In the bustling streets of London in the early 1980s, none of the general public recognized Wolfman Jack. This was the only place I had ever been with him where not one soul approached him for an autograph. 

So why go to London? That’s another story. A good one but another one. The point here is how amazing it was to be in public with Wolfman Jack as if he was just another person.

Of course he didn’t look just like another person. He was large and he wore an uncommon beard and a 10-gallon cowboy hat. You didn’t see many of these Stetsons in London. But these were the only reasons he drew any attention. 

One night a media friend of ours told us about a comedy club at the edge of the city. Wolf got into his typical night-Wolf regalia, including a white jacket, a colorful scarf and of course, the Stetson. 

We got into a taxi, one of those standard black cabs they have over there that looks like a small hearse. We told the driver where we were going.

“Best to give you two some advice,” the cab driver said. “If you’re coming back late you may have trouble getting a cab.”

“Why?” Wolf asked.

“Cabs don’t like to pick people up this side of the city after dark.”

Of course it went without saying that Wolf’s appearance might also be a drawback. The driver was being polite; I’m sure he was also thinking none of the cab drivers he knew would be picking up a large, ominous man in a Stetson after dark.

We thanked the driver, sat back and watched the London we knew pass us by. The London we were heading into was the poor side of town. Boarded stores, decrepit houses, clothing still hanging on clotheslines in their small backyards and the streets—cobbled and cracked—void of any living thing. The streetlights were dim and the sky was starless. 

As the driver slowed up in front of one of the dilapidated houses he said, “Here’s that address.”
“Where are we?” I asked.

“Right on the edge of London,” the driver said. “Just over there is St. John’s Wood. A lot like your Beverly Hills. Well, I have to go.”

We paid him and he sped off. As the cab disappeared there was a deafening silence. We walked up to the door at the address we were given, wondering if this could possibly be the place.

“This is a comedy club?” Wolf said. 

I knocked on the door and some guy in a flannel shirt opened it and looked at us vacantly. 

“This is a comedy club?” Wolf said again, this time to the man at the door.

“Oh yes, certainly, you are here for the show. Follow me.”

He came out of the house, closed the door and led us around to the mew (a British alleyway) and down a crumbling flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs was a kitchen. We followed him through the kitchen and into a large parlor where folding chairs were lined up. 

“Find a seat,” the man said.

People were already in some of the seats. They were sipping tea or something tea-like out of tall glasses. They looked like ordinary people. Of course they could not stop staring at Wolf, though they tried not to make it so obvious.

Wolf was polite. I knew he absolutely hated having to sit in the small wooden folding chair. He mumbled a bit but didn’t make a scene. He took his hat off as a few more people came through the kitchen and found places to sit.

“Where the f**k are we Mars?” he whispered to me.

“In a comedy club. Pretty funny so far, eh?”

Wolf giggled as some guy came out of the kitchen and stood before the scattered crowd. Behind him a few people sat on stools. They were holding fiddles and mandolins and other small, acoustic instruments. The man welcomed us to the show and introduced the quintet behind him as a bluegrass group. They began to play. And they were very good. I think Wolf forgot about being uncomfortable for a few minutes.

The main act came next. A comic. We would learn after his long and sometimes hilarious set that he was the only comic on the bill. Not what we were used to in Hollywood, where in the course of two hours you got a menu of at least a dozen stand-up acts.

When he was done the master of ceremonies came out and said there would be a short break before another small musical group came performed.

“Let’s split, man,” Wolf said.

We got up, went through the kitchen and out into the empty street. The neighborhood looked more ominous and unfriendly than it did when we arrived. There was something about the desolation that was far more intimidating than dangerous. I was nervous but I didn’t let Wolf know. However, after the third cab we hailed sped by us at the speed of sound, I voiced some concern.

“I don’t think we are going to get a cab,” I said. 

“What do we do?” Wolf said.

“Let’s walk in the direction the cab took us.”

“Oh yeah, let’s walk around this neighborhood and see who is hiding in the alley waitin’ to pounce us.”

I had the same feeling. Anyone could be hiding anywhere with an axe, a smooth stiletto, a ragged rope and a pair of strong wrists. Our pasts were haunting us. We were both kids from Brooklyn; we both grew up in low-class neighborhoods where danger loomed around every corner, where juvenile delinquents were poised to jump anyone for the thrill of it.

But it wasn’t all neurosis. There is something deeply disturbing about being in a strange country, alone and unprotected. We were both feeling it.

“God, Mars, what the f**k are we doing here?” Wolf said.

“Just keep walking,” I advised.

It felt as if we walked for hours. We didn’t talk; we just walked, and quietly, down the winding street. Every time a cab came I jumped out into the street, hoping that he would stop for me if he didn’t see The Wolfman there. The cabs just skidded around me and fled. This added to our terror. 

“If the cabs won’t stop,” Wolf said, “what chance do we have walking out of here alive?”

He was being dramatic, something he did well when he was uncomfortable. The Wolfman had a tendency to over-react in many situations. Here he was feeding all of our fears.

“Can’t you see the papers tomorrow morning?” he said as we kept walking. “Wolfman Jack and writer murdered in London streets . . .”

I ignored him.

“Wolfman and his writer were sliced to death by unknown assailants while visiting a comedy club in Jack The Ripper’s old neighborhood of London.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“Hey, I’m not kidding around.”

Then I saw an intersection and a sign marking a bus stop. I suggested we wait for a bus. Wolf wanted to keep walking; he was scared to just stop. “It’s harder to hit a moving target,” he said, but I convinced him a bus driver would seem like the calvary coming to save us. So we sat down on the bench near the curb.

A few people showed up and stood around waiting for the bus. I figured they were feeling intimidated by the big guy in the Stetson. Everyone was uncomfortable. You could feel it hanging in the air like a thick London fog.
It seemed like another hour until a bus came but when it did we got on quickly and as the bus driver winced at the sight of Wolf I asked him if this bus could get us to Piccadilly Circus. He said yes softly and Wolf and I sat down. The other people got in the bus and no one sat anywhere near anyone else.

After a long ride and a few stops to pick up more night travelers, we saw the lights of Piccadilly Circus ahead. We sighed in relief. 

“Home,” said Wolf, meaning that we were now within walking distance of our rooms at the Winston Churchill Hotel. We walked out of the bus into a different world, a world of lights and life and traffic and people and Bobbies and security.

Back in the suite at the Churchill we were amazed to find out it was just about 11 p.m. We were drained. We felt as if we had been up two nights.

Wolf picked up the phone and dialed. “Room service. . .What?” He slammed the phone down. “There’s no room service after 10 p.m. I wanted scones and tea. F**king limeys.”

Yeah, the fear was gone. The Wolfman was back in character, back where he was comfortable. In a hotel suite, isolated from the real world, where anything he wanted was at his beckoned call.

Except tea and scones, that is.

Check in often. I will.
Mars