Yes, it's take-off time with the Rockets

REVIEW: The Delray Rockets – Camp House, Grimley, near Worcester (One night only, Saturday, August 2).

Showtime! stars rating: *  *  *  *  *

THIS ain’t just rock ‘n’ roll… it’s family. For that’s the way it seems on this dream-laden summer night sat by the River Severn in the grounds of one of Worcestershire’s most glorious hostelries.

I’m watching the band set up the gear. Heavens above, I also remember this part of the process well, lugging the gear in, starting to sweat a bit – what, sweating already and we haven’t even played a note - with the thought ever-present in one's mind that in a few hours all this kit will be wearily retracing its steps.

Friends and followers of the county’s most celebrated and best-loved rockabilly outfits drift across and reconnect with the band members. “Hi Gaz, hey Croc, J D… how’s it going man?”

However, there’s work to do, and after a few pleasantries, the boys crack on with setting up the gear.

Gaz’s immaculate blond pompadour is suddenly turned purple by an overhead light. Nice touch that. It seems to confirm his position as the county’s rockabilly crown prince, one of three horsemen of the musical apocalypse that is about to unfold and spread its message across the ancient meadows of this time-warp corner of rural Worcestershire.

The Delray Rockets are a three-piston, turbo powered outfit, all the component parts working together to produce one hell of a mighty machine. Gaz, Croc, J D. A naturalist would call this symbiosis. I call it died-and-gone-to-heaven, in-your-face rock music.

The gear’s all set up, so now the boys can get into their stage gear, Croc with his trademark sleeveless jerkin and hat, Gaz lit up like a Christmas tree in metalwork and tinsel, while J D – being the drummer - probably adopts a slightly more sober approach. He’ll learn.

Bang, crash, slip-slap-slop. And we’re into Rockabilly Boogie,  a 100-miles-an-hour road trip that kind of sets the tone for the evening. Road trip? Well, you’d have a job travelling at that speed down the endless lane to The Camp, wouldn’t you? Never mind, let’s use our imaginations here.

Perhaps this isn’t Worcestershire, after all. It’s starting to feel like a roadhouse just off Highway 51. As I said, let’s use our imaginations.

Croc’s solo reminds me of the late Cliff Gallup, the guitarist in Gene Vincent’s Bluecaps, perhaps the most under-rated classic rock axeman of all time. Meanwhile, landlady Jo Wainwright cuts away the frond of a vine that is dangling in front of Gaz’s face. You get everything in this pub.

No wonder. For the Wainwright family have been at The Camp House… well, since forever, probably. That’s the way it seems and few would disagree.

So. Without further ado, the band walks the line into Johnny’s Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues. And they’ve got it off perfectly, slap bass cooking over a chug-a-lug guitar riff, then a perfect solo from Croc. Spot on.

Gaz alters the words slightly, the line in the second verse suddenly changing location from Reno, Nevada and becoming “I shot a man in Worcester just to watch him die.” Was that in Lowesmoor then, Gaz?

Meanwhile, some fans start a line dance, and as if synchronised, a gaggle of the Camp House geese follow suit. One of them is wearing a fetching tutu of tattered flight feathers that have wonderfully gone askew.

You never know, this fashion item might catch on. Perhaps only after a few more beers, lagers and shots, though.

Croc always packs two guitars, and tonight I notice – well you can’t miss them – two bull fiddle basses. Strewth, Gaz will never get one of those under his chin, let alone two. All right, an old joke, but still worth churning it out again. He said.

During the break, I talk to Croc. Two of each makes sense, insurance against the string break that can happen at any time. The philosophy that is belt and braces, you can’t be too careful.

Next it's Ubangi Stomp, a rockabilly charabanc ride into the African sub-continent, and then it’s ZZ Tops’ Le Grange, a direct lift from John Lee Hooker’s epic Boogie Chillun, only substituting rocket fuel for bog-standard roadside gas station juice. Delray Rocket fuel, in fact.

It’s getting cold. So, I’m leaving a bit early. But as soon as I get home, it’s up to the office I will go to write about yet another fabulous, rocking night at the Camp House, courtesy of a band that has already soared skywards and riding higher still into the orbit of local legend.