Jeff's story; A VIEW FROM THE PIT
If you lnow my father, those he knew and want to share your memories with him then e-mail him on :
jefflloyd2011@btinternet.com
INTRODUCTION
Food for thought, in abundance !
Nothing quite focuses the mind as does a stroke. What had hitherto been the normal, everyday functioning of your so familiar body suddenly becomes alien.
Strokes, being idiosyncratic, affect each individual quite differently, and the degree of disability varies enormously; but virtually every affected victim undergoes, overnight, a life changing experience. So it was for me.
Having enjoyed a particularly agreeable early evening pub meal in the equally agreeable company of an attractive violinist friend and colleaque, I gallantly bade her farewell and eventually retired to bed in the contented solitude of my home. I awoke in the early hours of the morning with that familiar feeling of "pins and needles", invariably associated with the adoption of an awkward sleeping position; on this occasion, however, and despite the vigorous application of massage, the sensation persisted. "Ullow, ullow" I thought, "something's amiss here, mate !"
Thankfully still able to move about, I donned some clothes, went downstairs and swallowed a humble aspirin. The wisdom of this action and, indeed, the potency of the aspirin has been indicated to me some years previously when I suffered a brief disturbance of vision. The very attractive ( so my vision was already recovering ) female locum who attended asked if I had any aspirins in the house, to which I inanely replied, "Why love, have you got a headache !?"On this occasion, however, having contacted the emergency out-of-hours service I was, surprisingly, requested to "pop up to the hospital" which happened to be just a few miles up the road: amazingly, I had no problem in driving my doughty Renault Clio to Llantrisant's Royal Glamorgan Hospital even though, unbeknown to me, my stroke was increasingly beginning to affect the right side of my body. Having parked my car near the emergency department, I assumed that in an hour or so I\'d be able to drive back home to the comfort of my own bed. In fact, I would remain in that hospital for two weeks, and eleven months would elapse before I would be able to resume any driving whatsoever: and then only after a rigorous series of physical and psychological assessments, held at the inspirational Rookwood hospital, Cardiff. I was eventually adjudged fit to drive by the DVLA after which I purchased a delightful new Fiat Panda Automatic specially adapted to suit my particular disability.
Meanwhile, however, following my initial examination at the Royal, I was allocated a bed in Ward 12, and within 4 hours of my arrival underwent a variety of tests, including a CT scan. Whilst all these activities were ongoing, I was becoming increasingly aware of the stroke coursing through my body, with the consequent weakness of my right leg and arm; but thankfully, neither my speech, sight nor cognitive faculties were adversely affected.
Being a fairly gregarious individual who enjoys stimulating conversation, I dread to think of the psychological effect of speech impairment on anyone, and, being such an inveterate " gas bag", me in particular.
So there I was, Jeff Lloyd, fairly well known, even notorious, as a competent fiddle player, teacher and orchestral conductor, occupying a cosy hospital bed with plenty to contemplate. Although my right side had virtually given up on me, and my gingerly excursions to the toilet were made only with the support of a zimmer frame, I was not in any pain and did not feel ill in the accepted sense of the word. My appetite was as healthy as ever, though my sinful desire for "naughty" foods was immediately frowned upon by my nursing "angels". So my gastronomic cravings for juicy fillet steaks complemented with fatty french fries and succulent mushrooms, all immersed in an exotic sauce and ultimately washed down with a vintage claret, were suddenly thwarted. Instead, sensible Shepherd's Pie accompanied by a wholesome salad, and followed by an alluring fresh English apple, fast became my new food regime.
A fortuitous advantage of my admittance to the Royal early in October, 2003 was that it co-incided with the rugby world cup. We Celtic male patients were naturally glued to the TV set: and whenever the onfield action became overtly exciting, our ward would be invaded by a veritable cavalry charge of nurses anxious to check our collective blood pressure levels, and with dire threats to "pull the Plug" unless we calmed down !
Whilst I can honestly assert that, in the immediate aftermath of my stroke, I never lapsed into a depressed state of mind: the realization that I would probably never again play the violin, quite understandably, gave me much food for thought. One could not blithely erase from one's psyche a beloved activity which had become ingrained as the dominant part of one's life for over fifty years. Predictably, of course, a few of my erstwhile musical colleagues wiley observed that my enforced absence from public performance might even have acted as a balm to those of especially sensitive musical ears ! With friends like these eh........
Residing as I did in the pleasant, but ever expanding village of Talbot Green at the foot of the Rhondda valleys I was fortunate to have first rate care upon my discharge from hospital. I was very soon referred as an out-patient to the ancient, dillapitaded, but heroic Llwynypia hospital's stroke unit. Indeed, my daughter Cathy, a GP in Yorkshire rang me to triumphally proclaim that - "Dad, you couldn't have had your stroke in a better place !" - and went on to explain that the Rhondda's stroke unit is regarded as one of the best in the country ! she bemoaned the absence of equable services for her own affected patients. Even as I write, a brand new state of the art stroke rehabilitation centre is being built on the valley floor, replacing the old buildings which have clung perilously high up on the mist-shrouded mountain of Llwynypia for decades. Not a bad advance for a supposedly socially deprived area. But lets face it, for at least half a century, the Rhondda has led the way in so many vital facets of life, and no less so as in the fundamental elements of health care, education and culture. But more of that later.
After a stroke, those mechanical actions controlled by the central nervous system, which have been taken for granted since early childhood, are no longer intact and cannot be relied upon to respond to your bidding. Simple actions like picking up a pen, coin, cup, book or newspaper becomes difficult or impossible. Therefore, the delicate finite art of holding a violin bow, itself achieved only after years of diligent practice with all senses intact, becomes unachievable. My own feeble attempts to replicate that original bow hold was futile and fraught with such frustration, that I quickly dispensed with the attempts. However, all was not lost, as Diane, Llwynypia's tough, no nonsense senior physiotherapist gradually proved to me. By employing a regime of exercises which i suspect were originally devised by Attila the Hun, she eventually had me walking with a reasonably normal gait. I would be upbraided with the verbal chastisement, "Jeff, for God's sake stop walking like a man who's had a b***** stroke !!"
The physical demands she imposed on her patients were, of course, supremely tempered with a patient compassion and tender understanding. I shall be forever indebted to Diane Davies and her dedicated colleagues for restoring a self confidence that had been severly dented. I later received similar care and attention from the ultra gentle Anna Evans and her brilliant team at Bridgend's Princess of Wales hospital.
Ok, so I couldn't hold a bow; but wasn't I still actively involved in orchestral conducting ? And, unlike Dudley Moore's one legged attempt to audition for the part of Tarzan, at least I still possessed two arms which, thankfully, still moved and enabled me to resume some baton-less conducting ( I actually conducted in a concert just three months after my stroke ). The other furtive advantage is, as Michael Caine would have it - "Not many people know this"--, but you never hear conductors play a wrong note ! Much more on "carvers" or "stickwaggers" later.
My humble advice to any stroke victim is to make the most of that which you have left and capitalise on it. Also, with the skilful guidance of physio/ occupational therapists you will definitely make progress. It may take some years, but you will notice tiny, infinitessimal improvements each day: celebrate these small forward steps as certain sensations partly or wholly return. I'm still getting a satisfied thrill each time I observe yet another tiny improvement which was absent until today: I am also mindful of how much worse it might have been.
Still in retention of my thinking abilities, I can now at long last, write the book that my dear, late friend, Mark Roberts, vowed we'd write together, of the laughs, sorrows, joys, highs and lows, that we shared together through music.
Well, so much for the medical preamble; but I'd now like to take you on a journey around my life, in which music has played such an important part.
CHAPTER 1
Early beginnings and the dark winds of war
That irritating little man sporting a pathetic apology for a moustache, and with slick hair drooping limply over his forehead, certainly gave me an inauspicious start in life. Dear Adolf Hitler, had already been strutting his stuff over much of Europe for quite a few months before I decided to emerge from the cosy warmth of my mother's womb on November, 20th. 1939, therby bestowing upon myself, the dubious status of being an early, ' war baby' !
This momentous event took place in the tiny village of Nat-y-Cafyn, nestling smugly between Crynant and Seven Sisters, in the Dulais valley, just a few miles up the road from the historic town of Neath. Of course, I was blissfully unaware of the terror, privations and fearsome dramas that held Britain enthralled during the next five years. Indeed, my earliest general recollection, and of the war in particular, was being roused from by bed by the heavy rhythmical beat of marching men, American troops, en route to Swansea, in preparation for the "D" Day assault, that would precede the liberation of Europe. I clearly remember rushing outside the house, and 'marching', with my buttie, alongside these gigantic warriors. Just outside our village, and in a raucous American southern drawl, the command, "Halt, at eeeeaze !", was given, and the soldiers slumped wearily down for a short break in the verdant hedgerows lining the main road.
I gasped in awe as, out of their bulging knapsacks came all manners of luxuries never previously seen, or imagined, by me. We two rustic Welsh kids were bombarded with chocolate bars and juicy slivers of sugary chewing gum, which we proceeded to gorge voraciously, long after the Yanks had moved on.
Predictably, our delicately poised digestive systems, attuned to the basic diet imposed by war time rationing, could not cope with this sudden invasion of rich alien treats; in a short time, up it all came ! But, between bouts of nausea, I noticed that one of the American soldiers had marched off minus his dull, green helmet ( possibly a chargeable offence ). This helmet instantly became a prized possession, which quickly diverted our minds from our earlier gastronomical discomfort. Adhering strictly to the schoolboys' accepted code of, "finders, keepers", I promptly claimed the newly acquired item of military headgear, as my own, and rushed home, eager to show it, proudly, to my mam 1 her reaction was quite uncanny: ever the practical homemaker, she announced that : "It's just what we need to keep the coal in !" And, for many years to come, it fulfilled its newly designated purpose, housed cosily by the open fireside, the ideal repository for lumps of small coal !
During the war years, our little village escaped relatively unscathed; but one night, returning from one of many raids on Swansea, a Luftwaffe pilot decided to ease his bomb load by dropping a few hundred pounds of lethal explosives on a nearby field. this caused the deaths of five cows, a few sheep, and peppered the local rugby pitch with four enormous craters. The local rugger boys never forgave that German flyer for his inconsiderate attitude toward our national game; but the germans have traditionally, been far more appreciative of the round ball version of football. Some small mitigation, I suppose !
Many returning Welsh soldiers, invariably, returned with trophies of all kinds - German weaponary, splendidly tailored Nazi uniforms etc, often purloined from the defeated Wermacht. But, unbelievably, a resourceful young serviceman from our tiny tiny hamlet, returned with a sizeable section of the cockpit of a Messerschmidt fighter plane ! One can only but marvel at just how on earth he managed to drag this cumbersome souvenir all the way home. Anyway, in common with our Yankee helmet, it was put to immediate practical use by his delighted parents, being variously utilised to encourage the hatching of chickens\' eggs, and the growing of beautiful tomatoes !
Another war trophy of my parents which survives to this day, having been treated more reverentially than the poor old helmet, was my father's Home Guard bayonet, complete with shiny leather scabbard. Oddly enough, this deadly weapon, now in the proud possession of my son Richard - a keen collector of military regalia - was never actually used in anger on the fields of battle in France or Germany: my father's instinctive pugnacity and pugilistic inclinations were, fortunately, not matched by his feeble eyesight.
Consequently, Churchill's War Office wisely judged that George Gwynfor Lloyd, unable to quickly differentiate between friend or foe, would better serve the nation as a member of that glorious body of men, the Home Guard, in which he achieved the esteemed rank of corporal !
My father was a self educated man who did his stint 'underground', but who educated himself to the surface, where he worked for many years in the finance department of the Evans Bevan corporation, which owned the collieries, breweries and pubs in the locality - meaning that they controlled the entire Dulais valley ! Predictably, the miners would be paid in cash on the Friday afternoon; but much of that money would be recouped via the public houses by the following Monday ! Tough times, and tough men; but even tougher and incredibly resourceful women !
Many of these hardy men who laboured daily in the foul, coal-dust laden mines, possessed a robust religious faith, and every Sunday, resplendent in their sombre 'Sunday best', suits, would attend the local chapels for morning service, afternoon, Sunday School, and final evening service. Dragged along reluctantly, by my devout mother, to chapel every Sunday, I gradually came to regard these serious, black suited gentlemen, with a deep reverence and respect. Sitting as deacons, in the 'Set Fawr' ( Big Seat ) of our Methodist chapel, 'Seion', in Seven Sisters, they exuded an aura of immense dignity, coupled with a profound sense of professional wisdom. All but a few, had been denied, through social privation, the opportunity of a university education; yet, they compensated for this with a diligent study of the Arts, sciences, philosophy and politics, in the local Miners' Institutes which became pivotal centres of learning in the mining valleys throughout Wales. Over a decade later, as a young 'fresher' at Cardiff University, I attended a debate held at the Students Union, in Dumfries Place. The principal speakers included the Abbot of Downside Monastry, the fearsome history professor, Dr. Chrimes, Vincent Kane, Student Union President, and the celebrated Rhondda born author and playwright, Gwyn Thomas. Afterwards, proudly clutching my precious pint in the crowded union bar, and with Gwyn Thomas eloquently holding court, I clearly recall him proudly assert that the best debating chamber he had ever addressed was in the NUM club in Tonypandy, many years before.
Towards the end of the war, we moved from Nant-Y-Cafyn to the larger township of Seven Sisters, further up the valley. This curiously English place name, set in an area clearly identified as intrinsically Welsh, with names such as Banwen, Onllwyn and Cynant, was unique; but it was apparently named after the great coal magnate's sisters- of which there were, Seven !
Prominent amongst our chapel-going friends, were the Gethin family. Whenever I visited this warm, homely family, as a young child of six or seven, I recall a morbid fascination with the sinsiter paraphenalia of oxygen tubes and masks which were, sadly, so vital to the survival of Mr. Gethin senior. He was riddled with pneumoconsiosis ( euphemistically nicknamed, 'dust' by the miners ), the killer disease that ravaged mining communities throughout the country.
Consequently, this frail, but intensely proud miner, who fought stoically each day for every breath, was doggedly determined that no child of his would ever go down the pit. Apart from his eldest son, Meredith, who became a collier upon leaving school, his wish was fulfilled. To prevent his remaining sons entering the colliery, their father insisted that Ray and dennis would concentrate their energies on academic pursuits: and eventually, each of the boys graduated in Aberystwyth and Cambridge respectively, with their three sisters achieving similar distinquished careers in nursing and education. In fact, Dennis Gethin, a Cambridge 'Blue', was to gain prominence as a high scoring rugby player, later as secretary of the Welsh Rugby Union, and also as Chief Executive Officer of a major Welsh local authority. His brother, Ray, became a highly respected secondary Headteacher in Merthyr. This fervent, almost paranoid, parental determination to educate their children away from the lure of the colliery was replicated throughout South Wales. Much later, as a teacher in the Rhondda, I was to encounter the same laudable product of such sound forward thinking: beneath the grimy veneer of coal dust and blue scars, which became the cheerless emblems of a life working at the coal face, lay an uplifting vision of a better life for the miners' precious offspring. These heroic working men were, indeed, educational luminaries, way ahead of their time.
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Tom Walden, a great uncle on my mother's side of the family, had been HM Inspector of Mines in the South Wales coalfield a decade or so before World War Two: Blessed with a keen intellect and sharp memory, he would regale us with fascinating tales of life, 'underground'. he reminded us that it had not been too far back when young children were regularly employed in the collieries to perform light tasks, but, which nevertheless, made them particularly susceptible to grave danger in such a tyreacherous environment. Inevitably, quite a few of these wretched infants were tragically killed by runaway journeys of trams, rockfalls or gas explosions. This monumental scandal was further compounded by the fact that the death of one of these fragile mites, merited far less 'paper work' than that of a pit pony. An equally shocking indictment was revealed in the log book of a great aunt who had served as a midwife in the mining village of Caerau, in the Llynfi valley. This historic leather-bound document was later handed down to my daughter, Catherine, when she was a student at St. Mary's, School of Medicine in London.
Whilst delving through the pages of this tome, which recorded the births in Caerau in the nineteen twenties, Cathy was horrified by some of the entries contained in the log book. One such entry noted: "....I was, consequently, obliged to deliver the infant on the pavement, outside the house".
Increduously, the poor expectant mother's husband had been killed, a few hours earlier, in a rockfall underground. The mine owners immediately ejected the heavily pregnant widow, and her children, onto the street. Then, with the beds still warm, a new family was hurriedly installed in the same house. With such situations being fairly commonplace in the mining communities, is it any wonder that Maerdy, at the top of the Rhondda Fach was dubbed, 'Little Moscow' !? No writer has chronicled, quite so vividly, than Alexander Cordell, the social injustice and inhumanity, meted out by many of the mine owners, and their ironmaster counterparts, in the blatant pursuit of greed and profit, to the total exclusion of their employees' human rights.
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My memories of the post war years were the occassional visits to the badly ruined seaside city of Swansea, which had been mercilessly blitzed by Field Marshal Goering 's unrelenting Luftwaffe. Very few buildings in the city centre seemed to have escaped major damage, and the human cost was enormous. For quite a few years, my recollections of Swansea were of, seemingly, a perpetual building site; but as rebuilding work painstakingly got underway, and with a partial return to normality, one could indulge in the heady delight of travelling, by tramcar, alongside the seashore to nearby Mumbles : this was always a special treat. My affection for Mumbles and the glorious Gower Peninsula, remains undimmed to this very day. For sheer beauty and charm, this coastline, for me, on a warm sunny day, compares favourably with the Mediterranean - truly exquisite.
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Any musical influences during my early years, came about, loosely, by association. My mother, Ceinwen, had a pleasant soprano voice, and sang in the chapel and local choral society. I would, inevitably, hear disjointed segments of the great oratorios - Mendelssohn's, 'Elijah', Mozart's, 'Requiem', Haydn's, 'The Creation', and, of course, Handel's 'Messiah'. Strangely though, whilst being regularly exposed to such musical influences, I was never actually encouraged to study an instrument, even though my diminutive Aunt Maud taught the piano, and my uncles Emlyn and Aneurin, both played the violin ( Aneurin via the Tonic Sol-Fa system, traditionally more acceptable to vocalists than instrumentalists ). Unfortunately, these musical gurus lived a million miles away ( or so it seemed ! ) in the Maesteg valley. I do, however, remember being placed, at quite an early age, to kneel on an upright chair in the kitchen : and, clasping a thin piece of stick, I would proceed to 'direct' the 'Workers' Playtime' orchestra in Eric Coates's lively march, 'Calling All Workers', which was the staple fare on the wireless at the time. This was, undoubtedly, a subtle device of my mother's to keep me occupied while she got on with her household chores, unhindered by my demands.
I also recall being taken to the Seven Sisters Workmen's Hall, where my father was involved in organising the old, 'Celebrity Concerts' : then, the description, 'celebrity', really was merited, with supremely talented international artists such as sopranos, Gwen Catley and Amy Shuard, Welsh tenor, David Lloyd, and virtuoso pianist, Soloman, among others, who would grace the stage - such a rich array of talent. During one of these concerts, my father was despatched, by an anxious Master of Ceremonies, to locate the missing tenor, David Lloyd ( no relation ). My dad found him, resplendent in army uniform, downing his third pint in the nearby Dulais Arms, entertaining, between swigs of ale, the local patrons with a few popular songs of the day ! Here was a man blessed with the gift of a beautiful tenor voice, who had sung at the personal invitation of great maestros such as Bruno Walter, exhibiting the early signs of an addiction which, ultimately, ruined what promised to be a long and fruitful career.
Sadly, the entertainment business is littered with examples of highly gifted artists whose lives and careers were blighted by alcohol addiction, with many orchestral players seeming to be particularly susceptible.
CHAPTER 2.
A new move - Scholastic disaster - A new interest
My father's gradual rise up the career ladder of the Evans Bevan corporation continued apace; but in 1947 Britain\'s vast coal industry underwent a massive re-organisation under Clement Atlee's post war Labour government . Within a short time my father was transferred to a job with the newly established National Coal Board at the NVB's, No 2 Area Offices, in Tondu, near the Glamorganshire town of Bridgend. In an age when car ownership was confined to the wealthy few, he was obliged to travel the considerable distance between Seven Sisters and Tondu each day for almost three arduous years. This ultimately took its toll on his health, and we had to consider moving nearer his place of work.
Classified as a, 'key worker', my father was allocated a house by the NCB in 1950. This was a new house in the village of Sarn, situated at the foot of the Ogmore and Garw valleys, and just a few miles from Tondu. Moving to the council estate of Heol Bryncwils, which was still in the process of construction, was an exciting new adventure for my elder brother David and I, tinged as it was with elements of uncertainty.
Quite a few decades on, there would evolve a social stigma that attached itself to the many decent folk living in council houses; but I only became aware of this absurd class distinction when, as a university student, I took home a girl friend, Sian, who lived in the spacious, sprawling mansion of Castle Mews, outside the ancient market town of Cowbridge, in the Vale of Glamorgan. Her father was the distinquished Welsh musician, Mansel Thomas, then Head of Music at the BBC in Cardiff. One night, after a party held at their fabulous house, he very kindly drove me back home to Sarn, and I felt slightly embarrassed at the perceived contrast between our two homes. As he had insisted on meeting my parents, I felt compelled to explain that we lived in a lowly council house, to which he blisteringly retorted: "My boy, there's nothing wrong with living in a council house: I was brought up in a lesser abode than this !" He stayed in our , 'humble abode',
for well over an hour, conversing alternately in Welsh and English with my parents, whilst eating heaps of my mother's delicious Welsh cakes, washed down with copious cups of warm tea. Concerned that he was being deprived of the convivial company of his 'show-business' party guests, my mother offered her apologies. He quickly set her mind to rest, stating that he was deriving far greater pleasure at our hearth than "with those damn pseudos back home !" Mansel Thomas, despite his eminence and fame, remained an honest, basic son of Rhondda, totally lacking any affliction.
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A few years earlier, whilst living in Seven Sisters, I had developed a nervous ailment, then loosely defined as, St, Vitus's Dance, which was basically a serious nervous tick ( I must have been a worrying pain for my parents ! ). Our doctor ordered a complete rest for me which resulted in my losing twelve months of schooling. During this protracted period, I became an avid reader, with a voracious appetite for Richmal Crompton's, 'Just William' stories, 'The Adventures
of Rupert the Bear', and numerous other literary masterpieces ! However, my fascination with the written word was not matched by a similar understanding of, or the slightest interest in, the lurid mysteries of basic mathematics. Consequently, my time in the 'scholarship' class at Tondu junior school was a period of unrelenting misery during arithmetic lessons: and I attracted a certain notoriety as the 'dunce' of the class ! Despite the Herculean efforts of our teacher, Jack Evans, who bubbled enthusiasm from his every pore, I failed my eleven plus examination, not once, but twice !! The failiure of any child in the ludicrously premature selectivity of this exam brought disappointed parents and wider family alike: and as a further indignity, I didn't get the new bicycle that became the acknowledged reward bestowed upon successful pupils. It was such a humiliation for a sensitive young lad, such as myself, to bear ! So I was packed off, with the other academic 'dropouts', to Bryncethin Secondary Modern school, just a short walk from my house; but this was to ultimately transform my future life.
The school was a tough establishment with some hardy, troublesome kids who initially scared the pants off me. I lived in constant fear of being beaten up by some of the trucculent older lads. Meanwhile, one afternoon, a Mr. Saunders visited the school, enquiring whether any of us wished to learn the violin. With a view to escaping those dreaded maths lessons, I and a few of my pals put up our hands and were recruited into the violin class: after all, this guy appeared fairly docile to our unperceptive eyes. So began the musical journey that was to map out my life.
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I remember proudly taking home a shiny red violin, which had inscribed inside, the magic words, 'Antonio Stradivari' ! Within a year of diligent practice, I was producing a reasonably acceptable sound, although my poor parents must have endured agonies during my early scrapings of bow over gut ! Amazingly, in the following year, bringing honour to the White House team, and my first ever taste of success - in anything ! My violin teacher, Mr Saunders, who had seemed so benign, turned out to be a hard nut whose penchant for sarcasm became quickly apparent. When I eagerly told him of my success, he responded with the cynical observation - "How long had the poor souls ( adjudicators ) been suffering from deafness !?" But instead of feeling deflated, I instantly recognised the black humour, and grinned widely.
During the next seven years, Stan Saunders was to have an enormous influence, not only upon my musical development, but also in building my self confidence, which had sorely been dented by my eleven plus debacle. Also, a physical feature which i had inherited from my mother's side of the family, namely a prominent proboscis, haunted me throughout my adolescence. I regularly had to suffer the cries of : "Hi Big Nose !", from my more vindictive peers in school and on my estate: and my nose invited the sort of cruel comments that only kids can make. I would often stand in front of the bedroom mirror, trying to squeeze a reduction in its size ! One day, however, at tough Bryncethin sec mod, I snapped, and retaliated against a particularly obnoxious bully, who seemed to delight in his verbal and physical assaults on myself and other vulnerable pupils. As we wrestled, I managed to put him in a headlock, with my right fist threateningly poised in front of his face. It was then that I decided that all bullies needed to be confronted, a maxim which I was to use throughout my adult life. Also, with the self confidence that only adulthood can bring, I capitalised on my less glamorous feature and derived much hilarity in the nose-related jokes and observations of my mates ! Many years later, I was leading an orchestra for a performance of Verdi's 'Requiem', in the St. David's Hall, Cardiff. At the start of the afternoon rehearsal, Dave Hughes, principal horn, complained to the young, nervous conductor, about the lighting. Eager to please, the conductor was about to seek out the hall's chief electrician, when Dave, in front of the combined forces of a choir and orchestra, blurted out audibly: "No need to both the 'sparks', conductor: just ask the leader to turn his nose a fraction to the light !" And I loved it !
I pity those who cannot, occasionally laugh at themselves, as they could shed so much of their hidden insecurity.
Stan Saunders got me started in a local youth orchestra which met weekly, on Friday nights, in Bridgend Girls' Grammar School, where I encountered an array of talented instrumentalists from the surrounding area. Amongst this group were, I quickly noticed, a number of pretty girls. The sight of the beautiful Heather Dyer, from Blaengarw, at once set ablaze my simmering pubescence ! But alas, this desirable creature was beyond my reach, as she was in a Grammar school, whilst I still lanquished in a lowly 'sec mod' !
Fortuitously, a new headmaster with the amazing name of, Obadiah Thomas, arrived at Bryncethin, and seemed to perceive some glimmering vestige of ability
in me. With the tremendous support of our maths teacher, Mr Cyril Robbins, who was also an exceptionally gifted artist, and Miss Nancy Wynne Richards, who taught English and Music, and who was an accomplished pianist who regularly accompanied me in my early solo appearances, my scholastic horizon began, dimly, to glow. Under the wise guidance of these dedicated pedagogues, I underwent an intensive regime of study designed to propel me into the garw Grammar school, as a 'late entrant'. On the day of my entrance examination, I journeyed by bus up to the narrow village of Pontycymer, which seemed to have been squeezed into the valley floor, surrounded as it was on both sides, by ominously high mountains. Here, I again encountered the black faced, blue scarred colliers that were so familiar in Seven Sisters. The Garw valley boasted three thriving coal mines: the Ocean, Ffaldau and ballerat, which had been producing the precious steam coal that helped keep the British Navy afloat during the war. So here I was, in this frankly unattractive, grimy and dismal valley town, where the steep side-streets clung precariously to the mountainsides; but I would grow to love this seemingly grotesque geographical cul-de-sac, totally unaware
then of the impact that it was destined to have on my future life.
Interestingly, whilst we 'sec mod' kids were technically classified as academic failiures, I recall only one fellow pupil of mine at Bryncethin leaving school unable to read or write; this contrasts sharply with the current situation where sadly, whole battalions of adolescents end their years of education both illiterate and inumerate. I shall be ever indebted to my old 'sec mod' for recognising and harnessing that minute iota of latent intelligence which had remained dormant within me for so long.
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Resplendent in my shiny new grammar school blazer, I entered the Garw in September 1954. It was an awesome new world for me. My biggest surprise was to discover that many of the boys who had trounced me in Tondu junior school, had nonchalently sat back on their 11 + laurels, and were now struggling.
The school had its share of eccentrics amongst staff and pupils alike. There was Physics teacher and rugby trainer, Cyril 'Killer' Mathews, who was respected and feared equally by us all. His definition of force would not appear in some formula on the blackboard, but was more likely to be demonstrated with a swift clip around the ear of an inattentive pupil ! Another science teacher, the tractible Hector Garfield, who doubled as Deputy Headmaster, was a fine musician who conducted local choirs and was married to a skilled violinist and teacher, the redoubtable Nesta Garfield. The school\'s art teacher, Vincent Brown, was an Australian emigre who had studied at the famous Slade School of Art, and whose paintings still command quite high prices: always wearing the same bow-tie and suit he had worn for years, he would wander around the school, aimlessly oblivious to the chaos that might be ensuing in his class; the chaotic, chain smoking but inspirational, English teacher, Mrs 'Ma' Ellis, instilled in me a love of the written and spoken word. There were also the brilliant academics amongst the pupils: headmaster's son, John 'NG' Davies, who went on to carve a fine career as a physicist in the USA; the quiet, undemonstrative, David Pugh, who went up to Oxford university; Robert Ford, who came from humble beginnings in Llangeinor, to become Professor of Physics at a top Australian University; Carys Davies, who I joined as Head Boy to her Head Girl, and who was destined to become a senior science advisor to the National Curriculum Board many years on. These were but a few of the distinquished alumni of Garw. With a flourishing debating society, school orchestras, choirs, rugby and cricket teams and numerous social clubs, this was a fine school of the old tradition.
It was here also that I met my future wife, Margaret, whose elder brother, Hopkin, exhibited a keen interest in classical music. He and I became good mates in the sixth form, and I would be invited to their home in Oxford Street, Pontycymer for tea. I was very soon attracted to his very alluring sister, whose long blonde hair fascinated me, as it seemed to cascade endlessly down her back. After an on and off relationship lasting some years, we eventually married whilst still in university. We brought up two delightful children, Richard and Catherine; but sadly, after twenty six years together, and with our respective careers pulling us in opposite directions, we effected an amicable parting of the ways. But my immense respect for Margaret, who went on to develop a highly successful career in the competitive world of cosmetics, has never diminished: and we enjoy a close friendship, allied to an immense pride in our children\'s respective achievements.
Chapter 3.
Wearing that Grammar school blazer - arrival at Ogmore
Prior to actually taking up my newly acquired place in Garw Grammar school, the ubiquitous Stanley Saunders suggested that it might be a good idea for me to join their school orchestra in an end of term concert. He had also arranged that I play both a solo and a fiddle duet with a pal and neighbour, Barry griffiths, whose musical ability was outstripped by his formidable athletic prowess which culminated with a Welsh junior schools rugby cap.
Attending this concert, as a guest, was a man who was to play a major part in my musical development and teaching career over the following two decades. Mr Russell Sheppard was a general inspector of schools for Glamorgan Education Authority, with 'special responsibility for music'. Immediately after the concert, he approached me with the words: "Right, you have passed the audition, and you are now a member of the Glamorgan Youth Orchestra !"
Audition, what audition ? My teacher had deviously given me a solo spot, in the knowledge that Mr Sheppard would be in the audience, and could assess my potential. Within a few days I was whisked off to the bracing coastal resort of Ogmore-by-Sea on my first residential orchestral course at Ogmore School Comp. Little did I then realise that I would have an unbroken connection with this establishment, as a student and tutor, which would span over thirty years. This was the beginning of yet another new enterprise in my young life
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The youth orchestra, affectionately known as, 'The Glam', was the brainchild of Mr Sheppard and was made up of talented young instrumentalists from secondary schools in the county together with older players who had proceeded to college and university. For me, essentially still a 'sec mod' kid, to be suddenly thrust into this maelstrom of musical and intellectual accomplishment was an awe-inspiring experience. But wait a moment, I was now actually a grammar school boy, complete with blazer: so the previous discomfort of mixing with such intelligentsia was now partially diffused. And intellectuals there were in abundance ! Bleddyn Davies, a skilled violinist from Bargoed, who went on to become a professor at London's School of Economics; superb flautist, Ken George, from Neath also destined for a distinquished academic career; Gowerton'cellists, Gwynallt and Howard Thomas, who both became prominent medical men; double bassist Malcolm Williams, another Gowertonian, rose to the acme of the medical profession in Canada. Alongside these were 'the virtuosi', starting with Leonard 'Bill' James from Aberdare who was the outstanding student of the legendary Max Rostal at London's Royal Academy; the placid Rhondda trumpeter, laurence Evans, who became principal trumpet of the London Philarmonic Orchestra at the personal invitation of conductor Bernard Haitink; the ebullient Tony Randall from Neath, who carved an impressive career as a French horn player, conductor and composer; the previously mentioned Ken George whose outstanding young talent attracted the attention of quite a few London orchestras, before he opted for the lure of academia; and the captivating Neath violist, Susan Salter, who became a member of the Philarmonia Orchestra.
There were also a few of the musical icons who returned as tutors. Among these were, Haydn 'Kuke' Davies, who could elicit a tune out of most instruments, but whose superlative 'cello playing possessed an emotional intensity reminiscent of Jaqueline du Pre; Glynne 'Jingles' Evans could play solos on his double bass that one would normally expect to hear only from a fiddle: and his intellectual prowess secured him a distinquished position in Welsh music education. Glynne was later succeeded, as Double Bass tutor, by the extremely talented musician and teacher, Alan James from Neath. Alan's inspired tuition propelled quite a few young Glam aspirants into professional orchestras. Assisting with the violin tuition was the ultra courteous figure of Jeffrey Francis, a skilled violinist, who was destined to succeed Mr. Sheppard, as Music Advisor and Conductor of the Glam, or 'Mid-Glam' as it ultimately became.
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Ogmore School Camp, set high up on a windblown hill overlooking the Bristol channel, could house up to a hundred children and a dozen staff. The fairly spartan accomodation comprised three wooden dormitories, with a seperate block for ablutions, a canteen, main assembly hall, and two 'activity' huts.
Slightly reminiscent of a wartime POW Stalagluft, the camp was pretty basic and totally bereft of those comforts which today's young people take for granted. On many a Winter's morning we would awaken to discover a fine coating of snow on our beds: these wooden dormitories were peppered with holes which admitted all that the elements could throw at us ! During the warm summer months the constant sea breezes ensured a natural cooling system which was a bonus to the domestic staff: they would hang the washing out on the clothes lines and collect them dry in ten minutes. Yet, despite its bleak edifice, Ogmore camp became a musical Mecca to we young players who gladly made pilgrimages up to three times a year.
The first few days of an orchestral course would involve intensive sectional rehearsals, under the direction of a distinquished professional musician. The string sections were fortunate to receive the expertise of the Cardiff based University String Quartet whose members were: - 1st Violin, the fiery but brilliant, Alfredo Wang; 2nd Violin, the ultra calm, erudite English gentleman, Stanley Popperwell; Viola, the equable, ever patient Gordon Mutter, who had previously ( as a violinist ) led the famed Boyd Neel chamber orchestra; then, on 'cello, the unflappable, self taught virtuoso, George Issac. Although we realized at the time that these were top flight performers, we certainly didn't appreciate how lucky we were to have them as our coaches. The double basses benefitted from the vast experience and virtuosity of the indiginous 'Jingles', Glynne Evans.
The brass section under the control of Arron Trotman who was 1st Trumpet in the old BBC Welsh Orchestra. He was a hardened pro who 'took no prisoners' at rehearsals. His younger brother, Dai, was a veteran trombonist with the orchestra of the Royal Opera House, Convent Garden: and the story goes that during a particularly fraught rehearsal of Wagner's 'Die Gotterdamerung' with an incensed George Zolti, the maestro kept demanding that the trombones should "..attack ze notes !". After yet another futile attempt, the irate conductor shouts at the hapless trombonists "..vy, vy, vy u not attack ze notes !?" Dai's reply is legendary: "We are attacking the notes,Maestro, but the bastards are fighting back !" Possibly apocryphal, but its a damn good yarn nevertheless !
The woodwinds were coached by the same Stanley Saunders who had taught me the violin: he was a superb clarinettist and saxophonist who frequently broadcast with the popular Sid Phillips band. The percussion section seemed to proceed quite effeciently under its own steam, with very talented executants such as Glyn Hale, Peter Rees and Della Jones from Neath who was destined to become one of the country's finest coloratura sopranos.
The sheer brilliance of the Maesteg harpist, Ann Griffiths, rendered further tuition superfluous !
Chapter 4.
My Love Affair With Ogmore And The Glam Begins
Such was the impact of Ogmore, that even now, over fifty years on, I still retain a vivid recollection of my first course. In a thoroughly electic programme, we performed Rossini's overture to his opera, "Semiramide"; a fully orchestrated version of Handel's 'Occasional Overture'; Delius's, 'The Walk to the Paradise Garden' ( it turned out to be an English pub ! ); two movements from the sugary, 'Petite Suite de Concert', by Coleridge Taylor; Bach's sixth Brandenburg Concerto for violas, 'cellos and double bass; Haydn's famous Trumpet concerto which revealed the wizardry of Lauri Evans; and Bill James delivered a masterful account of Wieniawski's challenging second Violin Concerto; the programme ended with the finale of Brahm's First Symphony.
As I recall, we gave concerts in Aberdare's Coliseum, and at the Paget Rooms, Penarth ( in that era there was a dearth of decent concert venues in the whole of Wales ). After the Aberdare rehearsal, a few of us decided to go on the local boating lake, got marooned, and got back just in the nick of time for the concert.
I also remember dear Bill James, never an example of sartorial elegance, trying to scrounge the use of a belt to keep up his tuxedo trousers: he finally had to make do with a rough piece of string, discreetly concealed by a generous cumberband. Bill was an inveterate smoker who would nonchalanty rehearse with a fag clinging perilously to his lips, and quite oblivious to the cigarette ash sprinkling freely onto the 'table' of his beloved fiddle, which boasted quite a few burn marks ! Such imperfections, nevertheless, failed to diminish the allring tone quality that he was able to deftly coax from that sorely abused instrument. Many years later I was to share many a musical collaboration - and many pints of beer - with Bill.
The full orchestral rehearsals were held in the confined space of the main assembly hall. Each day commenced, after a hearty breakfast, with morning worship conducted by the students, and which hymns accompanied by an instrumental group. One of the keenest participants in the morning services was a young violinist from Clydach in the Swansea valley, Brian Benjamin Thomas, who became known as Benj. Until the age of sixteen he was a devout chapelgoer who was seriously considering becoming a Methodist preacher. Then the mother whom he adored, developed cancer and died after months of unrelieved agony, without the palliative care that is, thankfully available today. Overnight, Benj cast off his former belief in a God and became something of a hellraiser. We struck up a deep friendship which lasted right up to his premature death, ironically also from cancer, at the age of thirty eight.
In his early twenties and having switched to the viola, Benj gravitated to London where he enjoyed a successful living in the world of \'session\' musicians as a player and a \'fixer\'. He can clearly be seen ( and heard ! ) in that classic Morecambe and Wise Xmas TV show featuring Andre Previn as the exasperated maestro in Eric\'s parody of the Greig Piano Concerto. Frequently on tour with the likes of Sinatra, Bassey and similarly high profiled icons in the upper echelons of entertainment, Benj packed into his all too brief existence far more than most people would achieve in three lifetimes.
Thankfully, just a few years before his premature death, he met and married the lovely actress, Margaret John, who was to be seen regularly on TV. She achieved great success and popularity as Doris, the sensually blunt elderly neighbour of Gwen and Nessa, in the very popular BBC TV series \'Gavin and Stacey\'. We will encounter my exhuberant, and much missed, chum again on this sentimental journey.
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The \'Glam\' was conducted by its founder, Russell Sheppard, who could occassionally be finickety over the minutest musical detail. More importantly, however, he was instantly recognised and respected for his superhuman organisational gifts and his impecaable musical pedigree. His inspectorial duties embraced, geographically, one of the largest education authorities in the UK, emcompassing Barry in the East, Gowerton in the West and Aberdare in the North. Despite the fact that music was but one small segment of his remit, he managed, through sheer hard graft, to create an instrumental music service unsurpassed in the rest of Britain, and which became a prototype for many other education authorities. A gifted pianist and organist who hailed from the valley township of Mountain Ash, Russell Shephard never sought the limelight, and shunned the obsequious cult of \'celebrity\'. He could also be quite adroit in his dealings with those whose work ethic fell short of the high standards he set himself. So it was no suprise that this remarkable man, whose visionary zeal laudably influenced the lives of thousands of young people, never received the plaudits so lavishly bestowed upon lesser mortals. But, as he once confided to me after his final concert rehearsal, and pointing proudly to the vast assembled orchestral and choral forces before him, \"What better honour ios there for me than this ?\" He was a truly amazing person to whom I, amongst many, will remain forever indebted. The ingrained respect I have retained for this gentleman prevents me from ever referring to him without the obligatory \'Mr\'.
He was, without doubt, a most formidable champion in the field of music education throughout Wales. His pioneering work in the field of instrumental tuition, throughout the schools of the old administrative county of Glamorgan, sent audible shock waves through the county which are still reverberating to the present day. He was an educational luminary, whose vision of music as an homogenous element in the overall educational scheme, enriched the lives of so many. The county youth orchestra, his beloved \'Glam\', bestowed upon youngsters throughout the county the privilige of performing the works of the great masters. The recipients were largely, ordinary kids from ordinary homes; the odious and socially divisive label of \'elitism\', simply did not apply.
Each course was eagerly awaitted, and became an integral part in life\'s pattern. Such was the effect of these courses, that on the mournful morrow of departure, a touching torrent of tears was released, as heady, new born courtships were temorarily suspended, and many of the orchestra\'s overtly enthusiastic devotees would not allow the atmosphere to simply evaporate. Bridgend bus station, our final dispersal point, would suddenly erupt with impromtu, \'jam sessions\', as the brass players entertained queues of unsuspecting passengers with a free concert ! As I lived but a few miles north of Bridgend, my ever resourceful mother regularly expected, received, and fed a motley gang of Ogmore refugees ! Invariably, the names of Mark Roberts, \'Picc\' Axtell, Tony Randall, Viv Davies, Benj Thomas plus many others, were on the guest list at our house in Sarn. We lads simply could not sever that umbilical cord which still tenaciously connected us to our beloved Ogmore.
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As a young raw recruit, I regarded Mr. Sheppard with an almost tangible degree of awesome fear; but over the yearsI began to relax more in his presence. And whilsy he constantly strove to maintain he stiff upper lip of propriety, the mask did once slip. The occasion was a rehearsalof, \"Lo, Hear the Gentle Lark\" ( popularised by the famous Gwen Catley ) for colaratura soprano and virtuoso flut obligato. As the beautiful tones of the superb soloist, Sylvia Rhys Thomas, began surprisingly to falter, the ever alert Mr. Sheppard looked up to behold the quite bizarre spectacle of flautist, and zany comedian, Michael \'Picc\' Axtell, playing brilliantly, but with his mouthpiece precariously positioned directly under his nose ! Totally bereft of his innate reserve, Mr. Sheppard dissolved freely into paroxysms of pure laughter.
After each evening orchestral rehearsal, we lads, fuelled with high octane levels of testosterone, would swiftly remove all the musical paraphenalia, and transform the hall into a dance floor, which enabled us to romantically while away the evening with the seemingly endless supply of nubile young females that adorned the orchestra. By today\'s standards, the dances were pretty innocuous - the quick step, fox trot, tango, and with a slow, langurous \'smoochie\' waltz to finish off: an occasional, \'Gay Gordons\', ( the word \'gay\' had yet to be hijacked by the homosexual fraternity ! ) might also be includedto brighten up the festivities. Of course, I and my sidekick Benj, would often surreptitiously sidle off, with our respective female conquests, for a bit of illicit \'canoodling\', in various secretive enclaves on the campus. We were frequently assisted in our quest for a comfortable spot, by the camp\'s caretaker, Dai Leyshon. Short and squat in build, Dai was as strong as an ox: in the village, if a heavy far bar gate needed shifting - send for Dai; if a flighty mare needed breaking in - send for Dai; if a fight needed stopping - send for Dai ! His doughty agrarian toughness belied a gentle inner self that could be totally captivating: the elegant, refined, cultured lady to whom he was happily married, was entirely opposite to her rugged husband. But, the chemistry that worked so well for this devoted couple invariably drew much fascination and even greater admiration from all of us at Ogmore. Benj and I established a happy rapport with Dai Leyshon which remained constant: and many years on, Benj, loaded with cash after a lucrative recording \'session\', paid a visit to an Ogmore course where I was now a tutor. That afternoon I suggested we pay Dai a surprise visit at his favourite \'watering hole\', The Sea Lawns, where he and Benj would be reunited after years apart. With Benj exhibiting his characteristic largesse, neither Dai nor myself were allowed to touch our pockets that afternoon, and consequently, Dai was repudedly put to bed in the pub until he sobered up next day !
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We string players derived such an abundance of knowledge, technical advice and musical insight from our inspired tutors. When I eventually elevated to the position of orchestra leader, I would absorb like a sponge, the vignettes of musical wisdom that would be liberally dispensed like confetti. Alfredo \'Freddy\' Wang would assert that, \"...when Beethoven wished for strength and power he would invariably invoke an, E flat, chord in its various forms\", citing for example, The \'Emperor\' Piano concerto, the Eroica Symphony, the surging Fifth symphony, with its insistent victory motif, and many other examples. Freddie would also demonstrate, with infinite clarity, the alternating feminine and masculine elements of Mozart\'s symphonic writing, as are especially evident in the Minuet and Trio movements. On their final day at the course, the quartet would invariably treat us to a free recital.
Impromptu chamber music sessions would also take place among the more advanced members of the orchestra: and I shall never forget one such occassion when \'cellist\', Haydn Davies, during a particularly sublime moment in a Beethoven slow movement, suddenly erupted and berated the hapless Bill james, because of his smelly feet ! Poor Bill, not averse to wearing the same shirt and socks for a whole week, would frequently invoke the wrath of his fellow musicians for such less appealing personal habits !
For many of us, who either became professional players or, like myself, remained on the periphery, whilst enjoying the security of a teaching job, the vast array of important works to which Mr. Sheppard introduced us would stand us in good stead in the future. We performed most of the standard repertoire such as the symphonies and concertos of Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Schumann, Tchaikowsky and others, together with numerous miscellaneous items. later on, with the advent of the Youth Choir, another creation of our founder, there opened up a new dimension of gllorious compositions for our youthful eager minds to absorb - the Requiem Masses of Mozart, Verdi and Brahms, the \'Creation\' and Masses of Haydn, Mendelssonn\'s \'Elijah\', \'Hymn of Praise\' and \'Laude Sion\' ( a delighful, but rarely performed work ), \'Toward the Unknown Region\' and \'Seranade to Music\' by Vaughan Williams, and a veritable cornucopia of additional items. Consequently, when we nervously ventured forth into the professional orchestral world, we already had much of the \'bread and butter\' repertoire safely under our belts. In the seventies I played regularly, as a freelance extra, with the orchestra of the Welsh National Opera. One year at the Fishguard Festival, I well recall rehearsing Verdi\'s mighty, \'Requiem\', in the hallowed precincts of St. David\'s magnificient Cathedral: and I became acutely aware that our principal second violin, Bernard Duffy, was unusually about to miss
an important fortissimo entry, so I dived in on full power ! He glared at me, both mystified and annoyed, having been \'shown up\' by this deputising upstart. But some weeks before, of course, I had been coaching the Glamorgan Youth Orchestra in the very same work and knew it backwards ! Anyway, after a few pints in the pub, Bernard, who could be a formidable foe, regained his composure, and we became the best of friends. He, in fact, offered me a full time position in his section which I gratefully, but wisely, declined. Wisely because, whilst it was great fun and financially rewarding to play with various pro ensembles once in a while, the daily drudge of a permanent orchestral job was certainly not for me.
As the number of qualified instrumental teachers, many of whom had come through the Glam system, increased, Mr. Sheppard was able to staff the courses with existing teachers from within the county. Running parralel with the senior courses, were Junior and Transitional courses which catered for the younger, less experienced pupils. Mr. Sheppard had devised a splendid scheme which ensured a constant flow of players progressing through each level of ability, and which ultimately provided a host of indiginous instrumental teachers. Some cynical onlookers have criticized this firmly established institution for being educationally incestuous; but its lasting success, until it fell victim to the shortsightedness of meddling bureaucracy and local government reorganisation, is sufficient testimony to its success.
The youth orchestra courses would normally be held in late July, early New Year, and at Eastertime; but a smaller group of players would also assemble at Ogmore for the Choral course in late August. Consequently, during the period of July, right through to early September, I was hardly ever in my home in Sarn. As soon as
the Glam July course was over, I was off on the \'Nash\' ( National Youth Orchestra of Wales ) course in some distant part of Wales, then immediately back to Ogmore for the Glam Choral course. Very hectic, but we all enjoyed every minute of it: for us, boredom was merely a word confined to a dictionary, but which had no relevance in our fulfilled lives.
The Glamorgan Youth Choir also spawned some characters who achieved considerable eminence in later life. The distinquished international operatic soprano, Della Jones from Neath exhibited her embryonic talents at Ogmore, the Pontypridd sopranos, Beverley and Gillian Humphreys, and tenors Stuart kale and Ryland davies, were among many young vocalists for whom Ogmore became a musical springboard. One particular singer\'s mellifluous tones were to be later used to great effect and delivered somewhat more stridently in the House of Commons - Neil Kinnock was yet another Glam lad ! But some superb vocal soloists were to be found amongst the vocal tutors - the magnificient soprano, Ann James, always impressed us, particularly in Verdi\'s \'Requiem\'; Bass baritone, John Davies, who had understudied Sir Geraint Evans for WNO, and lyrical tenor, Emlyn Jones, from West Wales, were a great asset to the choral courses.
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The school camp was originally built in the late thirties to accomodate evacuee children who sought sanctuary from the horrors of the blitz. The first Headmaster was a charming and highly intelligent man called, Islwyn Williams, who, as a hobby, wrfote scripts for the BBC on diverse topics which required his undoubted erudition: and his wife, always appearing deceptively severe with her hair in a tight bun, was the matron. Following his sudden death in the mid fifties, Islwyn Williams was succeeded by, Bert Davies, who skilfully steered the camp through its mammoth rebuilding programme shortly after his arrival, and ran the camp most efficiently for almost two decades. For this alone, he deserves due credit.
Prior to the rebuilding operations, the camp suffered its share of heating breakdowns, and similar disabling crises; but never once did Mr. Sheppard cancel an orchestral course. With a combination of characteristic stubborness and ingenuity, he seemed able to magically secure an alternative venue, almost at the drop of a hat. One Xmas course was transferred to the Residential School for the Visually Handicapped in Bridgend, but referred to in those politically incorrect days as, \'the Blind School\' ! An amusing incident occurred one afternoon when a group of us led by a soccer mad fellow fiddler, Bill Rogers, from Caerau, started kicking a ball around on the neat lawns, with intense vigour: an elderly lady passer-by was overheard commenting to her companion: \"Isn\'t it wonderful, that those poor blind boys can have such fun !\" - if only she knew ! On other occassions, courses were held in Cardiff\'s Whitchurch High school, and Barry College of Education - Mr. Sheppard always kept the show on the road ! The Ogmore School Camp, or Residential Centre, as it later became known, had for its last Headmaster and Matron, John Philips and his lovely wife; Margaret. Living with them were their daughters, Bethan and Rhoswen who, sadly were both severely handicapped; but the overwhelming love and devotion afforded them by their heroic parents was an inspiration to us all: and the two girls were, at once, accepted by visiting course members as part of the extended family that the Glam ethos generated.
On one cold January course during my time as senior tutor ( no elevated designation - just the oldest member of staff ! ), and following a concert in Bridgend, which was conducted by Mr. Sheppard\'s admirable successor, Jeffrey Francis, we were stranded at the camp by the worst snow conditions the country had experienced since 1947. Fortunately, after the concert, the majority of the orchestra, including my own daughter, Catherine, had returned home with their parents; but a dozen or so of the older players were determined to mark their last course with a final fling at Ogmore preceeded by a farewell libation down at the Sea Lawns. We staff up at the camp, were becoming increasingly alarmed at the rapidly deteriorating weather conditions, andpromptly mounted a \'rescue\' operation for our inebriate charges. As we set out, suitably clad against the prevailing Artic weather, we soon encountered the students, still clothed only in their thin concert dress, slowly advancing towards us in a state of approaching hypothermia. Safely in the camp, after gulping down gallons of warm coffee, they quickly recovered, and hastily retired to their dormitories, closely foloowed by we staff, to our rather more commodious en-suite habitats. Next morning we awoke to a dazzling white, lunar landscape of pure snow. What would normally have been a swift stroll of three minutes to the canteen for breakfast had overnight, been transformed into a challenging obstacle course. Having dug our way into the canteen, we suddenly realized that the snow would havde made it impossible en-suite habitats. Next morning we awoke to a dazzling white, lunar landscape of pure snow. What would normally have been a swift stroll of three minutes to the canteen for breakfast had overnight, been transformed into a challenging obstacle course. Having dug our way into the canteen, we suddenly realized that the snow would have made it impossible for the, ever reliable, cooks and other domestic staff to get anywhere near the premises. But we had not counted on the resourcefulness of \'cello tutor, Diana Thomas, who swiftly requisitioned some helpers and organised the cooking. Meanwhile, her mechanically minded husband, George, who was a long established violin tutor, managed to restore the camp boiler back to life. We could not have been marooned in a better equipped establishment than Ogmore: with ski kits, sturdy wellingtons and storm lamps, together with enough food to last us a few months, we were well catered for. To keep us occupied and entertained, we \'raided\' the vast music library that Mr. Sheppard had diligently amassed over the years, and we ploughed through symphonies, overtures and suites by the dozen, supplemented by smaller groups playing chamber music. At the end of our first week of enforced \'imprisonment\', headmaster, John Philips, acutely conscious of a dip in morale, organised an evening visit to the Craig-yr-Eros pub down in the village. The storm which had brought most of Britain to a standstill had abated, but the snow was still piled in deep drifts preventing any form of access by road. So, linked together, we cautiously set out on our expedition to the pub, where we imbibed merrily beside a blazing log fire. Suitably fortified by a few drinks, some pub grub and a sing-song, we eventually returned to camp, with uplifted spirits ! After a sojourn of eight days, we were extracted by the army who had managed to reopen the side roads with snowploughs; but it was an exciting, if inconvenient, adventure !
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Returning back a few decades before my tutorial involvement in Ogmore, Mr. Sheppard retained me as orchestra leader until 1962, then immediately brought me back as a member of the tutorial staff. In that same year three important events took place in my life: I was married to my old school sweetheart, the very lovely Margaret Rees from Pontycymer, I started my teaching career in the Rhondda, and Margaret gave birth to our first child, our son, Richard. Quite a year !
CHAPTER 5 THE GLORIOUS NASH
In 1955, in addition to the 'Glam' courses at Ogmore, I embarked on further musical adventures, with the National Youth Orchestra of Wales, which held its courses once a year during August. To be accepted into this prestigious organisation, I had to undergo a daunting audition with the orchestra's founder, Irwyn Walters. With his shiny bald head and piercing blue eyes, he cut a frightening figure when I first met him, and he filled me with the fear of God ! For my first course with the 'Nash', as it became known, I undertook the long arduous journey to the North Wales university town of Bangor. Loaded with our instruments and luggage, we had to trek up the steep hill from the railway station to the Bangor Normal College, where we would be domiciled for the next two weeks. Just like my first Glam course, virtually every detail is firmly etched in my memory. The programme consisted of Dvorak's, 'New World' Symphony; Humperdink's overture to his opera, 'Hansel and Gretel'; Chabrier's, 'Marche Joyeuse'; Boellman's little known 'Cello Concerto', performed by 'cellist, Michael Evans, later to become a member of the Dartinton Quartet; a specially commissioned work by Grace Williams, the evocative, 'Perillion for Orchestra'; and movements from the ballet suite, 'Le Cid', by Massenet. A young Bass Baritone, Fredericke Davies, also sang a few arias, which I cannot actually recall.
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That evening, at our initial rehearsal, I encountered another man whose influence was also to remain with me for many years to come - Clarence Raybould. A professional conductor of international repute, he was then Chief Assistant conductor, under Adrian Boult, of the famed BBC Symphony Orchestra. Sporting a colourful bow-tie, which became his trade mark, Raybould at once established his musical authority merely by gesture. Even at the tender age of fifteen years, I was immediately aware of the artistic and intellectual stature of this man in the first rehearsal. Here was a person who had seen action in World War 1, where he had been badly gassed, had received the first ever Bachelor of Music degree from Birmingham University, was a much sought after accompanist to many of the world's greatest singers, had conducted first rate international orchestras, and who counted as a close personal friend, the Finnish composer, Sibelius: he was also an accomplished linguist - some pedigree ! Following his admission to the Bardic Circle, as 'Clarens o Gaint', - in recognition of his immense contribution to the musical life of Wales, Raybould made a serious attempt to learn the language; but this defeated him. He later apologetically confessed that he simply could not come to grips with the mutations, so characteristic of Cymraeg ! Despite his eminence in the world of music, Raybould was blessed with the 'common touch', combined with a healthy tolerance of young people's inadequacies. I cherish a vividly tender recollection of him sharing flask and some very expensive Cuban cigars with an elderly, impoverished pool attendant, on the shores of the Menai Straits in Bangor whilst we, his wild 'children', cavorted in a rather decrepid swimming pool. The poor old guy must have thought that his Xmas had arrived early ! Bangor was a particularly favourite venue for lots of us as, in our free time, my mates and I could saunter down to the shore line of the Menai Straits and hire a rowing boat. We could then energetically row across the water, like intrepid explorers, to the delightful island of Anglesey. With four sets of sturdy arms pulling at the oars, the two way trip was relatively straightforward. But later during the course, I made the mistake of inviting an attractive young girl, with the bequiling name of Eulanwy, for a romantic trip across the straits – with just me at the oars ! In my haste to impress this desirable young lady with my self professed prowess as an oarsman. I had foolishly neglected to heed the warnings of the local fishermen regarding the Strait’s treacherous currents. Consequently, within minutes of setting out, I became acutely aware that the oars were not responding to my endeavours. As mild panic gripped me, and with enticing thoughts of an amorous tryst on Sir Fon fading rapidly, I threw chivalry to the wind and thrust an oar into the delicate hands of a startled Eulanwy, instructing her to : “Row girl, row like hell ! “ We just about managed to make it safely back to dry land. For some unaccountable reason, the young lady’s previous good humour disappeared together with any perceived signs of affection ! Raybould despised pomposity, and could deliver an eloquent rebuke when necessary. One such incident occurred during the 1987 Bangor course, when the orchestra’s lunch was rudely interrupted by an irate college principal, who became carried away with his own verbocity. When his repetitous verbal assault began to cause mild titters from one of the boys, the Principal, in schoolmasterly fashion, furiously ordered the mild miscreant to leave the room : Raybould suddenly countered with the devastating words: “Not upon your authority, Sir ! “. The shocked principal blanched visibly, and hastily departed the scene, a broken man. An unpleasant incident, but Raybould’s usual good patience had been sorely tested, with predictable fallout. Not unlike his contempary, Thomas Beacham, our genial maestro could also treat many an inattentive audience to a cold withering stare. But ‘Clarry’ was our adored hero and, in our eyes, could do no wrong ! Raybould was also never afraid to take a chance in concerts. In 1958 the course was held in the pleasant spa town of Llandrindod Wells. Our opening item was, The Bartered Bride overture, of Smetana. A fiendishly fast and rythmically treacherous piece, it collapsed at each rehearsal ( we never actually got through it, though today’s players would probably fly through it at first sight ! ). On the eve of our first concert, at the National Eisteddfod no less, and with our morale sorely blighted by this wretched work, we were amazed when Raybould instructed us all to go out and enjoy the balmy night air ! He calmly stated that he looked forward to seeing us on the concert platform next evening. Had he gone mad we wondered ? The usual frenetic dash to the pub did not occur that evening, strange as it may seem. Everyone, lofty principals included, spent the night feverishly practising that, ‘Blasted Bride’, abject terror being a strong incentive. Next evening, there we were, elegantly seated on the Eisteddfod platform like innocent lambs to the slaughter. Following a particularly sallow rendition of ‘Mae Hen Wlad’, we prepared to face the enemy. Consider our sense of chilled desolation when, after conducting a couple of bars, Raybould calmly placed his hands behind his back and proceeded to smile benevolently at us while we frantically struggled to hold things together. Miracle of miracles, we actually did it ! Only in the final bars did The Old Man elegantly retrieve his discarded baton and, with a flourish, brought the overture to a triumphant conclusion. The audience went wild with deafening applause. If only they knew ! Raybould was later heard to say “..so if the little beggars won’t play it with me, then they can damn well play it on their own ! “ And we did. ------------------------------------------------------- Since its inception, the Nash was able to call upon the ‘crème-de-la-crème’ of the orchestral world, for tutors. The softly spoken Yorkshireman and solo ‘cellist, James Whitehea, was principal string tutor for many years, with the support of skilled colleagues such as the beautiful Halle orchestra violinist, Cecily Holliday ( with whom I instantly fell in love ); the fine viola player, Mary Diddams; and the ever gentle Double Bass player from the BBC Welsh orchestra, Ernie Haigh. The woodwinds were in the capable hands of a dashing young clarinettist, by the name of Davis – Colin Davis ! Raybould once asked him to take a full rehearsal, and his impressive conducting prowess was apparent even then. In 1957 the Nash went on a concert tour of Holland. The crossing from the port of Harwich to the Hook of Holland was extremely rough, and most of our party became very sea sick. Fortunately, I have always been a good ‘sailor’, and with my companions throwing up all over the place, I made my way to the stern of the ship, the SS Koeningen Emma, where I encountered a stunningly beautiful Dutch girl with the enchanting name of, Siena Zwggers: having exchanged addresses we corresponded for many years but, sadly, our relationship did not develop in the way I would have wished ! The first concert was given in the town of Nijmegen, where memories were still fresh of the heroic Welsh troops who had fought alongside the Dutch during their liberation. Consequently, we were feted; and at the sumptious official reception, I well recall the Burgomaster ending his speech with the words " - here we do not say Mr. Churchill, but, ‘Churchill’ : and today, we do not say Mr. Raybould, but, ‘Raybould’ ! “ In another concert, at Rotterdam’s Riviera Hall, near the Zoological Gardens, the quieter sections of our performance were occasionally drowned by the roaring of the nearby lions ! The orchestra was led on this tour by the very talented and attractive, Denise Bassett, from Rhoose, in the Vale of Glamorgan. One evening a group of us visited a night club in Rotterdam where we were mesmerised by the virtuosity of a gipsy fiddler. Having invited him to join us in a few drinks, we introduced ourselves as young, ‘classically trained’ musicians: in polite recognition of this, he rewarded us by skilfully inserting brief improvised segments from the Beethoven, Brahms and Mendelsshon concertos, in his frenzied solos, the like of which I have never heard equalled since ! The official party was headed by the imposing aldermanic figure of Llewellyn Heycock, who later became Lord Heycock of Taibach. Yet another example of a self made man, denied the advantage of a university education, ‘Llew’ Heycock became a towering individual in the field of education administration in the UK : and I, inadvertantly, witnessed the immense influence that this man wielded in the halls of power politics. On the eve of our departure from Holland, two players had contracted an ominous looking rash, which meant that they would require hospitalisation on our return. Course director, Irwyn Walters, in a fraught conversation with an unyielding London Foreign Office official , was vainly trying to secure an ambulance to transport the two sick students back from Harwich to Cardiff. As he was about to capitulate in the face of Foreign Office intransigence, in strolled Llew Haycock who immediately addressed the situation and relieved of the phone. His next words were on the lines of : “ I don’t care who you are, young man : just you tell the Foreign Secretary that Llew wants a word with him !“ After a few short amiable discourse with the ‘top man’, this plain speaking alderman turned to an exasperated Irwyn with the words, “It’s done !” In less than five minutes, Alderman Heycock had cut through a maze of Whitehall red tape and secured an instant result ! ---------------------------------------------------------------- During the Holland trip, and unbeknown to we youngsters, there were serious rumblings of discontent amongst the orchestra’s top echelon of management which ultimately culminated in the shock dismissal, some months later, of Irwyn Walters as the orchestra’s director of studies. This caused waves of discontent in the realms of education throughout Wales. Strong disapproval was also expressed by many distinguished Welsh musicians, such as the composer, Grace Williams. Many of the orchestral members, like myself, were profoundly saddened by this unexpected development, as Irwyn, the sole architect of the Nash, had gained our respect and admiration. ( This sorry saga together with a detailed biography of Irwyn Walters, and a comprehensive history of the NYOW, is fully chronicled in the excellent book, ‘ First in the World’ by Beryl Bowen James and David Allsobrook, published by the University of Wales Press and obtainable via the WJEC in Cardiff ). Following Irwyn’s departure, Raybould brought in a new set of tutors: a clean case of the ‘new broom sweeping clean’ ! In charge of the strings was the distinquished violist, Gwynne Edwards, who was as much in demand as a soloist and chamber music player as he was as principal viola in many of the top London orchestras, including the LSO. Benj and I struck up an immediate rapport with this sartorially elegant, softly spoken gentleman. Obsessed with keeping fit, Gwynne could be seen early each morning having a gruelling game of lawn tennis with his son, Barry, who had come along as a genial onlooker ! Although Gwynne spoke with a distinctly suave English accent, he maintained a deep pride in his Welsh origins: he was, in fact, born in Pontycymmer and, so I later discovered, played junior rugby with the same Ron Rees who was to become my father-in-law. Gwynne would arrive on the Nash courses in his sporty open topped roadster, into which a gang of us lads would frequently pile into for a lift to the rehearsal hall in the town. Being in demand for so many years as a top flight musician firmly embedded in the ‘classical’ tradition did not, however, stop Gwynne from crossing the great divide in recording a number of hit albums with the Beatles. His mellifluous tone is clearly heard to superb effect in the group’s famous recording of, ‘Eleanor Rigby’, plus other well known melodies that made the Beatles so phenomenally popular. Raybould had also lured to the course a good friend and equally distinquished colleague of Gwynne’s, the estimable, Ambrose Gauntlett, who had been principal ‘cellist with the BBC Symphony Orchestra, and was recognised as the country’s leading exponent of the ‘viola da gamba’. Ambrose, like Gwynne, was a polite, unflappable individual who was great company. During our free time, Benj and I would seek out these icons in a café or bar and sit enthralled as they recalled, at our bidding, rehearsals with Toscannini, Bruno Walter, Stokowski, 'Tommy' Beacham and other celebrated maestros together with memories of working with enigmatic artistes, such as the great Russian bass, Chaliapin, and violinist supreme, Jascha Heifitz. It was only many years later, with the emergence of maturity, that it dawned on me that our conversations with Gwynne and Ambrose formed a precious journey through musical history. However much the occasional failings of his adoring ‘cello section offended his sensitive ears, Ambrose never lost his cool: the height of his criticism was usually encapsulated in his often repeated observation: “That was a little dusty, darlings – don’t you think !?” For me, these two delightful gentlemen repeated an age of politeness and chivalry which, sadly, can never be recaptured. A pupil of Ambrose at the Royal Academy was our principal ‘cellist John Sehpton, a quite brilliant player from Shotton. He could often be something of a roistering hard lad, but his handsome looks and bequiling ‘cello tone made him an instant hit with the females, especially ! Our mutual mate, Benj, with his usual irreverance allied to a monstrous misuse of alliteration, dubbed the hapless John as ‘Seph, the Syphilitic Shit from Shotton !’. This invariably drew much ribald mirth from his inebriated cohorts ( myself included ) on pub nights. Another amusing character was the zany flautist from Neath, Mike Axtell. His expertise on the piccolo unsurprisingly earned him the nickname of, ‘Picc’, and this stuck with him for a lifetime. Constantly causing merriment, he would arrive on each course with an amusing collection of bizarre hats which would be used, in Tommy Cooper tradition, to great comic effect. One night I informed him that I needed to discuss with him some musical matter of minor importance, but would be unable to get to his room until well after the midnight ‘lights out’ curfew time. Having arrived in the dimly lit corridor, I furtively knocked on his door. It opened slowly to reveal ‘Picc’, wearing a college tie, a Pith helmet and absolutely nothing else ! He sombrely greeted me with the memorable quotation : “ Livingstone, I presume ! ? “ During a packed children’s concert given by the ‘Glam’ at Barry Memorial Hall conducted by Mr. Russell Sheppard in a particularly serious mood, we were playing the last section of Rossini’s overture, ‘William Tell’, which had become popularised as the theme tune to a children’s favourite TV western adventure, ‘The Lone Ranger’. Unknown to the rest of us, Picc had kitted himself out with a large Stetson hat and a toy cap gun. In the miniscule one and a half beat rest at the end of the introductory brass fanfare in the overture’s latter section, our mad flautist stood up shooting his ‘gun’ and audibly declaiming the well known phrase : “ Whoa there, Silver !” The kids loved it and erupted into a frenzy of unconstrained applause; but Mr. Sheppard’s face was a study of incandescent rage, and he later severley reprimanded ‘ Picc ‘ for his comic outburst ! I remember once visiting Picc at his home in Skewen. His mother Informed me that “…he’s out there, luv, practising ! “ Tracking him down by his gloriously distinctive tone, I eventually stopped by the outside toilet : the door opened to reveal my pal sitting on the loo and practising a Mozart flute concerto ! Of course, with quite a large family ensconced in the house, this was the only place where he could practice uninterrupted ! Also with us on the Nash courses was yet another ‘Glam’ lad, the ubiquitous, Wayne Warlow. A fine ‘cellist’, he shared the front desk with John Sephton; but Wayne was also a creditable oboeist and a brilliant jazz pianist who ultimately carved a highly successful career as a bandleader and musical director. I well recall a small group of us at Ogmore ruminating at bedtime one evening, on our ambitions in life : and Wayne had three definitive goals. 1 ) He wanted to compete as a racing car driver; 2 ) He wanted to pilot an aircraft; 3 ) He wished to direct an orchestra. He achieved each of these schoolboy dreams, with particular success as MD, at Cardiff’s New Theatre, Butlins Holiday camp and numerous ‘gigs’ conducting the various light music ensembles of the BBC. Possessed of a sunny personality, he seemed eternally jovial and was, invariably, a reliable contributor of mirth at social gatherings. ---------------------------------------------------- In 1958 it was decided to create a second, ‘B’, Nash orchestra which would study the same programme as the main, ‘A’, ensemble, but would not participate in any concerts or broadcasts. To assist him in this new venture, Raybould brought in, as assistant conductor, the charismatic and hugely talented, John Rhoslyn Davies, who hailed from Treorchy, and whose sister, Mary, had married my future friend and teaching colleaque, John Cynan Jones. John Rhoslyn, a first class honours Music graduate at Aberystwyth, had been appointed County Music Advisor for Montgomeryshire at the incredibly young age of twenty four, and had studied conducting in Italy before taking up an appointment as assistant conductor to Colin Davies at Sadlers Wells. I vividly recall a rehearsal with the Nash, of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony under Rhoslyn baton. Having previously regarded this work as a pleasant enough little item of no special significance, I was dumfounded by the way in which Rhoslyn’s conducting prowess brought out a dramatic intensity and emotional tension that I had never, hitherto, remotely suspected had lain within its writing. Rhoslyn’s premature death in 1962 robbed the Rhondda of one of its finest sons, Wales of a prodigious conducting talent, and the Nash of a superb future successor to Clarence Raybould. A poignant sequel to Rhoslyn’s death came about a few years later, when I was teaching in the Rhondda. At the time, I had become a regular visitor to the home of John Cynan and his lovely wife Mary where, because of my slim build, I was treated as a Biafran refugee urgently in need of sustenance ! Living with this homely family was the late Rhoslyn’s mother. Mrs. Davies, who had already lost her husband in a mining accident, had understandably, never come to terms with the sudden death of her brilliant son, and was in a perpetual state of melancholy. To mark Rhoslyn’s conducting debut at ‘The Wells’, she had purchased, at great expense, a complete set of tails which had subsequently remained unused in a wardrobe. In the most heartrending display of motherly grief and devotion, she would regularly stroke the finely tailored evening wear which became a constant reminder of her lost son. Then, one Monday morning, John Cynan ‘commanded’ my presence at 1, Hermon St. for lunch, and mentioned that Mrs. Davies had suggested that the set of tails might be useful for me. I was, of course, reluctant to accept such generosity; but this dear lady's insistence could not be countered. I made good use of those tails for many years, and when they later required some small attention, the tailor commented that : "...these must have cost you a pretty penny ! " : Little did he realise !
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I was a member of the ' Nash ' for six years, and was so proud to be appointed the orchestra's leader in 1960. On the programme that year was the exciting but tricky overture, 'Carnival', by Dvorak, which features a slow violin solo. All was going well until Raybould called an extra, unscheduled early evening rehearsal. Unfortunately, Benj and I had spent the afternoon ‘helping’ a suitably ‘merry’, Sephton, celebrate his birthday in Llandrindod’s Metropole Hotel ! Upon our return for tea, we were aghast to see our call to rehearsal emblazoned on the notice board: Raybould assured us that we would not be kept too long, as he just wished to run through one item – the ‘Carnival’ overture ! With my eyes struggling to focus, I shakily took my seat and prepared for the worst ! The fiddle solo has a ‘G’ octave leap, which posed no major problems for me when I was sober ! But on this occasion, my sweating fingers slid uncontrollably up the fingerboard in a never ending glissando ! Raybould, acutely aware of my condition, did not chide me; but simply declared that : “ In the unfortunate event of Jeffrey suffering the misfortune of being run over by a passing omnibus prior to a concert, I had better ensure that I could, in such circumstances, be able to allocate the solo to one of his fellow violinists !” He then politely requested each member of the first violins to play the solo. Their individual efforts ranged from good, or acceptable, to rather dodgy, until he came to the last, and youngest, player, who played it magnificiently. The orchestra burst into well deserved applause, and we all realised even then, that the young, Roy Gillard, was destined for stardom. Roy did, in fact, go on to become one of London’s top professional violinists, to be found on the front desks of the London Symphony Orchestra. The Academy of St. Martin’s in the Fields, and numerous other leading ensembles. Sadly, despite his undoubted ability, this quite brilliant player from Hirwaun eventually succumbed to the alcoholism that has blighted the lives of so many fine performers caught up in the frenzied, ever demanding, cut-throat jungle that seems to constitute much of London’s orchestral life. Suffice to say, my humiliating experience, with Dvorak’s ‘Carnival’ overture, taught me a salutory lesson that stayed with me throughout my own, albeit far less exhalted than that of poor Roy’s, playing career. On that same Nash course which, as I had reached the upper age of twenty one years, was my last, we also performed a delightful work by Arwel Hughes. His, ‘ Prelude to Youth’, written in honour of those young people who had made the ultimate sacrifice in the two World Wars, I find to be a delightful, emotive work deserving of many more performances that seems to have been the case. Arwel Hughes, who had long since distinquished himself as a composer, conductor, and BBC Wales’s Head of Music, was a delightfully gentle person and proud family man who, in common with his fellow composer, Mansel Thomas, was a true man of the people, who never sought or desired the dubious title of ‘celebrity’. Many years on, when I had decided to perform his ‘Prelude’ with the South Glamorgan Youth Orchestra in Cardiff, I happened to mention to him that my late mother’s favourite hymn tune was his, ‘Tydi A Rhoddaist’. His eyes twinkled as he confessed that he had written it to while away an hour or so of boredom whilst awaiting a train connection at Shrewsbury rail station ! It seemed so appropriate and fitting that his talented son, Owain Arwel Hughes, was to become Musical Director of the Nash in the year 2003; the first Welshman to hold the post ! For many years, the Nash’s final concert would take place in the splendour of Swansea’s Brangwyn Hall, which undoubtedly still boasts the final acoustics of any Welsh concert venue to this day. But, as an impressionable young adolescent, I was rather more taken with the wall to wall murals of the artist Frank Brangwyn. They were exotic and excitingly erotic, with the occasional, furtive glimpse of naked female flesh lurking seductively within the surrounding foliage ! I frequently missed an entry, distracted, as I often was, by this exhibition of mild erotica ! We had quite a few healthily mischievous characters in the Nash at the time who were prone to cause a modicum of mayhem, just for a laugh. In this same final concert of mine at the Brangwyn, horn players, Terry ‘Drac’ Johns, and his sidekick, Alun ‘Bronco’ Francis, decided to secretly stuff three plastic ‘pakamacs’ ( lightweight foldable rain garments which were fashionable at the time ) into the large bell of Alan B. Hall’s tuba. Unaware of the ruse, Alan ( nicknamed ‘Cyclops’ by Raybould ) spent the first half of the concert blowing for all he was worth without coaxing the slightest sound from his instrument ! These two miscreants, however, went on to achieve much success and distinction in the music profession: ‘Drac’ played Principal Horn in the London Symphony Orchestra, and Alun carved himself a highly successful international career as a conductor. Yet, as young men, they possessed an anarchic streak of wild devilment ! The time I spent with the Nash was not, ‘better’, than my protracted time with the Glam, it was just different. I think our expectations were higher and much of the repertoire more innovative and demanding, with specially commisioned works from Welsh composers, such as Alun Hoddinott ( a former Nash viola player ), Daniel Jones and Grace Williams, to mention but a few. We also seemed to be regularly on view with a series of seven public and television concerts. I well recall one such TV concert scheduled for live broadcast at threee o’clock in the afternoon, but which was to be preceded by a short arts magazine programme, also to be broadcast ‘live’, at one o’clock. I remember observing a most attractive young soprano rehearsing, with an exceptionally nervous accompanist, some operatic arias for the impending transmission. A short while later, with just fifteen minutes to go before the ‘green light’, an agitated BBC producer was vainly trying to calm the tearful soprano soloist whose accompanist had panicked and literally vanished into thin air, and taking the music with him ! Then the calm, majestic figure of Clarence Raybould appeared on the studio floor, ready for his interview spot, and having been made aware of the calamitous situation, gently took the distraught soprano’s hand and said : “Now my dear, just tell me which keys you would prefer for your solos !”. He then proceeded to accompany her, with impeccable accuracy and style, and totally from memory, on the live broadcast. His obvious command of the situation and pianistic skill, complemented with an encouraging smile, helped the forlorn soprano to quickly regain her composure, and she sang beautifully. She did not realise, of course, that Raybould had toured the world as an accompanist to the greatest singers of the age, and he had conducted more operas than she was ever likely to sing ! The long bus journeys throughout Wales to the concert venues also had their compensations. Benj, Sephton and I would spend hours in the happy embrace of our respective female companions, and would ‘surface for air’, only when we arrived at our destination. Great, hedonistic days they certainly were ! As far as we were concerned, in common with our contemporaries in the sporting arena, we were also, ‘playing for Wales’ and were proud of it ! During my time in the ‘Nash’, were quite a few boys who achieved fame and distinction later on in their lives. There was that wizard of the trumpet from Guaen- cae- Gurwen, in the Swansea valley, the ever calm, Gregory Bowen. I well recall Raybould, during an especially non-productive rehearsal, placing his baton down in quiet exasperation. He then asked Greg to : “…brighten us up, with the Mendelsshon Violin Concerto !” The Mendelsshon ?, and on a trumpet ? Impossible, insisted we fiddlers; but, how wrong we were, because, with Raybould providing a piano accompaniment, young Greg, with a few pitch adjustments, played the fast last movement, magnificently ! His natural expertise found him drawn to the field of jazz, soon becoming accepted as London’s top session, ‘screamer’, trumpeter, backing most of the world’s great artists – he can clearly be heard in Tom Jones’s recording of his hit number, ‘Delilah’. Greg emigrated to Germany, where he ‘fronted’ some of the top bands: when I met him, some years back, his wife proudly showed me photos of her husband playing a ‘jam’ session with an ageing Benny Goodman - the American ‘King of Swing’. Despite his fame and colossal success, Greg was still the modest guy, retaining his distinctive Welsh accent, I had known thirty years previously. Viola player, John Cale, was an extrovert character, from Aberman, who gravitated to the USA quite early in his search for fame and fortune: he became a big friend of controversial ‘pop artist’, Andy Warhol, and became involved in the ‘heavy rock’ scene, culminating with his forming, ‘The Velvet Underground’. John was somewhat eccentric, but was a most talented musician who achieved much success and fame – tinged with a certain notoriety ! David ‘Dai’ Chappell, from Merthyr, had also been something of a hellraiser in his youth; but, having switched to the viola, he came under the calming influence of violist supreme, Gwynne Edwardes. After some time spent with the top London orchestras, Dave emigrated to the USA, and joined the Miami Symphony Orchestra, where he soon became principal viola. Another fine violinist, who changed to viola, with conspicuous success, was Berian Evans, from Ammanford. He, also emigrated, but to Australia, where he enjoyed a highly successful professional orchestral career, ‘down under’ !
CHAPTER 6. Trials and Tribulations of Academia In September 1958, I entered University College, Cardiff, to pursue a BA degree course in Music, History and Philosophy. I found ‘digs’ in a rambling house in Colum Road, just a short walk from the college campus. Though clean and comfortable, there was an atmosphere of impenetrable gloom in this unhappy household. The acknowledged, ‘boss’, was the matriarchal, Mrs Jones, whose husband, David Jones, was a polite, engaging conversationalist, but who was totally blind.. The deep rooted antagonism within this wretched family was evident to we students from the very outset, and would reveal itself in the form of cruel face pulling against the father at the dinner table. After two depressing terms at this miserable abode, we were peremptorily summoned before the University Accommodation Officer, who instructed us to immediately vacate the premises. Whilst assuring us that we were not at fault in any way, he declined to reveal his reasons for our enforced departure. Then, only a few weeks later, did I hear that poor, David Jones, had committed suicide. Meanwhile, I had secured temporary accomodation at my married brother, Dave’s, home on the city’s outskirts, where I completed my first year in the relaxed comfort that can only be obtained in a happy family setting. However, despite the idyllic ambience, and being spoilt rotten by my adorable sister-in-law, Valerie, I failed my first year exams, in History and Philosophy, thereby ending ending any chance of future academic glory ! In my first year I attended the history lectures of the formidable, Professor Chrimes, with trepidation, as he was likely to pounce on you with a question requiring deep insight, and understanding, of the Emperor Charlemagne or a host of other historical figures. Also in the History department, however, was a lecturer whose gentle approach was the direct opposite to the Prof. Senior lecturer, Henry Lyon, was a delightful gentleman whose vast scholarship was complemented with an easy demeanor, and a melifluous voice. Indeed, his lectures would regularly attract a quiet invasion of ‘visitors’ from other departments and disciplines, who simply came along to savour the sheer beauty of his eloquent discourse. One day, howeverr, he politely requested my assistance to hoist up a rather cumbersome map of Medieval Europe, having first suggested that the students might wish to chat amongst themselves. We had just hoisted the heavy map up on its supporting easel, when suddenly, the blasted map, and the contraption meant to secure it in place, collapsed in an unedifying heap, on the floor : whereupon this amiable, scholarly gentleman uttered the words: “Oh, f..k !” Our sense of shock at hearing such a phrase ( so regularly used, and heard, by many of we undergraduates ) emanating from the lips of this revered scholar was palpable ! Perhaps, however, it is also a salutory lesson to modern comedians, whose constant recourse to this particular expletive, often renders impotent, its intended impact ! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Whilst I fared marginally better in the Music lectures, my inability to play the pianoforte was a handicap which was instantly pounced upon by senior lecturer, Ian Bruce, who was a quite brilliant keyboard executant. However, as far as he was concerned, no one could possibly be remotely regarded as a musician, if unable to play the piano to a level of competence: he proceeded to make my life a misery, until he discovered that I could actually play the violin reasonably well. From then on, he was most helpful and would furnish me with copious examples of Handelian style embellishments etc. for any impending recital of barogue works, in which I might be involved. His undoubted scholarship and musicianship did not, unfortunately, extend to his conducting ability. In concerts given by the college choir, of which he was musical director, the college orchestra would be ‘fronted’ by the University String Quartet, with the fiery, Freddy Wang, leading, and with me sitting nervously next to him. During one especially strained rehearsal, a confused Freddy enquired, rather stridently : “ What on Earth are you beating there, Ian ?”, to which the embarrassed academic coyly replied : “That was an upbeat, Mr. Wang”. Freddy, chuckling uncontrollably, turned to me, muttering sarcastically : “Jeffrey, dat vos an upbeat, ah, ah, an upbeat ! Gott in himmel !” Whereupon Ian responded assertively: “But oh yes, it definitely was an upbeat, because it says so in the book !” Freddy erupted, even further, with the words : “ You mean to say, some idiot has written a book on ‘how to conduct’, for even greater idiots to actually read !!?” Feeling obliged to exhibit polite amusement at Freddy’s tomfoolery, and yet careful not to offend Ian, I opted for the coward’s way out, and kept my head low for the remainder of the session. Thankfully, such episodes were usually defused by the quiet, but insistent, intervention of ‘cellist supreme, George Issac. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- After my first year debacle, I switched to the less academic, Music Diploma course, which appeared to be more practically oriented and, right ‘up my street’ ! It was from this point that I really began to enjoy university. My violin studies were in the capable hands of the delightful Stanley Popperwell, an accomplished violinist with a solid Cambridge academic and Royal Academy pedigree. Unlike the volatile Freddy, Stan Popperwell’s approach was rather more persuasive, and we established a comfortable rapport which continued for many years after my university days. His charming wife Beate, an accomplished linguist, and endowed also with a deep intellect, was a gifted accompanist. I would spend many an evening at their palatial house in Howell’s Crescent, Llandaff, playing sonatas, interspersed with tasty lashings of Beate’s mouth watering cakes. This happy household seemed constantly overflowing with penury afflicted students, receiving free tuition and meals fir for a king ! They were such a warm, generous couple. Although Freddy Wang, with whom I studied violin repertoire and chamber music, was directly opposite to Stanley Popperwell in temperament, I gleaned a great deal from his deep musical insight. But each lesson was arduous, and likely to end abruptly if he was displeased with my efforts. I well recall working, for months, through Beethoven’s, ‘Spring Sonata, with a talented and beautiful pianist ( Freddy had a considerable appetite for the fairer sex, and insisted that my female collaborators should be pleasing to the eye, as well as to the ear ! ) The big day arrived when I had to present my efforts for Freddy’s critical assessment, and my accompanist, Caroline, and I shuffled apprehensively into his study in Corbett Rd. This sonata begins with a sustained, ‘A’, on the E string which develops into an eloquent, gentle melody. Within a second of commencing this lengthy opus, Freddy cried out a declamotory, “Stop!” : and that’s how it went, for a solid hour ! The string quartet gave regular weekly chamber music recitals at the nearby Reardon Smith Lecture Theatre, which was attached to the National Museum in Park Place. Admission to these recitals was free, and they were usually well attended by the public : it was compulsory for we students to attend, and any non-compliance with this edict would evoke a severe reprimand from the eagle-eyed Music Professor, Joseph ‘Joe’ Morgan. He also, was a quite brilliant pianist who would entertain us in lectures by playing complex Bach fugues, but with his back to the keyboard ! Whilst he came across as a sepulchural character, he possessed a sharp wit and an engaging sense of humour. One day a group of us were waiting outside his study to have our Palestrina counterpoint marked. Fellow student, Brian Hughes, who was later to become a distinquished composer and choral conductor, had been up all night, perfecting his counterpoint. Through the half open door, however, we could hear the Prof poitely, but lethally, tearing apart poor Brian’s offering. As he was departing, Brian whispered to me : “ Joe’s an unmusical bastard !”. The Prof overheard this remark, and immediately responded with the observation: “Mr. Hughes, the first part of your statement is open to debate; but I have a certificate to disprove the latter !” On another occasion, fellow student , Tony Randall, asked ‘Joe’ what he thought of the current vogue of, ‘jazzing up’, Bach. The old prof paused awhile, and with a facial expression of pained acceptance, stated : “Interesting, Mr. Randall, just like Sin !” He was a wily old boy who was liked and respected by all the students. The very same Tony Randall once incurred the wrath of Freddy Wang, following a performance of Mozart’s, Horn Quintet, with the university quartet at a Reardon Smith recital. Tony had played superbly; but, between movements, he was obliged to empty his instrument of the excess spittle that inevitably accumulates in a French Horn during performance. Next morning Tony, myself and the outstanding pianist, Arnold Draper, were scheduled to rehearse Brahms’s, Horn Trio, under the direction of Freddy Wang. At the end of the first movement, Tony started emptying a few valves. At that, Freddy, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly erupted with a volatile condemnation of Tony’s essential spittle operation. But an unfazed Tony, merely delivered a withering stare, which all but said : “I don’t complain about your resin dust, so leave my spittle alone !” His forcibly eloquent rebuff certainly seemed to work, as Freddy sat, mutely crestfallen, for the remainder of the session ! As many an unwary conductor was later to discover, Tony was not to be messed about with ! He was also a handy guy to have on your side. A few months prior to my first Nash course at Bangor, I had won the violin competition at the Urdd Eisteddfod, beating a much older boy from Merthyr . He was a far better fiddler than me and really deserved to win. So it came as no surprise that, on the first night of the course, he menacingly approached me with a promised, ‘beating up’. Within minutes, Tony arrived and enquired why I looked so miserable. When I explained my impending predicament, he strode purposefully over to the guy, grabbed him gently by the throat, and indicated his displeasure, with the words : “ Right, Mate if you touch any one of the Glam boys, I’ll thump you hard, ok !” From then on, I enjoyed the envied status of a protected species ! At that time, of course, Merthyr enjoyed its own borough autonomy and, as a result, its young players were not eligible to become members of the ‘Glam’ family ! As Glamorgan contributed more musicians to the Nash than any other locdal education authority in Wales, we felt rather special. On one particular Nash course, the ubiquitous Tony Randall decided that this fact should be unofficially recognised, and proceeded to ‘adapt’ the concert posters accordingly: the tiltle, National Youth Orchestra of Wales, was blanked out, and substituted with, ‘The Glom Augmented’ ! This inevitably ruffled a few official feathers ! he was always full of japes : and on another occasion, when the Nash were to perform Holst’s suite, ‘The Planets’, Tony decided that an impressive poster, which highlighted the work’s astrological identities, needed renaming. Consequently, ‘Mars the Bringer of War’, became, ‘The Bringer of Chocolate’; ‘Venus, the Bringer of Peace’, became the, ‘Bringer of Babies’; ‘Uranus, the Bringer of Old Age’, became the, ‘Bringer of Urinals’, and so on ! Very childish, but great fun at the time ! CHAPTER 7 FINDING MY FEET - AT LONG LAST ! AND A FINAL FLING - IN YORKSHIRE !
My next two years at university were an absolute delight. I had found new ‘digs’ in Llanbleddian gardens, in Cathays, where the ‘dame formidable’, Mrs. Kiff, was our landlady. Here, I was joined by my old mate, the irrepresible Benj. There also, I met, and shared a room with, Richard Rhys Roberts, who hailed from Holyhead. His high, lilting North Walian, ‘Gog’, accent we immediately found amusing and appealing, and he was quickly given the nickname, ‘Dick Aye !’. Like Benj, he became a lifelong friend, after whom my son, Richard, was later named: and also like Benj, Dick had an unlimited capacity for strong ale, which frequently led to many wild nights predictably followed by dismal mornings ! Little could we then have remotely imagined, that this wild, North Walian hellraiser , would eventually become deputy director of education for the great northern city of Huddersfield ! But such lofty aspirations were far from our minds in those carefree, student days: the immediacy of our next pint, meal or girlfriend were our only looming priorities. In our final year, Benj, Dick and I decided to move, yet again, to new ‘digs’, in the top end of Colum Rd., which placed Benj and I, at least, virtually on the doorstep of the Music Faculty buildings, around the corner in Corbett Road. Our new landlady, Mrs. Gronow, was an attractive, pleasant lady who possessed a definitive allure; but our relationship with this lovely lady was one of absolute propriety: we were still psychological virgins, and her sailor husband was a big man, with knuckles like a monkey wrench !! Dick was another inveterate practical joker, who once caused me considerable anquish and physical discomfort, immediately prior to a student orchestral concert in which I was playing quite a few solos. During our liesurely teatime repast, with just an hour to go before the concert, a giggling Dick and Benj insisted on adding sugar to my scrumptious dessert. Their strange, juvenile behaviour, and Dick’s keeness to even further enhance the sweetness of my apple crumble, sudeenly aroused my suspicions. Oh my God, was that really sugar, or something more sinister !? Dick’s stupid grin suggested to me that it could be some sort of bowel accelerant ! Panic stricken, I rushed to the toilet, in the feint hope that the laxative’s effect could be immediately dealt with before my two hours on the concert platform ; but my physical exertions were to no avail ! With mounting trepidation, verging on panic, I nervously took the leader’s chair in the concert hall : it wasn’t the music that scared me, but the thought of my sudden departure to a toilet, in the middle of a complex solo ! Then, just before the conductor made his entrance, Dick, still wearing that inane grin, sidled up to the edge of the stage and said : “It’s alright Lloyd, it was sugar, Aye !!” I was seething with anger, but also greatly relieved, in the emotional sense, as opposed to the unwelcome physical ‘relief’ I had earlier anticipated ! During the Summer vacations, I spent many a happy week as a guest at Dick’s home in Holyhead, where I was always made welcome by his parents. His mother tended to be rather stern and disapproving of her son’s wayward antics. His father, Tom, was the complete opposite, and would regale us with tales of his wartime exploits, as a member of the Holyhead lifeboat crew. On one stormy night, he and his crew mates were getting decidely drunk in their local pub, when a maroon rocket signalled a ship in distress. They launched the lifeboat, and, miraculously, rescued the crew of a disabled small tanker – in a force nine gale ! “See, Jeff:, he confided, “Had we been sober, Aye, we would never have been daft enough to set out in those bloody seas, Aye !” On another visit, Dick had arranged a night out to the cinema, and had ‘fixed’ me up on a, ‘blind date’, with the sister of a college pal by the name of Parry. However, this very attractive young girl made it clear from the outset, that she was there to see the film and nothing else ! Later, as we left the cinema, I gallantly proffered my hand to this lady, and bade her goodnight, secretly bemoaning the fact that any thoughts I may have had of a more romantic liason, had been well and truly scuppered. Quite a few decades were to elapse before I discovered that my ‘blind date’, Glenys Parry, was to become well known as the wife of another college mate, Neil, ending up as, Mrs. Glenys Kinnock ! -------------------------------------------------------------------
My first paid ‘gig’, as a fiddle player, took place in the secure comfort of our Sarn house, when, after a rugby international match at Cardiff, my father would return home late in the evening with an array of business associates, all in celebratory mood ! ( Wales usually won on a pretty regular basis in those halcyon days ! ). I, then only fourteen years old, would be roused from my lumbers and instructed to, ‘entertain’, our guests with a few violin solos. Within minutes, these well heeled inebriates would be showering me with crisp brown ten shilling notes: I would later return to bed, with my pocket money reserve greatly enhanced ! Then, a few years later, and whilst a fifth former in the Garw Grammar school, my teacher Stan saunders commanded my presence at Porthcawl’s Grand Pavilion, for a performance of Mendelsshon’s oratorio, ‘Elijah’ – my first pro gig ! This was a really big thrill for me being in the company of my Glam idols, Bill James, Haydn ‘Zuke’ Davies, Francis Howard,Glynne \'Jingles\' Evans and many others. I remember being petrified at seeing a page full of black semi-quavers, towards the end of part one, looming ominously; but I was immensely relieved when my desk partner, the affable Ray Able, leaned over and said, “Relax lad, and leave those bloody dots to me, ok !” For that ordeal, I earned the grand Musicians Union rank and file fee of seventeen shillings and sixpence ( less than a quid in today’s money ). Another good friend and fellow Glam fiddler was, Victor Chamberlain, from Barry. Vic was a superb player, blessed with good looks which attracted the attention of many a girl, and the envy of we spotty faced geeks. He was very quickly snapped up for a few solo spots by Wales’s first independent television company, ‘TWW ( Television Wales and the West ). Based in Pontcanna fields in Cardiff, it was quite adventuresome in some of its early productions, particularly in the field of light music. A programme which became instantly popular was, \'Gwlad Y Gan\' ( Land of Song ). With fabulous colourful sets, glamorous singers and dancers, its popularity was such that it was put on general network, and watched by millions of TV viewers well beyond Wales. Heading the cast of vocalists, was Welsh hearthrob, Ivor Emmanuel, who was later to star alongside his fellow celt, Stanley Baker, in the epic film, \'Zulu\'. The studio orchestra comprised musicians from South Wales and the Bristol area, with Bill James as leader. As hard up students, Vic and I were amazed to receive such vast fees ( paid in cash ! ) for a job which was great fun and far less arduous than the average symphony concert. However, there was no room for mistakes, as it was a live show without the later luxury of editing and retakes. In those carefree days, when studio production costs would be rapidly recouped by just a few commercial advertising slots, money was no object. The sad thing was, however, that the wonderful sets could not be fully appreciated by the viewers, as colour television had yet to arrive ! After the last session of a series, usually approaching Christmas, the cast and the band would all be invited to a slap up party. The studio crew would \'strike\' the original set and replace it with a lavish ballroom scene, complete with a free bar, and food enough to feed a regiment. However, I, a naive young student, was not quite prepared for the orgiastic antics which tended to develop as the lights were dimmed, and the free booze loosened inhibitions ! So, even as a student, I was able to pick up a few generous fees, and also get a close insight into the adult, \'goings on\', in the world of entertainment; but more importantly, it gave me a valued foothold in the freelance orchestral world. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- During our student days, Benj and I would often be invited to play for various locally based concerts with schools and amateur musical societies, such as the old Cathays High School. Under their charismatic music teacher, Cliff Bunford, this school would perform major works from the standard repertoire, such as Brahms\'s, \'German Requiem\', with tremendous verve and youthful exuberance. Cliff Bunford had been a fine vocalist with a light tenor voice, and scholarly approach which was ideally suited to the works of Benjamin Britten, and Bach\'s Passion music. His long-standing fiance, Anne, was a similarly gifted singer: and, after a concert, they would invariably, treat we too penniless students to a fine meal for our efforts. Cliff was an engaging raconteur, who would keep us enthralled after many a post-concert repast ! Paradoxically, although we were studying music, our professor, Joe Morgan, frowned upon his students accepting \'outside\' engagements: so we had to quickly scan an audience at such concerts to ensure that the, ever alert, Joe wasn\'t present. Unfortunately, even though we might not spot him, his mental antennae were permanently engaged, and he would invariably learn of our illicit presence. We would then be summoned to his study for an appropriate reprimand ! Another talented music student at the time was the beautiful \'cellist, and sister of Haydn \'Zuke\' Davies, Helena Davies, from Pontardawe. Her stunning looks and singing nability soon attracted the attention of the TWW studios which recruited her also, for the popular, \'Gwlad Y Gan\', series. A former principal \'cellist in the National Youth Orchestra of Wales, Helena was a most appreciated member of our college student quartet. But we male members of the ensemble always found her presence somewhat distracting as she would invariably turn up for rehearsals, wearing the shortest of mini skirts, quite inappropriate wear for a female \'cellist, at the best of times, and was singularly inefficient at shielding her modesty ! At such stressful times, even the arch Lothario, Benj, would invariably intone the plaintive plea : \"For God\'s sake Helena, cover your legs with a bloody scarf will \'ew, cos I\'m goin\' blind by yer, mun !\" Helena\'s musical talents were prodigious and varied. She was a very fine \'cellist, pianist and vocalist: and during a college Rag Week show held at Cardiff\'s decripid, Prince of Wales, theatre, I recall her with delight, delivering a memorable imitation of the legendary jazz icon, Ella Fitzgerald, complete with \'scatz\' improvisation ! Like her brother Haydn, she was later to serve with distinction, as a dynamic music teacher, lecturer, music advisor and choral conductor: she also was to become my boss, when I eventually went to work for the South Glam Education Authority two decades later. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ After I left Cardiff university, I decided to pursue a one year teacher training course at Bretton Hall Education College, which was set deep in the rolling countryside of the Yorkshire Dales. Positioned between Wakefield and Barnsley, Bretton Hall had once belonged to an aristocratic family in the North, and within the vast acreage of its sprawling grounds, were two large manmade lakes. Being fairly fit in those far off days, I spent many hours canoeing on the lakes, and once went to the rescue of a fellow student whose unsteady exertions had caused his canoe to capsize - I felt quite the hero at the time ! Apart from the lectures, most of my time was spent playing the fiddle as leader of the reasonably good college orchestra. Much to my chagrin, I was also recruited into the college choir, which was directed by the Head of Music, Miss Daphne Bird. This lady, in speech and general demeanor, was a carbon copy of the famous actress, Margaret Rutherford: her \'jolly hockeysticks\' persona suited her wonderfully for her position with the Girl Guide movement, with which she did sterling work. I ensured, however, that my spell as a chorister would be shortlived, by a deliberate mispitching of my rather sonerous baritone voice ! The amiable college principal, Mr. John Friend, enjoyed cultivating the local dignitaries and captains of industry, with a series of sherry parties and receptions in his capacious quarters at the college. To present a suitably elevated ambience for these lofty soirees, I was regularly requested to provide a string quartet. On one such occasion, I was particularly struck by the beauty of one of the young female guests I espied, gracefully circulating amongst the high powered company, whilst deftly clutching a gin and tonic in her well manicured hand. During a playing break, I swiftly began \'chatting up\' this desirable creature, whose name I discovered to be, Annabelle, with a view to taking her out on a \'date\'. My brazen attempt to woo this highly desirable creature was cut short , thankfully as it turned out, by a tap on the shoulder by genial young music lecturer, Brian Longthorne, with the words: \"I think she\'s a little outside your league, my dear fellow: her name is Annabelle Tetley – of Tetley Brewery fame !” Can you imagine the crass effrontory of this impoverished council house upstart from Sarn? Mind you though, I’d like to think that such a scenario may have elicited a smile from the celebrated northern writer, Alan Sillito, whose earthy novel, ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’, had only just been published ! Bretton Hall, at that time, specialised in arts education ( its alumni included the actor and playwright, Colin Welland ), and a number of distinquished personages, such as the esteemed philosopher, Sir Herbert Read, had a strong association with the college. We orchestral players, also looked forward to a visit by the young, effervescent conductor, Brian Priestman, who would breeze through the college entrance in his vintage open-topped sports car, with a rather gaudy scarf trailing wildly in the wind. He exuded a grand bonhomie which we at once found totally captivating, and he instilled in the orchestra, a reassuring confidence. Brian’s undoubted musical pedigree was complemented with a great sense of humour, and he was not averse to delivering the occasional risque anecdote ! His name appeared regularly in, ‘The Radio Times’, for quite a few years; but he gradually seemed to disappear from the professional conducting circuit. I’d like to think that he carved a niche for himself abroad, because he was a delightful man and a brilliant conductor. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Within a month of arriving at Bretton Hall, I was despatched to a tough bi-lateral ( a percursor to the looming comprehensive system ) secondary school in Huddersfield, called deighton High. I can honestly confirm that the following four months were the most arduous I had, and would ever experience. I and two other students, assigned to the same school, would set out at the crack of dawn, in a clapped out old Ford Prefect, having spent the previous night preparing copious and detailed lesson preparation notes. At first the pupils came across as a tough, hardy breed who had as much difficulty trying to comprehend my rapid, lilting Welsh accent as I did their dour Yorkshire brogue ! But after a few weeks we settled into a mutually wary truce, and I actually got them laughing at my pathetic jokes. Virtually every day, we would observe the old police ‘Z’ cars enter the school precincts to pick up, or return, some delinquents. I was required to teach English as well as well as my main subject, music, and once set my charges the seemingly innocent task of writing an essay entitled: ‘A Burgalry at our House’. I suggested that, as well as using their imagination, they might research the topic via various local newspaper cuttings etc. A few days later, I became aware that one lad in the class was unaccountably absent: and the deputy head summoned to his study. Adopting a particularly sombre expression, he asked me to confirm my suggestion that the pupils should undertake some meaningful research for their essays. It appeared that the missing pupil had vastly exeeded my expectation, by actually carrying out a real burglary on the house next door to him, only to be roughly apprehended in the process, by his burly, irate neighbour ! I was petrified of being regarded as complicit in the crime; but the staff ( and the police ) though it was hilarious ! The school’s resident music teacher, was a fine individual by the name of, Colin Sutcliffe, who’s enthusiastic approach and insistence on good discipline, earned him the respect of colleagues and pupils alike. In that socially rugged environment, I saw some of the most committed teaching I was ever to encounter in a lifetime in education: and it prepared me well for the future. Bretton Hall’s Student President at the time was a beautiful, charming blonde girl called, Margaret Miles, whose long standing boyfriend, Bob, was a student miles away, in Lloughborough College. Their opportunities to get together were limited, and even further restricted by the fact that any possibility of their sharing accomodation for an even brief nocturnal tryst was definitely ‘verboten’. So, one day, Margaret asked me if Bob could possibly ‘bunk up’ with we, ‘one year music,’ students on his next visit. I readily agreed, and for two nights, had the rare, but uncomfortable distinction of sharing my narrow single bed with a future English soccer icon – goal keeper Bob Wilson ! Many years later, whilst playing for BBC TV’s ‘Miss Wales’, competition at the Double Diamond Club, in Caerphilly, where Bob was appearing as one of the guest adjudicators, I simply could not rsist the temptation to saunter over to him, and blurt out loudly : “Hey Bob, do you remember that gorgeous night we slept together !?” Whilst I was pursuing my teaching course in Yorkshire, my chum, Benj, had already started life as a peripatetic teacher back home in the Swansea valley. During a weekend flying visit to my parents, I received a call from Cardiff’s, New Theatre, inviting me to play in the pit orchestra for a professional touring company’s production of ‘Peter Pan’. Quite apart from the attraction of the sizeable fee of £14, it was a chance to perform for the celebrated star of film and stage, the inimitable Alastair Sim, who took the part of the evil pirate, captain Hook. Also in the cast were the young starlet, Julia Lockwood ( daughter of forties/fifties film star Margaret Lockwood ), and handsome Welsh-born actor, Ronald Lewis, who hailed from Maesteg. In order to fulfill this, ‘not-to-be-missed’ gig, I informed Bretton Hall that I had succumbed to a particularly virulent dose of influenza ! I was doing this show at all costs ! On the first night, there were a few unexpected calamities which one would normally expect with a local amateur group. During a scene in which the theatrical prop, ‘dry ice’, was used to create an eerie river scene, some of this vapour filtered into the orchestral pit, briefly causing us a benign bout of mild coughing, which was over in seconds. Our elderly pianist, however, was a chronic asthmatic, who instantly collapsed, gasping audibly for breath. The show was temprarily suspended, whilst our hapless colleague was carried out of the theatre and dispatched to Cardiff’s Royal Infirmary ! I suggested to the MD that a local pianist, Arnold Draper, should be contracted to fill the gap. He agreed, and I rang Arnold from the stage door. Within twenty minutes, Arnold was at the piano, sight-reading with an accuracy and musical authority that we had all come to expect, of this brilliant keyboard player. Arnold’s musical lineage encompassed a number of distinquished musicians: his great uncle Charlie, had been, ‘Musician in Ordinary’, to Queen Victoria, as the great horn player, Charles Draper. That first night, the unscheduled dramas in ‘Peter Pan’ continued apace. To add to the evening’s problems, at the end of the show, the MD was also whisked off to hospital, with a suspected heart attack – what a night ! On the next evening, with a new pro MD drafted in from London, things settled down. However, for the Thursday matinee performance, Benj had illicitly, ‘bunked off’, from his teaching job. When he entered the pit he froze in horror, as he scanned the theatre which was, by then, packed with school children and their escorting teaching staff, many of whom we recognised : someone was bound to spot him ! In the feint hope that we could shield him, we quickly secreted his bulky frame into the least visible area of the pit, where he remained for the whole performance in an uncomfortably crouched position, and with a sinister black scarf covering his head ! During that week, I managed to ‘button hole’ the star, Alistair Sim, in the back stage corridors, and politely requested his autograph. His response was classic: “My dear fellow, my humble position on this planet does not merit such self aggrandizment !”. Each night, at the curtain call, he was conspicuous by his absence: but, as he explained to a local reporter, his appearance would have betrayed the magical belief of the younger members of the audience – had he not been devoured, by that fearsome crocodile !? For me, Alistair Sim was the consummate professional, who fiercely rejected such accolades of celebrity which are so often demanded, and voraciously savoured, by so many lesser talents. Who can ever forget his lugubrious portrayal of, Ebenezer Scrooge, in the film version of Dickens’s, ‘A Christmas Carol’ !? His genius for comedy, was complimented by his rather more serious character, in Priestley’s, ‘An Inspector Calls’. I cannot recall any film in which I was other than totally mesmerised by his performance: and I feel profoundly priviliged to have worked with such a theatrical giant ! J.M. Barrie’s ever popular, ‘Peter Pan’, became an annual fixture in the new Theatre’s list of visiting productions, and I was fortunate to be invited back for a number of years: and it was interesting to compare each new group of performers. Good though, they all, undoubtedly, were, not one succeeding actor quite matched up to Alistair Sim- like Noel Coward, he was , The Master ! When I returned to Bretton Hall, flush with my fourteen pounds’ ill –gotten gains, I was thrust, almost immediately, into my final examinations. With these completed successfully, and with the academic year at an end, most of the students returned home; but the Principal had persuaded members of the college orchestra to remain at the college for an extra week, to give a series of concerts in the various churches and cathedrals in Yorkshire: any monies raised would be put towards the college chapel refurbishment fund. The tour was enjoyable, but fairly arduous for me: not only was I orchestra leader, but was also, fiddle soloist, in a few movements of Vivaldi’s, ‘The Four Seasons’, which we performed at each venue. It was a fitting end to my sojourn at Bretton Hall, which I had enjoyed immensely. CHAPTER 8. THE RHONDDA BECKONS After performing my last concert, as leader, of the Glamorgan Youth Orchestra, in April, 1963 ( decades later, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I had been the Glam’s longest serving leader ! ), Mr. Sheppard suggested that I might wish to apply for the new post of Peripatetic Violin Teacher to Rhondda Grammar Schools - what an inspiring title eh ! ( I had to consult a dictionary for the meaning of the word, \'peripatetic\' ! ). Having duly applied for the post, I was eventually called for interview at the Rhondda Education Offices in Pentre, and ushered into a full meeting of the borough council: I gained the distinct impression that my interview formed but a very small part of the aldermanic deliberations for that evening. However, after a short wait, I was informed that I was successful, and would be expected to commence my teaching duties in the following September. Little did I then realise, that I would remain, as a teacher in the Rhondda, for over twenty happy and productive years. As Margaret and I were living with my parents in that redoubtable Sarn council house, my daily trips to Rhondda’s Grammar schools involved two or more changes of buses: Sarn to Bryncethin, Bryncethin to Porth, and Porth to Pentre. Yet, being young, fit and energetic, I seemed to take it all in my stride ! Mondays took me to Pentre Grammar School, set high up on one of the valley’s many verdant hillsides. During my first year at Pentre, a new music teacher, John Cynan Jones, arrived at the school, and we seemed to share the same musical ideas and aspirations. This was the beginning of a friendship and professional collaboration which lasted for many years. Within a short time, John had been asked to take over the reins of the Treorchy Choral Society which, at the time, was in need of some inspirational uplift. John, acutely aware that the choir’s recent concerts had been marred by weak orchestral support, requested me to recruit and lead a group of musicians upon whom he could rely. I am forever grateful to John Cynan for having such confidence in me, and bestowing me with the dubious title of, ‘fixer’ ! Our first concert together was a creditable performance of Haydn’s, ‘The Creation’, which was performed in Treorchy’s mammoth, Noddfa chapel. However, my emergence as a fledgling orchestral fixer incurred the wrath of a prominent Cardiff musician, John Crouch, who had long held a virtual monopoly of such activities in the area. A few days after the concert, he rang me, threatening dire consequences if it transpired that I had engaged any non Musician’s Union personnel, or breached any of the MU’s rules ! ( In those days, an offence punishable with eternal damnation ! ). I came off the phone a very worried man indeed; but I was promptly reassured by the wry observation of Margaret: “ Had he wished to frighten you, Jeff, he wouldn’t have kept you on the phone for forty minutes: I think he’s the worried one !” Such good sense could only have come from a woman, and a remarkably perceptive one at that ! Whilst I had regularly played for John Crouch, I had never ever remotely entertained the notion of competing with him, or anyone else, in this perilous, but potentially lucrative market; but his threatening attitude stirred, in me, an interest in the commercial side of orchestral work, which was to serve me quite well in the future. Curiously enough, following our altercation, our paths never crossed, and I never set eyes on him again. Getting back to my teaching job, Tuesdays took me to the famed Porth County Boys’ Grammar School. This school’s academic reputation was well known throughout the valleys of South Wales, and its alumni embraced distinquished personages across the complete spectrum of public life. I became acutely aware of the special quality of the teachers within minutes of entering the staff room of my first day. The Spanish master, George Rochat, was a highly cultured and amiable Swiss gentleman who could authoritatively hold forth on numerous learned topics: and a skilled pianist, his profound knowledge of music put me to shame. Later on, I would be invited to George’s house, in Cemetary Road, to play a couple of sonatas: this was always a delight. Anyway, on our first encounter in the staff room, George and the roughly hewn Yorkshire born senior master, Noel Burnell, were poring over, ‘The Times’, crossword puzzle, which they always managed to complete in the short time it took to conduct the school’s morning assembly. The level of conversational banter and debate amongst such erudite colleagues immediately captivated me. Another brilliant academic and fervent NUT activist, was English teacher, Ken Hopkins, who was later to become Director of Education to the Mid Glamorgan Authority. Often to be seen smoking his beloved pipe, Ken, for me at least, bore an uncanny resemblance to the comedian, Eric Morecambe ! Politically astute, Ken was a wise, valued counsellor to his younger colleagues. Yet another of the many outstanding characters at this school, was the History master, David Thomas, known affectionally amongst staff and pupils as, ‘Dai Chips’. David was a scholarly chap, who despite his short staure, wielded a rod of iron by virtue of his authorative voice and demeanour. I well recall, unforgettable words: “For what we are about to eat, thank God, Winston Churchill, and the British Fleet, Amen !!” Not even the slightest hint of a titter emerged from those lads, such was their respect for this master. However, Dave freely admittede to two vices: he enjoyed the odd betting shop ‘flutter’, and he regularly took snuff ! He ultimately, and deservedly, became Headmaster of Tonypandy Grammar school, and, in retirement, became an impassioned lay preacher. The headmaster, Owen Vernon Jones, was quite a character himself: he strove tirelessly to advance the cause of his pupils, and established valuable links with the Oxford colleges which were to greatly benefit so many of the brighter pupils. In common with most headmasters, of course, ‘OV’, as he was affectionately known, had his detractors; but over the years, I found him to be a kindly man who had an immense pride in his school and its pupils, the history of which is chronicled so well in his book, ‘Porth County: The School and its Pupils’. My arrival on the scene coincided with that of the school’s first, Head of Music, the amiable and talented, Brian Evans. We very quickly developed a genial rapport which made for a longstanding professional partnership. Two decades later, I would have the pleasure of working with his two accomplished sons, Robert and Martin, who respectively, became principal Horn and Trumpet in my South Glamorgan Youth Orchestra, and who enjoyed successful professional orchestral careers. Brian eventually became a highly respected senior officer with the WJEC in Cardiff. Wednesdays saw me wind my weary way to Tonypandy Grammar School. Here, yet again, I came into contact with another immensely talented musician, William ‘Bill’ Lewis. A charming, gentle person, with a penchant for risque humour, Bill, who was in charge of music, was one of the finest pianists I have ever encountered. He was also an inspiring teacher who instantly gained the respect and admiration of his pupils ( As is recalled in a later chapter, Bill was very encouraging in my formation of the Rhondda Symphony Orchestra ). Tonypandy Grammar, the former alma mater of House of Commons, ‘ Mr. Speaker’ Thomas – George Thomas MP whose inimitable declamation: “Order, Order”, resounded, daily, in the ears of parliamentarians at Westminster. George, a lifelong socialist, used to relate with glee, a story about turning up one morning at \'The House\', proudly wearing a new tie. This immediately elicited giggles and snide remarks from a few of the Tories, who smugly pointed out that his new tie bore a remarkable resemblance to that worn by Old Etonians ! Quite unperturbed , George asserted that , to his knowledge, the tie had been purchased for him by his dear ‘Mam’, at the Co-op in Tonypandy ! This school also had its share of interesting, and scholarly individuals: the segregated male staff room could become a hot bed of fierce debate. Upon my arrival in the, then, mainly deserted staff room, I was asked by a teacher whom I did not know, “ Are you in a union ?”. My negative response elicited the triumphant statement: “ You are now mate, just sign here ! “ In that instant of unsubtle conscription, I became a member of the NAS ( National Association of Schoolmasters ). My ‘proposer’ colleague , was the laconic Geography teacher, Keith Swain, with whom I also became good mates, sharing an interest in musical comedy. His wife, Jean, was already a well established amateur actress and singer with local operatic societies. I regarded her characterisation of ‘Bloody Mary’, in the musical, ‘South Pacific’, as priceless! The Modern Language master, Dr. Gwyn Morris, who would eventually become the school’s very popular headmaster, was another fine person endowed with a deep intellect, complemented with a profound sense of compassionate humanity. The school’s veteran secretary, Brenda May, was another character who would happily indulge in a spot of ribald humour: her strong personality and robust appearance quickly warded off any \'smart Alecs\'. I was convinced that the senior boys were far warier of her than of the most severe male staff. Always ready with an innocent \'leg pull\', she once furtively handed me a folded piece of foolscap paper containing a \'cert tip\' on a mare running in the Two Thirty at Kempton Park: it read, \'HOOF HEARTED\' - and the gag did not dawn on me for quite some time ! There was also mathematics teacher, Gwynne Jones, who claimed that he could not read music, but would elegantly extemporise on the school\'s Grand piano throughout the lunchtime break, to the delight of staff and pupils alike. he reckoned that it was his own particular form of relaxation ! The history master, Dave Maddox, did a great deal of research on the, \'Tonypandy Riots\', which seemed to shed intriguing new light on the traditional perception of events: in conjunction with the Art teacher, Gwyn Evans, he presented a successful exhibition featuring the famous riots, and Winston Churchill\'s controversial involvement. On Thursdays, I would visit Porth Grammar Technical School. Despite a friendly enough staff, again peppered with some real characters, I never felt as comfortable here as in the other schools. I concede that this may well have been a reflection on myself; but, with the exception of a very fine ‘cello pupil, Chris Hughes, who ultimately became sub-principal ‘cellist in the orchestra of WNO, I failed to generate any deep interest or enthusiasm in this school. The situation showed no improvement with the arrival of a new headteacher, who seemed positively hostile to my presence. Mr. Sheppard, aware of the situation, eventually had me shifted to another school. Despite the successes I achieved in the majority of schools I visited, my failiure here was a personal disappointment that troubled me for quite some time. Then came Friday, where I was despatched to Porth County Girls School where, though next door to the boys’ school, it was a case of, ‘Never the twain shall meet’, in those segregationist days ! The boys and girls could only exchange furtive glances through the partitioning railings. Later, of course, in the helter skelter of Comprehensive Education, things altered dramatically, but, in my opinion, not necessarily for the better. Within minutes of arriving at the school, I was ushered into the study of the Headmistress, the formidable and fearsome, Miss Hudd, whom I had been warned was something of a martinet. Indeed, her mere appearance in the long corridor which fed each classroom, commanded immediate silence, and she instilled the fear of God into pupils and staff in equal measure ! After a brief introductory chat, she beamed at me, and exclaimed : “Mr. Lloyd, from now on, you may consider yourself to be my very own, ‘Man Friday’ ! Despite her stern demeanour and draconian reputation, I grew very fond of this, ‘dame formidable’, and was later to mourn the demise of that ethos of learning, in a disciplined environment, which her trenchant style seemed to epitomise. In both the boys’ and girls’ schools, I was obliged to teach in the respective dining halls, which comprised one building suitably partitioned. The choice of the dining hall made good sense, as I had plenty of room to teach, and could make as much noise as became necessary, without disturbing the rest of the school. There was also an added bonus: between lessons, I was served liberal portions of succulent potato chips by the motherly cook, Jess Morris, and one of her assistants, the lovely Margaret Edwards. It seems that for many years in the Rhondda, quite a few ladies, who had lost their menfolk to accidents or explosions in the mines, were offered jobs as cooks in the school canteens. I always regarded this as an admirable policy in a community where sudden death and the inevitable privation that followed, was an ever present possibility. Once a month, the cooks at Porth County were visited by their union rep, the mischievously lecherous, Sid Griffiths, to collect their union ‘subs’. I always knew when Sid was around, by the giggles and occassional squeals of laughter, which his bawdy antics provoked amongst these dear ladies. Having created a state of happy mayhem amongst his union ‘sisters’, Sid would casually saunter over to one of my pupils, gallantly doff his ‘Dai’ cap, pick up her fiddle, and procedd to play with a delicacy and beauty of tone that contrasted so sharply with his previous cavorting, and left my pupils openmouthed with admiration ! Sid was typical of a breed of very fine, natural musicians, whose family circumstances had prevented them pursuing those innate gifts in a music conservatoire. During my protracted sojourn in the Rhondda, I was to encounter many innately talented characters like dear old Sid. ------------------------------------------- On Saturday mornings, during term-time, I attended the Pontypridd Boys’ Grammar School, as a tutor to the East Glamorgan Youth Orchestra which was one of three similar ensembles set up by Mr. Sheppard across the county – in Bridgend, Neath and Pontypridd. The activities in Ponty, were in the capable hands of Roger Jones, diminutive in physical stature, but a giant in personality and musical ability. Exerting his genial magnetism, he could coax wonderous sounds from the young, raw players under his baton. Also among the older tutors, was Chris Langham, a dedicated violin teacher from Pontypridd who had already done much heroic, pioneering work with a string group based in Ponty’s , YMCA. A committed Christian, he would warn Benj and I, as student tutors during junior courses at Ogmore, of the evils of drink. Following one especially ‘heavy’ night, Benj was particularly alarmed when the paternal Cliff described, with frightening accuracy, an episode of the DT’s ( delirium tremens ) which Benj had recently suffered: it put my pal right off the booze for quite some time- at least a week !! Cliff\'s serious concern about the dangers of drink came about because of what he had witnessed as a young man: he had seen his father hand over his miner\'s wages directly to the local pub landlord after his weekly stint underground. Consequently, Cliff became very religious, and was much in demand as a lay preacher, and as a knowledgable biblical scholar. This lovely man\'s profound religious faith did not, however, create a barrier between us: he became a respected sage from whom I could always seek advice. Another unforgettable character, who had been a long serving member of the peripatetic music staff, was dai lloyd ( no relation to me ). The Lloyd family of Porth was renowned for its musical offspring, each son a talented instrumentalist. Dai was a gifted violinist; Tommy, a skilled keyboard player; Cyril, an esteemed Church organist; and Vernon, was a brilliant clarinettist, who, in his youth, had been Solo Clarinettist at the Kneller Hall, Military School of Music, from which academy many great musicians had emerged. Also one of the Saturday morning tutors was the inimitable, George \'Tex\' Hannaby, who could play the whole gamut of woodwind instruments, but whose real passion was in outdoor pursuits such as fishing and shooting. \'Tex\' invariably sported a natty deer-stalker hat which was always festooned with colourful fishing \'flies\'. His son, Danny, was a distinguished orchestral player, who occupied the first trombone seat in the BBC/national Orchestra of Wales for many years. Then, there was the unforgettable, Jim Baskerville, who tutored the viola section. As an RAF technician during World War Two, Jim had been badly injured when a Spitfire propellor he was gently turning, prior to take- off, suddenly erupted on full throttle, throwing Jim into the air and leaving him with a deep laceration across his chest. Having barely survived this, near fatal, accident, Jim, still a young man, undertook a rigorous exercise regime to regain his strength and enhance his recovery. As a result, he developed a formidable physique and had hands like shovels. Ever the gentle giant, Jim was adored by his pupils, of whom he was eternally tolerant, and was hardly known to lose his temper; but he detested boorish behaviour in adults. One Saturday morning after orchestra, Jim kindly gave me a lift from Ponty to Cardiff to see a rugby international match. At the top of the newly completed, Manor Way, on the outskirts of Cardiff, we were obliged to wait at traffic lights whilst a frail old lady made her way, very slowly, across the road. Suddenly, a thuggish young ‘Hell’s Angel’ brute, revving his motorbike impatiently, drew alongside us, shouting abusively to the old lady: “Piss off, you silly old cow!”. Whereupon, Jim courtesly turned to me to say: “Excuse me a moment, Jeffrey”. He then slammed his car door hard against this ruffian’s leather clad legs, knocking him and his bike unceremoniously to the ground. Before the startled miscreant realised his predicament, Jim had lifted him by the scruff of the neck, and carried him over to the old lady, with the words:”Excuse me, my dear, but I believe this young man has something to say to you”. With his vocal chords severly restricted in Jim’s iron grip, the thug managed to hoarsely blurt out: “Sssssorry Mrs !”, to which the old dear comically replied: “Yes, it’s a nice day, isn’t it !”. The drivers piling up behind us were thoroughly enjoying this entertaining spectacle, and burst into a spontaneous applause of tooting horns ! having resumed his seat, Jim calmly turned to me with the words : “Now where were we? Ah yes, the Welsh forwards will have their work cut out today, don’t you think, Jeffrey !?”. Jim had always played on an enormous ( and valuable , ‘Richardson’, viola, from which he produced a rich, warm tone, and upon which he practiced well into his eighties ! Even at that age, he had apparently scared the living daylights out of some youth who had committed the supreme error of attempting a break-in at Jim’s ‘granny flat’, isolated deep in the Vale ! Jim had secured the hapless youth in a vice-like head lock, until the lad was ‘rescued’ with the arrival of the police. The young constables were barely able to conceal their amusement at the sight that greeted them ! Among my younger colleagues were some excellent teachers such as Ritchie Roberts, John Varney, John Roberts, George Thomas, Stuart Telling, Diana Thomas, Linda Stranks and Neville Thomas. They each made their individual contribution to instrumental tuition in the county. Working with an array of such personalities was, for me, a joy and a privilege. CHAPTER 9. ENTERING THE PIT When, as a young child, I was taken by my parents to see a pantomine in the Grand Theatre, Swansea or Cardiff’s New Theatre, I clearly remember being fascinated by the alluring atmosphere of the theatre. The glittering chandeliers, opulent red seats, the special boxes reserved for the ‘posher’ patrons, and the sombre safety curtain, all contributed to my excitement. But, when the house lights dimmed, and the curtains rose, my attention was immediately drawn far more to the activities in the orchestra pit than to any thespian antics onstage. Whilst still quite young, I eagerly looked forward to watching my older cousin, Betty Jones, who possessed a beautiful soprano voice, perform principal roles with the Maesteg Operatic Society, and watching my dear uncle, Emlyn, playing in the orchestra. He once brought me to sit quietly next to him in the orchestra pit, an experience which I found magical. Many years later, I was to find myself regularly performing in pit orchestras throughout Wales, and especially in the Rhondda and Cardiff, and playing on the precious French fiddle that my Uncle Em had given me as a gift when I became a member of the National Youth Orchestra of Wales in 1955. I fell in love with that old violin, and did not seek another instrument to replace it in fifty years. ------------------------------------------------- When I started getting involved with freelance orchestral work in the Rhondda, a dear old Double Bass player from Llwynypia, Rudi Hingott, would regale we younger ‘pit boys’ with tales of yore, when the Rhondda Valleys boasted six or seven thriving theatres: according to Rudi, you could see anything from burlesque to grand opera for the modest financial outlay of five pence and a half penny ( pre-decimalisation ! ), and still have enough left over for a bag of chips on the way home ! Before the cultural curse of television crucified so much homespun creativity, the Rhondda’s hills really were ‘alive with the sound of music’ ! Soon after it was known that a new young violin teacher was afoot in the Rhondda, I was contacted by a Mr. Reg Bennett. Reg was a timpanist and local Musician’s Union re: and in the pre-Thatcher days, when the trade union movement was all powerful, the MU was a potent force. Indeed, to earn a crust in even the amateur productions, the ownership of a union card was essential. Fortunately, on the advice of my previous guru, Stan Saunders, I had joined the MU at the ludicrously tender age of sixteen, but never regretted it. It was only much later, that the excesses of the MU became apparent to me; but then, a union card represented for me, an impoverished young teacher, the passport to a welcome supplement to my meagre teaching salary. My first musical production, or ‘show’ as they became known, was, ‘The King and I’, performed by the enterprising, Rhondda Theatre Group, in the old Empire Theatre, Tonypandy in 1964. The musical director was Tommy Rees, who had just returned to his home town after an arduous stint in the Korean War – where he picked up the coveted Military Medal. Tom’s first instruments were the flute and piccolo at which he was quite a virtuoso. But he could also play the clarinet and the complete range of the saxophone family with an equal degree of proficiency – the complete ‘pit man’. Whenever we played together in professional shows at the New Theatre, Tom would be in his appointed seat, surrounded by a whole galaxy of wind instruments, which greatly enhanced his wages in ‘doubling’ fees. Tommy’s elderly father, Herbie, also an accomplished flautist, would enjoy retelling the story of how, in the thirties, the Tonypandy Flute and Drum band, actually won the World Championships held in Dublin’s fair city! Herbie was a truly lovely man endowed with an innate calmness which, sadly, his son Tommy failed to inherit. Tommy was also a fine teacher and loyal colleague with a heart of gold; but plagued with an unhappy first marriage and consequent financial problems, his nerves were seriously eroded. He left his first wife, Lil, a friendly soul but a domestic disaster, and eventually married a fellow musician, Betty Mabbs, who was a formidable violinist, but possessed with a feisty tongue and short temper. Having been smitten by the tinsel world of the theatre, they both, foolishly, left the security of their teaching jobs, attracted by the precarious lure of freelance work at a time when, sadly, they were both developing an unhealthy flirtation with the dreaded, ‘bottle’. One night, sitting directly opposite Tommy, in a large backing orchestra for the popular American singing star, Neil Sedaka, at Usk’s famous Helmaen Club, I suddenly became aware of bright crimson blood drooling from Tommy’s mouth and eerily cascading over his flute. He was swiftly whisked off to hospital where a burst ulcer was diagnosed. Amazingly, he survived that but within a few years, he had died from severe hypertension brought on by years of unrelenting anxiety: and yet, in the orchestra pit, his sauve playing belied any of the tension that was to lead to his early demise. It was in that early production of ‘The King and I’, that I first encountered the considerable talents of Dennis Williams (he played the cruel King) and his co-star the beautiful, Joan Baxter, who eventually became his wife. Dennis, though strictly amateur, was a very fine actor with the physique and good looks to delight an audience, and in the years to come we were to enjoy many a happy (and often hilarious!) collaboration in various local theatres. The Rhondda Theatre Group was originally established by Dennis and a talented local pianist, Bob Taylor: within a short time, they had recruited the dynamic, Morgan Jones, who worked for the local EMI factory, as producer. Indeed, all these extremely talented amateurs held down responsible jobs: Dennis was proprietor of the highly successful retail tyre firm of Valley Tyre Services in Pontypridd, where I was regularly afforded a generous discount on my tyre purchases! Another great character in Rhondda’s amateur thespian fraternity was, Arfon Henderson (to whom I shall refer in more detail, later), who ran a well established coach company. During the week of his own Mid Rhondda Operatic Society’s production, Arfon would nightly drive a bus full of patrons to the theatre and then get changed, don his make up and perform a lead role in the show: as if that was not enough, he would then make the return journey, ensuring the safe return of his, mainly elderly, passengers! The heroic dedication of such people, who, unlike we musicians, received no financial reward was to be greatly admired. Arfon’s work amongst the valley’s youngsters in the traditional ‘jazz bands’ was rightly recognised with an OBE. Such was the impassioned commitment of the members of these theatrical societies, that their daily jobs and work responsibilities tended to take second place during the week of the show. When I started playing in the pit orchestras for these Rhondda based Musical/Operatic societies, I was the ‘young un’ in a group of mainly elderly musicians, such as, Tommy Challenger, who ran a legitamate and profitable money lending business. Tommy, who would act as orchestra leader and ‘fixer’, had been a formidable violinist in his younger days. Towards the end of the show’s week long run I would be told by my fellow musicians, in hushed tones that, ‘The Ghost would Walk’ ! This extraordinarily archaic phrase, shrouded in a deep mysticism for me, simply meant that the band were about to get paid, usually on a Friday night ! With Tommy, it was always cash in an envelope: each player would retreat to a secretive enclave, to furtively count his earnings which, in those days, amounted to the princely MU rate of thirteen pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence. But at a time when my basic teacher’s salary was only £75 per month, it provided a welcome supplementary boost to the family finances. It is difficult to imagine that, in those days, I and my rugby mad fellow musicians could actually make the train trip to London, enjoy two nights B+B in a moderate hotel, see the game at Twickenham ( ‘H.Q.’ as the inimitable Max Boyce dubbed England’s hallowed turf !), drink the pubs dry and still have a few quid over to buy the wife a pair of dodgy nylon stockings in Petticoat Lane’s celebrated market, on the Sunday morning prior to our departure from Paddington station ! They were great days. After one such trip we returned home, still suffering from the weekend’s excesses, just in time to attend a Sunday afternoon ‘band call’ followed by an evening dress rehearsal, each lasting three hours ! Duw boys, it was ‘ard ! Sitting beside me in the pit for many shows in the sixties was Dai of the celebrated Lloyd clan of Porth. Dai really knew his way around the fiddle and seemed able to sight-read anything that came along. Despite playing on a battered old violin strung with cheap old fashioned gut strings, he managed to elicit a tone of real beauty which contrasted so sharply with his rather scruffy demeanour. I was always fascinated to observe that the bottom of one trouser leg would invariably appear to be shorter than the other. On the first night of the show, ‘Pyjama Game’, Dai, whilst still playing, suddenly turned his chair round to face the stage: during the previous day’s dress rehearsal, he had noticed that a pseudo striptease, involving the luscious Joan Baxter, was taking place, and he’d marked a cue in his part so as not to miss it ! On another occasion we were playing for the long established, Porthcawl Operatic Society. After the final performance, Dai suggested we go for a drink in the local, ‘Stonely Club’. When I embarrassingly explained that I was desperately short of cash, Dai gave me one of those mischievously knowing looks of his, meaning, no problem ok ! No sooner had we entered the lofty portals of this rather swishly expensive club, than Dai was hailed by a rather bosomy lady of mature years, with the words: “Dai, come over here by me, and bring your young friend with you OK!” The lady ordered a round of drinks and, with a degree of authority, instructed the barman to put “whatever these gentlemen want” on her personal ‘tab’ ! Of course, still wearing our concert dress we were appropriately attired for such a place; but, more importantly, the lady in question was a wealthy member of a Rhondda firm of bookmakers’ who had been in school with Dai, a generation or so before. Needless to say, Dai and I had a great night without touching our pockets ! In the early hours, with Dai driving, we unsteadily made our way back to Ogmore, where we were tutoring on a Junior Orchestral course. The dreaded breathalyser had yet to be invented, thank goodness ! I derived a good deal of fun during my times with Dai, who was possessed with a wicked sense of humour. During the interval of one show, he approached me, rather unsteadily, pint in hand, and uttered the words: “See Jeff, I don’t drink much, ‘cos I tend to spill most of it !” At the time, this struck me as very funny. In those days, most of the band were rather elderly, and whose better playing days were, sadly, behind them. Two exceptions, however, were Glynn Hughes of Treorchy, who had been a bassoonist with the old BBC Welsh Orchestra when Rae Jenkins ( musical director of the wartime ‘Itma’ programme) wielded a fearsome baton. Glyn was still playing rather well whilst in his eighties. Then there was a fine trombonist, Roy Williams, who easy going manner made him a popular chap to have in the pit. With the retirement of long established notables like Tom Challenger and Dai Lloyd, I was called upon to act as both leader and ‘fixer’ for a number of the Rhondda’s operatic societies. My first engagement in my new capacity was, ‘Die Fledermaus’, by Strauss with the renowned Selsig Operatic Society. Selsig had the finest chorale of all the valley’s societies, and their musical director was a lovely old gent called, Will Howells, dubbed, in typical Welsh valley tradition, as ‘Will the Stick’! Whilst he could achieve wonders with his chorus, Will was not too clean with his ‘beat’ upon which orchestras are so dependent. I well recall the first night of ‘Fledermaus’, which opens with a fiendishly difficult overture ( and we were a small pit orchestra of just fifteen performers ! ). Will, resplendent in gleaming white shirt, bow tie and tails lifted his baton, turned to me, and said : “Alright, Jeff?”. I nodded back with an affirmative, “Yes, Will”, to which a nervous looking Will repeated with increased urgency: “Alright, Jeff?”, without yet giving that essential down beat to get us going. As he was about to utter his third: “Alright, Jeff?”, the awesome realisation dawned upon me that I would have to start the overture myself ! After a quick glance at my fellow musicians, I demonsterably nodded my head, and we were off like a pack of startled greyhounds ! What a frightening experience that was; but, to varying degrees, I would find myself obliged to render that same technique with numerous societies for many years to come ! Of course, in fairness to these local amateur conductors, their experience of musical direction was largely confined to vocal ensembles where that finite exactitude of a beat was not as necessary as with an orchestra. Many fine choirs require merely the ‘shaping’ of a particular musical phrase: and this can be effectively achieved without the same precision required by an instrumental ensemble. I had a great admiration for the likes of dear Will Howells, who were suddenly confronted with an alien body of musicians that was used to working to the precise beat of a trained conductor. Most of these heroic souls had never had the golden opportunity of conducting any instrumental group. In complete contrast, I was fortunate enough to cut my conducting teeth by being allowed, by Mr. Russell Sheppard, to rehearse the huge forces of the Glamorgan Youth Orchestra in a Tchaikovsky or Brahms symphony as a young tutor at Ogmore. When I look back on those occasions, my immense gratitude to that incredible man for giving me such precious opportunities is further increased. Indeed, many young student conductors at our various music academies hardly get near a live orchestra, which makes a mockery of such courses. In most shows, we boys in the band had to work our way through the rhythmic minefields, more often than not, without the clear beat from the podium. As we played together quite frequently, we developed a form of, ‘pit alchemy’: a nod of the head, a knowing wink, or my bow raised to signal a crucial entry, usually enabled us to escape total catastrophe; but this tightrope walking imposed a great strain on me as leader. Most of the MD’s relied on our ability to just keep going; but major difficulties arose when the conductor, despite being totally inadequate, believed himself to be the reincarnation of Karajan. For a number of years I led our regular group of players for the Cardiff Municipal Operatic Society who’s MD, Edgar Watkins, was a very skilled conductor who expected, and invariably got, perfection from the band: he was always a pleasure to work with. Unfortunately, ill health forced him to retire, and his successor was not known to me until a band call in Cardiff’s New Theatre, where I realised within just a few bars, that this particular new MD lacked considerably his predecessor’s expertise. Half way through the overture, he suddenly stopped the orchestra, turning angrily to me saying: “Mr. Lloyd, the brass are not playing to my beat!” In swift response to his truculent, accusative attitude, I swiftly countered: “Well I’m not really surprised: if we played as you conduct, you’d never engage us!” Yes, my response was caustic; but had he courteously asked if we could mutually sort out the problem, I would have been most helpful and co-operative. A similar situation arose in a band call of, ‘My Fair Lady’, in Pontypridd’s Muni Hall, where a new young MD insisted on a ridiculously fast tempo in Professor Higgins’s, ‘Don’t let a woman in your life !’. The actors found it too fast, the dancers found it too fast, and the band found it too fast; yet, despite my polite suggestion that a slightly slower tempo would be more appropriate (we had, after all, performed it successfully on many occasions with other societies), he would not budge, and loudly blamed the band for the number’s inevitable collapse. I was so enraged with his rudeness that I packed up my fiddle and walked out of the rehearsal. Had it not been for the intervention of the society’s chairman, the affable George Mathews, who pleaded with me to stay, I and the rest of the band would quite likely have refused to perform under such an arrogant fellow. When and I the boys turned up a few years later for a production of, ‘Desert Song’, with the very same society, I was approached by a nervous looking gentleman who introduced himself as the new MD. Sensing his apprehension, I asked if there was anything amiss, to which he shyly confessed that he was used only to choirs, and had never previously encountered an orchestra. I was deeply touched by his candour, and told him that, contrary to rumour, we were there to help him in his task. That delightful musician was, Dave Arnold, with whom I struck up a lasting friendship: and, many years later, I was deeply privileged, when asked by his lovely wife Ann, to pay a tribute and play a solo in a memorial concert dedicated to Dave after his premature death. On one occasion, Ponty Operatic staged a play with music entitled, ‘Many Voices’, which traced the composition of what was to become the Welsh national anthem, ‘Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau ‘. Specially written to mark the investiture of the Prince of Wales in 1969, it was uniquely appropriate that such a drama should be staged in the very town where our glorious anthem was composed by father and son, Evan and James James. Like the anthem, the anthem, the play was the result of a successful collaboration between local playwright and producer, Nicholas Haimes Jones, and Dr. Gordon Irvine, who wrote the music. Gordon Irvine was a remarkably talented and creative man who held a lectureship in Comparative Anatomy in the Welsh National School of Medicine, in Cardiff. But, for music which often relegated his main professional occupation to second place. Another distinguished Cardiff medical consultant, Dr. Charles Langmaid was a dedicated, and highly skilled, harpsichordist who was much in demand as a keyboard executant. As I sat in the pit awaiting the start of this play, I noticed an elderly gentleman, accompanied by two elderly ladies; take his seat in the front row, just an arm’s length from the pit curtain. I particularly noticed the chap’s portliness and high colour. Gordon Irvine entered the pit and the overture was quickly underway. As the overture was about to merge, seamlessly, into a brightly rhythmic dance routine on stage, I became aware of a deep gurgling sound which clearly came from the direction of our red faced gentleman. Then, without warning, he erupted like Vesuvius, with a torrent of vomit which overwhelmed those of us sitting in the near vicinity! Dear Mark Roberts on second violin was heard to remark: “I know we were playing badly, but surely, not that badly!” Drenched though we were, by this gastronomic monsoon, we had to keep playing to support the young dance troupe gaily prancing to a rapid version of, ‘Mae Hen Wlad’, in the ludicrous style of a Viennese waltz! After the unfortunate gentleman, who had apparently suffered a major heart attack, was escorted out of the auditorium, a janitor was summoned to clean up the mess while the onstage drama continued. This resulted in the surreal spectacle of the cleaner, fag dangling from his mouth, slowly approaching the ‘disaster zone’, armed with obligatory bucket and mop, but pausing awhile to enjoy the predictable stage dialogue. So the whole thing went along these lines: “Blodwen, my beloved, (Squelch, squelch from bucket !) , I do love ewe with all my ‘eart mun!” (Squelch, squelch---). It was one one of those moments when I silently prayed for oblivion to overtake me; sadly though, my prayers went unheeded. When I eventually arrived home in Tonyrefail, with my tuxedo sorely sodden, Margaret opened the door, took one look at me without enquiring about my sorry state, and told me to undress to my underpants there and then in the porch: having removed my wallet and keys, she then dumped my discarded attire unceremoniously in the dustbin. After a much needed shower, I joined her in bed and we swiftly fell asleep. It was over breakfast the next morning that she casually broached the subject of the previous night’s incident. The complex workings of the female mind never fail to amaze me. Another amateur operatic society I worked with for a few years was a breakaway group from the original Ponty Operatic, called Apollo. They had a very able MD by the name of Ron Nicholls who had played a great deal in local dance bands and knew his stuff. Whilst I and the regular players found him an easy guy with whom to work, newcomers to the band felt slightly ill at ease with Ron, for the simple reason that, despite being a perfectly nice chap, he hardly ever smiled! Occasionally we would have the added delight of working with an especially good MD who had an innate conducting ability: and more often than not these were not the ones dripping with impressive music qualifications. One such person was Eifion Evans of Treherbert. I first met Eifion at an Ogmore choral course when, as a young man, he sang the enchanting tenor solo ‘Onaway, Awake Beloved’ from Coleridge Taylor’s music drama ‘Hiawatha’. Never an academic, Eifion had pursued a number of careers, including a spell in the police force, before settling for a job as a forklift operator in the Royal Mint in Llantrisant. His wife Jill, had a glorious soprano voice, and they regularly appeared together onstage with the Selsig Opera Society. Upon the retirement of dear Wilf Howells, Eifion was asked to take over as MD. Hitherto, I knew only of Eifion’s vocal talents and his ability to sink a few pints whilst regaling us with a couple of risqué jokes better suited to male company! So in our first rehearsal with him as MD, it came as a most pleasant revelation to discover that he could direct our small orchestra with a clarity of beat lamentably absent in many musicians whose ‘paper’ qualifications far outstripped his: he could also stamp his authority on the audience as well as the band. In common with most local operatic societies, Selsig’s audience tended to regard the playing of the overture as merely a preamble to the action: mild chatter punctuated by the explosive unwrapping of sweet packets; provided a regular backdrop to our sturdy efforts in the pit which we had reluctantly come to accept. But such behaviour was not tolerated by Eifion. He would enter the pit immaculately attired in a dazzling white tuxedo, mount the podium, and bow respectively; but before launching into the overture, he would turn around to face the audience with a menacing glare which ensured their silence and rapt attention. Then, with a mischievous wink at us lads in the band, he’d get us off to a bristling start! As he once explained to me with his characteristic eloquence: “Hell mun, Jeff, you poor sods are player your guts out with some pretty tricky stuff, which is spoilt by those noisy buggers!” I think the ‘noisy buggers’ rapidly got the message from Eifion! On one occasion, our regular and superb oboe player Alan Good, rang me to say that he was unable to play on the last night of Selsig’s production of Offenbach’s ‘Orpheus in the Underworld’. I was none too pleased, despite his assurances that the young Gowerton schoolboy he was sending to deputise was a “cracking good player”. Whilst I was vaguely aware of this lad’s ability, the matter of his age, coupled with the fact that he would be sight-reading the show, left me feeling decidedly uneasy: and Eifion shared my misgivings. Early in the overture, the oboe plays a haunting solo entirely on its own which we all awaited with trepidation. However, the mellifluous sounds that this inexperienced kid produced elicited a collective sigh of relief and warm admiration from the band: and Eifion leaned over to him with the words: “Tidy, Buttie!” The youngster who so delighted us that evening was John Anderson, who would go on to become one of the most sought after oboists was John Anderson, who would go on to become one of the most sought after oboists in the country, occupying the first seat in London’s top orchestras and an international soloist in his own right. Selsig Operatic was also dutifully served for many years by a remarkable accompanist, Stella Willey. She acted as repetiteur and coached the singers tirelessly, and prior to Eifion’s arrival as MD, she would regularly rescue us from imminent disaster and collapse. I never saw Stella appear in the pit other than impeccably attired in a smart (and expensive) creation which could have graced a top Paris fashion house: and it was inevitably complemented by an eye-catching bouffant hair style. She truly was a gracefully elegant lady. Although she and I would occasionally disagree over some musical matter, we never lost our mutual respect and friendship. One evening, she entered the pit positively beaming with pride: her brilliant scientist son, Roger, had just been elected a Fellow of The Royal Society, a rare distinction for anyone, but especially for a lad from the Rhondda valleys ! he was, of course, yet another distinguished product of Porth County Boys’ Grammar School. This operatic society had always boasted, justifiably, a magnificent chorale together with some superb individual voices such as Jill Evans, Aldyth Jones, Tom Phelps, Gerwyn Llewellyn, Myra Thomas and Ray Daniels, to mention but a few: such an array of rich talent, finely tuned by their persuasive director, Gwenno Cole Evans, made Selsig a force to be reckoned with in amateur theatrical circles. It also had a rare character in the colourful personage of Emlyn Evans, whose outrageously ‘camp’ delivery amused both audiences and orchestra alike. At a time when the ‘gay scene’ had yet to attract legislative tolerance, Emlyn was feted in Treorchy for his humour and gallic dress sense. Whenever Emlyn was onstage, we orchestra boys were mesmerised by his comedic antics and his glib ‘ad libs’ which often had his fellow actors ‘corpsing’ and with the actual plot frequently thrown into hilarious confusion. In a production of ‘La Vie Parisienne’, Emlyn took the pivotal role of the ‘maitre de’: and to close the show he had to deliver, with imposing pomposity, the short line: “Ladies and Gentlemen, dinner is served!”, followed by the final curtain and the band’s play-out music. But on the last night of this particular production he appeared, immaculately attired and with a spotless table napkin over his arm, and started with the show’s exit line: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Dinner is…….”, then with a high, contemptuous nod of the head and in deep Rhondda accent, continued: “Oh, it’s been ready for ages!!” The boys in the band could hardly play, for laughing! A few years earlier, Emlyn did a fine portrayal of the lovelorn Freddy Eynsford-Hill in ‘My Fair Lady’: and in the famous Ascot scene he tended to steal the limelight from Eliza Doolittle, played by the delightful Irene Richards, by virtue of his unscripted mannerisms. Despite his thespian tomfoolery, Emlyn was a kindly man who frequently helped out with his elderly neighbours, and gained the respect and affection of all who knew him in Treorchy. Many years before I was ‘fixing’ and leading the Rhondda Theatre Orchestra, there had been a long established link between the old Rhondda musicians and the Porthcawl Operatic Society. The origins of this connection provide a fascinating insight into the social mores of the time. It revolved around the courtship of a young Rhondda couple, Flo Dallimore and Dai Morris, who shared an enthusiasm for amateur theatricals. However, Dai’s amorous pursuit of his fair lady was thwarted by her father, who insisted that the young man should move far away for a respectable period of time in order to quench his passion for his beloved Flo. But despite being ‘exiled’ for a while, Dave returned and he and his ‘fair lady’ were married, eventually settling in Porthcawl. In the days when private cars were the preserve only of fairly well off individuals and public transport was the accepted mode of transport, the Porthcawl Society would lay on a mini-bus for the band during the week of the show. This was a luxury for the boys in the band, all of whom were then Rhondda based, as it afforded them the opportunity to partake of a few welcome pints of beer after sweating it out in the often stifling atmosphere of the pit. This scheme worked well, until it became necessary to recruit new personnel from outlying areas who, naturally, required travelling expenses: so by the time I was fixing the orchestra, and with car ownership being the norm, the subsidised bus was quite sensibly scrapped and the musicians made their way independently. The Porthcawl Amateur Operatic Society was unique in as much that they engaged a professional producer. For many years, this was the Brighton based thespian, Mavis Stubb who, for me at least, cut a striking figure as she strode the length of the Porthcawl promenade adorned in clothes of a nautical fashion! She was quite a character who, annually, whipped the company into shape, resulting in many fine productions. But, playing also for so many other amateur operatic societies throughout the principality, whose producers emerged from the indigenous membership, I and my fellow musicians, were bemused by the fact that such a talented group like Porthcawl Operatic, preferred to pay a hefty fee to an outsider to perform a task that could have been achieved as well with an experienced member of their very own. After decades of engaging a ‘professional’ producer, Porthcawl Operatic eventually decided to seek out a producer from their own ranks and, with great success, in the form of Glenda Hier, whose husband Phillip and daughter, Caroline, have proven also to be very skilled musical directors. For we musicians, our annual pilgrimmage to Porthcawl was always enjoyable. The M.D; Flo Dallimore Morris, was rigid in her beat, no less so in the preparatory ‘God Save The Queen’ which, she insisted, was played with the utmost dignity, and at an exceedingly slow temp. This, ironically, seemed to go directly against the ultra socialist principles which she had vehemently espoused as a young girl in the Rhondda; but the intervening years, allied to a more mature perspective brought about by experience, had obviously mellowed her outlook. With Flo, unlike the majority of amateur MD’s, we could not nudge the tempo forward one iota. Once she had decided on her temp, she would not be deflected – which, of course, was her rightful prerogative. Her husband, Dave Morris, usually took on a comedy role to which he was well suited: and when characters made late entries, or forgot their lines, Dave could be relied upon to ‘cover’ with brilliant ‘ad libs’ which could last for ages, and were often funnier than the original script! However, when he took the part of handsome cowboy, ‘Curly’ in ‘Oklahoma’, he caused a few titters when he removed his capacious stetson, to reveal a rapidly receding hairline – not ideal for a guy called Curly ! Another attraction for our all-male band was the dancing troupe. We would blatantly ogle these delectable ladies, night after night. They were especially effective as the sexy dancers, ‘The Grisettes’, in the operetta, ‘The Merry Widow’. The company also possessed a fine chorus and a superb lead soprano, Mary Webber, whose vocal range was allied to a rich sonority. One night, whilst performing ‘The Gipsy Baron’ by Strauss, my old pal and desk mate, Bill Rogers, insisted that, in the interval, we should have a few pints, in celebration of his birthday. So, the interval witnessed us both knock back a few more pints than usual. When we got back to the pit, we were feeling particularly ‘jolly’ and happy with the world – until Madame Dallimore started the fast semiquaver opening. For some unaccountable reason my fingers did not seem able to respond with the rapidity required ! A quick glance at Bill confirmed that he was suffering a similar handicap - we were truly pissed ! A stern look from our unamused MD was the shot of adrenalin that we so desperately needed, and we gained almost instant sobriety ! At the end of the show, Bill and I made a pact of abstinence during the duration of any future shows ! And, surprisingly, we stuck to it. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Most of the amateur actors I encountered were allied to one particular operatic society; but there were just a few whose particular talents would be occassionall \'poached\' by other societies. One such was my good friend and Tonyrefail neighbour, John Beddoe. A former Head of Music at the former Tonyrefail Grammar school, and latterly at Bryn Celynog Comprehensive school, John bubbled with enthusiasm as a teacher and a performer onstage. Possessing a fine musical pedigree coupled with a healthily mischievous sense of humour, John was ideal for certain roles in which he ‘guested’ with quite a few amateur operatic and dramatic groups. Whilst he retained his essential valley boy’s ebullient persona, John, with a skilfully crafted vocal modulation, could portray an aristocratic English ‘toff’ so accurately : indeed, his depiction of Colonel Pickering, in ‘My Fair Lady’, was often more convincing than that of many a professional actor. In complete contrast, as blind Captain Cat, in Gordon Thomas’s ‘Players Anonymous’ production of Dylan Thomas’s ‘Under Milk Wood’, John’s dark brooding portrayal of the licentious old sea dog was riveting. He was yet another talented amateur actor who could have quite easily graced the professional stage. CHAPTER 10 The emergence of the Rhondda Theatre Orchestra With the gradual departure of the older players, for whom I have always retained the greatest respect and admiration, I set about selecting some young ‘blood’ for what I now called the, ‘Rhondda Theatre Orchestra’, as opposed to, ‘An Efficient Orchestra’, so described in many programmes of the earlier days. I felt that, as we played together so frequently, the orchestra needed a recognisable identity which would, perhaps, attract the attention of operatic societies beyond the confines of the Rhondda. With myself as leader and fixer, I brought in violinists such as Bill Rogers and Alun Jones from Maesteg, Mark Roberts, Mostyn Davies and Roger Strong from Cardiff, Phil Roberts and George Thomas, from Bedlinog and Aberdare respectively; Stuart Telling on viola, from Nelson; Ritchie Roberts from Ferndale, on ‘cello, later followed by Phil Hier from Porthcawl; and Elinor Philips, also from Ferndale, on Double Bass. On the ‘other side’, was fine flautist, David Richards (‘Dai Ric’) from Cowbridge; oboist, Howard Jones, from Maesteg, rapidly followed by, Alan Good, from Port Talbot; on clarinet was Derek Partington from Kenfig Hill, later followed by Janet Griffiths, from Porth; and Dai ‘Woolnut’ Rees, from Skewen was on bassoon. For brass players, I hardly needed to venture outside the Rhondda with its abundance of first class brass bands. Derek Holvey, from Dinas, and Dave Thomas, from Tonyrefail, were on trumpet, Dave Hughes from Porthcawl, fresh out of London’s Guildhall School of Music, on French Horn, with trombonist Phil Morgan, recently returned to his Treorchy hearth after spending some fruitful years in Liverpool, playing for the great Camel Laird shipbuilders’ brass band and the Liverpool Philarmonic Orchestra; and on drums and percussion we alternated between the multi instrumentalist, Roger Clift from Newport, and the ultra calm figure of Norman Pooley, from Cardiff. This really was a cracking team of players who could always be relied upon to ‘deliver the goods’. As stated earlier, such was our musical rapport , that we could often function just as well ( or even better ), without a conductor: and when a singer onstage skipped a beat, or even a whole bar, we would instinctively catch up, ‘en bloc ‘! I would proudly refer to this as our, ‘pit alchemy’! Amongst these fine colleagues were, inevitably, a few real characters and natural comedians. Trombonist, Phil Morgan, always kept us amused with his ‘stage whisper’ observations relating to the action onstage. In a rehearsal of, ‘The King and I’, in Parc and Dare hall, at the dramatic point where the King (played by Dennis Williams) is about to flog one of his young wives, Princess Tuptim, who had sought the love and solace of another. As he is about to bring down his ferocious whip across the bared back of the hapless young Tuptim, Anna, the prim English governess, tries to intervene by vainly appealing to the enraged king’s conscience; but he asserts his rights, with the words: “In Siam, I am King, and I will do as I wish: so I will not do it, English way; I will not do it, French way---“ and before he can complete his threat, Phil Morgan pipes up, in true Sinatra style, “---I’ll do it myyy way!” On another occasion, in Cardiff’s New Theatre, and yet again involving Dennis Williams, in the evergreen, ‘Oklahoma’, Phil once more caused happy mayhem with his quick repartee. Dennis, playing the part of cowboy hero, Curly, enters the dismally decrepit shack of his ever sullen rival, Judd. In the dress rehearsal, Dennis had donned a truly authentic cowboy outfit, with an especially prominent holster, complete with large six-shooters dangling from his waist. He light-heartedly boasts to the morose Judd, that he could shoot a bullet through one of the numerous knot holes in the shack’s shabby wooden roof. As he takes aim and pulls the trigger, a pathetic ‘click’ is all that is heard: the offstage crew guy wielding a starting pistol had missed his cue. A rather annoyed Dennis insists that the pistol shot is heard right on cue in the actual performance next evening: “Just you watch my hands closely, OK!?” At the first performance the attention of the whole band was firmly fixed on Dennis, awaiting that loud pistol shot. By now, however, his holster was dangling rather lower around his waist than intended, and the fearsome pistols were pointing threateningly towards his genital area. As Dennis nonchantly reaches for his gun, the deafening sound of the pistol shot is heard, very prematurely. Quick as a flash, Phil Morgan blurts out: “Oh ‘ell, he’s shot his balls off!” This, instantly picked up by most of the audience, resulted in loud guffaws, and with even the eternally gloomy Judd struggling vainly to suppress his giggles! Then again, in a performance of the show, ‘Naughty Marietta’, at Pontypridd’s Municipal Hall, one of the gentlemen of the chorus lost his way through the closed curtains and, with an almighty thud, fell into the orchestra pit! As if that was not a sufficiently traumatic event, the poor guy had the added misfortune of actually landing between Phil Morgan and the unflappably droll personage of trumpeter, Derek Holvey. The unfortunate victim, whilst thankfully unhurt, was naturally disoriented, and enquired:”Where am I, boys!?”. Holvey, pointing to his music and sporting a wry grin, replies unhelpfully: “Just a few bars before letter P, butty!” Then, after the unlucky fellow had clambered back onto the safety of the stage, Roger Clift, our drummer, pointed out that he had left behind, his glittering Hussar’s helmet, to which Holvey laconically observed: “He’ll probably, DROP IN, for it tomorrow night!” The hilarity enshrined in such incidents could only be fully appreciated by those of us in the orchestra pit at the time; but it guaranteed that our journey home would inevitably be filled with laughter. In the New Theatre, Phil Morgan would also cause mild chaos during the interval raffle draw. He had perfected a technique of ‘throwing’ his voice, just like a ventriloquist, through the bell of his trombone: and when the compere called out the winning numbers from the stage, Phil would respond with the words: “Over here!” With the genuine lucky ticket holder protesting: “No, it’s over here!”, chaos would reign, until the perspiring compere restored a semblance of order. Meanwhile, Phil had slipped unobtrusively into the sanctuary of the band room beneath the stage! ------------------------------------------------------------------ I had assumed that such hilarious happenings could only have occurred in the amateur theatre, but I was proven incorrect whilst playing a few seasons with the orchestra of the Welsh National Opera, in the seventies. The company’s performances of the ever popular light opera, ‘Die Fledermaus’, by Johann Strauss, had gone very smoothly at Cardiff’s New Theatre, as only was to be expected from a group of polished professionals. However, the opening performance on the somewhat restricted stage of the Grand Theatre, Swansea was fraught with difficulties. After the overture, in controversial director, Michael Geliot’s, rather saucy production, which was brimming with sexual innuendo and a mild hint of sadomasochism, the curtain reveals an overtly busty Rosalind, lazily combing her long blonde tresses, to the accompaniment of her lover, Alfred’s , serenade outside her bedroom window. He is then meant to swing in through the open window, landing gracefully on the bed to shower passionate kisses on, the suitably pleased Rosalind’s, rosy red lips. Unfortunately, the tenor playing Alfred on this particular night, was somewhat portly in figure: the unhappy consequence of this was that, as he swung majestically through the window, he brought the whole window frame and attached paraphernalia with him, leaving him to dangle precariously to and fro, high above the stage. Our conductor, Alan Suttie, simply collapsed with laughter at this bizarre spectacle, while stage hands with ladders, and in full view of the bemused audience, attempted to disentangle the wretched tenor! In Michael Geliot’s production of, ‘L’Elisir D’Amore’ (The Elixir of Love), by Donizetti, one scene featured four remotely controlled, mechanical sheep, making a brief, but comical appearance. At this point during one performance, one of the clarinettists reached up and placed on the stage, a clockwork toy dog, which roamed about menacingly, and barking ferociously! The audience thought it hilarious; but the recalcitrant musician narrowly escaped being sacked! On another occasion, the Orchestra of WNO presented, with not a singer in sight, a Sunday evening orchestral concert in the New Theatre, Cardiff. Having opened with an overture, we were due to perform Wagner’s tunefully tender, ‘Siegfried Idyll’, written as a birthday gift to the composer’s wife, Cosima, and played on Christmas morning outside her bedroom. The work is written for a relatively small orchestra, where the woodwind parts are crucial. Whilst awaiting the arrival of our conductor, Richard Armstrong, I casually glanced over my shoulder and noticed the solitary lady flautist looking somewhat dismal, and without a scrap of music on her stand. Instead of alerting the forgetful librarian to the situation, she merely sat there, like a naughty schoolgirl, without any homework to present for teacher! Before the alarm could be raised, in comes a smiling Richard Armstrong, obviously eager to get this glorious work underway. His face was a picture of pure, aesthetic satisfaction-until he looked up to cue in the hapless flautist. His demeanour altered sharply, as he realized that the exquisite flute entry would be absent in this performance. He may, however, have derived some small crumb of comfort from next day’s newspaper review, which lavishly praised the orchestra’s delicate rendition of the ‘Siegfried Idyll’, with particular reference to the woodwinds laudable contribution! I believe there was a change of librarian within twenty four hours!
Selsig Operatic Society was based in the village of Treherbert, at the top end of the Rhondda Fawr: and I have been reliably informed by my good friends, Dai John and his thespian partner, Margaret Evans, who are well informed on matters musical in the Rhondda, that a very fine Welsh tenor had carved a successful career in London’s opera world in the early nineteen twenties, under the professional name of Herbert tree. He had subtly extracted his professional name from his birthplace, Treherbert!! --------------------------------------------------------------------- A little further down the valley, was yet another operatic society, Pentre operatic. Very much, ‘in charge’, of this society was the formidable, Madame Danford George, who ruled with a rod of iron, and acted not only as musical director, but producer and choreographer as well. My first encounter with this lady was in a band call and dress rehearsal for the mammoth Ivor Novello hit, 'The Dancing Years', in the Grand Theatre, Pentre; dusty, decrepid and mouldy, this little theatre certainly was; but in no way did it merit the imposing title of, 'Grand'! Virtually all of Ivor Novello's operettas, whilst delightfully tuneful, were notoriously lengthy and involved major scene changes, which were tricky enough in a large theatre, such as London's Drury Lane; in Pentre's 'Grand', such changes became an impossibility. As a result, the dress rehearsal dragged on until eleven thirty at night, way over the MU\'s stipulated three hours rehearsal time. The first night began at seven pm, but did not end until eleven forty five! Around about ten pm, I asked my colleague, Mark Roberts, who was familiar with the show, how much longer was it likely to take, to which he woefully replied: \"Ages to go, the bloody Nazis haven\'t appeared yet mun!\" At the end of this marathon, when most of the audience had gone to catch their last buses, I protested to Mrs. Danford George that the show be cut by at least an hour, for everybody\'s sake. She adamantly refused to budge on this, so the next day I was desperately trying to secure, with the promise of an inflated fee, a violinist to deputise for me; but the news had got out, and no other available musician could be, even remotely, tempted! So we bravely battled on for the rest of the week, during which an uneasy truce was observed between the defiant Mrs. George and myself. No doubt, she had decided to stage this formidable musical, with the best of intensions; but she had simply not, \'done her homework\', on the logistics involved. Strangely enough, there was a similar dispute involving yet another show of Ivor Novello\'s, a decade or so later with the excellent Orbit Theatre company in Cardiff\'s, New Theatre, to which I will refer to in a later chapter. Anyway, getting back to the Pentre marathon, I eventually made a conscious decision, thereafter, to avoid \'darling Ivor\'s lavish musicals in the future! ------------------------------------------------------------------- Another fine, enterprising theatrical group was the Mid Rhondda Operatic Society, which was based in Tonypandy. Key performers here were the ebullient, Marcia Williams, and the redoubtable, Arfon Henderson, along with his choreographer wife, Cathy. With their warmth, exuberance and blunt candour, which allowed them to, proverbially, call a spade a \'bloody shovel\', they typified the true Rhondda spirit! The first show I performed for Mid Rhondda was, \'Call Me Madam\', in the Plaza cinema in Penygraig. Marcia was a very convincing Madam US Ambassador, but her opposite number, assailed by nerves, simply could not remember his lines. I was sitting inside to leader, Betty Mabbs, who was a first rate fiddle player, but who would blow her top if I didn\'t turn the pages at just the right moment. Throughout the week she\'d also kept moaning to me about the rather imprecise beat of the conductor: and during the Saturday matinee tea break, she expressed her pent-up fury to the dear lady who had been serving us with sustaining cups of tea all week. The normally pleasant countenance of this kindly lady altered dramatically, and she stopped the irate Betty in her tracks with the devastating revelation, delivered in high dudgeon: \'That\'s my HUSBAND you\'re referring to! And that was a salutary lesson to me - never speak ill of anyone in these companies, as they might just be a close friend or relative! For a number of years, the Mid Rhondda group gallantly put on some fine shows in the Picturedome, Tonypandy. This was nothing less than a veritable flea pit as a cinema, but this heroic company, acting against almost insurmountable odds, annually transformed this inhospitable \'shed\' into a theatre, with all the warm, welcoming ambience that audiences took for granted. We, in the pit had to prop up our chairs with pieces of wood, to compensate for the considerable camber in the floor. Conditions backstage likened that of a colliery coal face, where improvised \'dressing rooms\' did little to ensure one\'s privacy: indeed, after a few nights struggle, the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus, simply threw caution, and what remained of their modesty, to the wind. However, despite such adverse working conditions, some fabulous productions emerged. In the dress rehearsal of \'South Pacific\', where a love scene is enacted by the beautiful, dusky native girl, Laya, and the young US navy flyer, Cpt. Cable, played by the delightful lyric tenor, George Hitchens, the loving couple were laying provocatively on a bed of straw, about to engage in an act of torrid passion. But a rather reserved George, felt ill at ease with this intimate act, so producer, Marcia, pacified him with the assurance that the lights would be suitably dimmed, ensuring that the couple\'s labours would take place \'in the black\', with the audience\'s imagination left to fill in the visual details! At this point, on the opening night, traditionally attended by the local OAP\'s, as the lights dimmed to total darkness, I overheard an old lady in the front row proudly announce to her equally elderly companion: \'Duw Doris mun, he do it just like my Alfie used to - with the lights out!\' Predictably, we in the orchestra, of course, were yet again in fits of laughter! Mid Rhondda\'s production of, \'Finian\'s Rainbow\', took place at a time of national emergency brought about by the nationwide miner\'s strike, in 1979. This resulted in the so called, \'three day week\', which meant that industry could only function for a limited period, in order to conserve energy resources. As a result, sudden, unscheduled electricity cuts plagued the nation. At such a time of crisis, any other amateur operatic society, revealing an iota of common sense, would have cancelled their show; but not, Mid Rhondda, who were made of sterner stuff. In anticipation of such a sudden power cut, the ever resourceful Arfon and his technical team had rigged up yard upon yard of electrical cables connected to a central generator. As predicted, one evening the lights did go out, just before the orchestral introduction to Phil Lloyd\'s big solo as the Leprechaun. Undaunted (and unaccompanied), Phil started the song, and when the lights quickly came back on, the orchestra rejoined him, and were amazed to find that he was singing in the correct key! Suspecting that he must possess ‘perfect pitch’, I later enquired how he had plumped for the right key without a cue note, to which he characteristically replied: “What the hell’s perfect pitch, Jeff? I just opened my mouth, and out it bloody came mun!”That same show featured the deaf mute, Susan, daughter of the wily old Finian, and played by the ravishingly beautiful, Christine Collins. One night, during the interval, I was summoned backstage on the pretext of discussing some detail of temp for a dance number. Having knocked, as instructed, on the ‘door’ of one of the ladies’ dressing rooms, I entered and was confronted by the luscious creature, Christine, provocatively clad in the skimpiest of frilly bra and pink panties, and nothing else!!! Of course, I should have been alerted to this ruse by the sound of suppressed female giggling, which I clearly heard from outside; needless to say, however, the naughty humour and visual impact of that moment remain, nostalgically etched in my memory! During a performance of the popular musical, ‘The Merry Widow’, the skilled musical director, Paul Williams and I exchanged expressions of annoyance when the course of the onstage dialogue was rudely interrupted by a thunderous noise of hammering emanating from backstage. It was only much later that we discovered the awesome cause of such commotion. A few of the offstage cast had noticed an ominous ‘bellying’ of the stage structure, which was in an imminent state of collapse. The quick thinking of Arfon Henderson and his mates, many of whom were hardy miners, prevented a catastrophe. In the street outside, a passing lorry, loaded with timber, was stopped and the driver ‘persuaded’ to sell his load to an insistent Arfon, right there on the spot! Lengths of sturdy timber were then hurriedly manhandled into the back of the theatre, and were duly hammered into position, like pit props! It was also in the Picturedome that my lifelong mate and fellow fiddler, Bill Rogers, had his spanking new, and expensive, ‘Menhuin’ violin shoulder rest stolen – by a rat!! Bill was sitting with his violin perched casually on his knee, when his precious shoulder rest fell to the floor, and disappeared through a sizeable gap in the rotting floorboards. As he went to retrieve it, he let out a stifled cry of alarm and turned to me with the words: \"Ccchrist, mun Jeff, it\'s bloody moving!\" He swears that as he saw it disappear, a rat\'s tail was clearly visible going in the same direction! It took quite a few stiff whiskies, in the interval, for poor Bill to regain his composure. You will read a great deal more of my dear, heroic friend Bill later on. The orchestra enjoyed a mutually reciprocal relationship with virtually all the societies with whom we performed: any small problems that arose, from time to time, could usually be resolved with a quick chat between myself and any offended party in the company. However, on one occassion, as I was about to make an early entry into the pit to check some detail before the start of a Saturday matinee performance, I was angrily assailed by a clearly disgruntled Marcia, the producer. She dragged me over to one of the woodwind stands which had, surreptititiously secreted beneath it, a television set, readily tuned to receive the transmission of an international rugby match from Cardiff Arm\'s Park. I told the musician concerned that this was pushing the company\'s tolerance to an unacceptable degree, so either the set went or he did! And I meant every word of my threat. The set was, with reluctance, removed; but the incident cast a shadow, albeit temporary, on the orchestra\'s reputation. After suffering such harrowing events as an imminent stage collapse, coupled with lamentable back stage facilities, I don\'t think it was too long before Mid Rhondda sought refuge in the more civilised, Parc and Dare hall, for their subsequent productions: and the site upon which the fragile Picturedome once proudly stood, now serves, very sensibly, as a car park. Now that\'s progress! Mid Rhondda had quite a succession of MD\'s over the years: Paul Bennet, Paul Williams, the versatile Dennis Williams, and my teaching colleague, and principal \'cello of RSO, Diana Thomas, who was yet another person with that instinctive ability to wield a baton with authority. My memories of working with Mid Rhondda Operatic were of great fun and adventure, mingled with moments of imminent cataclysms which were, thankfully, always averted. CHAPTER 11 PLAYING IT STRAIGHT ! Running parralel with my glorious adventures amongst the various amateur operatic societies was my growing associations with the \'straight\' elements of music making - the choral societies, with their often inspired performances of the oratorios and sacred works of J.S. Bach, Haydn, Mendelsshon, Schubert, Elgar and so many other creative geniuses. Well before I even thought about \'fixing\' ensembles, I was already being asked to play or lead for a number of choral groups throughout Wales. One arduous, but satisfying, pilgrimage was to Aberystwyth\'s King Hall in 1967, for the University\\\'s annual Choral Union concert. My wife, Maragaret, accompanied me on this circuitous journey and, it being a Sunday, she had nowhere to find a meal, as the traditional Sunday closing of that era affected shops and cafes as well as the pubs. Consequently, with admirable fortitude, my darling girl spent most of the day curled up snoozing in the ancient, unluxurious Morris \'Thousand\' car we had recently acquired! Having been invited along to act as leader, I was quite taken aback and somewhat unnerved to find Edward Bor, Bill James and the rest of the resident university string quartet strolling into the morning rehearsal. But it came as a huge relief to be complimented later by both Bill and Teddy Bor, two superb violinists, on my leadership qualities. The work performed was Handel\'s ever lengthy \'Messiah\', always a backbreaker for string players, but my recollection of the evening\'s performance became secondary to the sumptuous post-concert feast laid on by the distinquished academician and college principal, Sir Thomas Parry. Also in attendance was Aber\\\'s music professor, the composer, Ian Parrot and other academic glitterati. Being too poor to afford a B+B stopover, Margaret and I had to make the return trip late that night, finally arriving at my parents\' Sarn home at around five thirty next morning. The following year, with Margaret comfortably at home with the children, I once again made the trek to Aber for a miscellaneous programme with the same choral union. The programme was to feature an arrangement for string quartet, by the student conductor, of a slow Bach fugue. What had already been written looked quite easy and we were assured that the remaining bars were just as straightforward and would be completed by the conductor/arranger on our existing copies in readiness for the concert. That evening, when it came to this item, Bill James, myself, Peter Kingswood on viola and \'cellist, Geraint John sat in quartet formation, in front of the orchestra with our copies securely set in readiness on four spanking new music stands - top marks to the stage crew, we mused. Bill starts on first fiddle, with me following a few bars later. The viola then makes its entry, followed shortly by the \'cello. For a piece that we were sightreading in the actual performance, all was proceeding rather well, that is, until Bill turns over the page and abruptly stops playing. This routine was replicated in turn by second violin, viola and \'cello until the whole thing ground to an ignominious halt. Because the arranger, in his excitement, had forgotten to complete the piece, we had simply run out of music ! Our own embarrassment was shared by the equally perplexed audience who, half heartedly, began a muted applause which we shamefacedly acknowledged with a cursory bow before scuttling backstage. Needless to say, sharp words were exchanged with the absent minded conductor after the concert; but it taught me never to go \'blind\' into a solo concert performance ever again, however simple the music might appear. ---------------------------------------------------------------- It was in the early sixties that I first encountered the inimitable Morgan Lloyd who, as a distinquished violinist, orchestral leader, teacher and \'fixer\' had deservedly earned quite a reputation in Welsh music circles. Having earlier sampled the London professional orchestral scene in the twenties, Morgan returned to his native Swansea, where he settled with his wife Dilys, herself an accomplished organist and accompanist. Over the decades virtually every successful violinist to emerge from West Wales was a former pupil of this truly inspiring pedagogue. The name Morgan Lloyd was first heard by me as a young child in Seven Sisters, where the Morgan Lloyd Orchestra would regularly accompany the local choral society\'s concerts; indeed, my mother spoke reverentially of this dapper little gentleman. Morgan had his faithful band of players to whom he was equally loyal, but he would occassionally draft me in to cover for an absent colleague. On two consecutive occasions I played for Morgan at the annual pre-Christmas performance of Handel\'s \'Messiah\' at Swansea\'s Brangwyn Hall which were each memorable, albeit, for somewhat bizarre reasons. Before the start of the first of these concerts, I was seated on the edge of the Brangwyn\'s high stage tuning my fiddle and casually looking out at the audience filtering in, when I noticed an elderly lady with silver hair being gently escorted to her seat by a steward. I smiled respectfully, and with admiration, at the lady\\\'s fortitude in attending such an event on her own. All was proceeding well until the extended aria, \'And He Shall Feed His Flock\', which is sung in sequence by the contralto and soprano soloists. Within just a few bars of the soprano\'s entry, I became aware of a distinct faltering in her voice. Our conductor, the ever reliable Alun John, turned to see what was amiss; but his gaze was quickly diverted towards the audience, where the cause of the soprano\'s unease became painfully clear. Playing on \'auto pilot\', I peered down at the audience to find that the silver haired old lady, who\\\'s dignified entrance had so impressed me, was slumped back in her chair, dentures drooped forward and decidely - dead ! Poor Alun, nonplussed by this spectacle, had to bring the music to a premature halt, whilst a number of gentlemen ushers, with as much decorum as could be mustered, carried the unfortunate lady\'s body out of the hall. A year later, Morgan asked me to play lead viola for yet another performance of ‘Messiah’. (I was wary of accepting this ‘gig’, being acutely mindful of the hoary old yarn of the viola player who, one night, dreamed that he was playing in the ‘Messiah’, and suddenly awoke to find- that he was!). Placed in the first seat of violas, I had a panoramic view of the hall: and just as the conductor, the wonderful Haydn James, was about to raise his baton for the opening of this celestial work, a truculent, inebriated voice reverberated around the hall with the words, “Oi’l foight da bloody lot o’ yew, so I will!!” Our revered conductor was visibly transfixed with a look of horrified abandonment etched upon his countenance. It later transpired that the unseasonal outburst had come from an Irish seaman who had docked in the port of Swansea that morning and, flush with his pay after many months at sea, went on a heavy drinking spree in the city. Emerging from his final watering hole, he got caught up in a crowd of people he mistakenly supposed to be en route to a football match; but they were, in fact, soberly making their way to the Brangwyn Hall for the performance of ‘Messiah’. By some quirk, this chap managed to get into the concert hall and sat down in one of a pair of empty seats. Within minutes the bona fide ticket holders arrived and politely requested that he vacate his seat. Our drunken sailor took offence and caused the rumpus that resulted in his swift ejection after his verbal tirade! Future ‘messiah’ gigs at the Brangwyn were understandably avoided by me like the proverbial plaque for quite some time after that. The ‘Messiah’ being universally popular and so frequently performed, has been responsible for some odd and unexpected spin-offs. The legendary trumpet virtuoso, Maurice Murphy, was much in demand amongst the choral societies in the North of England for the solo part in the celebrated Bass aria, ’The Trumpet Shall Sound’. Rumour has it that, in the event of the work being performed on the same evening, the various choirs would stagger the start of their performances, thus enabling Maurice to arrive at each venue in time for his solo part! The \'Messiah\' has also set up in me a strange physical reaction which I affectionately refer to as my \'Pavlovian Syndrome\'. Because the oratorio is such a lengthy and tiring work for string players, one yearns for the penultimate chorus, ‘Worthy is the Lamb’. Consequently, whenever we reached this final hurdle, I would demonstrably lick my lips to signify to my colleagues that a refreshing pint of beer was just ten minutes away! This became so ingrained in my psyche that, to this day, the opening bars of this chorus cause my palate to salivate like Pavlov’s dogs! In his experiments involving conditioned response, the distinguished Russian psychologist would ring a bell prior to feeding his dogs: frequent repetition of this caused the animals to salivate at the sound of the bell. And to this day, and even as a member of the audience, I remain similarly afflicted-thanks to ‘Messiah’! Morgan Lloyd was also an entertaining raconteur whose wide repertoire of anecdotes brightened many a rehearsal break. he once told me an hilarious tale regarding a concert at the Brangwyn Hall which took place just after the war. The principal participant in this story was Ivor Owen, the official cityorganist, whose Bohemian dress sense and theatrical persona frequently drew curious glances from passers-by as he pranced around his beloved city in a manner somewhat reminiscent of the celebrated Quentin Crisp! Anyway, back to the main story. As a gesture of goodwill to Swansea, which had been heavily blitzed during the World War Two conflict, a wealthy Northern businessman had donated the gift of an electric organ to the city which was duly installed in the Brangwyn Hall. An inaugural concert, featuring the magnificent new instrument, was hastily arranged: and the work would be the ever popular ’Messiah’ of Handel. With a veritable plethora of civic dignitaries due to be in attendance, Morgan was especially anxious that nothing should be left to chance on the big night. So he contacted Ivor Owen regarding the rehearsal arrangements. Ivor, however, protested that he knew the work backwards, asserting also that his encyclopaedic knowledge of organs would enable him to readily adapt to the new electronic acquisition. He would be there on the night, and that was that! That evening, seated in readiness at the organ, Ivor first read a written instruction from the conductor requesting that he remain ‘tacet’ ( silent) until the exquisite soprano recitative, ‘And There Were Shepherds Abiding In The Fields’, which appears fairly well into Part One of the work. This afforded a curious Ivor plenty of time to silently explore the mechanics of this new, untested instrument, while the orchestra accompanied the vocalists in the preceding choruses and recitatives etc. With the gleeful excitement of a child exploring a new toy, he twiddled with the various knobs, organ stops and switches that were dazzlingly displayed before him. Then, with the elegantly poised soprano awaiting the magical, quiet F major chord which heralds this most sublime solo, the conductor nods to Ivor who gently places his well manicured hands on the keys. One can but imagine the look of horror on the face of the hapless soprano when, out of the organ’s sturdy frame, blares ‘Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside!!’ An equally mortified Morgan, who instantly assesses the situation, leaps out of his seat and yanks the organ plug from the main socket, causing the residual power left in the instrument to audibly emit a deathlike wailing sound! It seems that poor old Ivor had inadvertently stumbled across an inconspicuous switch which set the instrument in automatic mode (like a piano roll). It seems that in the organ’s previous habitat, this device enabled the player to grab a pint, or visit the loo, whilst the instrument kept the patrons entertained with a jolly medley of seaside melodies! Now this tale, coming as it did from the lips of Morgan, could possibly be apocryphal; but, either way, it’s an amusing story! As he was so much in demand to provide an orchestra for so many choral societies, Morgan often found himself stretched to the limit. Indeed, it was not unusual to have ‘The Morgan Lloyd Orchestra’ appearing in three different venues, for three separate choirs, on the same night! On such occasions his long standing sidekick, the respected violinist Don Preece, would hold the fort at one concert, and I would often be drafted in to fill the gap elsewhere. I was once sent to deputise for Morgan for a performance of Mendelssohn’s ‘Elijah’, at a large imposing chapel in Burry Port. Being always a stickler for punctuality, I set out in good time for the Sunday afternoon rehearsal, but within just a few miles of my destination, the car developed a flat tyre which I was forced to change there and then. Consequently, I arrived at the rehearsal twenty minutes late, sweaty, and generally besmirched by my roadside labours. The rather stern conductor looked at me, barely concealing his displeasure, and his attitude did not improve when he realised that I was a substitute leader and not the expected Morgan Lloyd. My surname, also being Lloyd, caused further confusion and irritation. Having quickly washed my hands and generally tidied myself in the chapel vestry, I swiftly took my position in the leader’s chair. However, this obdurate conductor continued to eye me with deep suspicion. So I decided to play out with a vigour and assurance that just might convince him that I possessed a modicum of ability. His facial expression remained totally impassive, and not a word of praise or criticism passed his lips. So sullen and bombastic was this guy’s attitude that I was on the verge of just getting up and walking out of his miserable rehearsal, when he suddenly brought proceedings to a halt for a short break. He then turned to me and said, ‘You’ll do!’ From then on we seemed to establish a tentative rapport, and from then on, he used to request my presence as leader whenever Morgan was unavailable. I suspect that canny old Morgan had taken an understandable aversion to this fellow very early on and was content to send along an unsuspecting sucker, like me, to face his wrath! I gradually came to realise that this chap was actually quite an able musician, but whose man-management skills left a lot to be desired. More importantly for me, however, it taught me never to be cowed by podium bullies: and this became a personal mantra which I extended to all aspects of my professional life in both music and education. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ This neatly brings me to the vexed matter of that mysterious species- the professional conductor! Over the years I have observed many a fine orchestral musician whose spirit and health were destroyed by a mercurial ‘stick wagger’. Whilst the professional music world is, thankfully, still blessed with a light sprinkling of quite brilliant conductors who also happen to retain a rare spark of humanity coupled with a genuine empathy with the musicians playing under their batons, these seem to be a rarity in a profession seemingly infested with too many tyrannical ego-maniacs! I well recall, some years ago, visiting the former leader of the old BBC Welsh Orchestra, Philip Whiteway, by then well into his ninetieth year, at his comfortable Llandaff home. Over a nice cup of Earl Grey tea, with this delightful old sage, I respectfully sought his opinions on the galaxy of famous maestros for whom he had played. Disturbingly, however, the very word ‘conductor’ brought about an abrupt transformation in his, hitherto, calm demeanour. Indeed, this gentlest of gentlemen visibly winced as I had unintentionally stumbled upon recollections which he would have preferred to have remained unthreateningly dormant in the deep recesses of his mind. In a short time, however, with the added sustenance of another cup of tea and a nourishing Welshcake, Philip went on to describe a rehearsal with, I believe, the Halle orchestra under the great Richard Strauss. According to my story teller, the celebrated composer/conductor spent a scant amount of rehearsal time on the works of Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert, but most of the allotted time on his own composition. I never cease to be amazed at the obscenely high fees that far too many maestros seem able to command, in direct contrast to the miserly stipends deemed sufficiently adequate for the orchestral players upon whose collective expertise the ‘carvers’ so utterly depend. A good orchestra can, and is so often obliged to, function perfectly well without a conductor; but can one even begin to contemplate the reverse scenario? Thankfully, having always held a secure teaching job, never have I had to endure the opprobrium of a particularly obnoxious conductor, as I had the luxury of being able to simply walk away in the comforting knowledge that I had a regular monthly salary upon which I could depend. Not so, however, for many of my good friends and colleagues whose economic survival often depended upon the fleeting whim of some disconsolate maestro. In his excellent expose, ‘The Maestro Myth’, the distinguished writer and musical commentator, Norman Lebrecht, is most revealing in his well researched observations on the conducting art. Was it not the legendary, acerbic Sir Thomas Beecham who asserted, ‘Any damn fool can conduct: and far too many do!’ Suffice to say that I, in common with many others, am still waiting to hear a conductor play a wrong note!! CHAPTER 12 ORBIT THEATRE, AND OTHER THRILLS AND SPILLS It’s true what they say about being in the right place at the right time: and this was certainly so for me. In the early seventies I was asked by my good friend, Vic Chamberlain, to deputise for him as leader in the show ‘Carousel’, up at Aberaman. Peppered throughout the score were quite a few ‘smaltzy’ fiddle solos which I would ‘milk’ shamelessly for maximum tear-jerking effect! One evening as I was packing away my instrument, a short , bespectacled gentleman, immaculately attired in a classy bespoke suit, came over to me in the pit with the words, ‘I’m Ivan Sadka, MD of Orbit Theatre, and I’d like you to lead my orchestra for our next production’. I was quite taken aback, as Cardiff’s Orbit Theatre was acknowledged as being, arguably, the best amateur theatrical society in Wales: their productions often outstripped those of their professional counterparts. So began a long and fruitful association with Orbit. My first show with them was ‘Fiddler on the Roof’. The story revolves around the life of the poor Jewish farmer, Tevye, struggling to eke out a living in the impoverished village of Anatevka, and having to contend with his three rebellious daughters, together with the added strain of the Bolshevik pogroms, which were causing despair and mass migration among the pesantry. In order to familiarise myself with the show, I took Margaret and the kids to see the film version at a Cardiff cinema. But I was aghast when I heard the virtuoso playing of the great violinist, Isaac Stern, who was on the soundtrack. I confessed to Margaret, ’I’ll never be able to manage that stuff with all those multi octave leaps, double stopping and multiple glissandi!’ However, when I was given the first fiddle part, I was greatly relieved to find that the brilliant cadenzas, performed by Stern for Hollywood did not appear in the ‘regular’ stage version. Prominent among its eclectic membership, Orbit theatre had a number of Cardiff’s business fraternity: and quite a few of these were Jewish, like the extrovert estate agent, Harold Green, and shop owner, Henry Jacobs. This led to an amusing exchange at the band call, my first contact with the company. In the break, Henry Jacobs, who was acting superbly the exacting role of Tevye, strolled over to me, introduced himself and, with his eyes fixed firmly on my prominent proboscis, enquired curiously, ‘Jeff, maa daear, vitch synagogue do you attend?!’ To which I promptly replied, ‘Capel-Y-Ton, in Tonyrefail, bach!’ Sharing the humour of the moment, we each had a good laugh and went on to enjoy many a musical collaboration in the coming years. Sitting next to me in the New Theatre orchestra pit for a few of the Orbit shows was the tantalisingly attractive Jill Meredith, whose violinist skills were complemented by her feminine allure! Many a hot blooded male actor, together with us orchestra boys, was gravely distracted whenever Jill was in the pit! A fine fiddle player, she ultimately went on, successfully, to a full professional career with the orchestra of the WNO. The other delightful female distractions came in the form of our talented ’cellist Helena Braithwaite (nee Davies), who was my previous college chum, double bassist, the ever sunny Elinor Hughes and the delectable flautist, Pippa Russell. The band was, indeed, awash with glamour! The string section included also the less glamorous, but highly skilled, Bob Swain, Mostyn Davies and Stuart Telling – a formidable team! In Orbit’s production of ‘Oliver’, the man playing the part of the vicious inebriate, Bill Sykes, was of Polish extract and quite an accomplished stuntman. At one dramatic point in the show, Sykes takes a nasty tumble from a bridge, in an attempt to escape the pursuing ‘Bow St. Runners’. Our Polish actor was most convincing in his portrayal, and all went smoothly each night. In fact, so impressive was his gymnastic feat, that a member of a visiting amateur society, who was about to take on the same villainous role in an imminent production of ‘Oliver’, decided to emulate the expert’s antics. Unfortunately, things did not go quite as smoothly for Russell Bluett in Pontypridd Operatic’s subsequent production. In the dress rehearsal, he took his tumble and promptly fractured his leg! Valiantly adhering to the thespian maxim, ‘The Show Must Go On’, Russell, suffering immense discomfort and aided by a walking stick, stoically carried on with his role for the week’s duration of the show. Orbit’s musical director, Ivan Sadka, was undoubtedly one of the finest musicians I have had the pleasure of working with. By profession, a highly skilled and respected Cardiff solicitor, Ivan’s passion for music theatre was insatiable: and his dazzling spontaneity, as a jazz pianist, was beguiling. In later life Ivor formed a highly polished and sophisticated jazz trio, with drummer Steve Hawkins, a bassist, and featuring the multi talented Pontypridd vocalist and broadcaster, Beverley Humphries. In the pit, Ivan had an idiosyncratic habit of perpetually adjusting his priz-nez spectacles during the more rhythmically pulsating numbers! Often, whilst directing an especially sentimental melody, he would lean over to me, with a look of poor delight on his face, and say, ‘Ah, Jeffrey, isn’t dat laaverly?” In my first week’s encounter with Orbit Theatre, whilst the band was generally of a good standard, I was acutely aware of glaringly obvious deficiencies amongst just a few individuals in the wind and brass sections; but as I was not the ‘fixer’, I merely allowed my facial expression to do the talking. But an exasperated Ivan implored me to seek out some dependable musicians for their next production. He had wrongly assumed that MU positions held by various players, tied him to these guys for perpetuity. He looked at me askance when I suggested he attend a production in the Rhondda the following week. By the interval of the Rhondda show, he was sufficiently impressed by the playing of Messers Holvey , Morgan, Dave Hughes and Alan Good, to book them there and then for Orbit’s next production! In my humble opinion, one of Orbit’s best productions was the show, ’Sweet Charity’, which charts the story of the lovelorn seedy dancer with the enchantingly deceptive name, charity Hope-valentine, in her eternal quest to find her ‘Mr. Right’. At the time, Orbit’s business manager was Harold Green, whose enthusiasm for this particular show was palpable: and for the fortnight run, he acted with all the ‘razzamatazz’ of a West End impresario. One evening, just minutes before the start of the show, I dashed round to the New theatre box office to collect tickets for some friends for the next night’s performance. I was about to return to the stage door when I noticed two elderly ladies tearfully explaining to a sympathetic usherette that they had inadvertently left their tickets at home, miles away in Tonypandy. But then, with the flourish of a gallant Arthurian knight on his white charger, Harold appears, and demands to know the reason for the distraught ladies distress. He then instructs the usherette to ‘---bring to my box, the largest selection of chocolates available, for my two lady guests!’ Then with each lady securely tucked under his arms, he strode majestically to his private box with the words, ‘Tut, tut, there will be no unhappy ladies in MY theatre!’ Judging by their broad smiles, the two dears must have thought that they had won the pools that night. Always larger than life ( he owned a yellow Rolls Royce which sported the technically illegal number plate – HOUSE ! ), and despite his own considerable business successes, I firmly believe that Harold was secretly, a frustrated theatrical entrepreneur, in the tradition of the great Lew Grade; but he always brought that uplifting dash of glitzy glamour to Orbit’s shows. We musicians had always enjoyed a happy relationship with the Orbit Company over many years, until their production of Ivor Novello’s ‘King of Rhapsody’ in 1977. Unlike the lady producer in Pentre, Orbit’s first –rate producer, Frank Wooles, really had done his homework for this colossal musical; but try as he did to ‘trim’ the show, each rehearsal and consecutive performance overran the stipulated three hours, and the MU rules dictated that the musicians must be given considerable overtime payment. I firmly believe that a mutually acceptable compromise could have been arrived at over a quiet pint in the artiste’s bar. Unfortunately, however, one of the band members was also an MU official who stuck rigidly to the rules and even forbade any discussion of the matter between ourselves and members of the company. Things became even more fraught, and tempers frayed, when the company failed to make the usual Friday night payment. After the Saturday afternoon matinee performance, a fellow musician from Bristol told of the time when, in a similar dispute, the band ended up without a penny. This naturally set alarm bells ringing in the band room. As emotions and suspicions became intertwined, and with the audience taking their seats, the band decided to ‘stay put’ until we had some positive assurance from the company that payment would be forthcoming by the interval of this, the final performance. A visibly distressed Frank Wooles came to the band room to assure us that the matter of payment would be resolved by the interval, and pleaded with us to return to the pit. After many years of working with him, I trusted Frank implicitly and exerted sufficient influence to recommend to the band that we ‘get the show on the road’. The performance was saved, but the whole incident left a sour taste, with us musicians being regarded as militant ‘lefties’. Indeed, as we made our way to the stage door after the show, the customiary pleasantries from the cast were replaced by boos and catcall. A very unpleasant conclusion to an, otherwise, artistically successful week, and the severe denting of many years of harmonious collaboration with the company. Looking back on these unhappy events with the luxury of hindsight, I concede that both parties in the dispute could have acted differently, as mistakes and misjudgements were made on both sides. But it made me look critically at the MU’s refusal to even permit discussions to take place with the Orbit company. After all, most of the really major industrial disputes were usually settled by a modicum of common sense allied to some old fashioned ‘give and take’ compromise. I was, and still am, a firm believer in trade unions; but, surely, with such power comes responsibility, and in pre-Thatcherite Britain, the trade union movement was severely tarnished by the reckless actions of just a few vociferous and charismatic, individual militants: and this, of course, gave ‘The Iron Lady’ all the ammunition she needed to neutralise the whole union movement. In the final miners’ dispute of 1984, I am convinced that, ultimately, it became a personal vendetta between two super egos – those of Maggie Thatcher and Arthur Scargill. Prior to the debacle of ‘King’s Rhapsody’, however, each of Orbit’s productions was full of fun, and many an amusing incident occurred. Just a few days before the dress rehearsal of ‘Sweet Charity’, the New Theatre had installed a new floor for the orchestra pit which was electronically controlled and enabled the band to be raised or lowered as required by the producer or MD. The New Theatre’s technical manager, Cliff Morris, was thrilled to bits with his ‘new toy’ and suggested the orchestra should initially appear at stage level and be gradually lowered as the curtains opened. So, on the first night, the band seated elegantly, and permanently, on the stage- or so it seemed to the confused audience. Two elderly ladies sitting alongside me in the front row of the stalls looked decidedly bewildered, wondering how they were actually going to see the stage action with a phalanx of bulky musicians blocking their view. One of them gently nudged me and asked, “ ‘Scuse me askin’ love, but how will I see the stage?” I mischievously explained that, ‘Now, I’ll move my left leg forward a bit, and my mate will do the same with his right leg, so you’ll be able to see a fair bit of the action with some luck! As we struck up with the overture, audible murmurings of discontent from among the stalls modified to relief, and then laughter, as the band mysteriously sank out of sight of the patrons. As I came level with the concerned lady, she muttered, “Eh, you’re a boy and a ‘alf in ewe. Ew really ‘ad me and my friend Gladys here goin’ then, aye!!’ Fearing a near riot, producer Frank Wooles persuaded Cliff Morris to suspend that particular exercise on grounds of health and safety! But it provided us musicians with much mirth on the opening night! ---------------------------------------------------- As the word got around that the Rhondda Theatre Orchestra was comprised of a reliable bunch of musicians who could ‘deliver the goods’, I received invitations from a number of operatic societies throughout South Wales to accompany their productions. One of these was Cowbridge Operatic, who performed very well, but in the very restricted Cowbridge Town Hall. The band had to be seated to the side of the hall, in a formation which resembled passengers on the upper deck of a London omnibus! Our physical discomfort, however, was handsomely compensated by the vocal skills and enthusiasm of the company. I felt that they were especially adept in the works of Gilbert and Sullivan. Indeed, particularly impressive was their production of ‘The Yeoman of the Guard’, and I was almost moved to tears in the finale, when the jilted jester, Jack Point, dies heartbroken after being forsaken by his beloved Elsie Maynard. Despite the imposed physical ‘intimacy’ ‘twixt band, audience and stage, all squeezed in like sardines into the miniscule ‘theatre’, and some fine productions regularly emerged – a triumph over adversity! A veteran violinist with RSO and RTO, Alun Jones, became MD of Maesteg Amateur Operatic Society in the seventies, and immediately engaged us for their shows. For me there was a certain element of ‘deja vue’, as a number of my relatives had been involved with the company many decades before. The sweet, soaring soprano voice of my older cousin, Betty, had been enjoyed by audiences in Maesteg’s Town hall for many productions: and my beloved Uncle Emlyn was a regular member of the orchestra which was ably led by local ironmonger, Brynley Davies, who happened to be a very skilled violinist. His alluringly attractive blonde step-daughter, Elizabeth, became a superb professional ‘cellist, in demand with most of the London orchestras. And it was in this theatre, at the tender age of eight, that my Uncle Em, one night, sat me next to him in the orchestra. The pure magic of that night, when I had my first ever ‘view from the pit’, remained with me for years: the dimmed house lights, the flickering orchestral lights, the musicians’ smart dinner jackets and the musty aroma of ‘greasepaint, aroused in me that thrill of ‘show business’ which became pivotal in my life. In the pit with us in Maesteg, was their veteran pianist, Dilys Thomas, a dear old lady well into her eighties, who would often drift off into slumber during some of the longer dialogue passages! This desire to ‘—fall into the Arms of Morpheus!’ was frequently sought by our star trumpet executants, Derek Holvey! Whilst playing in the show, ‘Desert Song’ in Cardiff’s New Theatre, Derek had to play solo a rousing bugle call to summon a troop of French Legionnaires’. Then, after a protracted piece of unaccompanied romantic dialogue on stage, he would be required to repeat the same procedure. So he told his sidekicks, Phil Morgan and Dave Hughes, to give him a nudge when the second reveille was imminent. Then, just like turning a switch, Derek would fall into a blissful slumber. Each night this ploy worked well; but during the Thursday performance, I sensed an uncanny air of impending mischief-making amongst Morgan and Hughes. ‘Oh God, No’, I thought. But my realisation came too late for any intervention. Within thirty seconds of Holvey’s drift into the arms of his beloved Morpheus, his neighbouring miscreants gave him a hefty nudge! He sat bolt upright, and delivered a superb bugle call – right in the middle of a tender love scene between heroine Margo and her beau, Pierre! Holvey sat impassively furious for all of – five minutes! Derek’s good nature would not allow him to hold a grudge, and he regarded any display of annoyance as a waste of precious energy- how I so often envied his cool disposition! Many years later, after attending the impressively large funeral of a fellow musician, I dryly remarked to Derek that there would be very few in his funeral. When he enquired why, I observed: ‘Well, they won’t be able to tell the difference!’ He calmly countered: ‘De mun Lloyd, you’re a bloody scream aye!’ As an individual player, I received frequent calls from Cwmbran Amateur Operatic Society, who eventually staged their shows in the newly constructed Dolman Theatre, Newport. The story of this theatre’s emergence as a fine Arts Centre deserves to be chronicle in its own right. When Newport was undergoing a major re-development in the seventies which would result in a grand new, sheltered shopping centre with all the advantages that went with it, the plans of the developers were being frustrated by one small obstinate group of people, The Newport Theatregoers; who owned the land upon which their own precious little theatre (a converted chapel) proudly stood. Fearful of losing their venue, they stoically resisted the imminent onslaught of the bulldozers – nobody was shifting them! Such laudable obduracy was causing a major ( and expensive) delay to the developers who needed this small plot of land simply to move on. The Theatregoers, led by one of their most defiant members, a Councillor Dolman, fought to secure an assurance that a new theatre would be built for them, prior to the demolition of their existing premises. The developers relented, and constructed a magnificent theatre which was fitted out with elegant dressing rooms, state of the art lighting and stage equipment, and a comfortable auditorium capable of seating quite a few hundred people. I always felt that a slightly larger orchestra pit was necessary; but I suppose that’s a typical pit musician’s grouse! Cwmbran Amateur Operatic’s Musical Director, Graham Jones, was an ebullient character that I’d known as a prominent viola player with the NYOW way back in the fifties. He held a responsible job as personnel officer with the monolithic Llanwern Steelworks; but every other moment of every other day was devoted to music, in general, and his beloved operatic society in particular. His charming wife, Vivienne, was equally besotted with amateur dramatics and was a loyal member of the Cwmbran society. With just a small pit band in front of him, Graham would often conduct with profound intensity. With his eyes frequently shut like Von Karajan, and conveying a trance-like expression of pure ecstasy, he seemed to be blissfully ‘lost’, mentally directing a mighty Mahler symphony in the august company of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra!! In fairness to him, however, Graham did not always inhabit his own ‘clouds of fancy’. He certainly knew how to extract the best from his chorus, and I recall some superb performances under his idiosyncratic direction. Graham also possessed a clarity of beat which made life a lot easier for us ‘pit boys’.
Cwmbran Operatic had an actor whose patter songs, so common in the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, were often more effectively – and more rapidly – delivered than by many professional stars of the ‘D’Oyly Carte’ Opera. Trevor Jones could twist his tongue around the most complex lines at such high velocity that rendered audience, cast and orchestra speechless. One of his most dazzling displays was in ‘The Sorcerer’, which features the song,’ My Name is John Wellington Wells, I’m a Purveyor of Magical Spells___’. With each word perfectly enunciated, despite the fast tempo, Trevor’s delivery of this complex number ‘brought the house down’ at each performance; but the ovation was such that an encore was invariably demanded from an exhausted Trevor! Sharing the pit with me for quite a few shows was John Newman, a fine violinist who could be quite eccentric at times. Our physical position in the pit put us level with the feet of those members of the audience sitting in the front row: and many a pair of shiny new shoes would protrude under the mini curtain that separated us from the patrons. One night, perceiving and anarchic glint in John’s eyes, I sat mesmerised, as he proceeded to deftly tie one shoe to the other, with the owner totally oblivious to this practical joke-until the unsuspecting chap stood up in the interval! Another regular in the Dolman was flautist, Tom Lewis. Despite being partially hindered by a degree of deafness, he managed to play wonderfully with the help of a deaf aid, on a whole range of wind instruments. But one Saturday matinee performance clashed with a rugby international match, which was being transmitted ‘live’ on radio from Cardiff Arms park: and deputising for the usual trumpeter was my old mate, Dai Thomas, from Tonyrefail. A brilliant player, Dai was also a rugby fanatic. Sitting directly behind Tom Lewis, Dai assumed that the flautist was listening to the game on a pocket radio, nudged him, and enquired audibly, ‘Hey, buttie, what’s the score?’. Within seconds, however, Dai had realised his gaffe, and shamefacedly crouched behind his music stand. But Tom, being a really nice chap, took no offence and they later both diffused the situation with a hearty laugh in the band room! Indeed, over the years, I enjoyed some jolly times at the Dolman. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another skilled trumpet player, who was based in the Newport area, was John Oliver, and he would join me in various theatres in South Wales for both amateur and ‘pro’ gigs. Being a local lad, he was another ‘regular’ at the Dolman. He especially excelled in the trumpet’s upper register and became much in demand as a ‘screamer’ trumpet. Possessed also, with a business acumen, John formed a highly acclaimed ‘big band’ known as ‘The John Oliver Sound’. Not unlike many other band leaders, he developed a reputation as a fair, but hard, taskmaster. He recalls, with much amusement, passing a local music shop which had a few shiny new trumpets on display in the window. Mildly curious, he entered the shop and asked the young assistant if he could try out a few instruments. Having played a few short excerpts to gauge their quality, John was enthusiastically complimented on his expertise by the young assistant, who asked whether he played professionally and with whom. John replied that he played with ‘The John Oliver Sound’. The young lad promptly retorted, ‘Poor sod, you don’t play for that bastard do you!?’ John’s entrepreneurial inclinations later led him to establish an agency for professional artistes of all styles, which has proven to be a great success. That same entrepreneurial bug was evident also in another brass player and teaching colleague of mine. John leach, from Creigiau near Cardiff, had played trombone for numerous ‘big bands’, including that of the legendary Syd Lawrence, before settling down to a teaching career in South Glamorgan. Blessed with a warm, outgoing personality, he was the obvious choice when I put him in charge of the South Glam High Schools’ Orchestra in the mid eighties. John was a natural teacher to whom his pupils responded with fervour: and he was constantly brimming over with new ideas. On the morning of an international rugby match in Cardiff, he would despatch into the city a few senior pupils from the orchestral rehearsal in the Friary centre, and they would return to the rehearsal with some unsuspecting supporter, be it French, Scottish, or Irish, and invite the poor guy to ‘conduct’ the young orchestra. Prior to one match, his emissaries managed to lure an especially famous ‘conscript’, in the form of a genuine maestro – Owain Arwel Hughes. And he thoroughly enjoyed himself! However, as the mists of political uncertainty swirled ominously around the South Glamorgan LEA’s Music Service, John bravely set up his own independent instrumental tuition service, called CAVMS – ‘Cardiff and the Vale Music service’, which has proven very effective.
CHAPTER 13 Rhondda Symphony Orchestra – The Early Years Orchestral music in the Rhondda began when Griffith Rhys Jones, the great choral conductor, formed violin classes in the Upper Rhondda in 1870, which developed into a string orchestra which won the first prize at the Aberdare National Eisteddfod of 1885. In 1904, Arthur Leeke’s Mid Rhondda Orchestra gained second prize with commendation at the Llanelli National Eisteddfod for their playing of Beethoven’s ‘Leonora’ Overture Number 2. In that same year Percy Smith’s Rhondda Orchestra won first prize at the Wrexham National. They were placed second at Aberprennar in 1905, and first at Caernarfon in 1906, when the test piece was the first movement of Schubert’s ‘Unfinished’ Symphony. Arthur Leeke’s Mid Rhondda Orchestra came a close second. At the Treorchy National in 1928, when the test piece was the first movement of Beethoven’s ‘Eroica’ Symphony, the Cardiff Orchestra under the legendary Herbert Ware (born in Tonypandy) gained a narrow win over the Mid Rhondda Orchestra led by Ivor Lester and conducted by Arthur Angle of Cardiff. This orchestra was the creation of T.J. Hughes of Tonypandy and the competition was regarded as the high point in a memorable week. Even more remarkably, before the era of free instrumental tuition in schools, there existed between 1930 and 1939 an orchestra comprised of schoolchildren – the Blaenclydach School Orchestra, which was regarded as one of the foremost amateur ensembles in Britain. Formed and conducted by Headmaster, John Phillips, this orchestra chalked up a remarkable record of successes which included:- 1. Winning the Senior School Orchestra section at the Royal National Eisteddfod on no less than eight consecutive occasions. 2. Winners of the prestigious Cheltenham Music Festival for four consecutive years. 3. Winning the Northern Music Festival at the Blackpool Opera House for three consecutive years. Such was their expertise that the distinguished musician and adjudicator at the Machynlleth Eisteddfod in 1937, W.H. Reed, declared, ‘If Elgar himself had been present to hear the Blaenclydach Orchestra’s performance of his ‘Serenade’, he would have enjoyed it as much as I’. After winning their first ‘National’ in Port Talbot, almost eighty years ago, the orchestra’s reputation was firmly established and concert offers came flooding in, including an invitation to perform in Manchester’s Free Trade hall with the Sale and District Choral Society, and with the internationally acclaimed soprano, Isobel Bailey. This remarkable ensemble also had the distinction of being filmed by Pathe News at their London studios under the title of ‘Budding Musicians’. This film was shown in cinemas throughout the country and the orchestra frequently broadcast on the BBC from its old Charles Street studios in Cardiff. This young orchestra was due to embark on a concert tour of the continent in 1939; but a certain Adolf Hitler had plans of his own, which put paid to the Blaenclydach youngsters’ ambitious project. A number of the older boys were conscripted to fight in World War Two: and, sadly, some of these lost their lives. With the whole nation embroiled in the conflict, and with the death, in 1940, of their inspirational conductor, John Phillips, the orchestra was disbanded. However, the Blaenclydach School Orchestra must be accorded due credit for such pioneering work, well ahead of that of Mr. Russell Sheppard a decade later. After the dreary years of economic depression and war, music gradually gained its rightful place in the schools of Rhondda and instrumental teaching of woodwind, brass and strings flourished. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When I was a fairly senior member of the Glam Youth Orchestra, Mr. Sheppard would sometimes ask me to take a full rehearsal of the full orchestra while he busied himself with some irksome, but necessary, administrative matters. This was, for me, the equivalent of being given the Crown Jewels for an hour’s safekeeping: I certainly needed scant persuasion to leap onto the rostrum, as I had always nurtured a fascination for the baton. To be suddenly confronted with a hundred or more supremely talented young musicians was awesome, but also extremely thrilling. I now recount with, with horror, the numerous blunders I must have made in my early forays on the podium; but it was an invaluable grounding in discovering which hand gestures and verbal instructions worked and, more importantly, what to avoid. With no one there to actually coach you, one survived on one’s own wits. I am extremely grateful to the patient tolerance of the likes of violinists David Thomas, Clive Dobbins, Eddie Roberts, John Canter and Hywel Davies; oboists Karl Jenkins and John Anderson; brass players Andy Cuff, John Hendy, Phil Dando, Terry ‘Drac’ Johns, Alun Francis, Dave Hughes and so many contemporaries who were destined for long and distinguished professions as orchestral players, composers and conductors, for tolerating my early conducting efforts. But the chance of directing an august body of musicians for just an hour a few times a year was not enough. I had developed a passion for conducting which I simply had to assuage by some means or other. Matters were not helped when, on the senior Glam courses, my good friend and fellow tutorial colleague, John Jenkins, would enthusiastically show me scores of exciting works he was preparing for concerts with Neath Symphony Orchestra, which he founded in 1965. The NSO was a fine orchestra which boasted the presence of the legendary violinist Fred Herbert as leader and Edgar Watkins as an eloquent principal ‘cellist’. John presented many enterprising concerts with his orchestra. Solo pianist, Semprini, and the violinist, ‘par excellence’, Alfredo Campoli, were among the list of famous solo artistes invited to perform at Neath’s Gwyn Hall in those halcyon days with NSO. I was always delighted to accept John’s kind invitations to play in many of these concerts. But my own nagging thoughts of baton wielding simply would not abate. Then one day, whilst confiding my frustrated conducting ambitions to my wife, Margaret, she came up with the novel, if not blatantly obvious, solution to my festering dilemma in her usual direct way, ‘If you’re so damn keen to conduct, then form your own orchestra!’ For a number of years, the charismatic Haydn ‘Quke’ Davies had run a successful amateur orchestra in Pontypridd in which I regularly played. But, with Haydn’s elevation to the dizzy heights of HM School’s Inspectorate, and his consequent move to North Wales, the Pontypridd Orchestra Society very rapidly floundered. So, with Margaret’s sound advice spurring me on, I set about recruiting players, for what I envisaged as, a small salon orchestra based in the Rhondda. After all, I was already working with some fine musicians for the various operatic societies etc. these guys jumped at the chance to play what they dubbed ‘real music’! This was not meant to be disrespectful to the repertoire of the local light opera groups, but the prospect of working through a Beethoven or Tchaikovsky symphony was aesthetically more preferable to a repetitive week of, say, ‘Desert Song’ or similar musicals. Having received an enthusiastic response to my letters of invitation, I had to secure premises to rehearse; and here I was given great encouragement by the kindly Dr. Bill Morris, headmaster of Tonypandy Grammar School. He suggested that his school hall may be suitable, and it possessed a full grand piano. ‘But what about squaring it with the Education Office?’ I apprehensively enquired. With a good natured wink, he casually replied, ‘Just you leave them to me, bach!’ So it was, that on a frosty night in March, 1968, the Rhondda Symphony Orchestra was born! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We had no funds, but free use of the school hall; we had no music library, but our Bass player, old Rudi Hingott, of Trealaw, knew of a stack of orchestral music which had lain dusty and unused for decades in an old church hall in Trealaw. For years, Rudi had stoutly resisted the attempts of successive church wardens to consign this ‘pile of old rubbish’ to a bonfire. Upon close inspection, I was amazed to find amongst this ‘pile of old rubbish’ several symphonies by Tchaikovsky, Beethoven and Brahms together with popular overtures by Von Suppe, Glinka, and Weber plus orchestral suites by Vaughn Williams, Gustav Holst, Haydn Wood and numerous other British composers. Interestingly, in Haydn Wood’s suite, ‘My Native Heath, I discovered a movement entitled ‘Barwick Green’ which just happened to be the signature tune to the popular radio ‘soap’, ‘The Archers’. All this music was like manna from Heaven – a veritable Aladdin’s Cave! At our first rehearsal there were barely a dozen players, but among these were notables like Glyn ‘Oboe’ Jones and bassoonist Glyn Hughes, both recently retired from the BBC Welsh Orchestra, and on viola, the doyen of male voice choir maestros, John Haydn Davies. Messers Holvey and Morgan cemented the brass section, and Reg Bennet brought along his old style, ‘tap tuning’ timps for good measure. In its formative years, RSO comprised a happy blend of a few highly skilled instrumentalists, and a preponderance of very keen amateurs, unfettered by any visions of grandeur, but who simply wished to enjoy their playing. We had wonderful people like Les James, Cathy Edwards, George Viney and Roy Curtin content to remain safely tucked away in the second fiddles, but still deriving great pleasure from their music making. Their attitude represented the ethos that was Rhondda ‘Symph’ – aim for the highest musical goals, whilst retaining the enjoyment factor above all else. And when they each, sadly, passed away, I missed their presence immensely. In the days when tape recorders were cumbersome and primitive and far removed from the digital technology of today, dear old Les James would dutifully record virtually every one of our concerts on a pretty basic machine. This task was later undertaken by Rudi’s son, John Hingott, on rather more sophisticated equipment, as audio technology advanced. I was fortunate, also, to be able to recruit a number of my own pupils such as violinists Gerald Hopkin, who later joined the Halle Orchestra, ‘cellist Chris Hodges, destined to become sub-principal with WNO, together with Dave McKelvay, Robert Bird and Carl Darby who became highly respected members of the BBC National Orchestra of Wales’s string section. Gradually, other pupils of mine such as Lynys Griffiths, Susan Mortimer, Gerald Dunning, Felix Burak, Sarah Herbert and others joined the expanding ensemble: and teaching colleagues of mine brought along a few of their own talented pupils, many of whom were also destined for flourishing orchestral careers. My friend and colleague, George Thomas from Aberdare, produced quite a coterie of female violinists whose musical attributes were invariably complemented by the added advantage of good looks. These included the dark haired beauty, Helen Brown, the auburn Frances Richards, and the blonde Anita Gratland, all of whom hailed from mountain Ash and became professional orchestral players. Many years later, another former viola pupil from George’s Mountain Ash ‘Beauty Bank’, Alison Jones, would become his wife! Among his equally talented male pupils was Nick Davies, from Pontypridd, who became senior musical director to the legendary impresario, Sir Cameron Mckintosh, and Phillip Aird, who went on to enjoy a distinguished career as a freelance violinist in London. I always regarded the infusion of young talent as an essential insurance for the orchestra’s growth. Their presence was RSO’s future! I was never in any rush to present our inaugural public performance: so it was not until May, 1970 that RSO’s first public concert took place in the Upper Rhondda Comprehensive School, Treorchy. Even now I recall my chosen programme with a mixture of horror and embarrassment, still acutely aware of what could (and should) have gone wrong! I decided to open with Mozart’s ‘magic Flute’ overture, followed by two Welsh folk song arrangements by Alan Hoddinott, then the magnificent Piano Concerto by Grieg. The second half opened with Beethoven’s mighty Fifth Symphony which was swiftly followed by movements from Tchaikovsky’s ‘Nutcracker ballet suite, in which the third horn part was played by a young gentleman temporarily whisked from the viola section. That young man, Stephen Broom, from Pontypridd, eventually became principal viola in the London Philharmonic Orchestra, and later, principal in the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. In the celebrated ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum fairy’, Tchaikovsky imbues that magical fairy-tale effect with the use of a celesta; but we could not afford to hire this miniature keyboard instrument, so instead, it was played very effectively by our brilliant harpist, Jenny Jones. Then, as a rousing finale, we belted out Suppe’s boisterous overture, ‘Light cavalry’. This was a crazy programme by any standard; but the audience starved of the sound of a ‘live’ symphony orchestra for many years, loved it! We were extremely fortunate to have a brilliant local man as soloist in the Grieg concerto. William ‘Bill’ Lewis was the long serving music master at Tonypandy Grammar School, who had previously performed concertos with the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, prior to returning to his Rhondda roots. In the afternoon rehearsal we had to manhandle the large, cumbersome grand piano from its usual position on the school hall stage to floor level – a hair-raising experience for all concerned. I also recall the day before the concert, our solitary Double Bassist, Rudi Hingott, was taken ill. This meant that our redoubtable concert manager, Ritchie Blight, and I were obliged to tour the student haunts of Cardiff to find a replacement in the delectable form of Elinor Phillips, who was studying at the university. So my dream had been fulfilled; I now had an orchestra to conduct, and with which I would remain for thirty three years as its music director. During this protracted period I strove to present at least three concerts per year, with varying degrees of success. As a self financing ensemble, we were restricted for many years in our choice of soloists, engaging mainly locally based pianists and vocalists. Among these was the incredibly gifted jazz pianist, Geoff Eales, from Hengoed. He gave a dazzling performance of Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ which sent the audience into rapturous applause with cries of ‘More, More!’ I had to nudge the somewhat overwhelmed Geoff into the realisation that an encore was urgently required, to which he feebly responded: ‘But what will I play them?’ ‘For God’s sake lad, make something up!’ I replied, with mounting frustration: and he did just that. His fingers casually wandered over the keyboard, seeking out a suitably appropriate melody. Then, having settled on Gershwin’s ‘Autumn Leaves’, he launched into a quite amazing feat of pure improvisation. That display of virtuosity, which effortlessly encompassed the fugal styles of Bach, the sprightly precision of Mozart and the lush romanticism of Rachmaninov was almost beyond belief. Predictably, of course, this remarkable young man went on to become one of the most sought after jazz pianists in the UK and abroad. Another gifted young soloist who played with RSO in the early years was the violinist, Susan Lynn. She had been recommended to me by her elderly grandmother, Mrs. Davies, who would invite me to her comfortable house in Pentre, and proceed to ‘seduce’ me with copious cups of tea and mounds of her mouth-watering home made sponge cakes! She was, justly, very proud of her granddaughter, who was a pupil at the famed ‘Yehudi Menuhin School’, now based at Stoke d’Abernon. In order to gauge Susan’s ability, I casually discussed, over the phone, her current repertoire. When she mentioned the Brahms Violin Concerto, I realized that she must be a formidable player. So we plumped, there and then, for this most glorious ( and extremely difficult ) solo work for our next concert, to be held in St. Peter’s Church, Pentre. This concert remains ingrained in my memory for a number of reasons. The programme started with Wagner’s rumbustious overture to his opera ‘Rienzi’. The work opens with a sustained ‘C’ natural, played on solitary trumpet, which makes a crescendo slowly followed by a diminuendo. In the afternoon rehearsal, Derek Holvey delivered this opening solo with that elegant control that we had come to expect from this fine player. On the night, however, I made my way to the podium to find a very youthful and nervous Andy Cuff and Pamela Evans, our second and third trumpets in place, but with first trumpet, Derek’s chair empty. Frantically trying to subdue the nauseating panic that was about to engulf me, I shut my eyes, offered a silent prayer, and brought my baton down in the ludicrously faint hope that the required note would appear, as if by divine intervention, even though I knew that the other two players had their instruments resolutely perched on their laps! Then, within a few seconds, the long ‘C’ natural I so desperately yearned for was heard from afar and increasing in dynamic intensity. As the note was dying in volume, I courageously looked up to find Derek, trumpet to his lips, gingerly taking his seat. He later explained that he was a ‘little late’ parking his car (not an uncommon failing for our Derek). But, with his trumpet unpacked, he followed my ethereal beat through a sizeable crack in a stone glass window, and proceeded to play, with consummate artistry, until he got to his seat. The effect was magical, as the note was meant to emerge from afar- and it certainly did! In the afternoon rehearsal, after we’d finished rehearsing the weighty first movement of the Brahms concerto, soloist Susan Lynn indicated that, in the evening performance, she would need a short break to retune. I readily agreed, explaining that the clarinettists would have to change from their ‘A’ to ‘B’ flat instruments and also that our second clarinet, dear Vernon Lloyd, wore a different set of dentures for each instrument, further justifying a very short break! This amused Susan so much that before I started the second movement in the evening performance, she shot me a questioning glare with the words, ‘What about the teeth!?’ When I met her decades later, she beamed at me and repeated that memorable question, ‘What about the teeth!?’ Susan went on to enjoy a highly successful career amongst the upper echelon of London’s elite orchestral fraternity, including the English Chamber Orchestra and The Academy of St. martin in the Fields. Her performance of the Brahms concerto that night in Pentre was superlative: her beauty of tone, in the second movement especially, was complemented by the enchantingly poetic solo contributions of first flute, Phil Emanuel, first oboe, Alan Good, and first horn, Dave Hughes. In common with most Welsh institutions, and maintaining a well established tradition, RSO soon had its committee! Our secretary was Ritchie Blight, a non musician friend of mine who had an immense enthusiasm for matters musical: he also possessed an all-embracing expertise in the field of electronics, which often rescued us from potentially disastrous situations at some of the flawed venues in which we occasionally performed. Ritchie also ‘doubled’, with equal efficiency, as RSO’s Concert Manager. He was later succeeded, as Secretary, by violinist, Sheila Nurse. She was a gifted architect who would eventually rise to the exalted position of Principal Architect for Mid Glamorgan County Council: and she remained as RSO’s faithful Secretary for over four decades. For quite a few years the position of Chairman ( the ridiculous spectre of ‘political correctness’ had yet to exert its pernicious requirement for, ‘Chairperson’!) was in the experienced hands of bassist, Rudi Hingott. Alun Jones, who was sub-leader for a number of years, served as Vice-Chairman. The Treasurer was Reg Bennett who, like Rudi, brought his vast experience of MU meetings to our small committee. A few years later, Reg, as treasurer, was succeeded by another good friend of mine, Jeff Tarr, who came to play percussion and just happened to be a trainee bank manager! The very important and onerous role of orchestral librarian was in the unflappable hands of Vernon ( the Teeth! ) Lloyd, who was later succeeded by his son Howard, also a clarinettist. Among other members were Father Ted Alder, Vicar of Trealaw, who was a talented flautist and a lovely human being, the warm hearted local piano teacher, Cath Edwards, and Les James, in whose house the meetings were held, and where we were provided with light refreshments by his delightful wife, Shirley. The combined contribution of these good folk was pivotal in RSO’s early development and laid a firm foundation for the orchestra’s future success. However, after just a few rehearsals, I became acutely aware that the orchestra was lacking one fundamental element, an effective leader. Within a few weeks, however, my long tern friend and fiddling collaborator, Bill Rogers turned up to rehearsal with two musician pals from Maesteg, Alun Jones and Tom Jones. I immediately directed Bill to the ‘hot seat’, and he remained as leader for seventeen glorious years. Bill very quickly gained the orchestra’s respect and admiration as a violinist. His rich tone was matched by an equally warm and friendly personality. I have always maintained the firm belief that the orchestra leader, especially in an amateur ensemble, should act as a bridge between the musical director and the players: this, Bill achieved supremely well, encouraging the younger players and welcoming new recruits with a friendliness that immediately put them at ease. It was Bill, also, who organised the post concert celebratory parties, usually in the local Treorchy or Pengelly hotels. After a successful concert, with the adrenalin still coursing through our veins, our high spirits required further fortification with a copious infusion of alcohol! It was in the relaxed atmosphere of these gatherings that a ‘bonding’ of members was achieved which helped promote that ‘family’ feeling which became the essential spirit of RSO. CHAPTER 14 The Triumphs of Youth - Jack ‘The Downbeat’ –Singers at last –The Albert Hall
From the outset, I had encouraged the steady recruitment of young instrumentalists into the RSO, and this began to pay dividends in the mid seventies. Not only did their burgeoning talents contribute greatly to the overall orchestral sound, but I was also able to call upon a select few of them as soloists. In a concert at St. Paul’s Church, Pentre in September, 1977, the emphasis was largely focused on our youthful performers, with just a little support from RSO’s older stalwarts. Violinists Carl Darby and Helen brown, with ‘cellist Chris Hodges providing the demanding continuo part, gave a fine account of Vivaldi’s Double Concerto in D minor for Two Violins. Young trumpeter, Vivian Davies from Aberdare was joined by the ever reliable Derek Holvey in Vivaldi’s Double Trumpet Concerto. For a performance of some Baroque works, I placed a brass consort comprising Derek Holvey and Viv Davies, Dave Hughes on Horn, Phil and Greg Morgan on trombones and Kevin Morgan on Tuba, in the church’s Minstrel Gallery. Though unseen by the audience, the effect of this magnificent brass sound resonating triumphantly above them was magical. The brass consort performed works by Gabrielli, Pezel and a composer whose unfortunate name of Samuel Scheidt caused much mirth amongst the participants; but Scheidt’s celebrated ‘Battle Suite’ for brass is a fine example of sixteenth century instrumental composition. In this concert, we also featured the glorious mezzo-soprano voice of the beautiful Llinos Swain, who sang ‘Where Corals Lay’, from Elgar’s ‘Sea Pictures’ and ‘Dido’s Lament’ by Purcell. Llinos, together with her erudite and extremely witty husband, Bob, was a regular member of the first violin section. An avowed Welsh patriot, she stoutly maintained an unflinching determination to promote and seek official recognition for the language and traditions of Wales at a time when such views were not too popular in the mainly anglicised areas of South Wales. However, her glorious voice and undoubted musicianship made her a joy to work with. Her husband, Bob, was a fascinating character. He was a damn good violinist and, as a modern composer, was already establishing a reputation, attracting several important commissions from, among others, Peter Maxwell Davies’s ‘The Fires of London’ ensemble. I well remember tuning in to a BBC broadcast of a piece for Organ, performed with characteristic skill by Richard Elfyn Jones, which Bob had entitled ‘The First Plastic Daffodil In Spring’, which confirmed for me at least, Bob’s place in the ‘avant garde’ genre of composition. Bob possessed a formidable intellect which eventually propelled him into the inner sanctum of HM Schools Inspectorate. Yet, one afternoon, when Bob and I were sharing the first fiddle desk at a matinee performance in Cardiff’s New Theatre, and a ‘dialogue break’ allowed us pit musicians to have a quiet read, unobserved by the audience, I was taken aback by his choice of reading material. Whilst the choice of the boys in the band ranged from ‘Readers Digest’, ‘Rugby world’, Musicians’ Union quarterly magazine, and with Mark Roberts slavishly immersed in ‘Wisden’s Cricket Almanac’, Bob would be meditatively poring over ‘The Dandy’ or ‘Beano’ comic. When I had the temerity to challenge him on his unusual preference for literary stimulation, he replied with total sincerity: ‘My dear fellow, the contents of these comics represent a microcosm of life!’ Bob also conducted the RSO on a number of occasions with singular success, and an invitation back to his house for a post concert curry was an experience never to be missed. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Two top professional soloists who were very popular with RSO were ‘cellist, Sharon McKinley and pianist, Martin Jones. Sharon, a native of British Columbia, crossed the ‘pond’ in 1960 to study the ‘cello at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama with the revered English ‘cellist William ‘Bill’ Pleeth, who was already nurturing the supreme talents of the very young Jacqueline du Pre. Sharon’s progress in the Guildhall was remarkable and, predictably, she won the coveted Gold Medal in 1964. She very quickly established a reputation as a formidable soloist and performed concertos with several leading British orchestras. In 1968, Sharon was appointed Resident ‘Cellist in Southampton University and became a member of the Orion Piano Trio which gained the coveted Beethoven Prize within just two months of its formation. In 1972 she returned to her old college, The Guildhall in London, as Professor of ‘cello where she remained for four fruitful years. Then in 1977, she left the Guildhall to take up a teaching post at the University College, Cardiff on the stage of Professor Alan Hoddinott. With RSO, Sharon performed a number of solo works, including the Elgar concerto and Tchaikovsky’s technically demanding ‘Rococo Variations’. We both seemed to ‘hit it off from our first rehearsal and developed a happy rapport and friendship which made our frequent musical collaborations so pleasurable. Sharon doted on her tiny dog, a Pekingese called Oliver, which accompanied her wherever she went. While Sharon was busily engaged in her solo work, the obedient Oliver would sit silently in her dressing room. Indeed, I never once heard even a hint of a bark from this docile creature! Like Sharon, Martin Jones came to live in Wales in 1971 and became a member of the Cardiff University Ensemble. In 1968 he won the Dame Myra Hess Award which took him to New York’s Carnegie Hall, and enabled him to give his first Queen Elizabeth Hall recital. Martin has been a regular soloist at the BBC Proms and has performed with most of the top orchestras in the UK. Here again was another musician so easy to work with. Totally bereft of the affectation sometimes encountered in lesser artistes, Martin simply got on with the job! With RSO, he performed a few of the Beethoven concertos, together with those of Grieg, Saint-Saens and Rachmaninov. For our Tenth Anniversary Concert in September, 1978, we decided to invite the internationally acclaimed clarinettist, Jack Brymer, as our soloist in a performance of Weber’s virtuoso Concerto No. 2 in E flat, Op. 74. In the period leading up to the actual concert date, that wise old sage, Vernon Lloyd, suggested that I ask our resident principal clarinet, Janet Griffiths, to ‘fill in’ for the great man in the preparatory rehearsals. Janet had only recently returned from South Africa after a failed marriage and was still, understandably, in a vulnerable state, although I knew full well that she was a very fine player. Anyway, I acceded to Vernon’s suggestion and, a week before the concert, we rehearsed the concerto with Janet playing the taxing solo part. She was, of course, superb, and the whole orchestra burst into ecstatic applause. Leader, Bill Rogers, wryly enquired, ‘Why are we paying for Brymer, when Jan can play it so bloody well?’. In my humble, inept way, I had ‘started Janet on clarinet in Porth County Girls’ School in the early sixties, and her tremendous potential became obvious even then. She went on to study clarinet at The Royal Academy of Music with the remarkable Alan Hacker who, despite being severely physically disabled, was acknowledged as being one of the premier clarinettists in London. Whilst still a student, Janet gave a highly acclaimed recital in the prestigious Wigmore Hall. RSO was fortunate to have the services of Janet as principal clarinet for many years. She also regularly played for me in numerous ‘pro’ concerts where I ‘fixed’ the orchestra, and the grace in which she effortlessly performed the ascending scalic run in the ‘Representation of Chaos’ in Haydn’s ‘’Creation’ was spine-tingling. She was a supremely talented clarinettist. Among his fellow musicians, Jack Brymer had acquired the nickname of ‘Jack the Downbeat’: and I was soon to discover why. On the evening of the concert, held in the Rhondda Sports Centre, I noticed that there was no sign of our distinguished soloist, but I made my way to open the concert with Brahms’s ‘Academic Festival Overture’, confident that Jack would, by now, be backstage, ‘warming up’ for his solo spot which was to follow. The overture went very well and I made my way backstage expecting to see Jack ready to make his entry. To my dismay, however, I was greeted by our concert manager, Ritchie Blight, looking decidedly alarmed. ‘Where the hell is he?’, I blurted out. The normally calm Ritchie was obviously gripped by panic. Then, suddenly, a door burst open to reveal Jack, in a heavy overcoat, with his lovely wife Joan. In a flash he was divested of overcoat and turned to me with the words, ‘Come on my dear chap, let’s go and enjoy ourselves!’ And we did just that! Poor Ritchie’s sighs of relief were quite audible. After the concert, Jack and his wife stayed on for a small reception, and I noticed him very quickly engaged in deep conversation with dear old Vernon Lloyd. They enthusiastically swapped anecdotes of their respective years as Solo Clarinettists at the Kneller Hall, Military School of Music. It also transpired that they had both, in their early years, played on the archaic ‘simple system’ instrument. Many years later I encountered Jack Brymer on a pro gig with the Welsh Chamber Orchestra, and he spoke warmly of his chat with Vernon over a pint of Welsh ale. Despite his eminence as a virtuoso, author and popular broadcaster, Jack remained an affable gentleman who, at once, put you at ease in his presence. From the outset, RSO had developed strong links with the Parc and Dare Brass Band, and we once staged a ‘Viennese Night’ concert at the Rhondda Sports Centre. For many years the band was conducted by my good friend and teaching colleague, Ieuan Morgan, who had revolutionised brass tuition in the Rhondda and beyond. It was in this concert, also, that one of our budding young violinists, Carl Darby, made his solo debut with a brilliant performance of Saint-Saens’s ‘Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso’, for violin and orchestra. I started teaching Carl, aged eleven, at Porth County Comprehensive School. His rare talent very soon became evident. So, after four years of school tuition with me, I arranged for him to receive more advanced teaching with my former university chamber music coach, Alfredo Wang. ‘Freddy’ Wang was a tough, demanding pedagogue, but whom I knew would instil in Carl a solid technique, complemented by a wide understanding of the violin repertoire. Knowing that Freddy was something of a ‘lady’s man’, I was, nevertheless, bemused by Carl’s reply when I enquired how his lessons at Freddy’s sumptuous Cardiff flat were progressing. He innocuously replied: ‘The lessons are fine, but hasn’t Mr. Wang got a lot of sisters – I see a different one there each week!’ Such innocence! When he became a sixth former, I trustingly gave Carl a key to my teaching room at Porth County so that he could put in some extra practice when I might not be around to admit him. Only many years later did he gleefully confess to me that the room was used rather more for romantic trysts with his girlfriend, the very attractive, Janet Shurey, who later became Mrs. Darby ! At the age of eighteen, Carl proceeded to the Royal Academy in London where he was fortunate to study with the renowned, Emmanuel ‘Manny’ Hurwitz, who had led virtually all of the great London orchestras, was a celebrated chamber music player and had long been hailed as a dedicated teacher. Carl enjoyed a happy relationship with his teacher, to the extent that he was allowed to borrow one of Manny’s precious violins – an Amati copy made for him by the English luthier, Heppelwhite – for quite a few years into Carl’s professional life. Whilst at the Academy, Carl also studied the viola and picked up quite a few prizes on both instruments. Carl’s period of study was abruptly curtailed after a mere eighteen months when he was offered a permanent position, as number four, in WNO’s first violin section. A few years later he moved on to the BBC National Orchestra of Wales, where he was very quickly promoted to the front desk as Section Leader. Whilst in Porth County School, Carl teamed up with a fellow fiddler, Robert Bird (predictably dubbed ‘Birdie’!). Together with \'cellist Brian jenkins and myself on viola, we formed a reasonably efficient string quartet: and with the addition of my good mate and peripatetic colleague, \'Big Dave\' Williams on clarinet, we gave a few creditable performances of Mozart\'s divine Clarinet Quintet together with other works from the chamber music repertoire. Dave Williams had entered the teaching profession upon leaving the Army, during which period he had seen action against the EOKA terrorists in the terrible Cyprus conflict during the ‘fifties’. His undoubted skill on clarinet and saxophone was matched with a friendly personality; but he was also a tough guy who could ‘sort out’ anyone displaying belligerent tendencies with just one of his suitably malevolent stares! His school pupils, of course, adored him, as indeed did his colleagues. Dave would regularly reduce us to paroxysms of mirth whilst relating tales, mostly risqué, of his army days: the snag was, however, that the ‘punch line’ was often obscured by Dave’s own uncontrollable laughter! ‘Big Dave’ became a very popular member of the Mid Glam teaching team. Carl Darby’s contemporary at Porth County, Bob Bird, was also a fine violinist who displayed tremendous early potential; but Bob was not academically inclined, and this concerned me. Then, one day, in conversation with ‘Big Dave’ Williams, it was suggested that young Robert should join the Army. His undoubted musical ability would propel him into an army band/orchestra and, at the same time, he would receive a high quality of violin tuition and see the world, all courtesy of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. After leaving the army, Bob meandered through a few varied occupations, until a chance meeting with Barry Haskey, then sub-leader of the BBC/NOW, transformed his life. Recognising the young man’s ability, Barry suggested he enrol as a student at the Welsh College of Music and Drama as a violin student of his. Within a short time Bob was being offered lots of ‘extra’ work with the BBC/NOW which culminated in the offer of a full time position. He has remained in the orchestra’s first violin section to this day. During my early teaching days at Porth County School, I perceived Bob as just a pleasant young man of fairly small stature, but possessed with a sunny disposition and the least offensive pupil in the school. But, unbeknown to me and my colleagues, lacking a robust physique and invariably to be seen carrying his fiddle with him, Bob had been the target of some bullying: but instead of moaning to his teachers, he had enrolled in a local martial arts class, eventually achieving \'brown belt\' status in Judo! Needless to say, no ruffians ever bothered him again! But his newly acquired confidence did not alter his polite, gentle nature, and he remains a thorough gentleman to this very day. In 1999, I invited Bob to act as guest leader of RSO in a concert at Porthcawl\'s Grand Pavilion, where he delivered a brilliant account of the virtuoso sequence of violin solos in Rimsky-Korsakov\'s \'Scheherezade\'. Another fine pupil of mine, who also gravitated to the BBC/NOW, was David McKelvay who studied the violin with me at Tonypandy Grammar School. Whilst in the sixth form, Dave expressed a desire to switch to the viola, and this paid off handsomely, as he also went on to enjoy a successful career as a professional orchestral musician with the BBC/NOW. So rapid was Carl’s progress at the Academy that I frequently called upon him to play numerous violin concertos with RSO. Whilst still a young student, he gave an emotionally charged performance of the technically demanding ‘Scottish Fantasy’ by Max Bruch. However, that evening became emotionally charged for me also, but for quite different reasons. To play the pivotal harp part in the Bruch, I had engaged the superb principal harpist of the WNO orchestra, the delightful Meinir Heulyn and, in the afternoon rehearsal; she imbued the work with her characteristic gloss. However, a little later, whilst donning my concert dress in Phil Morgan’s house just opposite the Parc and Dare Hall, I received a phone call informing me that Meinir’s young daughter had been rushed to hospital and that her mother would, understandably, be unable to play that night. With less than an hour to go before the concert, I frantically rang our usual harpist, Jenny Jones, knowing full well that she was probably elsewhere conducting her choir. Miracle of miracles, Jenny answered the phone, enthusing, oblivious to my dire predicament, that she and her partner, Glyn, were attending the concert after all. I just said: ‘Thank God for that: bring your harp- you are playing!’ She, literally, saved the show! In a later concert, Carl performed Vivaldi’s ‘The Four Seasons’, with his WNO chum, Chris Hodges providing a solid ‘cello continuo. Many years later, they were to collaborate in a majestic performance with RSO, of Brahms’s Double Concerto for Violin and ‘Cello. In those early concerts, Carl also teamed up with the brilliant viola player from Pontypridd, Stephen Broom, in Mozart’s sublime ‘Sinfonia Concertante’. Over the years, Carl returned to perform, as a highly popular soloist with RSO, the violin concertos of Katchaturian, Tchaikovsky and Max Bruch, each of which he played with impeccable authority and style. In his forties, as an antidote to the stressful, humdrum existence experienced by so many professional musicians, Carl took up flying lessons and eventually qualified as a pilot of light aircraft. I freely admit to a degree of cowardice in politely declining his frequent invitations to join him on a flight. I was also mindful of the madcap adventures of another violinist, Peter Gibbs, many decades back. Peter had been a wartime fighter pilot and, after the war had ended, he owned a \'Tiger Moth\' aircraft. I had heard from quite a few of the older London \'pros\' that Peter Gibbs would often fly to concerts and, having spotted the LSO\'s official bus journeying sedately below, would proceed to ‘bomb’ it with bags of flour! This same guy is reputed to have come near to a rehearsal time ‘punch up’ with the autocratic German conductor, Herbert Von Karajan, who had remained unapologetic after the war for his previous Nazi affiliation. My one regret with RSO is that, over the years I engaged few vocalists as soloists; but those that did join us were fine artistes who impressed both audiences and orchestra alike. In our second concert we were joined by Byron Hughes from Maesteg, who was the brother-in-law of leader Bill Rogers. Nepotism? Never!! Actually, Byron had inherited his father, Volanda Hughes’s rich baritone voice, and continued singing lead roles for many years with the Swindon Opera Group after marriage had lured him over ‘the border’. Then, later on, I invited Mary Davies, the Neath born soprano who was carving out a highly successful career with WNO. Mary possessed not only a beautiful soprano voice but also an impish sense of humour allied to an infectious laugh which made her an instant hit with us all. Another female member of WNO who sang with us was Joanna Thomas, whose rich contralto voice was used to great effect in a performance of Elgar’s evocative ‘Sea Pictures’. Joanna’s father, Gordon, had been a long standing teaching colleague of mine and was also an accomplished amateur actor and producer. Whilst playing for WNO in performances of Donizetti’s comic opera ‘L’Elisir d’ Amore’, I was totally entranced by solo tenor, Arthur Davies’s captivating interpretation of Nemorino’s celebrated aria, ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ (‘One Furtive Kiss’) which regularly had the audience demanding an encore (I have always found the aria, with that mournful bassoon solo that precedes the tenor entry, to be the most poignant in the operatic repertoire). So one night in the New Theatre’s artiste’s bar, after bribing him with a few well selected alcoholic inducements, I persuaded Arthur to sing in a forthcoming RSO concert. Many years later, Arthur and I joined an illustrious gathering of Welsh musicians at the St. David’s Hall in Cardiff for a gala celebration concert entitled, ‘Dr. Barnardo’s Two Hundred Years in Wales’. This glittering event was graced with the presence of Diana, Princess of Wales, and Patron of Barnardo’s. I opened the concert with, appropriately, Humperdinck’s overture to his opera ‘Hansel and Gretel’, played magnificently by the South Glamorgan Youth Orchestra of which I was then Principal Conductor. After the concert, the principal artistes were lined up in a commodious side room to be presented to her Royal Highness. Just before the Princess entered the room, a fearsome looking guy whose short, squat, menacing appearance reminded me of James Bond’s lethal adversary ‘Odd Job’ in the film ‘Goldfinger’. Obviously the Princess’s bodyguard, his unblinking, unsmiling gaze and bulging tuxedo breast pocket made it only too cleat to us that he was not to be trifled with. However, the atmosphere changed dramatically with the arrival of the Princess, whose beauty and radiance immediately thawed the preceding icy tension. Arthur Davies was first in line for presentation, and when the Princess enquired whether he would normally have been performing an operatic role elsewhere that evening, he shyly confessed that he had originally intended taking his family to see the film ‘Crocodile Dundee’, whereupon Diana, bubbling with enthusiasm, blurted out, ‘Oh, but you must see it. It’s wonderful. I’ve seen it three times already!’ This spontaneous display of childlike candour put us all at ease; but more importantly, it revealed those sublime qualities that eventually earned her the sobriquet, ‘The People’s Princess’. And when it was my turn to proffer my hand, her impact, attired as she was in a ravishing blue dress which was probably worth a fortune, was devastating. She exuded a stunning beauty which seemed to emanate from within- a truly gorgeous, gracious lady. Another singer to appear with RSO was Rhondda’s very own Eldrydd Cynan Jones, daughter of John and Mary Cynan Jones of Treorchy. My first memories of Eldrydd were of her as an overtly energetic young girl enjoying a ‘rough and tumble’ with her elder brothers, Geraint and David, at the family home. Little did I realise what a fine professional operatic soprano she would become. I recall with joy her powerful timbre soaring effortlessly above the combined forces of choir and orchestra in the latter section of Verdi’s ‘Requiem’. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The undoubted pinnacle of achievement for RSO during my thirty years as conductor was our appearance at London’s Royal Albert Hall, no less, in October, 1983. This was for ‘The Festival of a Thousand Welsh Voices’, which brought together mixed choirs from the length and breadth of Wales- quite an undertaking! RSO was chosen as the accompanying orchestra-quite an honour for an amateur ensemble to appear at such a prestigious venue! In charge of the vast choral battalions was John Peleg Williams, aided by the London based organist, Carys Hughes. As to be expected, the choir’s programme was unashamedly peppered with Welsh hymn tunes and excerpts from Handel, Mozart and Verdi; but I had insisted, from the outset, that the orchestra’s role was not to be merely a subservient accompanist to the more grandiose choruses. Consequently, I opened the concert with Elgar’s arrangement for full symphony orchestra of Handel’s ‘Overture in D minor’. We also performed movements from Tchaikovsky’s ballet suite, ‘Swan Lake’. Whilst compiling the orchestral items, I was urged by my good friend and wise old sage from Selsig Opera, the ever amiable Gwyn Thomas, to play the rousing Finale from Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony which he’d recently heard us perform in a concert at Parc and Dare Hall. ‘But Gwyn, mun’, I protested, ‘It’s the Royal Albert Hall, home to the Proms!’ Not daring to offend this gracious gentleman, I towards nervously acceded to his suggestion. On the actual night, towards the end of this hectic movement, I deliberately drove the orchestra to its limits, with a frenetic tempo which had leader, Bill Rogers, believing that we were airborne; but it really came off, and the capacity audience rewarded us with thunderous applause. I knew my players, and my immense respect and confidence in their ability allowed me, occasionally, to indulge in some carefully gauged ‘risk taking’ with the tempi. But the orchestra came with me, Thank God! I did not realise it at the time, but in the future I would return to conduct at the RAH on numerous occasions with the South Glamorgan Youth Orchestra as regular participants in the annual School Proms series, organised by ‘The Festival of Music for Youth’, the brain-child of the dynamic entrepreneur, Larry Westland: but that was yet to come! RSO’s success at the RAH resulted in our being invited to perform in the annual series of, ‘Corau’, concerts held at Cardiff’s St. David’s Hall. These concerts featured a massed choir made up of all the principal choral societies in South Wales. These events were admirably compered, bilingually, by Dr. Neville Evans, HM Senior Inspector of Schools in Wales. Neville’s erudition was allied to a wicked sense of humour, which added immensely to the evening’s entertainment- a healthy fusion of the classical repertoire in the ambience of a traditionally Welsh ‘Noson Lawen’. CHAPTER 14 In all of my thirty three years as conductor of RSO, only two occasions was I unable to fulfil my commitment to the orchestra. In May, 1983, I was appointed as the first Head of Strings and Orchestral Studies to South Glamorgan Education Authority. Whilst this was an immense thrill, it was tinged with sadness, as I would be leaving the Rhondda and the old ‘Glam’ set- up I had been part of for so many years. My Glam colleagues sprang a surprise party for me at the Sea Lawns hotel at Ogmore, which Margaret had led me to believe was merely an informal get-together with some of her staff at Wella Hair Cosmetics factory in Pontyclun. However, I guessed that something was afoot when I caught sight of ‘Big Dave’ Williams trying to hide his bulky frame behind an Austin Mini car – a singularly futile task! It was still, nevertheless, a big surprise to be greeted at the hotel entrance by my teaching mate, George Thomas, and escorted into a large room full of friends and colleagues, including Mr and Mrs. Sheppard. I found it an emotional and humbling experienced to be feted by such lovely people. Then a few weeks later, I awoke one morning with the most overwhelming abdominal pain. My GP quickly diagnosed pancreatitis, a life threatening ailment. Within an hour or so, Margaret was driving me to the old East Glamorgan Hospital in Church Village. Unfortunately, my illness coincided with the period of national strikes and ‘working to rule’ by elements of the NHS. Ambulances were unreliable and we were confronted at the hospital entrance by a picket line of strikers who demanded to know if my condition was sufficiently serious to merit my admission- what a damn cheek! Margaret furiously shouted: ‘Serious, you morons? He’s dying, for God’s sake!’ In my semi-comatose state I distinctly heard one of the strikers respond: ‘Let the bastard die!’ With that, Margaret hit the throttle hard and sent these men scampering as she sped through the gates. I was quickly ushered into the reception area where nurses and other assorted staff were heroically attempting to maintain a semblance of normality amongst the chaos brought about by the prevailing union action. As I was obviously in a state of imminent collapse, the other patients unanimously insisted that I should be dealt with ahead of them. It has always been a wry fascination for me that humour can occur even in the most dire of circumstances. The exasperated lady receptionist asked, yet again, a passing porter to transport me in a wheelchair to the awaiting medical staff, but he replied: ‘he’ll have to wait, ‘cos I’m on my tea break!!’ Whereupon, the receptionist called the unsuspecting porter back with the priceless threat: ‘Harry, if you don’t take Mr. Lloyd to the ward now, I’ll phone your wife and tell her what you tried to do to me in the Christmas party!!’ Despite my pain, I managed to emit a feeble chuckle before I finally passed out. Apparently, the hapless porter leaped to my aid in record time! In the next few days, I had suffered a collapsed lung, required an electric shock to correct my heart function, and an assortment of other serious bodily failures; but, against general expectations, I survived to tell this tale! But I remained in that hospital for seven lengthy weeks, during which I was allowed small quantities of solid food only in the last few weeks. Consequently, upon my discharge I resembled an inmate of Belsen, having lost over seven stone in weight! Indeed, the first time I was allowed to visit my ward’s bathroom unaccompanied, to shave, I faced a mirror for the first time in ages and instinctively turned around to identify the unfamiliar, skeletal face that stared at me! The RSO had a concert scheduled, in mid-September, during which time I was still a guest of East Glam Hospital. So I asked my good friend, viola player, Stuart Telling, to conduct in my place: and with a programme including Sibelius’s tricky 2nd Symphony, Stu really had his work cut out, and at short notice. But he coped magnificently, as I knew he would. He had played principal violin for each of my various ensembles: and I had perceived in him an obvious conducting talent aided by a penchant for sardonic humour. My next ‘baton crisis’ occurred in October, 1999, when I developed dizzy spells just a week before a concert in Pontyclun’s sparkling new Bethel Baptist Church. My doctor daughter, Cathy, advised me to pull out of the concert: and my son’s down to earth common sense dictated that if I fell forward over the players in the concert, the audience would conclude that I was inebriated! So, with their dual pronged insistence, I reluctantly opted for a quiet night in front of the telly. Although leader, George Thomas, could have confidently taken my place on the podium, I decided that his presence was vital in the leader’s seat. As a result, I requested another fellow fiddler, who was also a skilled conductor, to take over the baton: this was Phil Roberts, who did a fine job in a programme which included Borodin’s treacherous 2nd Symphony.
CHAPTER 15 A ‘SWINGING’ BOLERO–FIRST DESK FRIGHT - NEW LEADER AND NEW PRESIDENT It was a great joy to invite back, as soloists, former members of RSO who had found success in the professional orchestral world. Prominent amongst these was the Ferndale born percussionist, John Jeffreys, who had become a member of the renowned BBC Symphony Orchestra. I invited John, then still a young man, to play the extremely taxing side-drum part in Maurice Ravel’s evocative ‘Bolero’. Its constant, repetitive rigidity has reputedly caused many a nervous breakdown amongst established percussionists. In our particular rendition of this work, all appeared to be proceeding well, with some superb solo contributions from the principals. Not blessed then with the mature judgement of later years, I had naively accepted the kind invitation of a recently recruited woodwind player, who offered to play the fairly undemanding solo saxophone part: and securing another saxophonist at that late stage was out of the question. However, as soon as our volunteer sax player started his easy, but pivotal, solo I swiftly realised that our respective tempos were somewhat at variance. He seemed to favour a distinctly rubato approach, which may well have wooed some ‘tipsy’ dancers in the local ‘Palais de Dance’, but was anathema to the strict pulse of the Bolero. Poor John Jeffrey’s rigidly insistent beat gradually descended into a musical ‘stammer’! With my arms thrashing around wildly, like a demented windmill, the strident, rock solid entry of trombonist Phil Morgan, appearing like a lifeboat in a force eight gale, restored a semblance of normality to the tempo. Thankfully, thorough pro that he was, our guest percussionist quickly regained both tempo and his composure and carried on heroically to the end – but was visibly shaken by the trauma. Afterwards in the Pengelly pub, I believe our hero of the hour, Phil Morgan, received quite a few ‘thank you’ drinks from John Jeffrey and me for pulling us back from the precipice that was ominously approaching! Just a few years later, in September 1977, I spotted John on television playing with the BBC Symphony Orchestra on The Last Night of the Proms in the live broadcast from the Royal Albert hall. Watching engrossed with me, was my ever inquisitive young daughter, Catherine, who innocently asked at the end of the concert, ‘Daddy, will they go for a nice party now?’ I replied that they would most certainly go for a few drinks, totally unaware of what my statement would portend. Apparently, having returned to his London flat after some celebratory imbibing, John had put some food in a plastic container to boil on the stove. Feeling weary after the evening’s exertions, he swiftly drifted off to sleep, and was killed by the toxic fumes which had escaped from the container that had been placed on the cooker. John was just twenty six years of age. Such a tragic end to a young, gifted life, which was so full of promise. The image of this loveable, bespectacled young lad with the curly, tousled mop of hair and boyish grin, refused to fade from my memory for many years. --------------------------------------------------------------------- For a concert with RSO in March, 1972, I had decided to invite a non-musician to act as ‘soloist’. Having worked with and been very impressed by the local amateur actor, David Morgan, I perceived him to be the ideal narrator in Prokofiev’s musical story ‘Peter and the Wolf’. With his richly sonorous voice, David portrayed vividly each character in the tale, and his depiction of Peter’s curmudgeonly old grandfather was as convincing as anything I have heard from many a ‘big name’ professional actor. But for different reasons, this particular performance had a longer lasting significance. As we were approaching the latter section of the piece, I became alarmingly aware that the dependable RSO leader, Bill Rogers, had stopped playing and looked unusually pallid as he sat there with his fiddle resting limply on his lap. It was obvious that he was not at all well, so I accelerated the tempo in a manner which the composer would not have approved; but, at that same time, I was far more concerned with seeing Bill exiting swiftly backstage than the niceties of Prokofiev’s tempo markings. Whilst, at the end of the work, narrator and orchestral solo players duly acknowledged the applause, Bill discreetly left the stage. Thankfully, the interval followed immediately and amazingly, after sipping a glass of refreshing water, Bill regained his composure and his colour and insisted that he felt fit enough to resume playing in the second half, which he did without any recurrence of his earlier symptoms. After the concert a gang of us beat a hasty retreat back to our house in Tonyrefail where Margaret had prepared a small party. With me suffering from a bout of an old malady – piles, and Bill feeling unusually weary after the concert, we decided to grab half an hour’s rest in my bedroom. Beryl Jones, the wife of sub-leader, Alun, looked in to check on us. She unsympathetically dismissed my ailment as ‘---just a pain in the bum!’ But, being a nursing sister, she instructed Bill to roll up his sleeve so that she could check his pulse. Without registering undue alarm, she gently suggested that Bill should contact his doctor next day ‘to be on the safe side!’ her advice was proven timely, because Bill’s doctor swiftly despatched him to Bridgend hospital: his heart was on the verge of total collapse. This heralded the start of life saving procedures and pioneering surgery which culminated with the insertion of a ‘pacemaker’. In many respects it could be argued that Bill was something of a medical guinea pig, as the ‘pacemaker’ technology was still in its infancy, and various treatments were sought and ‘tried’ in specialist centres ranging from the old Sully hospital, on the Glamorganshire coast, to St. Mary’s and Golders Green hospitals in London. Thankfully, after months of hospitalisation, and with years of out-patient monitoring and replacement surgery ahead, Bill made a remarkable recovery. He returned to RSO and continued as leader, complete with his ‘pacemaker’ firing on all four cylinders! In 1985, however, Bill with the added responsibility of fatherhood, decided to relinquish his position as leader which he had acquitted with such distinction since the orchestra’s inception. His obvious successor was George Thomas, whose technical prowess and calm temperament made him the ideal replacement for Bill. In fact, George remains in the first seat to this day, and has led the orchestra with distinction which he combines with a subtle blend of patriarchal wisdom and dry humour, which has often diffused the odd moments of tension. So it was, in a concert at Parc and Dare Hall, in the Autumn of 1985, that I paid my warm thanks and respects to RSO’s departing leader, and welcomed our new leader, George Thomas. The orchestra’s sadness at Bill’s departure was, however, tempered by the arrival of our new President in the revered personage of Mr. Russell Sheppard! ------------------------------------------------------------------- Along with RSO, my freelance activities were also keeping me pretty busy. In 1975 my good friend and musical collaborator, John Cynon Jones, was invited to become Music Director of the world famous Treorchy Male Voice Choir, following the retirement of the illustrious John Haydn Davies. This created a vacancy for the conductorship of the Treorchy Choral Society which was soon filled by another teaching colleague, Norman Harris. As with John Cynan, I quickly established a comparable working relationship with Norman. Although handicapped by the debilitating disease, Haemophilia, he constantly strove to flourish and delivered many fine performances. As well as presenting the usual ‘pot-boiler’ works, Norman expanded the choir’s repertoire with lesser known items such as Elgar’s ‘The Kingdom’ and ‘The Music makers’: both these works were technically challenging, especially with just one three hour rehearsal for each concert. I recall with a degree of amusement, an incident during a performance of Mendelssohn’s ‘Elijah’. Norman had engaged a choir boy to sing the part of the young lad sent up into the hills to scan the darkened horizon for any signs of life. This merely involved the youngster walking to the front of the stage in the Parc and Dare Hall, declaring his observations, and making a discreet exit. It worked perfectly well in the afternoon rehearsal, but not on the night. Having arrived at this dramatic point, Norman waited, waited and waited, but the cherubic young boy failed to appear. With quick thinking, Mary Cynon Jones emerged from the chorus and sang the vital linking part with consummate ease, thus averting a catastrophe. It later transpired that the poor young man, overcome by stagefright, had literally wet himself whilst waiting in the wings! Very popular were the series of ‘Nights at the opera’, for which we collaborated on quite a few occasions. These concerts involved many distinguished London based soloists such as the delightfully flamboyant tenor, Kenneth Woolham, who would arrive at rehearsal wearing a large colourful fedora; the delectable, Nicola Lanzetter; Sybil Michelow; the great tenor, John Mitchinson together with the Welsh tenors, Wynford Evans and Keith Erwin, the latter of who’s premature death robbed the opera world of a natural voice full of potential and exciting promise. I remember one occasion when Norman was suffering an intensive bleed, which made it extremely difficult for him to physically raise his arms. To reduce his workload that night, he asked me to rise from my leader’s seat and conduct the overture plus a few miscellaneous items on the programme. I never ceased to admire Norman’s fortitude and determination never to capitulate during these crises. He has continued to conduct various choral and amateur theatrical groups to the present day with conspicuous success. As the invitations to provide orchestras for numerous choral societies kept rolling in, it became apparent that an identifiable name was required for the ‘straight’ orchestra I fixed. I had resisted emulating Morgan Lloyd’s individual style of naming his orchestra after himself; there could never be another Morgan- he was unique. It was John Cynon Jones, over a coffee in Pentre grammar, who suggested the novel title of ‘The Festival Orchestra’. As he wisely indicated, most of the choral societies regarded their major annual concert as their own indigenous festival. So it was Rhondda Symphony Orchestra for the symphonic concerts, Rhondda Theatre Orchestra for the shows, and The Festival Orchestra for the choral concerts. I cannot deny feeling a certain euphoria and pride in having created, and being in control of, three orchestras. I must, I mused, be getting something right at last!
CHAPTER 16 Glorious Choirs – Geraint Evans- Phillip Langridge-The Joys of ‘Fixing’? In the years preceding my ‘fixing’ days, and co-existing alongside my full time teaching job, I was very much a, ‘jobbing’ fiddler, accepting any gig that was offered- dire poverty providing a strong incentive! Years later, Margaret and I would nostalgically ruminate that we were so poor, we hardly noticed it. Skint, but happy! For a number of years, I was called upon by my hero, Haydn ‘Quke’ Davies, to lead a small string ensemble for the excellent, Calvary Chapel Choir, in Treforest, Pontypridd. It was conducted by a charming lady called, Gwyneth Pearce, who had been a guide and mentor to a host of local young aspiring singers, including Stuart Burrows, who ultimately became the world’s greatest Mozartian tenor. Stuart asserts, to this day, that he is deeply indebted to this gifted, scholarly lady who afforded him such wise guidance when he was a young man. It was she who taught him the basic, ‘bread and butter’, repertoire of oratorios that would remain many a singer’s staple diet and earning facility for many years to come. As previously mentioned, in the fifties and sixties the two main orchestral ‘fixers’ in South Wales were John Crouch, with his Cardiff Concert Orchestra, and Swansea based Morgan Lloyd. As I lived midway between Rhondda and Cardiff, I became a Crouch ‘regular’. For any of the more difficult works, he would invariably draft in a phalanx of seasoned ‘pros’ from the BBC Welsh Orchestra ( as it was then known ). For we humble, part-time freelancers, it was a delight to play alongside the likes of violinists-Barry Haskey, Francis Howard, Jeff Booth, Ralph Boothroyd, Dewi Owen, Simon Weimann, violist Jeff Yorke, veteran ‘cellist, Philip Kent, and so many other fine players. Another great character was Mel Davey, who had left the full-time drudge as a violinist with the ‘Beeb’ orchestra, once he discovered that owning a fish and chip shop in a Cardiff suburb was far more productive, and less stressful! Indeed, Mel’s emporium, in Birchgrove, could justifiably boast the best bag of chips ever to grace many a wrapped copy of the ‘South Wales Echo’! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- One of the most enterprising choirs to be found in the South Wales valleys was the Nelson and District Choral Society, which was based in the Rhymney Valley. Under its highly individual, but charismatic conductor, Graham Barrar, it performed works such as Carl Orff’s, ‘Carmina Burana’, Prokofiev’s ‘Alexander Nevsky’, and Elgar’s ‘Dream of Gerontius’. At the time, these works, with the possible exception of ‘Gerontius’, were way beyond the usual, standard works performed by most amateur choirs in Wales. So the Nelson choir, and their far-sighted conductor, are to be commended on their sterling, pioneering work in extending the choral repertoire. One of my earliest encounters with this fine choir came in 1964, for their performance of Mendelssohn’s oratorio, ‘Elijah’, with the great Welsh baritone, Geraint Evans, together with soprano, Rae Woodland; contralto, Yvonne Minton; and tenor, Edward Byles. This choir invariably engaged the finest soloists of the day. For the first rehearsal, I travelled with Haydn ‘Quke’ Davies, who was unusually crotchety during the journey: he was, of course, very tense in anticipation of his exposed ‘cello solo in the emotive aria, ‘It is Enough’. Haydn’s glowering countenance did not improve when Geraint Evans halted the orchestra midway through this aria; but, in fact, it was to declare: ’Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but I feel compelled to say that I cannot recall ever having heard that ‘cello solo played quite as movingly as we have just heard!’ ‘Quke’s’ bleak face was transformed, as a broad grin replaced what had gone before, and was enhanced even further by the spontaneous applause that erupted from orchestra and choir alike. As I was to discover over many years of working with him, this was typical of Geraint: whereas such superlative playing would usually be taken for granted by most artistes, Geraint Evans, then at the pinnacle of his fame, would take the trouble to offer a deserved compliment to a fellow performer, which was such a boost to morale. To the contrary, I cannot help but wryly reflect on the mischievously humorous maxim of conductor, Edgar Watkins’s, of Cardiff’s Municipal Operatic Society, who would wistfully proclaim that, ‘___the four most useless things in the world were, a broken elastic band, the Pope’s testicles- and a vote of thanks to the orchestra!!’ A concert with Nelson Choir was always regarded as an ‘event’; but not always for the right reasons! A performance of Elgar’s, ‘Gerontious’, in 1965 was fraught with problems from the outset. With Richard Lewis, arguably Britain’s greatest tenor, singing the title role ( it could have been written especially for him, such was his mastery and close affinity for the role!), the initial rehearsal a few days before the concert, stumbled along unsteadily from the first bar: Graham Barrar’s undoubted skill with his choir did not, unfortunately, transfer easily to his orchestral direction. The discomfort of Richard Lewis and his fellow distinguished soloists, the soprano, Patricia Kern, and bass baritone, Raimund Herincx, was painfully apparent. In the rehearsal break, Richard Lewis summarily dismissed the orchestra, explaining that, ‘___I and the conductor will spend tomorrow in a concentrated study of the score!!’ Consequently, the second part of this vast work remained unrehearsed. On the actual concert night, as we took our seats for the second half, ‘fixer’ John Crouch, was heard to sardonically pronounce: ’Ah well, ladies and gentlemen, let us proceed into uncharted waters!’ At variable points in the work, Richard Lewis was to be clearly heard beating time with his foot when the tempi became rather frayed. Strangely enough, despite the strain of this, their first encounter, messers, Lewis and Barrar developed a long-standing friendship. Being the genuinely nice guy that he was, coupled with his obvious passion for the music, Graham’s occasional wayward baton skills would be instantly forgiven. Indeed, I remember a number of concerts with Graham and his Nelson choir which were very successful. One such was a concert at Cardiff’s New Theatre which included Manuel de Falla’s Spanish evocation, ‘El Amour Brujo’ (Love, the Magician). Graham seemed to be as much in his element in this work as he was in Carl Orff’s ‘Carmina Burana’. Following his retirement from teaching and his beloved choir, Graham moved to the picturesque sea port of Fishguard, where he took over a delightful guest house. During Fishguard’s annual Summer Music Festival, quite a few musicians who had worked with him over the years, would regularly receive a warm welcome at his comfortable B+B. One balmy evening after a particularly satisfying tea served by his attractive daughter, Rhiannon, Bill James, Peter Kingswood, Geraint John and myself, formed a string quartet for an impromptu chamber music session. As the sounds of Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven wafted through the open downstairs lounge window, a small audience of passing holidaymakers gathered on the pavement outside and, to our amazement, tossed in some coins and even a few notes as a mark of their appreciation! We then retired, with Graham holding court, to the nearest hostelry for a night of boozy nostalgia! In the seventies, as a freelance ‘extra’ with the Orchestra of WNO, I made quite a few enjoyable forays to Fishguard. During my first visit, just before the afternoon rehearsal for an orchestral concert that evening, I was ‘persuaded’ to join trombonists, John Hendy and Aneurin James, for a quick pint of what they reverentially referred to as, ‘real ale’. These seasoned drinkers understood only too well the potency of this brew which was, hitherto, unknown to me; as it seduced my taste buds so potently, I contentedly downed three or four pints! It was only when I sat down to play the music, which had taken on an ominously hazy hue, that I became acutely aware of the true strength of this newly discovered beverage! I vaguely remember conductor, Richard Armstrong, welcoming to the platform a slender apparition in a tightly fitting, silver trousers ( as I was later informed), who turned out to be the then young, alluring Russian violin virtuoso, Viktoria Mullova. Her brilliant playing of the Mendelssohn concerto began to arouse me from my torpor, enabling me to limply latch on to the general flow of the music, which seemed to be staring menacingly out at me! Pals they may still be, but I’ve never quite forgiven those two errant brass players for getting me into such a state prior to a lengthy, arduous rehearsal! In Fishguard yet again, a year later, as I was getting ready for a concert with the WNO orchestra, I discovered that, having put on my white shirt, bow tie and tails, I had forgotten to pack my tuxedo trousers- calamity! As I gingerly made my way to the concert venue, immaculately attired in tails, which were rather bizarrely matched by a battered pair of Levi jeans, I was accosted by a lady member of the Festival Choir. ‘Duw luv, ewe can’t go in dressed like that mun!’ having had my predicament explained to her, she turned to her husband, suitably dressed in a smart dinner suit, with the words: \'Dai, take off your trousers and give them to this gentleman of the orchestra!\' The poor chap, obviously accustomed to obeying his fair lady\'s every command, promptly dropped his trousers, in the middle of the street, and handed them to me! he quickly scurried back indoors, returning in minutes, wearing a lesser quality pair of substitute apparel! Needless to say, my affection for Fishguard and its delightful inhabitants has remained with me ever since. Another member of the BBC Welsh Orchestra who was often called upon to lead John Crouch’s Cardiff Concert Orchestra, was the courteous, Garfield Phillips. Surprisingly, as time went on, I found myself placed, at his bidding, next to Garfield on the front desk of the first fiddles. This was possibly because of my knack of turning the pages at just the right moment, allied to my apparent ability to play at a supportive level, but not louder than the leader, which seemed to please Garfield: hence his requests to join him ‘up front’. We actually developed a fine working relationship and musical affinity which led to a firm friendship. When he discovered that my main occupation was that of a schoolmaster, he expressed a profound sense of relief: ‘Jeffrey, my dear chap, music-making is surely the greatest of hobbies, but the world’s worst possible profession!’ As deputy leader of the BBC Welsh, he could be called upon, at short notice, to stand in for an indisposed Philip Whiteway: and this imposed a great strain on this most delightful gentleman. Whenever Garfield had a solo to perform in the course of a work, and even though he invariably played it magnificently, being in close proximity, I was acutely conscious of his intensely nervous state. Consequently, he developed high blood pressure and, sadly passed away shortly after his retirement. Garfield was a kindly man who, as his health was beginning to deteriorate, would regularly pass a great number of lucrative engagements my way. ------------------------------------------------------------ I shudder, even today, as I recall some of the truly difficult works that I was expected to perform with a relatively miniscule group of performers. Dear old Haydn Davies once asked me to lead a tiny ensemble for a concert with the Calvary choir in what was euphemistically referred to as: ‘___a bit of Bach or something, OK!’ When I arrived for the afternoon rehearsal, I discovered that the usual conductor, Gwyneth Pearce, had been taken seriously ill: and the choir which had ‘come to the rescue’, was the redoubtable Swansea Philharmonic – probably Wales’s finest at the time. Their founder conductor, Haydn James, was a legend in his own time: before settling in Swansea as a schoolteacher, Haydn had ‘cut his teeth’ in the London music scene, and had been a close collaborator with musical icons such as Sir Thomas Beecham. To my shock horror, the ‘bit of Bach’, casually alluded to by ‘Quke’ was, in fact, the mighty ‘B Minor Mass’! Quite apart from its length, technical intricacies and endless counting of bars rest, it had a few ‘tasty’ violin solos, one of which, the ‘Laudamus te’, was especially demanding. Haydn James was a perfectionist, and could be abrupt with performers who fell short of his high standards. I recall him being especially dismissive of a poor soprano soloist who had turned up two hours late for the rehearsal: he did not rant and rave, but his cold silence exemplified sufficiently his displeasure. But on the night, he afforded her all the help and support she could have wished for- a real pro! He was also most complimentary on my fiddle solos- a huge relief! I played for Haydn James quite frequently over the years, and was eventually asked to ‘fix’ the orchestras for his magnificent Swansea Philharmonic Choir’s concerts. Much later, I was privileged to provide the orchestra and also play for, his final concert with the Philharmonic in 1984. The work he chose for his ‘swansong’ was Elgar’s ‘Gerontius’. After the rehearsal, whilst casually thumbing through a copy of the evening’s programme, I was astounded to discover that this highly respected, elderly musician had never actually conducted ‘Gerontius’ previously. When I politely asked the reason for this glaring omission in his vast repertoire, he shrugged his shoulders and said: ‘Quite simply, my dear boy, it’s only now that I consider myself sufficiently mature to do justice to such a profound work!’ It was also in that ‘B Minor Mass’ date at Calvary Chapel, that I first met the promising young tenor, Phillip Langridge. He was such a pleasant fellow that we seemed to ‘hit it off’ immediately. Thereafter, Phillip’s forays into the Rhondda would find him enjoying a warm welcome as a guest of the Lloyd household in Tonyrefail. We kept in touch for a number of years until his dynamic ascendency, as one of Britain’s greatest tenors, saw him travel worldwide. Phillip, who originally studied the violin at the Royal Academy, was a scholarly singer whose voice was especially suited to the works of Elgar, Britten, Tippett and other notable English composers, as well as the masters of the Baroque repertoire. He was an outstanding artiste, with an easy, engaging personality. Playing with us on these ‘chapel’ dates, were the brilliant Welsh ‘cellist, John Cullis who later joined the ‘Orchestra de la Suisse Romade, in Geneva, two locally based ladies, violinist, Margaret Meredith and viola player, Catherine Hughes-Jones, together with Bill Rogers, Bob Swain, Vic Chamberlain and handsome Double Bassist, Alun Williams, whose tragic death at such an early age, shocked us all deeply. Our small band, reinforced by the ever reliable organist, Trevor Dummer, would tackle virtually all the standard oratorios, masses and miscellaneous liturgical works, and all for a fairly humble fee. After each concert, we would seek sustenance at the nearest pub in Rhydfelin, of which there was ample choice! Hard work though it undoubtedly was, these concerts provided us with a firm knowledge of the choral repertoire, which served us well into the future. The Calvary chapel choir eventually became the Pontypridd Choral Society, which put on some excellent concerts under their conductor, Brian Phipps. Quite apart from the predictable musical fare, we seemed to perform, ‘masses of Masses!’ These were mainly those of Franz Joseph Haydn, who seemed to have written a glorious mass for every conceivable event in history! They were good to play, as the violin parts were quite demanding, and treacherously exposed, keeping us all ‘on our toes’. I also recall at the Hawthorne Leisure Centre, a fine performance of Elgar’s ubiquitous ‘Gerontius’. Brian Phipps, who was not a fit man, seemed to summon strengths which enabled him to present a memorable interpretation of this profound, complex work. It was an immense sadness for me to hear a few years later of dear Brian’s premature death: not only was he a fine musician, but also a delight to work with. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the years that I was ‘fixing’ orchestras, I and the various choral society treasurers or secretaries would thrash out the matter of orchestral fees well in advance, so that any financial ‘trimming’ could be happily resolved prior to the concert date. However, one choral society decided to challenge the figures, which I had supplied them with months before, on the very day of the concert, and during the actual rehearsal. Gleefully boasting that they had managed to ‘squeeze’ a reduction out of a young soloist’s fee a few minutes earlier, they demanded a similar reduction in my, quite modest, ‘fixer’ fee. I was, naturally, fuming at such effrontery, and told the cabal of committee members that, in future, they could recruit an orchestra themselves; but not to phone me when the lead ‘cellist cried off just before the rehearsal of, say, Verdi’s ‘Requiem’! Apart from the more perceptive committee members, the general assumption was that a ‘fixer’ merely had to make a few phone calls to some musician chums, and an orchestra would magically appear-just like that! In actual fact, engaging a professional orchestra, especially for the more complicated works, involves months of forward planning and hours of phone calls, selecting available players who are not only competent, but can also co-exist with a particular desk partner, and a myriad other relevant factors, of which the choral societies were blissfully unaware. After all, why should they need to know that the ‘fixer’ had just spent hours on the phone, on the morning of the concert, trying to secure a replacement principal oboist, because the original player’s wife had gone prematurely into labour!? As a ‘fixer’ it was my task to solve these seemingly insurmountable problems: it was only I who had the specialist knowledge and expertise to resolve these ‘eleventh hour’ crises. That is what I was being paid for. In fairness, the majority of societies appreciated my efforts, and would amicably discuss any fiscal adjustments they wished to make, well before the performance date. The system I devised was also totally honest and transparent. Having agreed with the treasurer the overall figure, I would then provide him with a detailed breakdown of individual fees, strictly adhering to the current Musicians’ Union casual concert rate, including my own ‘fixer’ fee. Individual cheques would then be distributed on the evening of the concert to each player. No doubt, had I accepted a single full payment from the choir treasurer, and distributed the monies at my leisure, and with some fees well below the MU rate, I could have made a financial ‘killing’; but that was not my style. Many of the choir members and musicians I engaged were personal friends who trusted me to play fair with them: and this respect and trust meant far more to me than any amount of deviously acquired monetary gain. As a result, whilst I did not acquire a halo of sainthood, it did allow me to sleep at nights! Dear Haydn James, as he concluded his final rehearsal before retiring, publicly thanked me: ‘___for getting me such a lovely orchestra, for my last concert!’ OK, yes, you receive a reasonable fee, but a kind plaudit such as Haydn’s goes a long way to confirm that all your hard work has at least been recognised. Conversely, I once had to try and explain to an obdurate (and bombastic) choir committee chairman, why it was necessary to engage twelve violins when there were only three trombones! Thankfully, the likes of Haydn James, John Cynan Jones, Norman Harries, Graham Barrar, Kevin Adams and a few other ‘informed’ conductors, simply detailed their instrumental requirements to their respective committees, and that was that!! One fairly small choir which was always a joy to work with was the Bridgend choral Society, most of whose concerts took place in Bridgend’s delightful, Nolton Church: they seemed to exude a warm friendliness that was not always as forthcoming with some others. Their musical director, Kevin Adams, was a skilled violinist, keyboard player and composer who displayed an instant empathy with his orchestral colleagues. Also, in addition to the central work in the programme, he would include, when appropriate, an orchestral work: this provided a satisfying incentive to us instrumentalists. So alongside a Schubert or Haydn mass, he would slot in a short symphony or overture, which complemented, admirably, the concert’s main course’. Kevin’s deep scholarship and assured conducting technique also made for a relatively uncomplicated rehearsal and performance. For me, however, a welcome bonus came in the form of a regular ‘Thank You’ letter from the choir’s secretary: such a kind gesture meant a great deal to me, and was much appreciated- this really was a genuine ‘vote of thanks to the orchestra’, which eroded dear old Edgar Watkins’s earlier cynical adage!
CHAPTER 17 Inimitable Glynne Jones – Bassoonist’s Early Departure in ‘Aida’ – Accompanists
As is already clearly evident, there has never been a dearth of exceptional personalities in the music scene: some outrageously comedic, many lugubrious, yet fascinating, and a few whose eccentricity permitted never a dull moment whilst in their presence. One of the most colourful and entertaining of these has to be the enigmatic Glynne Jones, of Merthyr Tydfil. For many years, Glynne had been the Head of Music at Cyfarthfa Grammar School, in Merthyr, where he had created a magnificent school choir that was capable of tackling most of the standard oratorios. With Glynne, each concert was a ‘special’ event. The afternoon rehearsal would invariably be fraught with tensions, as when timpanist Dr. Gerry Gould set up his large timpani in the chapel’s ‘set fawr’ (big seat) which had been designated for the violins. Neither of the protagonists, Glynne and Gerry, being equally inflexible and eccentric, would relent. It was only the diplomatic intervention of respected leader, Bill James, aided by some ‘persuasive’ intimidation from a less tolerant ‘Quke’ Davies that secured a truce, thus enabling the rehearsal to proceed. For the first of my many professional encounters with Glynne, I sat next to the unflappable Bill James, who had previous experience of Glynne’s –‘Gala Nights’. On the night of the concert itself, whilst awaiting the arrival of the maestro, I quietly expressed my admiration of the specially constructed, and highly decorative, raised rostrum that must have taken the school’s woodwork master many hours of labour to perfect. Bill turned to me with a knowing wink and said, ‘Jeff, you ain’t seen nuttin yet!’ The full drama then unfolded. A young, cherubic choirboy with a head of blonde curls solemnly ascended the steps of the rostrum carrying the conductor’s leather-bound full score which was duly placed on the music stand, and opened reverentially to reveal the first page. Rigorously maintaining that same dignity, the young lad then descended the sturdy wooden steps to be met at the bottom of the stairs by Glynne, immaculately attired in full regalia- top hat and tails and white gloves, which were complimented by a magnificent Wagnerian opera cape! The white gloves were ceremonially handed to the youthful valet, followed by the top hat and opera cape. Then, and only then, did the maestro, head held high and baton grasped firmly, make his way to his ‘power base’ on the rostrum. This mesmerising theatrical tableau could not have been more inspired by the great Russian choreographer Ballanchine himself! Entranced as I was, I had to pinch myself into the humbling realisation that I was about to play in a performance of Handel’s ‘Messiah’ in a Merthyr chapel, and not in Wagner’s ‘Ring Cycle’ in Bayreuth! But Glynne’s histrionics invariably paid off, and his choral forces responded magnanimously to his baton. Then, with the concert over, it was an Olympian dash to the nearest pub, where Glynne would be purchasing copious rounds of drinks for all and sundry. His generosity knew no bounds- if you were in his favour! Occasionally, however, Glynne’s concerts would encounter their hiccups. I well recall a rehearsal of Verdi’s opera ‘Aida’, to be performed in concert form, for which ‘fixer’ John Crouch had wisely recruited a number of BBC Welsh players, to be on the safe side. Things could , and should, have gone smoothly; but, as it was a concert version of the opera, Glynne had ‘blue pencilled’ in a mass of cuts, double repeats and double choruses etc, so complex that it made the actual page turning back and forth to locate these changes almost impossible. Consequently, the rehearsal was a morass of confusion. Midway through the actual performance, I was tapped on the shoulder by George Tofield, veteran BBC bassoonist. In a thick Northern accent, he enquired: ‘Eh, lad, d’ ya know where in’t ‘ell we are?’ I shamefully replied: ‘I’m afraid not, Mr. Tofield’. He quickly retorted: ‘Aye lad, me too. So bwgger it, I’m off to catch blwwdy train!’. And off he went – in mid performance! To my mind, Glynne’s natural forte was the male voice choir, with which he especially excelled. After some time with the ‘Silurian Singers’, he took over the conductorship of the internationally acclaimed Pendyrus male Voice Choir, with which he remained for over thirty years. To attend one of his rehearsals was an entertainment all of its own. He would often berate a hapless chorister with a flow of colourful expletives that made one’s hair curl and was likely to earn a robust physical response from most men. But his ‘boys’ ( many of them, hardy miners) loved his bluster and never took offence. The only person of whom Glynne was eternally wary was his dear mother, whom he adored, and respectfully dubbed, ‘The Duchess’. It seems that this frail, elderly lady ruled with a rod of iron. Glynne eventually left the classroom, to become Music Advisor to Gwent Education Authority where he spent many fruitful years. Glynne sadly died suddenly on Christmas Eve, 2000, and his funeral must have been attended by virtually everyone in Wales, and beyond, who was remotely connected with music. A number of distinguished senior figures from the Welsh arts fraternity and broadcasting, related many humorous anecdotes concerning Glynne. Consequently, many mourners were heard to comment, as they were leaving the packed Merthyr church, that it was ‘___the jolliest funeral service they had ever attended!’ That there were far more laughs than tears was an eloquent tribute to Glynne- a truly remarkable musician, whose extrovert presence enriched and brightened so many lives. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Another fine musician who also became successfully involved with a number of male voice choirs was my old mate, John Samuel, from Caerphilly. I got to know John when he was a member of the choral staff at Ogmore. A first rate accompanist, John was also an accredited Welsh Rugby Union referee: and if he was officiating at a local match during the week of a choral course, a few of us would sneak off to the game, and call the ref ‘rotten’ from the relative safety of the touch line! After one such game, however, he extracted his revenge at supper back at Ogmore, by momentarily diverting my attention to a passing, attractive female student, whilst surreptitiously pouring some tasty beef gravy – over my apple crumble! But no amount of John’s tomfoolery could mask his impressive keyboard skills, conducting ability and profound musicianship. I was privileged to enjoy quite a few musical collaborations with John and always perceived his conducting technique to be decisive, and his interpretation apposite. Following Glynne Jones’s death, John ‘Sam’, as he was universally known, became conductor of ‘Pendyrus’. He had long since left his teaching post at Caerphilly Grammar School to become a lecturer at Barry College of Education, before gravitating to Cardiff’s College of Music and Drama, where he did sterling work, particularly as a coach to young vocalists. When, from 1983 onwards, my official duties frequently took me to the WCMD, I would instantly recognise John’s distinctive voice as he was persuasively perfecting a phrase with an aspiring young female student: so I would pop my head around the door for a brief exchange of social pleasantries, whereupon he would instruct the confused student to hide beneath the piano, explaining that I was a deranged sex maniac who had absconded from a local lunatic asylum! John ‘Sam’ had struck up a long-standing friendship and fruitful working relationship with the glorious tenor, Stuart Burrows, and many a young singer has benefitted, handsomely, from the combined expertise of these two superb artistes. Among a veritable host of highly competent accompanists who had originated from the South Wales valleys, there were a select few, like John ‘Sam’, who were exceptionally gifted. Janice Ball from Cardiff, Jennifer Jones from Ferndale, Meryn Williams from Llantrisant, Clive Stubbs from Port Talbot, Alan James from Neath, Jonathan Gulliford from Merthyr and Heather James from Pontardawe are all prominent examples; but, arguably, the most outstanding of them all, was Bryan Davies from Ferndale. For many years, Bryan was a junior school supply teacher in the Rhondda but, over the years, his brilliance as a pianist came to the attention of a number of top professional artistes and he became much sought after on the recital circuit, eventually becoming a regular accompanist to no less an artiste as Wales’s premier bass baritone, Bryn Terfel. Totally self-effacing, and entirely bereft of the merest hint of conceit or pomposity, Bryan, together with John ‘Sam’, eventually ended up as a member of staff at the WCMD where his vast contribution was recognised with the award of a College Fellowship. One day, over a cup of tea with Bryan at the college canteen, I happened to mention that I would shortly be conducting the Katchaturian suite ‘Spartacus’ with the South Glamorgan Youth Orchestra. I was quite taken aback when my companion casually said that he had enjoyed an interesting chat about the work, ‘___with Aram, many years ago’. This was no case of ostentatious name dropping, because that simply was not Bryan’s style. A self-avowed socialist, he had actually met the great man – Aram Katchaturian, at a cultural exchange conference during the era of the ‘cold war’. So here I was, with a direct link to one of the great twentieth century Russian composers- amazing! Curiously, his universal popularity and easily recognisable persona meant that he only needed to stand outside his house for a few minutes, before an offer of a lift was forthcoming! My major regret was never having the wisdom to invite Bryan to perform a concerto with the RSO.
CHAPTER 18 Adieu, Pontcanna - The Advent of HTV - Abundance of Television Work Since it’s inception in the late fifties, ‘Television Wales and the West’, better known as ‘TWW’, with its two studios based in Bristol and Cardiff, provided many lucrative engagements for freelance musicians on both sides of the Bristol Channel. The excellent players of the old BBC Welsh Orchestra were debarred from accepting work with the new commercial broadcasting company because of their contractual commitment to the BBC: and this ruling was strictly enforced. TWW’s Musical Director in Pontcanna was a Northern gentleman called Norman Whitehead: and it was he who spearheaded the pivotal musical element of the aforementioned ‘Gwlad Y Gan’ with its regular Sunday afternoon slot ideally timed to attract, nationwide, millions of viewers. Sadly, Norman, a brilliantly gifted musician, died whilst still a relatively young man. Norman Whitehead’s place was eventually taken by Eric Wetherall, as MD at Pontcanna. Another fine musician, Eric had been a professional horn player, was an accomplished pianist, a skilful musical arranger and a talented conductor who had wielded a benevolent baton for a few seasons with the WNO. A thoroughly eclectic musician, Eric was also a very capable jazz performer. I was fortunate enough to be invited fairly regularly, by Eric, to Pontcanna: and as the MU had negotiated substantial fees for TV engagements, with extra payment if you happened to be ‘in shot’, I earned an attractive supplement to my rather meagre teacher’s salary! The music we were required to play was quite varied in both style and difficulty: and, as mentioned earlier, most of it was performed ‘live’, with no facility for ‘retakes’. A good sight-reading ability was, therefore, essential. During this era, the various technical unions were all powerful, and so called ‘demarcation disputes’ were rife in industries throughout the country: and I was soon to discover that broadcasting was certainly not immune from such a malaise. I once turned up at the Pontcanna studios for a morning rehearsal session scheduled for ten o’clock, only to be told by Eric to grab a coffee, as the ‘scene shifters’ were in dispute with management. We musicians comprised only a half dozen players who, in anticipation of an imminent resolution to the impasse, were sitting in our chairs which had been set out prior to the union problem. Within a few minutes, however, Eric happily announced that an agreement had been secured, and we could start the rehearsal very shortly. Wishing to be helpful, I and a colleague went over to pick up the shiny new music stands which had been standing forlornly, just a few feet away. But we were abruptly stopped in our tracks by Eric, with the words: ‘For God’s sake, don’t touch those, or we’ll have another strike on our hands!’ This, I discovered was the exclusive province of the studio’s scene shifters. I then looked on, in amazement, as each of six muscular men picked up a solitary, lightweight music stand, and placed them in front of us. They then retreated to the far edge of the studio floor, where they busied themselves with an arduous game of cards for the duration of the three hour rehearsal. At the end of the rehearsal session they once more came over and returned the stands to their original ‘resting place’. This operation was then repeated for the actual broadcast: I estimated that their ‘working day’ had involved a maximum of ten minutes actual labour, as there was no other scenery that required ‘shifting’! No doubt, during other sessions, it was quite likely that they might be kept very busy with a more complex programme to crew; but, nevertheless, the words ‘restrictive practice’, resonated in my psyche for a long time. My good friend, Bill Rogers, who worked for many years in the Port Talbot Steel Works, cited a similar case of industrial lunacy when a fully qualified electrician, together with his ‘mate’, had to be summoned to perform the highly complex operation of switching off, and later back on, an electric switch – something that could have been done by a child! Such idiotic practices as these could not, of course, be allowed to continue: and when the ‘bubble’ eventually burst, thousands of jobs disappeared overnight. In the music industry a similar decline occurred, with top orchestras like the RPO and LSO losing lucrative film recording contracts to their cheaper, and less restrictive competitors in Eastern Europe. Meanwhile, back in those crazy days, with vast advertising revenues pouring into the studios, money seemed to be no object. Consequently, one could expect to back a programme with a full orchestra boasting a large string section: and Eric Wetherall’s flush arrangements became a joy to perform. My former university tutors, Freddy Wang, Stan Popperwell, Gordon Mutter and George Issac were just a few of the distinguished musicians who regularly appeared at these sessions. I recall with much affection, a particular occasion when the fine Cardiff baritone, Bryn Williams, recorded a series of beautiful ballads, including ‘On a Clear Day’, with a succulent string backing provided, again, by the creative talents of Eric Wetherall. Whilst rehearsing one particular number, he asked me what was written on my part in a thickly harmonised ‘cluster’ chord. When I confirmed that it was a ‘B flat’, he told me to change it to a ‘B natural’. Despite being deaf in one ear, he still managed to pinpoint this tiny written error amongst a section of forty players. I am convinced that he could possibly hear the grass grow! Bryn Williams was a delightful person who had left his post, as an art teacher in Whitchurch High School, to pursue a career in show business. He appeared for many years with the popular TV series, ‘The Black and White Minstrel Show’, and later became a firm fixture at BBC Wales, partnering the popular duo of Ryan and Ronnie ( Ryan Davies and Ronnie Williams) in their hilarious Welsh medium programme, ‘Fo a Fe’ ( Him and Him) in which the fairly stocky frame of Bryn was miraculously squeezed into a schoolboy’s blazer and short trousers, in which he so convincingly depicted a stroppy adolescent. Quite apart from being a fine performer with a relaxed manner, Bryn was also a kindly guy who would willingly interrupt a busy working schedule to perform freely for some charitable event as a singer, comedian or compere. He was truly a lovely man whose early death robbed Welsh entertainment of a versatile talent; but, more importantly, of a wonderful human being. Most sessions at TWW were great fun, with just the everyday tensions of a busy studio permanently enslaved by the studio clock. But one day, a rather disgruntled ‘rising star’ invoked the wrath of the assembled small group of musicians by his rudeness. One of the musicians, a superb pianist and arranger, had been asked to write a suitably florid backing for a simple Welsh folk song to be sung by the guest ‘star’. Unfortunately, the arranger had not been made aware of the singer’s highly individual style; but, nevertheless, he had devised a subtle arrangement which we all thought was very good- except for our cantankerous ‘star’ artiste, who publicly lambasted the arranger and his creation in a quite offensive manner. After his tirade had abated, we musicians sat ominously silent for the remainder of the session – a doom laden ‘death knell’ sign for any overtly cantankerous artiste, big or small! Then, whilst rehearsing his last number, the singer found difficulty in pitching a low ‘B’ flat note. So he asked our double bassist, Alan Williams, if he would kindly oblige him with the cue note in the actual ‘live’ transmission. To our amazement, Alan , gushing with a friendly reassuring smile, readily agreed. What a creep, we thought. However, in an hour, and with the studio floor manager counting down for the ‘red light’, our stroppy ‘star’ singer reminded our ‘turncoat’ bass player to give him the crucial note, to which Alan curtly replies: ‘No, you can find it yourself, you insolent bastard!!’ The singer, who had met his match, was mortified; but Alan, being a true pro, delivered the vital cue note at the crucial moment and saved the singer’s ‘bacon’! After the broadcast, I spotted a senior TWW executive stride over to the ‘star’ with the comment: ‘You’ll do well, in future, young man, not to antagonize the musicians, as you’ll invariably rely on their usual goodwill!’ This particular performer went on to achieve much acclaim; but I would like to think that he had, in the interim period, entered a far better ‘charm school’ ! -------------------------------------------------------------------------- In 1967, TWW lost its franchise, and a new independent TV company came into being under the patronage of Lord Harlech: initially known as Harlech Television, it was later called HTV, and broadcast from its sumptuous new studios at Culverhouse Cross on the Western outskirts of Cardiff. This, also, was to become a profitable source of income for us free-lance musicians. Another bonus came in the form of a free cooked breakfast and coffee for those involved in an early morning call! In the meantime, however, there was plenty going on to keep us gainfully employed elsewhere. BBC Wales’s Head of Light Music at the time, was Benny Litchfield. He literally bubbled with energy and enthusiasm; but he was also highly organised in his dealings with professional musicians. I would receive a phone call: ‘Jeff Lloyd?’. ‘Yes’. ‘Benny here. April 10th. Studio 1. Ten till five. Tuxedo. Can you do it !?’. ‘Yes’. ‘Fine, cheerio!’ And he’d be gone. Like a flash! Benny was such a friendly, amiable guy to deal with, I once asked him why he was so abrupt on the phone. He replied: ‘My dear Jeff, when you have to book a band of fifty plus musicians, you ain’t got time to discuss the bloody weather!’ Among the many shows in which I played for Benny, were the annual ‘Miss Wales’ beauty competitions, broadcast by BBC TV in association with Eric and Julia Morley’s company, ‘Mecca Ballrooms’. Their Musical Director, Phil Tate, really was the most laid back MD to be found in the frenetic world of show business: in fact, he made that other ruination of the tranquilizer industry, Derek Holvey, resemble a ‘fix’ deprived junkie !! All hell could be breaking loose in the studio, but Phil would be calmly observed sitting calmly on his conductor’s high stool, smoking his beloved pipe, and seemingly oblivious to the mini war of chaos waging around him! But when it came to ‘the business’, he was highly efficient and as alert as a fox! I recall with great amusement, even now, rehearsing a ‘Miss Wales’ TV show at Porthcawl’s Stoneleigh Club, which the BBC had kitted out with a suitably glamorous studio set. Taking part as a cabaret artist in the show was the multi talented Ryan Davies, whose impersonation of Charles Aznavour was better than the real thing. Ryan’s versatility as a singer, comedian, pianist, harpist and actor, placed him in a class of his own as an entertainer. This particular day, whilst waiting to rehearse a number with the mysteriously absent Ryan, we in the band became rather more engrossed by the ill-tempered tantrums of the effete choreographer, whose abusive comments to the line-up of prospective beauty queens was beginning to get up our collective nostrils: with one of the poor, distressed girls reduced to tears, a few of us in the band were ready yo ‘sort out’ this demented bully boy, there and then. But from the side of the stage, slowly emerged a cleaning lady, complete with hair net and curlers, with thickly applied rouge, and ominously wielding a bucket and mop. Unnoticed by the fiery dance man, the mystery ‘char lady’ approaches him from behind and nudges him, none too gently, with her broom handle and utters the words: ‘Eh now, good boy, don’t ewe talk to my Blodwen like ‘at, do iw ‘ere me? Or I’ll shove this rite up ewr___!!’ The startled choreographer took one terrified glance at his would be assailant and scarpered, never to be seen again! Of course, we’d realised instantly that the fearsome harridan was none other than Ryan – in drag!! Just like his old pal, Bryn Williams, Ryan was a delightfully engaging personality who always had time for everyone, and was a delight to work with. His sudden death, from an asthma attack whilst holidaying in New York, was yet another blow to the cultural life of Wales. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ There were also visits to the UK from top American artistes, such as Jack Jones, Neil Sedaka and Gene Pitney, who would drift over to Wales for a few appearances: and I was fortunate to perform for each of them. Jack Jones and Gene Pitney would only be seen on stage during their actual show: we would have a cursory ‘rehearsal’ session with their respective MD’s, and it was then straight into the show. But with Neil Sedaka, it was different, as he insisted on a thoroughly detailed rehearsal of each number, and it seemed to pay off. A quite brilliant musician, he had studied as a classical pianist at the internationally renowned Julliand School of Music in New York. Despite his insistence on perfection, Sedaka was a pleasant guy to get on with, and would frequently enjoy friendly chats with the members of the band. Meanwhile, very much on home territory, I was occasionally brought in to play, in the early ‘eighties’, for the second series of the highly popular BBC TV programme, ‘Stuart Burrows Sings’, starring the inimitable Stuart in a mixture of ballads and arias. These were televised at Aberdare’s sports complex, the Sobell Centre, which was ingeniously transformed into a large, lavish studio. Whilst much of the orchestra were members of the BBC Welsh Orchestra, it was strictly an ‘ad hoc’ ensemble recruited by the BBC orchestra associate leader, the dynamic Barry Haskey, and was affectionately ascribed the unofficial title of ‘Barry’s Band’! Over many years, Barry had seen orchestra leaders of varying degrees of ability and impact come and go, whilst he had remained as the orchestra’s dependable ‘rock’, frequently deputising as leader, with distinction. It was always a mystery to me that he was not actually given the job of leader, as he was obviously far better suited to that pivotal role than many of those that were drafted in, at great expense, from London. There were, of course, just a few admirable exceptions, like Christopher Warren-Green, who was appointed leader of the BBC/NOW whilst still in his early twenties. Chris was a superb player who later went on to become leader of London’s illustrious Philharmonic Orchestra. He was also the nephew of an old fiddler friend of Benj and I, Gerry Richards, himself a well established London ‘ session’ player. Chris’s violinistic talents were complimented by youthful good looks: and this became something of a problem for Margaret and I, as our impressionable daughter, Catherine, fell head over heels in love with him via the Telly! Indeed, so consumed with passion for her icon, that the only way I could dissuade her from amorous thoughts was to confide in her Chris’s secret – he was gay! That he was, in fact, manifestly ‘straight’, I did not convey to her until a few years later, long after her intense ‘pash’ for him had abated!! I mentioned this to Chris during a trip to the Festival Hall many years later: and he was suitably amused – thank God ! The conductor for Stuart’s TV series was Robin Stapleton. When I first set eyes on this tall, gangly figure with the gravy stains on his scruffy T-shirt, I assumed him to be a menial studio ‘hand’; but when he suddenly leapt onto the podium clasping a baton, I was astounded! Sartorially elegant he may not have appeared in that rehearsal session, but he turned out to be a very skilful conductor who was also very conversant with the technical aspects of television production: he could speak to the cameramen and the studio crew in their own technical jargon. Having worked at the Royal Opera House for a number of years, he eventually moved around the world enjoying a most successful career as an opera conductor in a number of countries. As a freelance, he still continues to tour the globe as a much sought after maestro. On one of the ‘Stuart Burrows Sings’ series, held during one of those scorching hot summers the nation basked in during the seventies and eighties, Stuart’s guest singer was the voluptuous and brilliant New Zealand soprano, Kiri te Kanawa. Whilst rehearsing her movements on the studio’s fairly restricted raised dais, Kiri almost took a tumble. As a consequence of the producer’s directions: her displeasure in that hot, uncomfortable studio was palpable, and was eloquently expressed with a few strident expletives! Some months later, and in complete contrast to my first recollection of this true diva, I, together with the whole nation glued to our TV sets, was spellbound by Kiri’s riveting rendition of Handel’s aria: ‘Lo, The Bright Seraphim’, during the wedding of Prince Charles and Diana, Princess of Wales. A keen rugby supporter and devoted golfer, Kiri te Kanawa remains a formidable artiste with a glorious voice. CHAPTER 19 The Numerous Attempts to Secure a National Orchestra with a Welsh Identity For many decades, various efforts have been made by different groups and individuals to establish a national orchestra of Wales, quite separate from the BBC which has its own regional ensembles. I vividly recollect attending a concert at Maesteg Town Hall, in 1954, given by ‘The Orchestra of Wales’. The leader was Roy Davies, a native of Treherbert, who was a prominent member of the LSO’s first violin section: and the conducting was shared by Rae Jenkins and Sir Adrian Boult. The distinguished Welsh actor and playwright, Emlyn Williams, was the narrator in Prokofiev’s ‘Peter and the Wolf’. The orchestra’s player-manager was the eminent ‘cellist, David Ffrangcon-Thomas, who had been principal ‘cellist in Sir Thomas Beecham’s London Philharmonic Orchestra and also for the grand maestro’s International Opera Seasons at Convent Garden and the Queen’s Hall. The ‘Orchestra of Wales’ came into being under the auspices of the Orchestral Association of Wales. For the first time ever, a large number of Local Government Authorities had combined with the avowed object of establishing a professional Welsh orchestra. When, in 1953, proposals for the foundation of the National Orchestra of Wales were turned down in Cardiff, it was generally assumed that that would be the end of the project; but sufficient keenness and enthusiasm was shown by the local authorities, which had assented to the scheme, to form an Orchestral Association of Wales, and to promote orchestral tours in districts of the country which could not normally enjoy such facilities. However, whilst the orchestra was comprised of many top-notch London players of Welsh descent, it was too small to be even remotely described as a full symphony orchestra. Nevertheless, with only four desks of first violins, three of seconds, two of violas, two of ‘cellos and just one desk of double basses, they delivered a stirring performance of Elgar’s exacting ‘Introduction and Allegro’ for Strings, a work which today’s professionals would not dare attempt with such meagre forces. A similarly small orchestra, brought together by the Llanelli born conductor, Wynne Morris, also gave a few concerts in the principality; but this venture ended on a sour note, with many of the musicians receiving no payment. As a young teenager, I actually attended one of these concerts which featured the violin virtuoso, Alfredo Campoli, in the Beethoven concerto. My old mate, Tony Randall, was playing first horn and he recalls, with much amusement, being mildly chastised in the rehearsal by the great violinist, for rushing the horn triplet figure in the concerto’s last movement. Campoli rounded on the two horns, in mock Cockney accent: ‘Oy mate, go easy, they (the pubs) ain’t open yet!’ Quite apart from being one of the world’s greatest violinists ( though this was never acknowledged by the musical ‘establishment’ because of his penchant for ‘saloon music’), this rather portly virtuoso was remarkably swift on his feet, as I once discovered as an uninvited, inquisitive student in the BBC’s former Charles Street studios in the centre of Cardiff one afternoon. With the studio clock ominously ticking away, and with the programme announcer poised ready to introduce the Beethoven concerto, Campoli was just finishing off a hectic game of table tennis with a studio staff member. Having decisively won the game, Campoli picked up his precious ‘Stad’ fiddle and strode calmly, in his slippered feet, into the main studio to give another winning performance – of the concerto! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was Tony Randall himself who made the bravest and most realistic effort to establish a Welsh orchestra of truly symphonic strength, with his ‘Sinfonia of Wales’ in 1967. With a full complement of sixty eight players, it had drawn in the ‘crème de la crème’ of London’s Welsh orchestral players, plus some of the BBC Welsh orchestra together with a few locally based freelancers- including myself! The leader was Cymmer Afan born, Granville Jones, a former leader of the LSO, Boyd Neel Orchestra, and both the London and Delme String Quartets. My old chum, Benj Thomas, was orchestral manager and played in the viola section. Various principal players included such eminent musicians as Gwynne Edwards, viola; Roy Gillard, violin; Michael Evans, ‘cello; Cecil James, bassoon; Laurie Evans, trumpet; and Terry ‘Drac’ Johns on horn. This was a fine body of players which could have formed the basis for that national ensemble that had eluded Wales for so long. Unfortunately, despite an ecstatic audience reaction at the orchestra’s inaugural concert at Cardiff’s New Theatre, the Welsh Arts Council was less than helpful and pompously dismissed any possibility of financial support. I know that both Tony and Benj lost a considerable amount of their own money in this heroic venture which was so full of promise. However, the orchestra played for quite a few seasons for the WNO, before its own resident orchestra, known as the Welsh Philharmonia , was formed by the aforementioned Dai Trotman in 1968, and took up permanent residence in the early seventies, eventually to be known as the Orchestra of Welsh National Opera. The next attempt to create a viable ‘national’ ensemble came in 1986, with the arrival of the Welsh Chamber Orchestra. This was the ‘brainchild’ of Anthony Hose, former Head of Music at WNO, and received the invaluable support and patronage of Sir Geraint Evans. It initially received sponsorship from HTV, The Mid Wales Development Board, The North Wales Association for the Arts and The West Wales Arts Association: and Swansea City Council kindly provided the Brangwyn Hall for rehearsals. I remember being thrilled to bits when I was invited by orchestral manager, Griff Harries, to join the orchestra on its inaugural tour in May, 1986. The leader was the much respected London violinist, Trevor Williams, who had earlier been leader of the BBC Symphony Orchestra: he was the most affable of men who never seemed to become agitated during any crisis. Sitting alongside him was Kenneth Moore, the long standing principal second violin of the Philharmonia Orchestra. I vividly recall one day, during breakfast, being proudly shown a photograph of Ken assisting an aging maestro on with his coat at the end of a recording session with the Philharmonia. The doddery old gent was none other than – Igor Stravinsky! Later on, Trevor was joined on the front desk by the LSO veteran sub leader, Hans Geiger, who would also delight me with fascinating anecdotes from his lengthy career in the orchestral world. The inaugural tour of Wales was great fun, with some arduous rehearsals thrown in for good measure. Once, whilst checking into a small hotel in Mold with messers Griff Harries and oboist, Alan Good, they insisted on approaching the attractive receptionist ahead of myself, so I instantly sensed that something was afoot. When asked for their names, Alan announced: ‘I’m Alan Good and he’s Griff Novak – Novak and Good!!’ The young receptionist hesitated momentarily, and then burst into laughter, good humouredly feigning mild offence at their risqué taunting. ‘Goodie’, as he was affectionately known, was quite a brilliant musician, but was always full of japes – especially after a few ales! The soloist on that first tour was the beautiful and talented harpist, Caryl Thomas, who performed a rather lovely concerto by the fairly neglected composer, Carl Ditters Von Dittersdorf, who was a contemporary of Mozart and Haydn. As the narrator in Prokofiev’s musical fairy tale, ‘Peter and the Wolf’, Sir Geraint Evans was incomparable with those elasticated grimaces which conveyed a silent eloquence that only he could execute so convincingly. But at the rehearsal for the last concert, with Geraint having performed the wretched work so many times, in exasperation he opened with : ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the story of, Peter – and that BLOODY WOLF!’ Having Geraint as the orchestra’s Patron, and with him holding a directorship of HTV, the Welsh Chamber Orchestra became, unofficially, the studio’s ‘house orchestra’. Consequently, we were kept fairly busy with a series of light classical programmes such as ‘Whom the Gods Love’, which were presented and narrated by Sir Geraint. The orchestra continued to tour outlandish areas of Wales, as well as the more prestigious venues. Even though its founder, Anthony Hose, is now domiciled in America, the ensemble is still technically in existence, but gives far less concerts than previously. In more recent years, WNO staff conductor, Gareth Jones, has also formed an orchestra of very talented students who are on the verge of joining the profession. Whilst this is, ostensibly, an admirable preparatory training ground for these young unpaid musicians, concern has been expressed that such work should be the preserve of full-time professional musicians whose livelihoods depend on such engagements. Arguments can be promulgated in support of either viewpoint; but it is certainly the cause of much controversy in Welsh orchestral circles. With the salaried BBC National Orchestra of Wales and the full-time Orchestra of Welsh National Opera now firmly established fixtures in the nation’s cultural identity, I can only regard any other ensemble bearing the title ‘Welsh’ or ‘National’, that appear from time to time, to be merely peripheral adjuncts to the two permanent orchestra of the BBC and WNO. This, of course, should not prohibit the emergence of new ensembles, such as Owain Arwel Hughes’s excellent ‘Camerata Wales’, which is made up of top flight London based professional musicians. But I, again, still maintain that such orchestras, very fine though they often are, sadly lack that durability which the BBC and WNO continue to enjoy. Therefore, whilst it is admirable to see them perform in Wales, these additional ensembles can only be realistically regarded as welcome visitors. Oh, that it were different! CHAPTER 20 The Things that Children Say, and Do – Some Personal Reflections In common with a multitude of parents, I feel an overwhelming sense of pride and joy in our children, Richard and Catherine. From the very early age of three, daughter Catherine would absorb facts like a sponge, learning to read quite early. She also displayed a child’s healthily natural fascination with the human body and its ‘constituent parts’. Consequently, Margaret, wishing to be a thoroughly ‘modern mum’, purchased for our daughter a ‘Little Girl’s Guide to the Human Body’: stupid references to ‘willies’ and ‘little Marys’ would, henceforth, be replaced with the accurate anatomical nomenclature. Whilst Margaret’s approach was educationally sound and enlightened, it did, however, result in some embarrassing moments. One such incident occurred during a visit to my parents’ home for Sunday afternoon tea. My mother noticed that Richard was continually scratching himself in his nether regions, and gently chided him thus: ‘Don’t do that Richard, it’s not nice for little boys to do that’. Whereupon Cathy, her five year old head eagerly bursting with ‘Grey’s Anatomy’, leaped to her brother’s defence authoritatively declaring: ‘It’s alright Grandma, yesterday he fell on his bike and hurt his-VAGINA!!’ My poor mother, very chapel orientated on the Sabbath, was rendered apoplectic, and ‘thoroughly modern’ Margaret was suitably chastised for : ‘teaching these children such rude words!’ many years later, in Catherine’s wedding which was attended by a host of medical friends and associates, I simply could not resist the temptation to relate this tale, and expressed the fervent hope that six years of expensive medical training had gone some way, at least, in correcting her original diagnosis! Whereas Cathy possessed a rather studious attitude to her school work, reinforced with an element of competitiveness, our beloved son was decidedly more laid back, academically. Having been a sickly child from birth, who seemed to have been susceptible to any and every airborne contagion, including TB, Richard spent far more time out of school recuperating than inside, gathering essential knowledge. We were so concerned, and thankful, for our son’s very survival from his assorted ailments that we allowed his education, albeit temporarily, to be a secondary factor. As a result, Richard, like myself at his age, was allowed a certain degree of latitude in his school studies. He certainly was not lacking in intelligence, but would excel only in those topics that really interested him. I well recall him returning home after sitting his ‘O’ Level History paper. When I tentatively enquired how it had gone, he enthused over a ‘fabulous essay’ he had written on the ‘Rebecca Riots’. Having scanned the exam paper, I protested: ‘But Richard, I don’t actually see a question on the ‘Rebecca Riots’!’ His reply was priceless: ‘I know that, Dad, but I enjoyed reading about the ‘Rebecca Riots’, and I wanted to tell the examiner all I knew!’ On another occasion, we were watching, as a family, the BBC TV programme ‘Mastermind’, chaired by its amiable grand inquisitor, Magnus Magnusson. A contestant was about to be grilled on Greek Mythology, when Richard, who was lazily slumped in a comfy armchair casually reading a comic, suddenly sat bolt upright and proceeded to answer virtually all the questions – correctly! Margaret, Cathy and I looked at him in disbelief! In a fit of exasperation, Margaret then angrily challenged him: ‘If you can answer these so easily my boy, why can’t you do the same with your school subjects?’ His reply was demonstratively simple: ‘Because I happen to like Greek Mythology!’ Obvious really, I suppose! As he suffered from a stammer, Richard inevitably attracted some bullying in school, until one day he decided that enough was enough and thumped his tormentor. This signalled his emergence as a man, and a robust one at that. After he had left ‘Y Pant’ Comprehensive School in Pontyclun, Richard soon became employed as a photographic printer for a design company in Bridgend which took him on to Blackpool and finally Peterborough. He then returned to Wales where he worked as a cellar man in a busy Cardiff pub, before returning to the family home in 1985. With no particular job on the horizon, for a few weeks he idled away his time at home, much to his parents’ annoyance. Then one day, a friend of ours suggested that he might like to occasionally join her as an unpaid ‘volunteer’ at the local Mental Hospital, Hensol Castle. The thought did not exactly appeal to him, but next day he reluctantly went with her, more out of politeness than any real interest. Richard’s natural interaction with the patients so impressed the nursing staff that he was soon invited to apply for a job at the hospital. He seemed to possess an intuitive empathy with people handicapped in mind or body. Within a few weeks of being employed as a nursing assistant, he brought home to us for tea, a patient who we will call ‘Joe’ who was severely physically handicapped and had no control of his flailing limbs; but once you ‘decoded’ his speech pattern, his mischievous sense of humour would reveal itself. ‘Joe’s’ disabilities were purely physical, and he was actually possessed of a sharp mind and should never have been placed in such an institution; but psychological medicine decreed otherwise in the less enlightened time of his initial admission. One day Richard suggested we took ‘Joe’ for a run in my car, and having arrived in Porthcawl, a visit to the fairground was inevitable. Richard immediately took our guest in his wheelchair to the shooting gallery: I was aghast as John unsteadily tried to aim a gun in the general direction of the targets. My own alarm was shared equally by the stall holder, who showered an exultant ‘Joe’ with free prizes, just to steer him away from his stall. When I lightly scolded Richard for encouraging ‘Joe’ in such a reckless, non-productive venture, he smiled wickedly and pointed at ‘Joe’s’ haul of free gifts: ‘Non-productive, eh, Dad!!?’ Richard’s innate empathy and understanding of his patients seemed also to extend to animals. Even as a toddler, he would exhibit a fearlessness of dogs that approached him. I well recall one day, a ferocious hound barking menacingly at me whilst I was slowly pushing Richard in his tricycle. I was about to pick up my young son and make a run for it, when he reached out his tiny hand to stroke the barking beast, and the damned animal rolled on its back in a blatant display of euphoria: it then got up and excitedly licked Richard’s face. He seemed to have no fear of dogs and other domestic creatures, whereas I was petrified! A dog owner neighbour of mine argued that my obvious fear and antagonism would be instantly conveyed to the animal via my scent, and Richard’s lack of fear would be similarly registered in the same creature. Catherine had learned to play the violin from an early age, and eventually became a member of the Mid Glamorgan Youth Orchestra and the RSO. But our attempts to instil in our son an interest in the cornet was not quite as fruitful. Even though we were fortunate enough to secure the services of my friend and musical compatriot, Derek Holvey, to teach him, Richard showed no sign of progress despite the inordinate amount of time he seemed to spend ‘practicing’ in his bedroom. Then, one day, I discovered the reason for his diligence. In the field behind our Tonyrefail house, grazed ‘Jenny’, our neighbours’ beloved donkey. With his bedroom window wide open, Richard’s excruciating cornet blasts would ring out loudly, to be answered by jenny’s neighing!! It was akin to some bizarre conversation between kindred spirits! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- For wholesome, old fashioned, homespun humour, one does not need to venture far outside the confines of the Welsh mining valleys, and in my case, the Rhondda. I am still amused by the nicknames accorded to various working men in the locality. ‘Dai the Bread’, ‘Dai the Milk’ and ‘Dai Coffin’ were fairly predictable pseudonyms for the village baker, milkman and undertaker; but the subtlety that was devised for many others displayed a high level of ingenuity. For instance, the collier whose pregnant wife delivered him with a beautiful set of twins, became, ‘Dai Double Yolk; the pugilistic front row forward who had half his ear bitten off in a ferocious scrum, was dubbed, ‘Dai Eighteen Months; whilst Dai Evans, another miner, who elevated himself into the chapel pulpit as a lay preacher, bore the ‘non de plume’, ‘Evans Above’. Treorchy’s illustrious Male Choir once had a chorister who laboured under the sobriquet, ‘Dai Puff, Puff’ because he drove the small old steam engines that used to operate on the colliery surface; but when his coal fired engine was replaced by an oil driven vehicle, overnight he became known as ‘Dai Diesel’! If requested to ‘say a few words’ at weddings or similar special events, I take great delight in quoting some of these vignettes of ’Rhonddaesque’ badinage. My particular favourite is the tale of the ‘chopsy’ gossip-monger, Mrs Thomas and her shy, reserved neighbour, Miss Jones, spinster of the parish, while they are out busy hanging their washing on the clothes line: it goes something like this. Mrs Thomas: “Good morning, Miss Jones. I heard that you went to the pictures last night then” Miss Jones: “Yes Mrs Thomas, I did” Mrs Thomas: “And did you enjoy it?” Miss Jones: “Well, yes and no, I suppose!” Mrs Thomas: Why, was the film poor?” Miss Jones: “No, the film was nice enough, but___” Mrs Thomas: “What was wrong then?” Miss Jones: “Well, I had some trouble with – men!” Mrs Thomas: “What sort of trouble?” Miss Jones: “ Well I had to change my seat five times” Mrs Thomas: “Were you molested?” Miss Jones: “Yes – EVENTUALLY !!!” For me, that’s pure Rhondda magic ! As a teacher in the schools of the two Rhondda Valleys for over twenty years, it was inevitable that I would encounter my fair share of funny moments. A particular pupil of mine at Tonypandy Grammar School was showing much promise; but, struggling on a battered old school fiddle, his full potential was not being realised as quickly as it would with a decent instrument. Acutely aware of this deficiency, his concerned mother, a charming lady, came to discuss with me the possibility of purchasing a new violin for her son; but she was uncertain as to whether to buy him a ‘First’ or ‘Second’ violin ! I dispelled her misgivings with the utmost discretion. Another pupil at the same school was having trouble with his violin ‘bridge’ which kept collapsing. The thin wooden bridge is a free standing part of the instrument which is held in position by the tension of the four strings that it supports, and is the vital, slender conduit that allows the vibrations to travel from the strings to the hollow ‘belly’ of the violin from whence it emerges as pure sound. So it has to be poised with the utmost delicacy to perform its task efficiently. This lad’s well meaning DIY fanatic father brought the instrument to school one afternoon to proudly announce that he had permanently solved the irritating matter of the collapsing bridge. He had stuck it in position with unyielding and fast-setting glue! A well meant gesture, but with a disastrous outcome. I arrived at Porth County Comprehensive school one frosty winter’s morning to find very few pupils in attendance: an overnight fall of snow had provided a heaven sent excuse for many of the kids to claim an unofficial holiday. I, and my peripatetic colleague, ‘Big Dave’ Williams, anticipated a quiet morning and set about making ourselves a welcome cup of coffee. Within a few minutes, however, there was a gentle knock on the door, and in strode one of my pupils, a diminutive, pretty, blonde haired girl called Amanda, armed with her violin, ready for tuition. I instantly complimented her on her determination to attend school in such inclement weather, and got ready to deal with her lesson. On the previous week, with a full complement in her group, I had been teaching them the tiresome technique of developing a ‘vibrato’ ( a gentle shaking of the left hand which enriches the tone quality). In pursuance of my goal, I had suggested that the girls place the scroll ( peg end ) of their violins gently against the wall of their practice room at home: this would provide support for the instrument, thereby allowing them to manipulate their wrists more freely. With ‘Big Dave’ quietly sipping his coffee behind a dividing partition, I proceeded with my lesson. ‘Now then, Amanda’, I enquired, ‘Have you been practicing that vibrato exercise I taught you last week?’ ‘Oh yes, Sir’, she enthusiastically replied, adding the mind-shattering comment: ‘Shall we do it up against the wall again, Sir?’ ‘Big Dave’ was around that partition like a shot!! When, in 1984, I was appointed Head of Strings and Orchestra Studies to the South Glamorgan Education Authority, it was like a dream come true. It also heralded the start of a whole new phase in my life which could quite easily occupy another separate volume. My new job took me on exciting tours to various countries in Europe and to the USA, as well as conducting the South Glam Youth Orchestra in concerts and competitions in the main concert halls in the UK, including London’s Royal Albert and Festival Halls, together with our own St. David’s Hall, Cardiff. Whilst, understandably, intoxicated with the heady euphoria associated with performing in these splendid venues, it was the unpublicised happenings at rehearsals that afforded me greater satisfaction – and amusement. Within a year of taking up my new post, I had established a string ensemble which became the South Glamorgan Youth Chamber Orchestra, initially as a means of strengthening the string section in the existing South Glam Youth Orchestra; but it went on to achieve considerable success in the National Festival of Music for Youth, such as scooping the ‘Outstanding Performance Award’ at the Festival Hall in 1985. As a direct result of this accolade, we were regularly invited to participate in the annual series of School Proms throughout the country. Often, whilst rehearsing with the Chamber Orchestra, I would wistfully affirm my avowed intention to include an especially tender item that we had just played, together with a host of similarly nostalgic pieces, in my funeral. This, of course, was done in jest and was probably dismissed by the kids as the idle ramblings of a maudlin, sentimental old fool! A few months later, however, at a break in rehearsal, I was approached by a rather serious, bespectacled, professional young viola player who politely offered the following advice: ‘Excuse me, Mr. Lloyd, but according to my calculations, in the unfortunate event of your demise, your funeral service is likely to last in excess of four hours: therefore, may I respectfully suggest an interval?!’ With incidents such as these upon which to ponder, my life has never been drearily humdrum. I have certainly experienced my share of annoying days, frustrating days, tiring days, worrying days and thoroughly ‘pissed off’ days! But I have never had a boring day in my life. And this I largely ascribe to the joy and involvement of music, writing, stimulating conversation and my insistence on maintaining an optimistic viewpoint. Emulating the zany humour of ‘Monty Python’, I have simply sought to ‘Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life!’ And that is why mine has been such a satisfying one: and I confidently recommend it! THE END…………