Richard Lloyd

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.
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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 !
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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.
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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 !
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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.
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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, by the name of Terry Lewis. 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 Terry, grabbed him gently by the throat, and indicated his displeasure, with the words : “ Right Lewis, 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 !
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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!