(Wizard Homepage)


First episode, taken from The Wizard issue: 1682 May 10th 1958.


“With a one, two, three—we’ll jive all day,

Till we make the whole joint rock and sway.

Rock with a ten-pound-swing with a ten-pound-

Stamp with a ten-pound! Hey! Hey!”






When it comes to rock’n roll, Danny’s the most! The Demolition Drag is only one of his numbers. He’s got a whole host of ‘em. There’s nothing Danny likes better than giving out with that solid beat—unless it’s working at his dangerous and exciting job on the demolition squad. You’re going the get rock-a-beating rhythm, side splitting laughs and some hair-raising thrills in the smash-hit new story. Don’t be a square—get with it! Read—

“GO, MAN, GO!”


Arnold B. Feldon tore his hair. He gnashed his teeth and foamed at the mouth, while his terrified secretary cowered in a corner of the huge office. “What do you mean—no concert?” screamed the great man, stamping so hard on the thick carpet that an inkwell jumped from his enormous desk and splashed red ink all round the office.


“I’m sorry, Mr Feldon.” Stammered the secretary. “But there’s nothing—“ “You’re sorry!” howled the famous music publisher. “What about me?” I’ve got the Albert Hall on my hands.” “Must be quite a weight, A. B.,” said a jovial young man, walking into the office. “What you been doing, A. B.? Cutting your throat, eh?” He pointed to the red ink. “Get out, you miserable half-wit!” screamed Feldon, grabbing a ham sandwich off the plate on his desk and hurling it at the young man. “Thanks, A. B.,” beamed the other, grabbing the sandwich before it could smack him in the face, and taking a big bite. “I haven’t had any lunch.” “You’ll never have another lunch on me, either!” bellowed the most famous music publisher and concert promoter in Britain. “You’re fired, Murray, do you hear? Fired!” “Bang, bang,” said the young man obligingly. “What have I done now, A. B.?” Arnold Feldon frothed at the mouth. He ripped his collar off and threw it out of the window. As he did so, a mammoth poster, thirty feet long and twenty feet high, caught his eye. The posted was pasted all over the gable-end of a gaunt, battered building on the other side of the road. “Look at it!” howled the concert promoter. “Look at it, I tell you! That’s your work, Murray!” “’Music for the Masses’,” read Murray, looking at the three-foot high letters of the poster. “’Arnold B. Feldon presents a Grand Concert in the Albert Hall, London, featuring the king of Rock-and-Roll—’” “Now we know you can read!” bellowed Feldon. “The point is, what do you propose to do about it?” “You have something on your mind, A. B.,” said Tim Murray gently. “Why not tell me all about it, eh?” Arnold Feldon’s reply was to hurl another ham sandwich. Then he collapsed in a huge leather armchair and buried his head in his hands. “It’s the King, Mr Murray,” said the timid secretary in a tiny voice. “The King of Rock, that is.” “Oh, Teddy Teal,” said Murray. “What’s he been doing now? Climbing up statues in Piccadilly?” “Much worse,” whispered the secretary, lowering her voice and sounding like a nurse giving a bulletin about the health of some very famous statesman. “He’s been hurt, Mr Murray!” “Hurt, she says!” raged Arnold Feldon, leaping from the armchair as if a bomb had gone off below him. “Teddy Teal has broken an arm—and a leg—driving that car of his. Hot rod, he calls it. I’d like to bend it round his neck!” Tim Murray, who was Feldon’s chief publicity agent, looked grave. He looked out at the poster. “What about the concert in the Albert Hall, then?” he said. “He won’t be able to appear, will he?” “What do you think?” raved Feldon. “Here I have the Albert Hall, three bands, six thousand tickets sold. Every hepcat in London is jumping like a fire-cracker to see Teddy Teal—” “The King of rock-and-Roll,” interjected Murray. “Shut up!” snarled Feldon. “They’re rarin’ to go in the biggest rock-and-roll jamboree ever held. And this happens!” “Now, come come, A. B.,” said Murray. “All is not lost. We’ll get one of the other big hits. What about Joe Hale?” “Giving a concert in Glasgow,” said the secretary. “Larry Keen, then?” said the publicity expert. “Gone on holiday to Malta,” murmured the secretary mournfully. “Won’t be back for a week. The concert’s tonight, Mr Murray. Remember?” “Big Billy Wallace, then?” suggested Tim Murray. “He’s playing the Demon King in a pantomime in Nottingham!” roared Arnold Feldon. “Imagine, the Demon King, while London needs him to lead the rock! Oh, the injustice of it!” He whipped the last ham sandwich from the plate, took an absent-minded bite, then hurled the rest in the direction of the huge poster across the road. The food curved into the street and bounced off the bowler hat of a man who was standing in the street gazing at the battered building. “Look at all those dolts!” continued Feldon. “I hate the whole human race. Look at them, just standing gaping there, and at what, I ask you? At a demolition squad.” Tim Murray looked in the direction Feldon indicated. He saw the big crowd that was gawking at the broken down building. “Have a heart, A. B.,” he said. “There’s nothing draws a crowd so much as a hole in the road or a good demolition. Let the folks have fun, A. B.” “How can I think with all that row going on?” bellowed Feldon. “Hammers, and pneumatic drills, and blooming great thumps. It’s enough to drive me round the bend!” Tim Murray chuckled. “Now somebody is playing rock!” screeched Arnold Feldon. “I gave orders! No rock-and-roll in the offices today! I won’t be defied. Find the person responsible, and fire him, do you hear? Fire him!” “But, Mr Feldon—” said the timid little secretary. Arnold Feldon grabbed the empty plate where the sandwiches had been. Then he thought the better of it, and merely scowled, a horrible savage scowl. The secretary shook like a jelly. “But, sir,” she quavered. “I think the music’s coming from outside. I don’t think it’s in the office at all.” “By Jiminy, she’s right!” snapped Tim Murray. “It’s coming from the road. Look, A. B., that crowd isn’t watching the demolition-it’s listening and jiving! Look at that girl over there!” “The kid from the outer office!” screamed Feldon. “She’s fired, anyway. Get her in here at once! I’ll—” The great music publisher stopped in mid-sentence. His jaw dropped. A rapt expression crept over his face. The office grew quite. Everyone strained to hear. Across the street, somebody was playing a guitar. Chords and runs cascaded from the instrument like sparks from a welding machine. Yet a solid beat set feet tapping and shoulders twitching.


“With a one, two, three—we’ll jive all day,

Till we make the whole joint rock and sway.

Rock with a ten-pound-swing with a ten-pound-

Stamp with a ten-pound! Hey! Hey!”

The voice was strong, rhythmic, driving. It had quality, and was clear as a bell. It cut through the traffic noises.

“With a four-five-six—we’ll rock all night,

Till we make the squares all die with fright.

Rock with a ten-pound-swing with a ten-pound—”


“Get over there!” howled Arnold Feldon, breaking the tense silence in the huge office as he turned to Tim Murray. “Get me that rocker, or you’ll never step in here again. Get!” The publicity expert flew from the room. He ripped downstairs six at a time, and flew into the street. Murray pulled up with a jerk at the kerb. Whirling traffic prevented him from crossing towards the tottering building. But he could hear the guitar player clearly as he got on with his novel, but catchy rock.


“With a seven-eight-nine—we’re rolling fine,

Till the whole joint jumps right off the line.

Rock with a ten-pound—”


The publicity man saw a gap in the traffic, and darted over the road. But he could hardly shove his way through the crowd of teenagers and older people who were listening to the rhythm and urging the singer on with cries of “Go, man, go!” “Let me through!” yelled Murray. Somehow he crashed his way to the front of the crowd. Then a big hand thumped him on the chest, and a burly navy barred his way. “As far as you go, Mister,” he said. “The wall’s coming now!” I gotta get at that kid with the guitar,” panted Murray. He had a brief glimpse of the singer’s back. The whole of the lad’s body was rocking. His legs jerked and his shoulders heaved as he beat out the chorus of his rocking tune.


“With a ten-‘leven-twelve, rock through the town,

Till the whole darn joint comes tumbling down.

Rock with a ten-pound-swing with a ten-pound-

Stamp with a ten-pound! Hey! Hey!”


Tim Murray evaded the grasp of the navy, and made a dash for the singer. There was a terrific yell. “Watch out!” The publicity agent looked up, then froze in his tracks. The huge poster advertising the Albert Hall was bulging towards him. Teddy Teal’s name loomed even larger. “Rock-and Roll” swelled before his eyes. Then the wall on which the poster had been pasted crashed just in front of the petrified Murray. A great cloud of brick-dust rose. Then a flying half-brick hit Tim Murray behind the ear. In a whirl of coloured guitars he fell flat on his face.



What hit me?” groaned Tim Murray later regaining consciousness. “Only half a brick,” snarled Arnold Feldon. “It should have been half a building, you dolt. He got away!” “Ouch!” yelled Tim Murray, moving his head sharply and finding out that he had a very big lump on his head.

“Take it easy, Mr Murray,” said the little secretary anxiously. “You’re in the office. Two of the navies brought you over here.” “The kid with the rocking guitar?” gasped Tim. “Gone!” snarled Feldon. “Disappeared – vamoosed – scrammed! All because you messed up a simple instruction to go get him.” “Sorry, A. B.,” grunted Murray. “If you send for the girl in the outer office, maybe we’ll find out something about the singer.” “It’s an idea,” conceded Feldon ungraciously. He gave the secretary a nod, and soon she reappeared with a young girl on whose face there was a mixture of apprehension and ecstasy. “What do you mean by standing gawking in the road when you should have been working?” snarled Feldon. “And what are those things in your hand?” The frightened girl started guiltily and let some tattered remnants of letters fall. “My mail!” screamed Feldon. “You’ve ripped it to shreds! You’re fired!” “Now, now, A. B., temper, temper,” reproved Tim Murray. “You’ll never get anywhere that way. Buzz off. Let me try.” Snarling, the music boss stalked into his private office, and Murray set out to find what the girl knew about the rock-and-roll star from the demolition squad. “His name’s Danny,” breathed the girl, her eyes shining. “And oh, boy, he’s the most! I dig that crazy guy a heap. He’s really hep.” “I get it,” muttered Tim Murray. “He sends you! Is that all you know about him that his name’s Danny? How about that song>” “You mean ‘Demolition Drag’?” asked the girl. “He always sings it when the men are pulling the rope to bring a bit of building down. Real groovey, isn’t it?” “Sure, sure, it’s great,” said Tim. “Did he write it himself?” “He writes all his own songs,” said the girl. Then her face clouded sadly. “But the job’s finished. I won’t hear Danny again.” “What’s this ‘Rock with a ten-pound’ stuff?” asked the publicity man. “It’s a ten-pound sledgehammer, of course,” said the girl, scornfully. “My, you’re a real cube, aren’t you?” “I know what a square is,” said Murray. “But what is a cube?” “A square square,” said the girl swiftly. “Look, as the men swing their sledgehammers, Danny gives out with ‘Sledgehammer Rock,’ then when they hook the ropes on to pull, he gives them the ‘Demolition Drag’. Brother, you could pull a tower down on that beat. Did you see him go, man, go?” “Wonder where he’s gone now?” muttered Murray. “All we know is that his name is Danny.” “And all I know is that I want that lad’s name on a contract,” rasped Arnold Feldon from the doorway. “Get him, before anyone else gets him. And don’t come back here till you get him!” “Aw, but listen, A. B.,” protested Murray. “Don’t ‘A. B.’ me,” snapped the music chief. “Get going, Murray, and find that kid. Or find a new job.” “How about the Albert Hall tonight?” asked the publicity expert. “Don’t you want me to get—” “I want you to get out!” rapped Feldon. “We’ve contracted Paul Accra for the big show tonight, so we’re O K. I’ve sent a bunch of grapes to Teddy. Now I’m sending you into the big wide world. Find Danny!” “O K, O K,” said Tim Murray. His hat was shoved in his hand, his coat was draped over his shoulders and he found himself outside the Feldon Building. Slowly Tim Murray wandered over to the site of the demolition. A big board stood in a corner. “Here’s where we start,” said the publicity man. “I’ll get the name of the company from this.” The board was thick with dust, but Tim Murray scraped industriously at the board. “Gr-----s Demolition C--pa-y,” stated the board, as the publicity man got the dirt off. “16-----” “Blow,” said Tim. “This dust and grime is thicker than I guessed.” He dug the point of his penknife into the woodwork. There was a splintering crack, and the bottom part of the board disintegrated. It was completely rotten. “What are you doing, Mister?” came a shout. Murray looked up. Over on a far corner of the site, a man was sitting on a bulldozer, looking at Tim curiously. “I was wondering who the company was who pulled down this building,” said the musical publicity man. “You want a building pulled down?” said the bulldozer driver at once. “That’s my business. Leave your building to me. I’ll have it down before you can sneeze.” “No, I haven’t a building to come down,” said Murray patiently. “I just want to know the name of the people who pulled this one down. Do you work for them?” “No,” said the other promptly. “I tell you, I got my own business. A guy just came round this morning, said he needed an extra ‘dozer for a big shove, and offered me a fiver. I got no idea who they were.” “Or where they’ve gone?” demanded Murray. “Somewhere down the south coast,” said the bulldozer owner. “It’s a clue, anyway,” said Tim Murray. “Now, about the lad with the guitar.” “Was that a geetar?” said the man, interested. “Good grief, man, don’t you know about rock?” gasped Tim Murray. “Course I do,” said the man promptly. “I demolish, don’t I? Limestone, granite-” “Rock-and-roll, I mean,” chuckled the publicity man. “You must be the original square. That kid with the guitar was definitely the most.” “He was the most shouted at, anyway,” agreed the bulldozer driver. “The foreman hated his singing. I thought it wasn’t all that bad myself.” “Not bad!” gasped Tim. “Listen, man, that boy will earn a thousand pounds a week before he’s a year older.” “I’m off then,” said the bulldozer owner, letting in his clutch. “Off to buy me a geetar!”


Quite unaware of the fact that Arnold Feldon was desperate to offer him riches, Danny was playing happily in a field not far from Bournemouth. For the moment, the rock expert was taking it easy. The strings of his guitar hummed magically as he played an old cowboy song in his own style.

“Oh, give me a tent, and I’ll be content.

With the moonlight to shine me to bed.

Just give me a star, and my faithful guitar

And I won’t want a roof o’er my head.”


Even in slow time, the driving beat came through. Two cows and a horse wandered over and stood dreamily enjoying the music. Danny Dixon looked at them and grinned. “Hiya, fellers,” he chortled. “So you dig the jive, eh? A trio of real cool cats!” “Moo!” said the cow on the left solemnly. “You want an encore, then?” laughed Danny. “Ahem,” came an apologetic cough at Danny’s elbow. The youngest member of Grinnan’s Demolition Squad turned and found at his elbow an elderly man. “Hello, Mister,” said the young rock-and-roll expert “I hope its O K to camp here?” “Of course, my boy,” said the elderly man. “But why aren’t you down in the village with the others? You are from the demolition squad, I believe.” “Sure,” said Danny readily. “But I’ve lived all my life in a broken-down street in Hammersmith, and when I get the chance, I grab all the fresh air that’s going. I love camping. This way I get the demolition dust out of my lungs. And I get the foreman out of my hair.” “Doesn’t he like your music, then?” said the elderly man. Danny Dixon grinned. “The foreman hates rock,” he said, “He’s the squarest square that ever breathed.” “My name,” said the elderly man, “is Boscombe. Mr Boscombe of Boscombe, and I feel sure you could do me a favour. In half an hour, my Boy Scout troop is putting on a concert to get funds for new camp gear. And my star turn, Wilf Sweep, has sprained his wrist.” “A guy can sing with a sprained wrist,” said Danny. “Ah, but Wilf doesn’t sing, he plays the hand bells,” explained Boscombe the scoutmaster. “Now I haven’t a musical item. That’s why I came. One of your mates is lodging with us, and said you played the ukulele.” “Guitar,” grinned Danny. “You want me to do a turn at your concert, is that it? But I ain’t got any fancy clobber.” “Never mind that,” said Boscombe eagerly. “Come just as you are. I’m sure the people will enjoy your music.” “You’re taking a chance, Mr Boscombe,” said Danny with a wide grin. “But I’m hep, if you are.” The scoutmaster looked slightly bewildered at Danny’s words, bur led the way to the village. And that was how one of these coincidences occurred which make life interesting. At exactly the same second as six thousand fans screamed a frenzied welcome to Paul Accra in the Albert Hall, London. Danny Dixon made his first appearance on a stage, before a hundred and sixty people. The young rock-and-roller had sat patiently through most of the concert. “And now,” said Mr Boscombe, “we have a young friend from London. Mr Dixon will give us some vocal gems, accompanying himself on his Hawaiian instrument. Danny clapped energetically with the rest, then suddenly realised that Mr Boscombe was talking about him! Grinning all over his face, he jumped up on to the stage. “One vocal gem, coming up, cats,” he announced to the gaping audience. “It’s called ‘Ripping up the Carpet’.” His hips swayed. His long fingers rippled over the strings. Then a surging, compelling rock rhythm was thudding of the tin roof of the Scout Hall, bouncing off the wooden floor.


“Put your best jeans on and go to town.

We’re gonna jive the whole joint upside down.

With a scoo-babba-loobee, ain’t that right

We’ll be rippin’ up the carpet tonight.”


The audience gawked and gasped. Then feet tapped. “With a Hey-Babba-Reebba,” chanted Danny, his hair flapping, his fingers dancing, his whole frame jumping.


“Ain’t that something, ain’t it a sight.

Ripping up the carpet tonight—Yeah!”


Danny Dixon had found out something new. He had discovered that when you’re giving out to an audience, they give back to you. As he sent them crazy, they carried him on with their enthusiasm. Severe ladies who looked like adverts for starch began to nod their heads on the off-beat. Danny gave a grin, finished “Ripping up the Carpet,” and dived into “Country Corn Stomp,” another of his own numbers. Up in London, at the Albert Hall, swooning girls were being carried out by ambulance men as Paul Accra went into his bug number. In the village, the girls were too busy to swoon. They were helping to carry out the seats from the hall. The concert was over. Rock-and- roll dancing had the floor. The local policeman, hurrying along to find out why the joint was jumping, was nearly brained by a bench that came through the door. Danny was going to town.


“We’ll swing it early, jam it late—

Rip all the hinges off the garden gate.

Hear the cats in the hay-rick oh, oh, oh—

Make with the pitchfork—Go, man, go!”


An hour later, just as the last taxi drew up and a police escort saw Paul Accra safely through his fans to the luxury of his big London hotel, Danny Dixon wandered up the dark road with the policeman. “Sure you’d rather sleep in a tent, lad?” said the policeman. “You can come in with us, you know, and welcome.” “I’ll be all right in the field, thanks,” said Danny, throwing out his long legs in enormous strides. “Oh, wee, goodnight, son,” said the constable. Left to himself, Danny sauntered past a quite wood on his way to the field where his tent was pitched. Faintly, in the moonlight, he could make out the outlines of a big house that he would help to pull down the next day. “Golly!” he said suddenly. “Some guy’s making with the music in among those trees!” It was a fact. Faintly, from the wood, came the sound of someone playing a cello. Danny Dixon, head on one side, listened keenly. Then his head nodded and he unslung his guitar. “That lad’s a square, but he’s hep to a real tune there.” He approved. “Maybe I can pep it a bit and make it zip. I’ll get closer.


Meanwhile in London, Arnold Feldon was talking to Paul Accra as the singer relaxed in his hotel. “You need soothed, boy,” said Arnold expansively. “Let me dig you some syrup from the radio.” He switched on the set. “So now we go over to Boscombe,” said the announcer.

“For the last time we will hear the nightingale from the wood beside the old house, for it is to be pulled down. Tonight, Herr Richter is playing his cello to encourage the sweetest songster on earth. The cello started, then along with it suddenly was a surging, driving rock, to a tune that an expert might have recognised as a highly pepped version of what the cello was playing. “Babba-doobbee-wabbow!” came from the set, while all its valves glowed white-hot and all the furniture quivered.

“Fly from your nests while you’ve still got time,

Sleepy-time tunes ain’t worth a dime.

Feathered friends shake with a red hot shock—

All the boughs break with that Oak Tree Rock!”


Arnold Feldon leapt from his seat. “It’s him, its Danny!” he screamed. “Find out where that rockin’ nightingale’s giving out. Quick, I tell you!” Down in the wood beside the big house, the radio mobile engineers stared in goggling amazement at their volume needles, leaping and quivering in their dials as the jive poured through. Herr Richter stopped playing his cello. He looked furious then he slowly began to smile—and clap his hands in time! Unaware that he was making his first broadcast, Danny Dixon ripped off another verse of high-powered rock.


“Rock-a-bye babe, you’re on the line

In your tree-top you sure won’t pine.

Don’t let a lullaby give you blues—

The Oak Tree Rock is crazy news”


All over Britain, the Oak Tree Rock went surging. Abruptly the song was cut off, then a smooth voice intoned— “We regret that there has been a technical hitch. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.” “Normal service nothing!” hooted Arnold Feldon. “Get me the B.B.C. or heads will roll in the gutter tonight!” “I’m sorry, Mr Feldon,” stuttered the mouse-like secretary who had been summoned to the hotel by her boss. “The switchboard is choked with calls.” “What!” exploded the impresario. “You’re fired! Gimme the phone!” He began to rave down the mouthpiece. But it was useless. Hundreds of calls choked the telephone switchboard. People in Wales wanted to know where the record could be brought. People in Scotland demanded who he was. People in Ireland wanted to know where they could join his fan club. When, three hours later, Arnold Feldon eventually spoke to a harassed executive at the B.B.C., he got no information. The B.B.C. were ignorant of the singer’s identity as Feldon was. “Get Murray!” Feldon raged at last. “Get him on his way for the big house near Boscombe. Maybe he can pick up the trail there.” “Ahem!” said the hollow-eyed secretary at his elbow. “Get out!” bellowed Feldon. “I fired you, didn’t I?” “Every day for the last seven years,” said the woman faintly. “But Mr Murray’s on his way already. He phoned to say he was heading for Boscombe. He heard the broadcast.” “Did he say anything else?” demanded A.B. Feldon. “Just ‘See you later, alligator’,” said the secretary apologetically. Arnold B. Feldon stamped off to his car, still frothing, while Paul Accra at last got a chance to settle down in his luxurious bed. And in a sleeping-bag in a tent in a field near the big house in Boscombe, Mister Rock himself, Danny Dixon, slept peacefully, quite unaware of the search being made for him. Even his snores had a beat!

GO, MAN, GO! 16 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1682 – 1697 (1958)

© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd 

Vic Whittle 2004