaming. When we got there the bellboy came up to me. “Miss the Tailor?” He asked. “Right,” I said. “For you,” said he, and handed me a birthday cupcake with a single tiny candle in it.
The note read, “To a tailor on her birthday from a blue shirt named Jack and Eric and Ginger with love.”
Now I can hardly wait to be thirty! Who knows what might happen!
Comments on this entry are closed.