Prof. Tommy Shand

Marcel Steiner, Andy Jones, Marc Weil, Tommy Shand

Prof Tommy Shand was the Madhouse Co’s musician - steeped in the tradition of British music hall, he played many instruments, some of them simultaneously - whatever wasn’t in the pawn shop, he played. With impeccable comic timing, his piece-de-resistance was blowing up a balloon on his sax to the tune of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” - he milked it for every laugh he could get.

When I knew him, Tommy was 56 going on 12.  He hadn’t developed mentally past being a school boy - not the sharpest blade in the drawer. Tommy loved doing crosswords - I once looked at one he’d finished - not a word I ever heard of, but he had fun doing it.

Tommy Shand was raised in an orphanage and as soon as he was of age, they handed him over to the Royal Navy. Thank goodness he had a talent for music and he could join their band, because he was pretty much useless at anything else - the world revolved around his own private logic and you couldn’t tell him otherwise.

When World War 2 broke out, they needed every able-bodied man for action and put Tommy Shand on a battleship. Well, even the Royal Navy was flummoxed as what to do with him, until they found the perfect job. Apparently, the guns have a special apparatus that measures the wind and helps the aim to be more precise. This apparatus needs its own separate power supply - in case the electricity gets knocked out, the guns can still function. Well, they have a bicycle in the bowels of the ship, that needs to be constantly pedaled when in battle. And, yes, Tommy was the one furiously pedaling during the sinking of the Bismarck and other great naval victories.

The Madhouse had a van and when Tommy drove it, we’d all get lost - without exception and without fail. We decided to do a 24 hour drive straight through from New York to Atlanta. When it was Tommy’s turn to drive, he was told - see this highway? You go straight, you do not turn left, you do not turn right, you go straight until Atlanta. You got that? Yes. So we all go to sleep and an hour later we wake up in the middle of a field, not knowing where we are.

In Atlanta, Leon Redbone was opening for us - we’d give him rides everywhere. He’d just bought an ounce of smoke he had hidden in his guitar case. It was late at night and Tommy, for some reason, decided to go through every red light. Soon enough we heard sirens behind us and got pulled over. Leon, who’d turned a whiter shade of pale, said, whatever you do, don’t mention the Madhouse Co. The big policeman asked Tommy to step out and asked who we were. The Madhouse Co, officer, sir. The Mad what?

The cop asked Tommy for his license. Tommy dug deep in his pockets and kept bringing out snotty handkerchiefs, half eaten candy bars, marbles, pawn tickets and depositing them in the policeman’s outstretched hand. No, sorry, officer, sir, must’ve left it at the place. In England you don’t have to have it with you.

And how would you like to spend the night in jail? No, thank you very kindly, officer, sir. Leon by this time was on the verge of cardiac arrest. To this day I have no idea why this huge Southern cop decided he didn’t want to deal with either Tommy or the mad people inside the car and decided to let us go. Tommy stopped him and asked for directions - of course, we were lost. The cop said, see that red light? When it turns green, you go straight - and then proceeded to give directions. Tommy thanked him profusely, got in the car and as soon as the light turned red, he sped straight through… and went through every red light thereafter.

We looked back at the cop… he had taken off his hat and stood there scratching his head pensively. Very sensible. There was no explaining this at the station house so he let it go.

The last time I saw Tommy was when I’d go and visit my mother in London. I was at the extremely crowded Camden Market looking for cool clothes when I heard the unmistakable strains of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”. Took me a while to find Tommy - there he was entertaining the crowds and people were throwing money in his hat. He scooped it all up and had to dash to put it on a horse.

Images by Wolynski: Norway, Nov 1973.