Richard Lloyd

Selsig Operatic Society was based in the village of Treherbert, at the top end of the Rhondda Fawr: and I have been reliably informed by my good friends, Dai John and his thespian partner, Margaret Evans, who are well informed on matters musical in the Rhondda, that a very fine Welsh tenor had carved a successful career in London’s opera world in the early nineteen twenties, under the professional name of Herbert tree. He had subtly extracted his professional name from his birthplace, Treherbert!!
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A little further down the valley, was yet another operatic society, Pentre operatic. Very much, ‘in charge’, of this society was the formidable, Madame Danford George, who ruled with a rod of iron, and acted not only as musical director, but producer and choreographer as well. My first encounter with this lady was in a band call and dress rehearsal for the mammoth Ivor Novello hit, 'The Dancing Years', in the Grand Theatre, Pentre; dusty, decrepid and mouldy, this little theatre certainly was; but in no way did it merit the imposing title of, 'Grand'! Virtually all of Ivor Novello's operettas, whilst delightfully tuneful, were notoriously lengthy and involved major scene changes, which were tricky enough in a large theatre, such as London's Drury Lane; in Pentre's 'Grand', such changes became an impossibility. As a result, the dress rehearsal dragged on until eleven thirty at night, way over the MU\'s stipulated three hours rehearsal time. The first night began at seven pm, but did not end until eleven
forty five! Around about ten pm, I asked my colleague, Mark Roberts, who was familiar with the show, how much longer was it likely to take, to which he woefully replied: \"Ages to go, the bloody Nazis haven\'t appeared yet mun!\" At the end of this marathon, when most of the audience had gone to catch their last buses, I protested to Mrs. Danford George that the show be cut by at least an hour, for everybody\'s sake. She adamantly refused to budge on this, so the next day I was desperately trying to secure, with the promise of an inflated fee, a violinist to deputise for me; but the news had got out, and no other available musician could be, even remotely, tempted! So we bravely battled on for the rest of the week, during which an uneasy truce was observed between the defiant Mrs. George and myself. No doubt, she had decided to stage this formidable musical, with the best of intensions; but she had simply not, \'done her homework\', on the logistics
involved.
Strangely enough, there was a similar dispute involving yet another show of Ivor Novello\'s, a decade or so later with the excellent Orbit Theatre company in Cardiff\'s, New Theatre, to which I will refer to in a later chapter. Anyway, getting back to the Pentre marathon, I eventually made a conscious decision, thereafter, to avoid \'darling Ivor\'s lavish musicals in the future!
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Another fine, enterprising theatrical group was the Mid Rhondda Operatic Society, which was based in Tonypandy. Key performers here were the ebullient, Marcia Williams, and the redoubtable, Arfon Henderson, along with his choreographer wife, Cathy. With their warmth, exuberance and blunt candour, which allowed them to, proverbially, call a spade a \'bloody shovel\', they typified the true Rhondda spirit! The first show I performed for Mid Rhondda was, \'Call Me Madam\', in the Plaza cinema in Penygraig. Marcia was a very convincing Madam US Ambassador, but her opposite number, assailed by nerves, simply could not remember his lines. I was sitting inside to leader, Betty Mabbs, who was a first rate fiddle player, but who would blow her top if I didn\'t turn the pages at just the right moment. Throughout the week she\'d also kept moaning to me about the rather imprecise beat of the conductor: and during the Saturday matinee tea break, she expressed her pent-up fury to the dear lady who had been serving us with sustaining cups of tea all week. The normally pleasant countenance of this kindly lady altered dramatically, and she stopped the irate Betty in her tracks with the devastating revelation, delivered in high dudgeon: \'That\'s my HUSBAND you\'re referring to! And that was a salutary lesson to me - never speak ill of anyone in these companies, as they might just be a close friend or relative!
For a number of years, the Mid Rhondda group gallantly put on some fine shows in the Picturedome, Tonypandy. This was nothing less than a veritable flea pit as a cinema, but this heroic company, acting against almost insurmountable odds, annually transformed this inhospitable \'shed\' into a theatre, with all the warm, welcoming ambience that audiences took for granted.
We, in the pit had to prop up our chairs with pieces of wood, to compensate for the considerable camber in the floor. Conditions backstage likened that of a colliery coal face, where improvised \'dressing rooms\' did little to ensure one\'s privacy: indeed, after a few nights struggle, the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus, simply threw caution, and what remained of their modesty, to the wind. However, despite such adverse working conditions, some fabulous productions emerged. In the dress rehearsal of \'South Pacific\', where a love scene is enacted by the beautiful, dusky native girl, Laya, and the young US navy flyer, Cpt. Cable, played by the delightful lyric tenor, George Hitchens, the loving couple were laying provocatively on a bed of straw, about to engage in an act of torrid passion. But a rather reserved George, felt ill at ease with this intimate act,
so producer, Marcia, pacified him with the assurance that the lights would be suitably dimmed, ensuring that the couple\'s labours would take place \'in the black\', with the audience\'s imagination left to fill in the visual details! At this point, on the opening night, traditionally attended by the local OAP\'s, as the lights dimmed to total darkness, I overheard an old lady in the front row proudly announce to her equally elderly companion: \'Duw Doris mun, he do it just like my Alfie used to - with the lights out!\' Predictably, we in the orchestra, of course, were yet again in fits of laughter!
Mid Rhondda\'s production of, \'Finian\'s Rainbow\', took place at a time of national emergency brought about by the nationwide miner\'s strike, in 1979. This resulted in the so called, \'three day week\', which meant that industry could only function for a limited period, in order to conserve energy resources. As a result, sudden, unscheduled electricity cuts plagued the nation. At such a time of crisis, any other amateur operatic society, revealing an iota of common sense, would have cancelled their show; but not, Mid Rhondda, who were made of sterner stuff. In
anticipation of such a sudden power cut, the ever resourceful Arfon and his technical team had rigged up yard upon yard of electrical cables connected to a central generator. As predicted, one evening the lights did go out, just before the orchestral introduction to Phil Lloyd\'s big solo as the Leprechaun.
Undaunted (and unaccompanied), Phil started the song, and when the lights quickly came back on, the orchestra rejoined him, and were amazed to find that he was singing in the correct key! Suspecting that he must possess ‘perfect pitch’, I later enquired how he had plumped for the right key without a cue note, to which he characteristically replied: “What the hell’s perfect pitch, Jeff? I just opened my mouth, and out it bloody came mun!”That same show featured the deaf mute, Susan, daughter of the wily old Finian, and played by the ravishingly beautiful, Christine Collins. One night, during the interval, I was summoned backstage on the pretext of discussing some detail of temp for a dance number. Having knocked, as instructed, on the ‘door’ of one of the ladies’ dressing rooms, I entered and was confronted by the luscious creature, Christine, provocatively clad in the skimpiest of frilly bra and pink panties, and nothing else!!! Of course, I should have been alerted to this ruse by the sound of suppressed female giggling, which I clearly heard from outside; needless to say, however, the naughty humour and visual impact of that moment remain, nostalgically etched in my memory!
During a performance of the popular musical, ‘The Merry Widow’, the skilled musical director, Paul Williams and I exchanged expressions of annoyance when the course of the onstage dialogue was rudely interrupted by a thunderous noise of hammering emanating from backstage. It was only much later that we discovered the awesome cause of such commotion. A few of the offstage cast had noticed an ominous ‘bellying’ of the stage structure, which was in an imminent state of collapse. The quick thinking of Arfon Henderson and his mates, many of whom were hardy miners, prevented a catastrophe. In the street outside, a passing lorry, loaded with timber, was stopped and the driver ‘persuaded’ to sell his load to an insistent Arfon, right there on the spot! Lengths of sturdy timber were then hurriedly manhandled into the back of the theatre, and were duly hammered into position, like pit props!
It was also in the Picturedome that my lifelong mate and fellow fiddler, Bill Rogers, had his spanking new, and expensive, ‘Menhuin’ violin shoulder rest stolen – by a rat!! Bill was sitting with his violin perched casually on his knee, when his precious shoulder rest fell to the floor, and disappeared through a sizeable gap in the rotting floorboards. As he went to retrieve it, he let out a stifled cry of alarm and turned to me with the words: \"Ccchrist, mun Jeff, it\'s bloody moving!\" He swears that as he saw it disappear, a rat\'s tail was clearly visible going in the same direction! It took quite a few stiff whiskies, in the interval, for poor Bill to regain his composure. You will read a great deal more of my dear, heroic friend Bill later on.
The orchestra enjoyed a mutually reciprocal relationship with virtually all the societies with whom we performed: any small problems that arose, from time to time, could usually be resolved with a quick chat between myself and any offended party in the company. However, on one occassion, as I was about to make an early entry into the pit to check some detail before the start of a Saturday matinee performance, I was angrily assailed by a clearly disgruntled Marcia, the producer. She dragged me over to one of the woodwind stands which had, surreptititiously secreted beneath it, a television set, readily tuned to receive the transmission of an international rugby match from Cardiff Arm\'s Park. I told the musician concerned that this was pushing the company\'s tolerance to an unacceptable degree, so either the set went or he did! And I meant every word of my threat. The set was, with reluctance, removed; but the incident cast a shadow, albeit temporary, on the orchestra\'s reputation.
After suffering such harrowing events as an imminent stage collapse, coupled with lamentable back stage facilities, I don\'t think it was too long before Mid Rhondda sought refuge in the more civilised, Parc and Dare hall, for their subsequent productions: and the site upon which the fragile Picturedome once proudly stood, now serves, very sensibly, as a car park. Now that\'s progress!
Mid Rhondda had quite a succession of MD\'s over the years: Paul Bennet, Paul Williams, the versatile Dennis Williams, and my teaching colleague, and principal \'cello of RSO, Diana Thomas, who was yet another person with that instinctive ability to wield a baton with authority. My memories of working with Mid Rhondda Operatic were of great fun and adventure, mingled with moments of imminent cataclysms which were, thankfully, always averted.
CHAPTER 11
PLAYING IT STRAIGHT !
Running parralel with my glorious adventures amongst the various amateur operatic societies was my growing associations with the \'straight\' elements of music making - the choral societies, with their often inspired performances of the oratorios and sacred works of J.S. Bach, Haydn, Mendelsshon, Schubert, Elgar and so many other creative geniuses.
Well before I even thought about \'fixing\' ensembles, I was already being asked to play or lead for a number of choral groups throughout Wales. One arduous, but satisfying, pilgrimage was to Aberystwyth\'s King Hall in 1967, for the University\\\'s annual Choral Union concert. My wife, Maragaret, accompanied me on this circuitous journey and, it being a Sunday, she had nowhere to find a meal, as the traditional Sunday closing of that era affected shops and cafes as well as the pubs. Consequently, with admirable fortitude, my darling girl spent most of the day curled up snoozing in the ancient, unluxurious Morris \'Thousand\' car we had recently acquired!
Having been invited along to act as leader, I was quite taken aback and somewhat unnerved to find Edward Bor, Bill James and the rest of the resident university string quartet strolling into the morning rehearsal. But it came as a huge relief to be complimented later by both Bill and Teddy Bor, two superb violinists, on my leadership qualities. The work performed was Handel\'s ever lengthy \'Messiah\', always a backbreaker for string players, but my recollection of the evening\'s performance became secondary to the sumptuous post-concert feast laid on by the distinquished academician and college principal, Sir Thomas Parry. Also in attendance was Aber\\\'s music professor, the composer, Ian Parrot and other academic glitterati. Being too poor to afford a B+B stopover, Margaret and I had to make the return trip late that night, finally arriving at my parents\' Sarn home at around five thirty next morning.
The following year, with Margaret comfortably at home with the children, I once again made the trek to Aber for a miscellaneous programme with the same choral union. The programme was to feature an arrangement for string quartet, by the student conductor, of a slow Bach fugue. What had already been written looked quite easy and we were assured that the remaining bars were just as straightforward and would be completed by the conductor/arranger on our existing copies in readiness for the concert. That evening, when it came to this item, Bill James, myself, Peter Kingswood on viola and \'cellist, Geraint John sat in quartet formation, in front of the orchestra with our copies securely set in readiness on four spanking new music stands - top marks to the stage crew, we mused. Bill starts on first fiddle, with me following a few bars later. The viola then makes its entry, followed shortly by the \'cello. For a piece that we were sightreading in the actual performance, all was proceeding rather well, that is, until Bill turns over the page and abruptly stops playing. This routine was replicated in turn by second violin, viola and \'cello until the whole thing ground to an ignominious halt. Because the arranger, in his excitement, had forgotten to complete the piece, we had simply run out of music ! Our own embarrassment was shared by the equally perplexed audience who, half heartedly, began a muted applause which we shamefacedly acknowledged with a cursory bow before scuttling backstage.
Needless to say, sharp words were exchanged with the absent minded conductor after the concert; but it taught me never to go \'blind\' into a solo concert performance ever again, however simple the music might appear.
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It was in the early sixties that I first encountered the inimitable Morgan Lloyd who, as a distinquished violinist, orchestral leader, teacher and \'fixer\' had deservedly earned quite a reputation in Welsh music circles. Having earlier sampled the London professional orchestral scene in the twenties, Morgan returned to his native Swansea, where he settled with his wife Dilys, herself an accomplished organist and accompanist. Over the decades virtually every successful violinist to emerge from West Wales was a former pupil of this truly inspiring pedagogue. The name Morgan Lloyd was first heard by me as a young child in Seven Sisters, where the Morgan Lloyd Orchestra would regularly accompany the local choral society\'s concerts; indeed, my mother spoke reverentially of this dapper little gentleman.
Morgan had his faithful band of players to whom he was equally loyal, but he would occassionally draft me in to cover for an absent colleague. On two consecutive occasions I played for Morgan at the annual pre-Christmas performance of Handel\'s \'Messiah\' at Swansea\'s Brangwyn Hall which were each memorable, albeit, for somewhat bizarre reasons. Before the start of the first of these concerts, I was seated on the edge of the Brangwyn\'s high stage tuning my fiddle and casually looking out at the audience filtering in, when I noticed an elderly lady with silver hair being gently escorted to her seat by a steward. I smiled respectfully, and with admiration, at the lady\\\'s fortitude in attending such an event on her own. All was proceeding well until the extended aria, \'And He Shall Feed His Flock\', which is sung in sequence by the contralto and soprano soloists. Within just a few bars of the soprano\'s entry, I became aware of a distinct faltering in her voice. Our conductor, the ever reliable Alun John, turned to see what was amiss; but his gaze was quickly diverted towards the audience, where the cause of the soprano\'s unease became painfully clear. Playing on \'auto pilot\', I peered down at the audience to find that the silver haired old lady, who\\\'s dignified entrance had so impressed me, was slumped back in her chair, dentures drooped forward and decidely - dead ! Poor Alun, nonplussed by this spectacle, had to bring the music to a premature halt, whilst a number of gentlemen ushers, with as much decorum as could be mustered, carried the unfortunate lady\'s body out of the hall. A year later, Morgan asked me to play lead viola for yet another performance of ‘Messiah’. (I was wary of accepting this ‘gig’, being acutely mindful of the hoary old yarn of the viola player who, one night, dreamed that he was playing in the ‘Messiah’, and suddenly awoke to find- that he was!). Placed in the first seat of violas, I had a panoramic view of the hall: and just as the conductor, the wonderful Haydn James, was about to raise his baton for the opening of this celestial work, a truculent, inebriated voice reverberated around the hall with the words, “Oi’l foight da bloody lot o’ yew, so I will!!” Our revered conductor was visibly transfixed with a look of horrified abandonment etched upon his countenance. It later transpired that the unseasonal outburst had come from an Irish seaman who had docked in the port of Swansea that morning and, flush with his pay after many months at sea, went on a heavy drinking spree in the city. Emerging from his final watering hole, he got caught up in a crowd of people he mistakenly supposed to be en route to a football match; but they were, in fact, soberly making their way to the Brangwyn Hall for the performance of ‘Messiah’. By some quirk, this chap managed to get into the concert hall and sat down in one of a pair of empty seats. Within minutes the bona fide ticket holders arrived and politely requested that he vacate his seat. Our drunken sailor took offence and caused the rumpus that resulted in his swift ejection after his verbal tirade! Future ‘messiah’ gigs at the Brangwyn were understandably avoided by me like the proverbial plaque for quite some time after that.
The ‘Messiah’ being universally popular and so frequently performed, has been responsible for some odd and unexpected spin-offs. The legendary trumpet virtuoso, Maurice Murphy, was much in demand amongst the choral societies in the North of England for the solo part in the celebrated Bass aria, ’The Trumpet Shall Sound’. Rumour has it that, in the event of the work being performed on the same evening, the various choirs would stagger the start of their performances, thus enabling Maurice to arrive at each venue in time for his solo part! The \'Messiah\' has also set up in me a strange physical reaction which I affectionately refer to as my \'Pavlovian Syndrome\'. Because the oratorio is such a
lengthy and tiring work for string players, one yearns for the penultimate chorus, ‘Worthy is the Lamb’. Consequently, whenever we reached this final hurdle, I would demonstrably lick my lips to signify to my colleagues that a refreshing pint of beer was just ten minutes away! This became so ingrained in my psyche that, to this day, the opening bars of this chorus cause my palate to salivate like Pavlov’s dogs! In his experiments involving conditioned response, the distinguished Russian psychologist would ring a bell prior to feeding his dogs: frequent repetition of this caused the animals to salivate at the sound of the bell. And to this day, and even as a member of the audience, I remain similarly afflicted-thanks to ‘Messiah’!
Morgan Lloyd was also an entertaining raconteur whose wide repertoire of anecdotes brightened many a rehearsal break. he once told me an hilarious tale regarding a concert at the Brangwyn Hall which took place just after the war. The principal participant in this story was Ivor Owen, the official cityorganist, whose Bohemian dress sense and theatrical persona frequently drew curious glances from passers-by as he pranced around his beloved city in a manner somewhat reminiscent of the celebrated Quentin Crisp! Anyway, back to the main story.
As a gesture of goodwill to Swansea, which had been heavily blitzed during the World War Two conflict, a wealthy Northern businessman had donated the gift of an electric organ to the city which was duly installed in the Brangwyn Hall. An inaugural concert, featuring the magnificent new instrument, was hastily arranged: and the work would be the ever popular ’Messiah’ of Handel. With a veritable plethora of civic dignitaries due to be in attendance, Morgan was especially anxious that nothing should be left to chance on the big night. So he contacted Ivor Owen regarding the rehearsal arrangements. Ivor, however, protested that he knew the work backwards, asserting also that his encyclopaedic knowledge of organs would enable him to readily adapt to the new electronic acquisition. He would be there on the night, and that was that!
That evening, seated in readiness at the organ, Ivor first read a written instruction from the conductor requesting that he remain ‘tacet’ ( silent) until the exquisite soprano recitative, ‘And There Were Shepherds Abiding In The Fields’, which appears fairly well into Part One of the work. This afforded a curious Ivor plenty of time to silently explore the mechanics of this new, untested instrument, while the orchestra accompanied the vocalists in the preceding choruses and recitatives etc. With the gleeful excitement of a child exploring a new toy, he twiddled with the various knobs, organ stops and switches that were dazzlingly displayed before him. Then, with the elegantly poised soprano awaiting the magical, quiet F major chord which heralds this most sublime solo, the conductor nods to Ivor who gently places his well manicured hands on the keys. One can but imagine the look of horror on the face of the hapless soprano when, out of the organ’s sturdy frame, blares ‘Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside!!’ An equally mortified Morgan, who instantly assesses the situation, leaps out of his seat and yanks the organ plug from the main socket, causing the residual power left in the instrument to audibly emit a deathlike wailing sound! It seems that poor old Ivor had inadvertently stumbled across an inconspicuous switch which set the instrument in automatic mode (like a piano roll). It seems that in the organ’s previous habitat, this device enabled the player to grab a pint, or visit the loo, whilst the instrument kept the patrons entertained with a jolly medley of seaside melodies! Now this tale, coming as it did from the lips of Morgan, could possibly be apocryphal; but, either way, it’s an amusing story!
As he was so much in demand to provide an orchestra for so many choral societies, Morgan often found himself stretched to the limit. Indeed, it was not unusual to have ‘The Morgan Lloyd Orchestra’ appearing in three different venues, for three separate choirs, on the same night! On such occasions his long standing sidekick, the respected violinist Don Preece, would hold the fort at one concert, and I would often be drafted in to fill the gap elsewhere. I was once sent to deputise for Morgan for a performance of Mendelssohn’s ‘Elijah’, at a large imposing chapel in Burry Port. Being always a stickler for punctuality, I set out in good time for the Sunday afternoon rehearsal, but within just a few miles of my destination, the car developed a flat tyre which I was forced to change there and then. Consequently, I arrived at the rehearsal twenty minutes late, sweaty, and generally besmirched by my roadside labours.
The rather stern conductor looked at me, barely concealing his displeasure, and his attitude did not improve when he realised that I was a substitute leader and not the expected Morgan Lloyd. My surname, also being Lloyd, caused further confusion and irritation. Having quickly washed my hands and generally tidied myself in the chapel vestry, I swiftly took my position in the leader’s chair. However, this obdurate conductor continued to eye me with deep suspicion. So I decided to play out with a vigour and assurance that just might convince him that I possessed a modicum of ability. His facial expression remained totally impassive, and not a word of praise or criticism passed his lips. So sullen and bombastic was this guy’s attitude that I was on the verge of just getting up and walking out of his miserable rehearsal, when he suddenly brought proceedings to a halt for a short break. He then turned to me and said, ‘You’ll do!’ From then on we seemed to establish a tentative rapport, and from then on, he used to request my presence as leader whenever Morgan was unavailable. I suspect that canny old Morgan had taken an understandable aversion to this fellow very early on and was content to send along an unsuspecting sucker, like me, to face his wrath! I gradually came to realise that this chap was actually quite an able musician, but whose man-management skills left a lot to be desired. More importantly for me, however, it taught me never to be cowed by podium bullies: and this became a personal mantra which I extended to all aspects of my professional life in both music and education.
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This neatly brings me to the vexed matter of that mysterious species- the professional conductor!
Over the years I have observed many a fine orchestral musician whose spirit and health were destroyed by a mercurial ‘stick wagger’. Whilst the professional music world is, thankfully, still blessed with a light sprinkling of quite brilliant conductors who also happen to retain a rare spark of humanity coupled with a genuine empathy with the musicians playing under their batons, these seem to be a rarity in a profession seemingly infested with too many tyrannical ego-maniacs!
I well recall, some years ago, visiting the former leader of the old BBC Welsh Orchestra, Philip Whiteway, by then well into his ninetieth year, at his comfortable Llandaff home. Over a nice cup of Earl Grey tea, with this delightful old sage, I respectfully sought his opinions on the galaxy of famous maestros for whom he had played. Disturbingly, however, the very word ‘conductor’ brought about an abrupt transformation in his, hitherto, calm demeanour. Indeed, this gentlest of gentlemen visibly winced as I had unintentionally stumbled upon recollections which he would have preferred to have remained unthreateningly dormant in the deep recesses of his mind. In a short time, however, with the added sustenance of another cup of tea and a nourishing Welshcake, Philip went on to describe a rehearsal with, I believe, the Halle orchestra under the great Richard Strauss. According to my story teller, the celebrated composer/conductor spent a scant amount of rehearsal time on the works of Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert, but most of the allotted time on his own composition.
I never cease to be amazed at the obscenely high fees that far too many maestros seem able to command, in direct contrast to the miserly stipends deemed sufficiently adequate for the orchestral players upon whose collective expertise the ‘carvers’ so utterly depend. A good orchestra can, and is so often obliged to, function perfectly well without a conductor; but can one even begin to contemplate the reverse scenario? Thankfully, having always held a secure teaching job, never have I had to endure the opprobrium of a particularly obnoxious conductor, as I had the luxury of being able to simply walk away in the comforting knowledge that I had a regular monthly salary upon which I could depend. Not so, however, for many of my good friends and colleagues whose economic survival often depended upon the fleeting whim of some disconsolate maestro. In his excellent expose, ‘The Maestro Myth’, the distinguished writer and musical commentator, Norman Lebrecht, is most revealing in his well researched observations on the conducting art. Was it not the legendary, acerbic Sir Thomas Beecham who asserted, ‘Any damn fool can conduct: and far too many do!’ Suffice to say that I, in common with many others, am still waiting to hear a conductor play a wrong note!!
CHAPTER 12
ORBIT THEATRE, AND OTHER THRILLS AND SPILLS
It’s true what they say about being in the right place at the right time: and this was certainly so for me.
In the early seventies I was asked by my good friend, Vic Chamberlain, to deputise for him as leader in the show ‘Carousel’, up at Aberaman. Peppered throughout the score were quite a few ‘smaltzy’ fiddle solos which I would ‘milk’ shamelessly for maximum tear-jerking effect! One evening as I was packing away my instrument, a short , bespectacled gentleman, immaculately attired in a classy bespoke suit, came over to me in the pit with the words, ‘I’m Ivan Sadka, MD of Orbit Theatre, and I’d like you to lead my orchestra for our next production’. I was quite taken aback, as Cardiff’s Orbit Theatre was acknowledged as being, arguably, the best amateur theatrical society in Wales: their productions often outstripped those of their professional counterparts. So began a long and fruitful association with Orbit.
My first show with them was ‘Fiddler on the Roof’. The story revolves around the life of the poor Jewish farmer, Tevye, struggling to eke out a living in the impoverished village of Anatevka, and having to contend with his three rebellious daughters, together with the added strain of the Bolshevik pogroms, which were causing despair and mass migration among the pesantry.
In order to familiarise myself with the show, I took Margaret and the kids to see the film version at a Cardiff cinema. But I was aghast when I heard the virtuoso playing of the great violinist, Isaac Stern, who was on the soundtrack. I confessed to Margaret, ’I’ll never be able to manage that stuff with all those multi octave leaps, double stopping and multiple glissandi!’ However, when I was given the first fiddle part, I was greatly relieved to find that the brilliant cadenzas, performed by Stern for Hollywood did not appear in the ‘regular’ stage version.
Prominent among its eclectic membership, Orbit theatre had a number of Cardiff’s business fraternity: and quite a few of these were Jewish, like the extrovert estate agent, Harold Green, and shop owner, Henry Jacobs. This led to an amusing exchange at the band call, my first contact with the company. In the break, Henry Jacobs, who was acting superbly the exacting role of Tevye, strolled over to me, introduced himself and, with his eyes fixed firmly on my prominent proboscis, enquired curiously, ‘Jeff, maa daear, vitch synagogue do you attend?!’ To which I promptly replied, ‘Capel-Y-Ton, in Tonyrefail, bach!’ Sharing the humour of the moment, we each had a good laugh and went on to enjoy many a musical collaboration in the coming years.
Sitting next to me in the New Theatre orchestra pit for a few of the Orbit shows was the tantalisingly attractive Jill Meredith, whose violinist skills were complemented by her feminine allure! Many a hot blooded male actor, together with us orchestra boys, was gravely distracted whenever Jill was in the pit! A fine fiddle player, she ultimately went on, successfully, to a full professional career with the orchestra of the WNO. The other delightful female distractions came in the form of our talented ’cellist Helena Braithwaite (nee Davies), who was my previous college chum, double bassist, the ever sunny Elinor Hughes and the delectable flautist, Pippa Russell. The band was, indeed, awash with glamour! The string section included also the less glamorous, but highly skilled, Bob Swain, Mostyn Davies and Stuart Telling – a formidable team!
In Orbit’s production of ‘Oliver’, the man playing the part of the vicious inebriate, Bill Sykes, was of Polish extract and quite an accomplished stuntman. At one dramatic point in the show, Sykes takes a nasty tumble from a bridge, in an attempt to escape the pursuing ‘Bow St. Runners’. Our Polish actor was most convincing in his portrayal, and all went smoothly each night. In fact, so impressive was his gymnastic feat, that a member of a visiting amateur society, who was about to take on the same villainous role in an imminent production of ‘Oliver’, decided to emulate the expert’s antics. Unfortunately, things did not go quite as smoothly for Russell Bluett in Pontypridd Operatic’s subsequent production. In the dress rehearsal, he took his tumble and promptly fractured his leg! Valiantly adhering to the thespian maxim, ‘The Show Must Go On’, Russell, suffering immense discomfort and aided by a walking stick, stoically carried on with his role for the week’s duration of the show.
Orbit’s musical director, Ivan Sadka, was undoubtedly one of the finest musicians I have had the pleasure of working with. By profession, a highly skilled and respected Cardiff solicitor, Ivan’s passion for music theatre was insatiable: and his dazzling spontaneity, as a jazz pianist, was beguiling. In later life Ivor formed
a highly polished and sophisticated jazz trio, with drummer Steve Hawkins, a bassist, and featuring the multi talented Pontypridd vocalist and broadcaster, Beverley Humphries. In the pit, Ivan had an idiosyncratic habit of perpetually adjusting his priz-nez spectacles during the more rhythmically pulsating numbers! Often, whilst directing an especially sentimental melody, he would lean over to me, with a look of poor delight on his face, and say, ‘Ah, Jeffrey, isn’t dat laaverly?”
In my first week’s encounter with Orbit Theatre, whilst the band was generally of a good standard, I was acutely aware of glaringly obvious deficiencies amongst just a few individuals in the wind and brass sections; but as I was not the ‘fixer’, I merely allowed my facial expression to do the talking. But an exasperated Ivan implored me to seek out some dependable musicians for their next production. He had wrongly assumed that MU positions held by various players, tied him to these guys for perpetuity. He looked at me askance when I suggested he attend a production in the Rhondda the following week. By the interval of the Rhondda show, he was sufficiently impressed by the playing of Messers Holvey , Morgan, Dave Hughes and Alan Good, to book them there and then for Orbit’s next production!
In my humble opinion, one of Orbit’s best productions was the show, ’Sweet Charity’, which charts the story of the lovelorn seedy dancer with the enchantingly deceptive name, charity Hope-valentine, in her eternal quest to find her ‘Mr. Right’. At the time, Orbit’s business manager was Harold Green, whose enthusiasm for this particular show was palpable: and for the fortnight run, he acted with all the ‘razzamatazz’ of a West End impresario. One evening, just minutes before the start of the show, I dashed round to the New theatre box office to collect tickets for some friends for the next night’s performance. I was about to return to the stage door when I noticed two elderly ladies tearfully explaining to a sympathetic usherette that they had inadvertently left their tickets at home, miles away in Tonypandy. But then, with the flourish of a gallant Arthurian knight on his white charger, Harold appears, and demands to know the reason for the distraught ladies distress. He then instructs the usherette to ‘---bring to my box, the largest selection of chocolates available, for my two lady guests!’ Then with each lady securely tucked under his arms, he strode majestically to his private box with the words, ‘Tut, tut, there will be no unhappy ladies in MY theatre!’ Judging by their broad smiles, the two dears must have thought that they had won the pools that night. Always larger than life ( he owned a yellow Rolls Royce which sported the technically illegal number plate – HOUSE ! ), and despite his own considerable business successes, I firmly believe that Harold was secretly, a frustrated theatrical entrepreneur, in the tradition of the great Lew Grade; but he always brought that uplifting dash of glitzy glamour to Orbit’s shows.
We musicians had always enjoyed a happy relationship with the Orbit Company over many years, until their production of Ivor Novello’s ‘King of Rhapsody’ in 1977. Unlike the lady producer in Pentre, Orbit’s first –rate producer, Frank Wooles, really had done his homework for this colossal musical; but try as he did to ‘trim’ the show, each rehearsal and consecutive performance overran the stipulated three hours, and the MU rules dictated that the musicians must be given considerable overtime payment. I firmly believe that a mutually acceptable compromise could have been arrived at over a quiet pint in the artiste’s bar. Unfortunately, however, one of the band members was also an MU official who stuck rigidly to the rules and even forbade any discussion of the matter between ourselves and members of the company. Things became even more fraught, and tempers frayed, when the company failed to make the usual Friday night payment. After the Saturday afternoon matinee performance, a fellow musician from Bristol told of the time when, in a similar dispute, the band ended up without a penny. This naturally set alarm bells ringing in the band room. As emotions and suspicions became intertwined, and with the audience taking their seats, the band decided to ‘stay put’ until we had some positive assurance from the company that payment would be forthcoming by the interval of this, the final performance. A visibly distressed Frank Wooles came to the band room to assure us that the matter of payment would be resolved by the interval, and pleaded with us to return to the pit. After many years of working with him, I trusted Frank implicitly and exerted sufficient influence to recommend to the band that we ‘get the show on the road’. The performance was saved, but the whole incident left a sour taste, with us musicians being regarded as militant ‘lefties’. Indeed, as we made our way to the stage door after the show, the customiary pleasantries from the cast were replaced by boos and catcall. A very unpleasant conclusion to an, otherwise, artistically successful week, and the severe denting of many years of harmonious collaboration with the company.
Looking back on these unhappy events with the luxury of hindsight, I concede that both parties in the dispute could have acted differently, as mistakes and misjudgements were made on both sides. But it made me look critically at the MU’s refusal to even permit discussions to take place with the Orbit company. After all, most of the really major industrial disputes were usually settled by a modicum of common sense allied to some old fashioned ‘give and take’ compromise. I was, and still am, a firm believer in trade unions; but, surely, with such power comes responsibility, and in pre-Thatcherite Britain, the trade union movement was severely tarnished by the reckless actions of just a few vociferous and charismatic, individual militants: and this, of course, gave ‘The Iron Lady’ all the ammunition she needed to neutralise the whole union movement. In the final miners’ dispute of 1984, I am convinced that, ultimately, it became a personal vendetta between two super egos – those of Maggie Thatcher and Arthur Scargill.
Prior to the debacle of ‘King’s Rhapsody’, however, each of Orbit’s productions was full of fun, and many an amusing incident occurred. Just a few days before the dress rehearsal of ‘Sweet Charity’, the New Theatre had installed a new floor for the orchestra pit which was electronically controlled and enabled the band to be raised or lowered as required by the producer or MD. The New Theatre’s technical manager, Cliff Morris, was thrilled to bits with his ‘new toy’ and suggested the orchestra should initially appear at stage level and be gradually lowered as the curtains opened. So, on the first night, the band seated elegantly, and permanently, on the stage- or so it seemed to the confused audience. Two elderly ladies sitting alongside me in the front row of the stalls looked decidedly bewildered, wondering how they were actually going to see the stage action with a phalanx of bulky musicians blocking their view. One of them gently nudged me and asked, “ ‘Scuse me askin’ love, but how will I see the stage?” I mischievously explained that, ‘Now, I’ll move my left leg forward a bit, and my mate will do the same with his right leg, so you’ll be able to see a fair bit of the action with some luck! As we struck up with the overture, audible murmurings of discontent from among the stalls modified to relief, and then laughter, as the band mysteriously sank out of sight of the patrons. As I came level with the concerned lady, she muttered, “Eh, you’re a boy and a ‘alf in ewe. Ew really ‘ad me and my friend Gladys here goin’ then, aye!!’ Fearing a near riot, producer Frank Wooles persuaded Cliff Morris to suspend that particular exercise on grounds of health and safety! But it provided us musicians with much mirth on the opening night!
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As the word got around that the Rhondda Theatre Orchestra was comprised of a reliable bunch of musicians who could ‘deliver the goods’, I received invitations from a number of operatic societies throughout South Wales to accompany their productions. One of these was Cowbridge Operatic, who performed very well, but in the very restricted Cowbridge Town Hall. The band had to be seated to the side of the hall, in a formation which resembled passengers on the upper deck of a London omnibus! Our physical discomfort, however, was handsomely compensated by the vocal skills and enthusiasm of the company. I felt that they were especially adept in the works of Gilbert and Sullivan. Indeed, particularly impressive was their production of ‘The Yeoman of the Guard’, and I was almost moved to tears in the finale, when the jilted jester, Jack Point, dies heartbroken after being forsaken by his beloved Elsie Maynard. Despite the imposed physical ‘intimacy’ ‘twixt band, audience and stage, all squeezed in like sardines into the miniscule ‘theatre’, and some fine productions regularly emerged – a triumph over adversity!
A veteran violinist with RSO and RTO, Alun Jones, became MD of Maesteg Amateur Operatic Society in the seventies, and immediately engaged us for their shows. For me there was a certain element of ‘deja vue’, as a number of my relatives had been involved with the company many decades before. The sweet, soaring soprano voice of my older cousin, Betty, had been enjoyed by audiences in Maesteg’s Town hall for many productions: and my beloved Uncle Emlyn was a regular member of the orchestra which was ably led by local ironmonger, Brynley Davies, who happened to be a very skilled violinist. His alluringly attractive blonde step-daughter, Elizabeth, became a superb professional ‘cellist, in demand with most of the London orchestras. And it was in this theatre, at the tender age of eight, that my Uncle Em, one night, sat me next to him in the orchestra. The pure magic of that night, when I had my first ever ‘view from the pit’, remained with me for years: the dimmed house lights, the flickering orchestral lights, the musicians’ smart dinner jackets and the musty aroma of ‘greasepaint, aroused in me that thrill of ‘show business’ which became pivotal in my life. In the pit with us in Maesteg, was their veteran pianist, Dilys Thomas, a dear old lady well into her eighties, who would often drift off into slumber during some of the longer dialogue passages!
This desire to ‘—fall into the Arms of Morpheus!’ was frequently sought by our star trumpet executants, Derek Holvey! Whilst playing in the show, ‘Desert Song’ in Cardiff’s New Theatre, Derek had to play solo a rousing bugle call to summon a troop of French Legionnaires’. Then, after a protracted piece of unaccompanied romantic dialogue on stage, he would be required to repeat the same procedure. So he told his sidekicks, Phil Morgan and Dave Hughes, to give him a nudge when the second reveille was imminent. Then, just like turning a switch, Derek would fall into a blissful slumber. Each night this ploy worked well; but during the Thursday performance, I sensed an uncanny air of impending mischief-making amongst Morgan and Hughes. ‘Oh God, No’, I thought. But my realisation came too late for any intervention. Within thirty seconds of Holvey’s drift into the arms of his beloved Morpheus, his neighbouring miscreants gave him a hefty nudge! He sat bolt upright, and delivered a superb bugle call – right in the middle of a tender love scene between heroine Margo and her beau, Pierre! Holvey sat impassively furious for all of – five minutes! Derek’s good nature would not allow him to hold a grudge, and he regarded any display of annoyance as a waste of precious energy- how I so often envied his cool disposition! Many years later, after attending the impressively large funeral of a fellow musician, I dryly remarked to Derek that there would be very few in his funeral. When he enquired why, I observed: ‘Well, they won’t be able to tell the difference!’ He calmly countered: ‘De mun Lloyd, you’re a bloody scream aye!’
As an individual player, I received frequent calls from Cwmbran Amateur Operatic Society, who eventually staged their shows in the newly constructed Dolman Theatre, Newport. The story of this theatre’s emergence as a fine Arts Centre deserves to be chronicle in its own right.
When Newport was undergoing a major re-development in the seventies which would result in a grand new, sheltered shopping centre with all the advantages that went with it, the plans of the developers were being frustrated by one small obstinate group of people, The Newport Theatregoers; who owned the land upon which their own precious little theatre (a converted chapel) proudly stood. Fearful of losing their venue, they stoically resisted the imminent onslaught of the bulldozers – nobody was shifting them! Such laudable obduracy was causing a major ( and expensive) delay to the developers who needed this small plot of land simply to move on. The Theatregoers, led by one of their most defiant members, a Councillor Dolman, fought to secure an assurance that a new theatre would be built for them, prior to the demolition of their existing premises. The developers relented, and constructed a magnificent theatre which was fitted out with elegant dressing rooms, state of the art lighting and stage equipment, and a comfortable auditorium capable of seating quite a few hundred people. I always felt that a slightly larger orchestra pit was necessary; but I suppose that’s a typical pit musician’s grouse!
Cwmbran Amateur Operatic’s Musical Director, Graham Jones, was an ebullient character that I’d known as a prominent viola player with the NYOW way back in the fifties. He held a responsible job as personnel officer with the monolithic Llanwern Steelworks; but every other moment of every other day was devoted to music, in general, and his beloved operatic society in particular. His charming wife, Vivienne, was equally besotted with amateur dramatics and was a loyal member of the Cwmbran society. With just a small pit band in front of him, Graham would often conduct with profound intensity. With his eyes frequently shut like Von Karajan, and conveying a trance-like expression of pure ecstasy, he seemed to be blissfully ‘lost’, mentally directing a mighty Mahler symphony in the august company of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra!! In fairness to him, however, Graham did not always inhabit his own ‘clouds of fancy’. He certainly knew how to extract the best from his chorus, and I recall some superb performances under his idiosyncratic direction. Graham also possessed a clarity of beat which made life a lot easier for us ‘pit boys’.

Cwmbran Operatic had an actor whose patter songs, so common in the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, were often more effectively – and more rapidly – delivered than by many professional stars of the ‘D’Oyly Carte’ Opera. Trevor Jones could twist his tongue around the most complex lines at such high velocity that rendered audience, cast and orchestra speechless. One of his most dazzling displays was in ‘The Sorcerer’, which features the song,’ My Name is John Wellington Wells, I’m a Purveyor of Magical Spells___’. With each word perfectly enunciated, despite the fast tempo, Trevor’s delivery of this complex number ‘brought the house down’ at each performance; but the ovation was such that an encore was invariably demanded from an exhausted Trevor!
Sharing the pit with me for quite a few shows was John Newman, a fine violinist who could be quite eccentric at times. Our physical position in the pit put us level with the feet of those members of the audience sitting in the front row: and many a pair of shiny new shoes would protrude under the mini curtain that separated us from the patrons. One night, perceiving and anarchic glint in John’s eyes, I sat mesmerised, as he proceeded to deftly tie one shoe to the other, with the owner totally oblivious to this practical joke-until the unsuspecting chap stood up in the interval!
Another regular in the Dolman was flautist, Tom Lewis. Despite being partially hindered by a degree of deafness, he managed to play wonderfully with the help of a deaf aid, on a whole range of wind instruments. But one Saturday matinee performance clashed with a rugby international match, which was being transmitted ‘live’ on radio from Cardiff Arms park: and deputising for the usual trumpeter was my old mate, Dai Thomas, from Tonyrefail. A brilliant player, Dai was also a rugby fanatic. Sitting directly behind Tom Lewis, Dai assumed that the flautist was listening to the game on a pocket radio, nudged him, and enquired audibly, ‘Hey, buttie, what’s the score?’. Within seconds, however, Dai had realised his gaffe, and shamefacedly crouched behind his music stand. But Tom, being a really nice chap, took no offence and they later both diffused the situation with a hearty laugh in the band room! Indeed, over the years, I enjoyed some jolly times at the Dolman.
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Another skilled trumpet player, who was based in the Newport area, was John Oliver, and he would join me in various theatres in South Wales for both amateur and ‘pro’ gigs. Being a local lad, he was another ‘regular’ at the Dolman. He especially excelled in the trumpet’s upper register and became much in demand as a ‘screamer’ trumpet. Possessed also, with a business acumen, John formed a highly acclaimed ‘big band’ known as ‘The John Oliver Sound’. Not unlike many other band leaders, he developed a reputation as a fair, but hard, taskmaster. He recalls, with much amusement, passing a local music shop which had a few shiny new trumpets on display in the window. Mildly curious, he entered the shop and asked the young assistant if he could try out a few instruments. Having played a few short excerpts to gauge their quality, John was enthusiastically complimented on his expertise by the young assistant, who asked whether he played professionally and with whom. John replied that he played with ‘The John Oliver Sound’. The young lad promptly retorted, ‘Poor sod, you don’t play for that bastard do you!?’ John’s entrepreneurial inclinations later led him to establish an agency for professional artistes of all styles, which has proven to be a great success.
That same entrepreneurial bug was evident also in another brass player and teaching colleague of mine. John leach, from Creigiau near Cardiff, had played trombone for numerous ‘big bands’, including that of the legendary Syd Lawrence, before settling down to a teaching career in South Glamorgan. Blessed with a warm, outgoing personality, he was the obvious choice when I put him in charge of the South Glam High Schools’ Orchestra in the mid eighties. John was a natural teacher to whom his pupils responded with fervour: and he was constantly brimming over with new ideas. On the morning of an international rugby match in Cardiff, he would despatch into the city a few senior pupils from the orchestral rehearsal in the Friary centre, and they would return to the rehearsal with some unsuspecting supporter, be it French, Scottish, or Irish, and invite the poor guy to ‘conduct’ the young orchestra. Prior to one match, his emissaries managed to lure an especially famous ‘conscript’, in the form of a genuine maestro – Owain Arwel Hughes. And he thoroughly enjoyed himself!
However, as the mists of political uncertainty swirled ominously around the South Glamorgan LEA’s Music Service, John bravely set up his own independent instrumental tuition service, called CAVMS – ‘Cardiff and the Vale Music service’, which has proven very effective.

CHAPTER 13
Rhondda Symphony Orchestra – The Early Years
Orchestral music in the Rhondda began when Griffith Rhys Jones, the great choral conductor, formed violin classes in the Upper Rhondda in 1870, which developed into a string orchestra which won the first prize at the Aberdare National Eisteddfod of 1885.
In 1904, Arthur Leeke’s Mid Rhondda Orchestra gained second prize with commendation at the Llanelli National Eisteddfod for their playing of Beethoven’s ‘Leonora’ Overture Number 2. In that same year Percy Smith’s Rhondda Orchestra won first prize at the Wrexham National. They were placed second at Aberprennar in 1905, and first at Caernarfon in 1906, when the test piece was the first movement of Schubert’s ‘Unfinished’ Symphony. Arthur Leeke’s Mid Rhondda Orchestra came a close second.
At the Treorchy National in 1928, when the test piece was the first movement of Beethoven’s ‘Eroica’ Symphony, the Cardiff Orchestra under the legendary Herbert Ware (born in Tonypandy) gained a narrow win over the Mid Rhondda Orchestra led by Ivor Lester and conducted by Arthur Angle of Cardiff. This orchestra was the creation of T.J. Hughes of Tonypandy and the competition was regarded as the high point in a memorable week.
Even more remarkably, before the era of free instrumental tuition in schools, there existed between 1930 and 1939 an orchestra comprised of schoolchildren – the Blaenclydach School Orchestra, which was regarded as one of the foremost amateur ensembles in Britain. Formed and conducted by Headmaster, John Phillips, this orchestra chalked up a remarkable record of successes which included:-
1. Winning the Senior School Orchestra section at the Royal National Eisteddfod on no less than eight consecutive occasions.
2. Winners of the prestigious Cheltenham Music Festival for four consecutive years.
3. Winning the Northern Music Festival at the Blackpool Opera House for three consecutive years.
Such was their expertise that the distinguished musician and adjudicator at the Machynlleth Eisteddfod in 1937, W.H. Reed, declared, ‘If Elgar himself had been present to hear the Blaenclydach Orchestra’s performance of his ‘Serenade’, he would have enjoyed it as much as I’.
After winning their first ‘National’ in Port Talbot, almost eighty years ago, the orchestra’s reputation was firmly established and concert offers came flooding in, including an invitation to perform in Manchester’s Free Trade hall with the Sale and District Choral Society, and with the internationally acclaimed soprano, Isobel Bailey. This remarkable ensemble also had the distinction of being filmed by Pathe News at their London studios under the title of ‘Budding Musicians’. This film was shown in cinemas throughout the country and the orchestra frequently broadcast on the BBC from its old Charles Street studios in Cardiff.
This young orchestra was due to embark on a concert tour of the continent in 1939; but a certain Adolf Hitler had plans of his own, which put paid to the Blaenclydach youngsters’ ambitious project. A number of the older boys were conscripted to fight in World War Two: and, sadly, some of these lost their lives. With the whole nation embroiled in the conflict, and with the death, in 1940, of their inspirational conductor, John Phillips, the orchestra was disbanded. However, the Blaenclydach School Orchestra must be accorded due credit for such pioneering work, well ahead of that of Mr. Russell Sheppard a decade later.
After the dreary years of economic depression and war, music gradually gained its rightful place in the schools of Rhondda and instrumental teaching of woodwind, brass and strings flourished.
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When I was a fairly senior member of the Glam Youth Orchestra, Mr. Sheppard would sometimes ask me to take a full rehearsal of the full orchestra while he busied himself with some irksome, but necessary, administrative matters. This was, for me, the equivalent of being given the Crown Jewels for an hour’s safekeeping: I certainly needed scant persuasion to leap onto the rostrum, as I had always nurtured a fascination for the baton. To be suddenly confronted with a hundred or more supremely talented young musicians was awesome, but also extremely thrilling. I now recount with, with horror, the numerous blunders I must have made in my early forays on the podium; but it was an invaluable grounding in discovering which hand gestures and verbal instructions worked and, more importantly, what to avoid. With no one there to actually coach you, one survived on one’s own wits. I am extremely grateful to the patient tolerance of the likes of violinists David Thomas, Clive Dobbins, Eddie Roberts, John Canter and Hywel Davies; oboists Karl Jenkins and John Anderson; brass players Andy Cuff, John Hendy, Phil Dando, Terry ‘Drac’ Johns, Alun Francis, Dave Hughes and so many contemporaries who were destined for long and distinguished professions as orchestral players, composers and conductors, for tolerating my early conducting efforts. But the chance of directing an august body of musicians for just an hour a few times a year was not enough. I had developed a passion for conducting which I simply had to assuage by some means or other.
Matters were not helped when, on the senior Glam courses, my good friend and fellow tutorial colleague, John Jenkins, would enthusiastically show me scores of exciting works he was preparing for concerts with Neath Symphony Orchestra, which he founded in 1965. The NSO was a fine orchestra which boasted the presence of the legendary violinist Fred Herbert as leader and Edgar Watkins as an eloquent principal ‘cellist’. John presented many enterprising concerts with his orchestra. Solo pianist, Semprini, and the violinist, ‘par excellence’, Alfredo Campoli, were among the list of famous solo artistes invited to perform at Neath’s Gwyn Hall in those halcyon days with NSO. I was always delighted to accept John’s kind invitations to play in many of these concerts. But my own nagging thoughts of baton wielding simply would not abate.
Then one day, whilst confiding my frustrated conducting ambitions to my wife, Margaret, she came up with the novel, if not blatantly obvious, solution to my festering dilemma in her usual direct way, ‘If you’re so damn keen to conduct, then form your own orchestra!’
For a number of years, the charismatic Haydn ‘Quke’ Davies had run a successful amateur orchestra in Pontypridd in which I regularly played. But, with Haydn’s elevation to the dizzy heights of HM School’s Inspectorate, and his consequent move to North Wales, the Pontypridd Orchestra Society very rapidly floundered. So, with Margaret’s sound advice spurring me on, I set about recruiting players, for what I envisaged as, a small salon orchestra based in the Rhondda. After all, I was already working with some fine musicians for the various operatic societies etc. these guys jumped at the chance to play what they dubbed ‘real music’! This was not meant to be disrespectful to the repertoire of the local light opera groups, but the prospect of working through a Beethoven or Tchaikovsky symphony was aesthetically more preferable to a repetitive week of, say, ‘Desert Song’ or similar musicals.
Having received an enthusiastic response to my letters of invitation, I had to secure premises to rehearse; and here I was given great encouragement by the kindly Dr. Bill Morris, headmaster of Tonypandy Grammar School. He suggested that his school hall may be suitable, and it possessed a full grand piano. ‘But what about squaring it with the Education Office?’ I apprehensively enquired. With a good natured wink, he casually replied, ‘Just you leave them to me, bach!’ So it was, that on a frosty night in March, 1968, the Rhondda Symphony Orchestra was born!
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We had no funds, but free use of the school hall; we had no music library, but our Bass player, old Rudi Hingott, of Trealaw, knew of a stack of orchestral music which had lain dusty and unused for decades in an old church hall in Trealaw. For years, Rudi had stoutly resisted the attempts of successive church wardens to consign this ‘pile of old rubbish’ to a bonfire. Upon close inspection, I was amazed to find amongst this ‘pile of old rubbish’ several symphonies by Tchaikovsky, Beethoven and Brahms together with popular overtures by Von Suppe, Glinka, and Weber plus orchestral suites by Vaughn Williams, Gustav Holst, Haydn Wood and numerous other British composers. Interestingly, in Haydn Wood’s suite, ‘My Native Heath, I discovered a movement entitled ‘Barwick Green’ which just happened to be the signature tune to the popular radio ‘soap’, ‘The Archers’. All this music was like manna from Heaven – a veritable Aladdin’s Cave!
At our first rehearsal there were barely a dozen players, but among these were notables like Glyn ‘Oboe’ Jones and bassoonist Glyn Hughes, both recently retired from the BBC Welsh Orchestra, and on viola, the doyen of male voice choir maestros, John Haydn Davies. Messers Holvey and Morgan cemented the brass section, and Reg Bennet brought along his old style, ‘tap tuning’ timps for good measure.
In its formative years, RSO comprised a happy blend of a few highly skilled instrumentalists, and a preponderance of very keen amateurs, unfettered by any visions of grandeur, but who simply wished to enjoy their playing. We had wonderful people like Les James, Cathy Edwards, George Viney and Roy Curtin content to remain safely tucked away in the second fiddles, but still deriving great pleasure from their music making.
Their attitude represented the ethos that was Rhondda ‘Symph’ – aim for the highest musical goals, whilst retaining the enjoyment factor above all else. And when they each, sadly, passed away, I missed their presence immensely. In the days when tape recorders were cumbersome and primitive and far removed from the digital technology of today, dear old Les James would dutifully record virtually every one of our concerts on a pretty basic machine. This task was later undertaken by Rudi’s son, John Hingott, on rather more sophisticated equipment, as audio technology advanced.
I was fortunate, also, to be able to recruit a number of my own pupils such as violinists Gerald Hopkin, who later joined the Halle Orchestra, ‘cellist Chris Hodges, destined to become sub-principal with WNO, together with Dave McKelvay, Robert Bird and Carl Darby who became highly respected members of the BBC National Orchestra of Wales’s string section. Gradually, other pupils of mine such as Lynys Griffiths, Susan Mortimer, Gerald Dunning, Felix Burak, Sarah Herbert and others joined the expanding ensemble: and teaching colleagues of mine brought along a few of their own talented pupils, many of whom were also destined for flourishing orchestral careers. My friend and colleague, George Thomas from Aberdare, produced quite a coterie of female violinists whose musical attributes were invariably complemented by the added advantage of good looks. These included the dark haired beauty, Helen Brown, the auburn Frances Richards, and the blonde Anita Gratland, all of whom hailed from mountain Ash and became professional orchestral players. Many years later, another former viola pupil from George’s Mountain Ash ‘Beauty Bank’, Alison Jones, would become his wife! Among his equally talented male pupils was Nick Davies, from Pontypridd, who became senior musical director to the legendary impresario, Sir Cameron Mckintosh, and Phillip Aird, who went on to enjoy a distinguished career as a freelance violinist in London. I always regarded the infusion of young talent as an essential insurance for the orchestra’s growth. Their presence was RSO’s future!
I was never in any rush to present our inaugural public performance: so it was not until May, 1970 that RSO’s first public concert took place in the Upper Rhondda Comprehensive School, Treorchy. Even now I recall my chosen programme with a mixture of horror and embarrassment, still acutely aware of what could (and should) have gone wrong! I decided to open with Mozart’s ‘magic Flute’ overture, followed by two Welsh folk song arrangements by Alan Hoddinott, then the magnificent Piano Concerto by Grieg. The second half opened with Beethoven’s mighty Fifth Symphony which was swiftly followed by movements from Tchaikovsky’s ‘Nutcracker ballet suite, in which the third horn part was played by a young gentleman temporarily whisked from the viola section. That young man, Stephen Broom, from Pontypridd, eventually became principal viola in the London Philharmonic Orchestra, and later, principal in the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. In the celebrated ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum fairy’, Tchaikovsky imbues that magical fairy-tale effect with the use of a celesta; but we could not afford to hire this miniature keyboard instrument, so instead, it was played very effectively by our brilliant harpist, Jenny Jones. Then, as a rousing finale, we belted out Suppe’s boisterous overture, ‘Light cavalry’. This was a crazy programme by any standard; but the audience starved of the sound of a ‘live’ symphony orchestra for many years, loved it!
We were extremely fortunate to have a brilliant local man as soloist in the Grieg concerto. William ‘Bill’ Lewis was the long serving music master at Tonypandy Grammar School, who had previously performed concertos with the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, prior to returning to his Rhondda roots. In the afternoon rehearsal we had to manhandle the large, cumbersome grand piano from its usual position on the school hall stage to floor level – a hair-raising experience for all concerned. I also recall the day before the concert, our solitary Double Bassist, Rudi Hingott, was taken ill. This meant that our redoubtable concert manager, Ritchie Blight, and I were obliged to tour the student haunts of Cardiff to find a replacement in the delectable form of Elinor Phillips, who was studying at the university.
So my dream had been fulfilled; I now had an orchestra to conduct, and with which I would remain for thirty three years as its music director. During this protracted period I strove to present at least three concerts per year, with varying degrees of success. As a self financing ensemble, we were restricted for many years in our choice of soloists, engaging mainly locally based pianists and vocalists. Among these was the incredibly gifted jazz pianist, Geoff Eales, from Hengoed. He gave a dazzling performance of Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ which sent the audience into rapturous applause with cries of ‘More, More!’ I had to nudge the somewhat overwhelmed Geoff into the realisation that an encore was urgently required, to which he feebly responded: ‘But what will I play them?’ ‘For God’s sake lad, make something up!’ I replied, with mounting frustration: and he did just that. His fingers casually wandered over the keyboard, seeking out a suitably appropriate melody. Then, having settled on Gershwin’s ‘Autumn Leaves’, he launched into a quite amazing feat of pure improvisation. That display of virtuosity, which effortlessly encompassed the fugal styles of Bach, the sprightly precision of Mozart and the lush romanticism of Rachmaninov was almost beyond belief. Predictably, of course, this remarkable young man went on to become one of the most sought after jazz pianists in the UK and abroad.
Another gifted young soloist who played with RSO in the early years was the violinist, Susan Lynn. She had been recommended to me by her elderly grandmother, Mrs. Davies, who would invite me to her comfortable house in Pentre, and proceed to ‘seduce’ me with copious cups of tea and mounds of her mouth-watering home made sponge cakes! She was, justly, very proud of her granddaughter, who was a pupil at the famed ‘Yehudi Menuhin School’, now based at Stoke d’Abernon. In order to gauge Susan’s ability, I casually discussed, over the phone, her current repertoire. When she mentioned the Brahms Violin Concerto, I realized that she must be a formidable player. So we plumped, there and then, for this most glorious ( and extremely difficult ) solo work for our next concert, to be held in St. Peter’s Church, Pentre.
This concert remains ingrained in my memory for a number of reasons. The programme started with Wagner’s rumbustious overture to his opera ‘Rienzi’. The work opens with a sustained ‘C’ natural, played on solitary trumpet, which makes a crescendo slowly followed by a diminuendo. In the afternoon rehearsal, Derek Holvey delivered this opening solo with that elegant control that we had come to expect from this fine player. On the night, however, I made my way to the podium to find a very youthful and nervous Andy Cuff and Pamela Evans, our second and third trumpets in place, but with first trumpet, Derek’s chair empty. Frantically trying to subdue the nauseating panic that was about to engulf me, I shut my eyes, offered a silent prayer, and brought my baton down in the ludicrously faint hope that the required note would appear, as if by divine intervention, even though I knew that the other two players had their instruments resolutely perched on their laps! Then, within a few seconds, the long ‘C’ natural I so desperately yearned for was heard from afar and increasing in dynamic intensity. As the note was dying in volume, I courageously looked up to find Derek, trumpet to his lips, gingerly taking his seat. He later explained that he was a ‘little late’ parking his car (not an uncommon failing for our Derek). But, with his trumpet unpacked, he followed my ethereal beat through a sizeable crack in a stone glass window, and proceeded to play, with consummate artistry, until he got to his seat. The effect was magical, as the note was meant to emerge from afar- and it certainly did!
In the afternoon rehearsal, after we’d finished rehearsing the weighty first movement of the Brahms concerto, soloist Susan Lynn indicated that, in the evening performance, she would need a short break to retune. I readily agreed, explaining that the clarinettists would have to change from their ‘A’ to ‘B’ flat instruments and also that our second clarinet, dear Vernon Lloyd, wore a different set of dentures for each instrument, further justifying a very short break! This amused Susan so much that before I started the second movement in the evening performance, she shot me a questioning glare with the words, ‘What about the teeth!?’ When I met her decades later, she beamed at me and repeated that memorable question, ‘What about the teeth!?’ Susan went on to enjoy a highly successful career amongst the upper echelon of London’s elite orchestral fraternity, including the English Chamber Orchestra and The Academy of St. martin in the Fields. Her performance of the Brahms concerto that night in Pentre was superlative: her beauty of tone, in the second movement especially, was complemented by the enchantingly poetic solo contributions of first flute, Phil Emanuel, first oboe, Alan Good, and first horn, Dave Hughes.
In common with most Welsh institutions, and maintaining a well established tradition, RSO soon had its committee! Our secretary was Ritchie Blight, a non musician friend of mine who had an immense enthusiasm for matters musical: he also possessed an all-embracing expertise in the field of electronics, which often rescued us from potentially disastrous situations at some of the flawed venues in which we occasionally performed. Ritchie also ‘doubled’, with equal efficiency, as RSO’s Concert Manager. He was later succeeded, as Secretary, by violinist, Sheila Nurse. She was a gifted architect who would eventually rise to the exalted position of Principal Architect for Mid Glamorgan County Council: and she remained as RSO’s faithful Secretary for over four decades. For quite a few years the position of Chairman ( the ridiculous spectre of ‘political correctness’ had yet to exert its pernicious requirement for, ‘Chairperson’!) was in the experienced hands of bassist, Rudi Hingott. Alun Jones, who was sub-leader for a number of years, served as Vice-Chairman. The Treasurer was Reg Bennett who, like Rudi, brought his vast experience of MU meetings to our small committee. A few years later, Reg, as treasurer, was succeeded by another good friend of mine, Jeff Tarr, who came to play percussion and just happened to be a trainee bank manager! The very important and onerous role of orchestral librarian was in the unflappable hands of Vernon ( the Teeth! ) Lloyd, who was later succeeded by his son Howard, also a clarinettist. Among other members were Father Ted Alder, Vicar of Trealaw, who was a talented flautist and a lovely human being, the warm hearted local piano teacher, Cath Edwards, and Les James, in whose house the meetings were held, and where we were provided with light refreshments by his delightful wife, Shirley. The combined contribution of these good folk was pivotal in RSO’s early development and laid a firm foundation for the orchestra’s future success.
However, after just a few rehearsals, I became acutely aware that the orchestra was lacking one fundamental element, an effective leader. Within a few weeks, however, my long tern friend and fiddling collaborator, Bill Rogers turned up to rehearsal with two musician pals from Maesteg, Alun Jones and Tom Jones. I immediately directed Bill to the ‘hot seat’, and he remained as leader for seventeen glorious years. Bill very quickly gained the orchestra’s respect and admiration as a violinist. His rich tone was matched by an equally warm and friendly personality. I have always maintained the firm belief that the orchestra leader, especially in an amateur ensemble, should act as a bridge between the musical director and the players: this, Bill achieved supremely well, encouraging the younger players and welcoming new recruits with a friendliness that immediately put them at ease. It was Bill, also, who organised the post concert celebratory parties, usually in the local Treorchy or Pengelly hotels. After a successful concert, with the adrenalin still coursing through our veins, our high spirits required further fortification with a copious infusion of alcohol! It was in the relaxed atmosphere of these gatherings that a ‘bonding’ of members was achieved which helped promote that ‘family’ feeling which became the essential spirit of RSO.
CHAPTER 14
The Triumphs of Youth - Jack ‘The Downbeat’ –Singers at last –The Albert Hall

From the outset, I had encouraged the steady recruitment of young instrumentalists into the RSO, and this began to pay dividends in the mid seventies. Not only did their burgeoning talents contribute greatly to the overall orchestral sound, but I was also able to call upon a select few of them as soloists. In a concert at St. Paul’s Church, Pentre in September, 1977, the emphasis was largely focused on our youthful performers, with just a little support from RSO’s older stalwarts. Violinists Carl Darby and Helen brown, with ‘cellist Chris Hodges providing the demanding continuo part, gave a fine account of Vivaldi’s Double Concerto in D minor for Two Violins. Young trumpeter, Vivian Davies from Aberdare was joined by the ever reliable Derek Holvey in Vivaldi’s Double Trumpet Concerto. For a performance of some Baroque works, I placed a brass consort comprising Derek Holvey and Viv Davies, Dave Hughes on Horn, Phil and Greg Morgan on trombones and Kevin Morgan on Tuba, in the church’s Minstrel Gallery. Though unseen by the audience, the effect of this magnificent brass sound resonating triumphantly above them was magical. The brass consort performed works by Gabrielli, Pezel and a composer whose unfortunate name of Samuel Scheidt caused much mirth amongst the participants; but Scheidt’s celebrated ‘Battle Suite’ for brass is a fine example of sixteenth century instrumental composition.
In this concert, we also featured the glorious mezzo-soprano voice of the beautiful Llinos Swain, who sang ‘Where Corals Lay’, from Elgar’s ‘Sea Pictures’ and ‘Dido’s Lament’ by Purcell. Llinos, together with her erudite and extremely witty husband, Bob, was a regular member of the first violin section. An avowed Welsh patriot, she stoutly maintained an unflinching determination to promote and seek official recognition for the language and traditions of Wales at a time when such views were not too popular in the mainly anglicised areas of South Wales. However, her glorious voice and undoubted musicianship made her a joy to work with. Her husband, Bob, was a fascinating character. He was a damn good violinist and, as a modern composer, was already establishing a reputation, attracting several important commissions from, among others, Peter Maxwell Davies’s ‘The Fires of London’ ensemble. I well remember tuning in to a BBC broadcast of a piece for Organ, performed with characteristic skill by Richard Elfyn Jones, which Bob had entitled ‘The First Plastic Daffodil In Spring’, which confirmed for me at least, Bob’s place in the ‘avant garde’ genre of composition. Bob possessed a formidable intellect which eventually propelled him into the inner sanctum of HM Schools Inspectorate. Yet, one afternoon, when Bob and I were sharing the first fiddle desk at a matinee performance in Cardiff’s New Theatre, and a ‘dialogue break’ allowed us pit musicians to have a quiet read, unobserved by the audience, I was taken aback by his choice of reading material. Whilst the choice of the boys in the band ranged from ‘Readers Digest’, ‘Rugby world’, Musicians’ Union quarterly magazine, and with Mark Roberts slavishly immersed in ‘Wisden’s Cricket Almanac’, Bob would be meditatively poring over ‘The Dandy’ or ‘Beano’ comic. When I had the temerity to challenge him on his unusual preference for literary stimulation, he replied with total sincerity: ‘My dear fellow, the contents of these comics represent a microcosm of life!’ Bob also conducted the RSO on a number of occasions with singular success, and an invitation back to his house for a post concert curry was an experience never to be missed.
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Two top professional soloists who were very popular with RSO were ‘cellist, Sharon McKinley and pianist, Martin Jones. Sharon, a native of British Columbia, crossed the ‘pond’ in 1960 to study the ‘cello at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama with the revered English ‘cellist William ‘Bill’ Pleeth, who was already nurturing the supreme talents of the very young Jacqueline du Pre. Sharon’s progress in the Guildhall was remarkable and, predictably, she won the coveted Gold Medal in 1964. She very quickly established a reputation as a formidable soloist and performed concertos with several leading British orchestras. In 1968, Sharon was appointed Resident ‘Cellist in Southampton University and became a member of the Orion Piano Trio which gained the coveted Beethoven Prize within just two months of its formation. In 1972 she returned to her old college, The Guildhall in London, as Professor of ‘cello where she remained for four fruitful years. Then in 1977, she left the Guildhall to take up a teaching post at the University College, Cardiff on the stage of Professor Alan Hoddinott.
With RSO, Sharon performed a number of solo works, including the Elgar concerto and Tchaikovsky’s technically demanding ‘Rococo Variations’. We both seemed to ‘hit it off from our first rehearsal and developed a happy rapport and friendship which made our frequent musical collaborations so pleasurable. Sharon doted on her tiny dog, a Pekingese called Oliver, which accompanied her wherever she went. While Sharon was busily engaged in her solo work, the obedient Oliver would sit silently in her dressing room. Indeed, I never once heard even a hint of a bark from this docile creature!
Like Sharon, Martin Jones came to live in Wales in 1971 and became a member of the Cardiff University Ensemble. In 1968 he won the Dame Myra Hess Award which took him to New York’s Carnegie Hall, and enabled him to give his first Queen Elizabeth Hall recital. Martin has been a regular soloist at the BBC Proms and has performed with most of the top orchestras in the UK. Here again was another musician so easy to work with. Totally bereft of the affectation sometimes encountered in lesser artistes, Martin simply got on with the job! With RSO, he performed a few of the Beethoven concertos, together with those of Grieg, Saint-Saens and Rachmaninov.
For our Tenth Anniversary Concert in September, 1978, we decided to invite the internationally acclaimed clarinettist, Jack Brymer, as our soloist in a performance of Weber’s virtuoso Concerto No. 2 in E flat, Op. 74. In the period leading up to the actual concert date, that wise old sage, Vernon Lloyd, suggested that I ask our resident principal clarinet, Janet Griffiths, to ‘fill in’ for the great man in the preparatory rehearsals. Janet had only recently returned from South Africa after a failed marriage and was still, understandably, in a vulnerable state, although I knew full well that she was a very fine player. Anyway, I acceded to Vernon’s suggestion and, a week before the concert, we rehearsed the concerto with Janet playing the taxing solo part. She was, of course, superb, and the whole orchestra burst into ecstatic applause. Leader, Bill Rogers, wryly enquired, ‘Why are we paying for Brymer, when Jan can play it so bloody well?’. In my humble, inept way, I had ‘started Janet on clarinet in Porth County Girls’ School in the early sixties, and her tremendous potential became obvious even then. She went on to study clarinet at The Royal Academy of Music with the remarkable Alan Hacker who, despite being severely physically disabled, was acknowledged as being one of the premier clarinettists in London. Whilst still a student, Janet gave a highly acclaimed recital in the prestigious Wigmore Hall. RSO was fortunate to have the services of Janet as principal clarinet for many years. She also regularly played for me in numerous ‘pro’ concerts where I ‘fixed’ the orchestra, and the grace in which she effortlessly performed the ascending scalic run in the ‘Representation of Chaos’ in Haydn’s ‘’Creation’ was spine-tingling. She was a supremely talented clarinettist.
Among his fellow musicians, Jack Brymer had acquired the nickname of ‘Jack the Downbeat’: and I was soon to discover why. On the evening of the concert, held in the Rhondda Sports Centre, I noticed that there was no sign of our distinguished soloist, but I made my way to open the concert with Brahms’s ‘Academic Festival Overture’, confident that Jack would, by now, be backstage, ‘warming up’ for his solo spot which was to follow. The overture went very well and I made my way backstage expecting to see Jack ready to make his entry. To my dismay, however, I was greeted by our concert manager, Ritchie Blight, looking decidedly alarmed. ‘Where the hell is he?’, I blurted out. The normally calm Ritchie was obviously gripped by panic. Then, suddenly, a door burst open to reveal Jack, in a heavy overcoat, with his lovely wife Joan. In a flash he was divested of overcoat and turned to me with the words, ‘Come on my dear chap, let’s go and enjoy ourselves!’ And we did just that! Poor Ritchie’s sighs of relief were quite audible.
After the concert, Jack and his wife stayed on for a small reception, and I noticed him very quickly engaged in deep conversation with dear old Vernon Lloyd. They enthusiastically swapped anecdotes of their respective years as Solo Clarinettists at the Kneller Hall, Military School of Music. It also transpired that they had both, in their early years, played on the archaic ‘simple system’ instrument. Many years later I encountered Jack Brymer on a pro gig with the Welsh Chamber Orchestra, and he spoke warmly of his chat with Vernon over a pint of Welsh ale. Despite his eminence as a virtuoso, author and popular broadcaster, Jack remained an affable gentleman who, at once, put you at ease in his presence.
From the outset, RSO had developed strong links with the Parc and Dare Brass Band, and we once staged a ‘Viennese Night’ concert at the Rhondda Sports Centre. For many years the band was conducted by my good friend and teaching colleague, Ieuan Morgan, who had revolutionised brass tuition in the Rhondda and beyond. It was in this concert, also, that one of our budding young violinists, Carl Darby, made his solo debut with a brilliant performance of Saint-Saens’s ‘Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso’, for violin and orchestra. I started teaching Carl, aged eleven, at Porth County Comprehensive School. His rare talent very soon became evident. So, after four years of school tuition with me, I arranged for him to receive more advanced teaching with my former university chamber music coach, Alfredo Wang. ‘Freddy’ Wang was a tough, demanding pedagogue, but whom I knew would instil in Carl a solid technique, complemented by a wide understanding of the violin repertoire. Knowing that Freddy was something of a ‘lady’s man’, I was, nevertheless, bemused by Carl’s reply when I enquired how his lessons at Freddy’s sumptuous Cardiff flat were progressing. He innocuously replied: ‘The lessons are fine, but hasn’t Mr. Wang got a lot of sisters – I see a different one there each week!’ Such innocence!
When he became a sixth former, I trustingly gave Carl a key to my teaching room at Porth County so that he could put in some extra practice when I might not be around to admit him. Only many years later did he gleefully confess to me that the room was used rather more for romantic trysts with his girlfriend, the very attractive, Janet Shurey, who later became Mrs. Darby !
At the age of eighteen, Carl proceeded to the Royal Academy in London where he was fortunate to study with the renowned, Emmanuel ‘Manny’ Hurwitz, who had led virtually all of the great London orchestras, was a celebrated chamber music player and had long been hailed as a dedicated teacher. Carl enjoyed a happy relationship with his teacher, to the extent that he was allowed to borrow one of Manny’s precious violins – an Amati copy made for him by the English luthier, Heppelwhite – for quite a few years into Carl’s professional life. Whilst at the Academy, Carl also studied the viola and picked up quite a few prizes on both instruments. Carl’s period of study was abruptly curtailed after a mere eighteen months when he was offered a permanent position, as number four, in WNO’s first violin section. A few years later he moved on to the BBC National Orchestra of Wales, where he was very quickly promoted to the front desk as Section Leader.
Whilst in Porth County School, Carl teamed up with a fellow fiddler, Robert Bird (predictably dubbed ‘Birdie’!). Together with \'cellist Brian jenkins and myself on viola, we formed a reasonably efficient string quartet: and with the addition of my good mate and peripatetic colleague, \'Big Dave\' Williams on clarinet, we gave a few creditable performances of Mozart\'s divine Clarinet Quintet together with other works from the chamber music repertoire.
Dave Williams had entered the teaching profession upon leaving the Army, during which period he had seen action against the EOKA terrorists in the terrible Cyprus conflict during the ‘fifties’. His undoubted skill on clarinet and saxophone was matched with a friendly personality; but he was also a tough guy who could ‘sort out’ anyone displaying belligerent tendencies with just one of his suitably malevolent stares! His school pupils, of course, adored him, as indeed did his colleagues. Dave would regularly reduce us to paroxysms of mirth whilst relating tales, mostly risqué, of his army days: the snag was, however, that the ‘punch line’ was often obscured by Dave’s own uncontrollable laughter! ‘Big Dave’ became a very popular member of the Mid Glam teaching team.
Carl Darby’s contemporary at Porth County, Bob Bird, was also a fine violinist who displayed tremendous early potential; but Bob was not academically inclined, and this concerned me. Then, one day, in conversation with ‘Big Dave’ Williams, it was suggested that young Robert should join the Army. His undoubted musical ability would propel him into an army band/orchestra and, at the same time, he would receive a high quality of violin tuition and see the world, all courtesy of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. After leaving the army, Bob meandered through a few varied occupations, until a chance meeting with Barry Haskey, then sub-leader of the BBC/NOW, transformed his life. Recognising the young man’s ability, Barry suggested he enrol as a student at the Welsh College of Music and Drama as a violin student of his. Within a short time Bob was being offered lots of ‘extra’ work with the BBC/NOW which culminated in the offer of a full time position. He has remained in the orchestra’s first violin section to this day.
During my early teaching days at Porth County School, I perceived Bob as just a pleasant young man of fairly small stature, but possessed with a sunny disposition and the least offensive pupil in the school. But, unbeknown to me and my colleagues, lacking a robust physique and invariably to be seen carrying his fiddle with him, Bob had been the target of some bullying: but instead of moaning to his teachers, he had enrolled in a local martial arts class, eventually achieving \'brown belt\' status in Judo! Needless to say, no ruffians ever bothered him again! But his newly acquired confidence did not alter his polite, gentle nature, and he remains a thorough gentleman to this very day. In 1999, I invited Bob to act as guest leader of RSO in a concert at Porthcawl\'s Grand Pavilion, where he delivered a brilliant account of the virtuoso sequence of violin solos in Rimsky-Korsakov\'s \'Scheherezade\'.
Another fine pupil of mine, who also gravitated to the BBC/NOW, was David McKelvay who studied the violin with me at Tonypandy Grammar School. Whilst in the sixth form, Dave expressed a desire to switch to the viola, and this paid off handsomely, as he also went on to enjoy a successful career as a professional orchestral musician with the BBC/NOW.
So rapid was Carl’s progress at the Academy that I frequently called upon him to play numerous violin concertos with RSO. Whilst still a young student, he gave an emotionally charged performance of the technically demanding ‘Scottish Fantasy’ by Max Bruch. However, that evening became emotionally charged for me also, but for quite different reasons. To play the pivotal harp part in the Bruch, I had engaged the superb principal harpist of the WNO orchestra, the delightful Meinir Heulyn and, in the afternoon rehearsal; she imbued the work with her characteristic gloss. However, a little later, whilst donning my concert dress in Phil Morgan’s house just opposite the Parc and Dare Hall, I received a phone call informing me that Meinir’s young daughter had been rushed to hospital and that her mother would, understandably, be unable to play that night. With less than an hour to go before the concert, I frantically rang our usual harpist, Jenny Jones, knowing full well that she was probably elsewhere conducting her choir. Miracle of miracles, Jenny answered the phone, enthusing, oblivious to my dire predicament, that she and her partner, Glyn, were attending the concert after all. I just said: ‘Thank God for that: bring your harp- you are playing!’ She, literally, saved the show!
In a later concert, Carl performed Vivaldi’s ‘The Four Seasons’, with his WNO chum, Chris Hodges providing a solid ‘cello continuo. Many years later, they were to collaborate in a majestic performance with RSO, of Brahms’s Double Concerto for Violin and ‘Cello. In those early concerts, Carl also teamed up with the brilliant viola player from Pontypridd, Stephen Broom, in Mozart’s sublime ‘Sinfonia Concertante’. Over the years, Carl returned to perform, as a highly popular soloist with RSO, the violin concertos of Katchaturian, Tchaikovsky and Max Bruch, each of which he played with impeccable authority and style. In his forties, as an antidote to the stressful, humdrum existence experienced by so many professional musicians, Carl took up flying lessons and eventually qualified as a pilot of light aircraft. I freely admit to a degree of cowardice in politely declining his frequent invitations to join him on a flight. I was also mindful of the madcap adventures of another violinist, Peter Gibbs, many decades back. Peter had been a wartime fighter pilot and, after the war had ended, he owned a \'Tiger Moth\' aircraft. I had heard from quite a few of the older London \'pros\' that Peter Gibbs would often fly to concerts and, having spotted the LSO\'s official bus journeying sedately below, would proceed to ‘bomb’ it with bags of flour! This same guy is reputed to have come near to a rehearsal time ‘punch up’ with the autocratic German conductor, Herbert Von Karajan, who had remained unapologetic after the war for his previous Nazi affiliation.
My one regret with RSO is that, over the years I engaged few vocalists as soloists; but those that did join us were fine artistes who impressed both audiences and orchestra alike. In our second concert we were joined by Byron Hughes from Maesteg, who was the brother-in-law of leader Bill Rogers.
Nepotism? Never!! Actually, Byron had inherited his father, Volanda Hughes’s rich baritone voice, and continued singing lead roles for many years with the Swindon Opera Group after marriage had lured him over ‘the border’. Then, later on, I invited Mary Davies, the Neath born soprano who was carving out a highly successful career with WNO. Mary possessed not only a beautiful soprano voice but also an impish sense of humour allied to an infectious laugh which made her an instant hit with us all. Another female member of WNO who sang with us was Joanna Thomas, whose rich contralto voice was used to great effect in a performance of Elgar’s evocative ‘Sea Pictures’. Joanna’s father, Gordon, had been a long standing teaching colleague of mine and was also an accomplished amateur actor and producer.
Whilst playing for WNO in performances of Donizetti’s comic opera ‘L’Elisir d’ Amore’, I was totally entranced by solo tenor, Arthur Davies’s captivating interpretation of Nemorino’s celebrated aria, ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ (‘One Furtive Kiss’) which regularly had the audience demanding an encore (I have always found the aria, with that mournful bassoon solo that precedes the tenor entry, to be the most poignant in the operatic repertoire). So one night in the New Theatre’s artiste’s bar, after bribing him with a few well selected alcoholic inducements, I persuaded Arthur to sing in a forthcoming RSO concert.
Many years later, Arthur and I joined an illustrious gathering of Welsh musicians at the St. David’s Hall in Cardiff for a gala celebration concert entitled, ‘Dr. Barnardo’s Two Hundred Years in Wales’. This glittering event was graced with the presence of Diana, Princess of Wales, and Patron of Barnardo’s. I opened the concert with, appropriately, Humperdinck’s overture to his opera ‘Hansel and Gretel’, played magnificently by the South Glamorgan Youth Orchestra of which I was then Principal Conductor. After the concert, the principal artistes were lined up in a commodious side room to be presented to her Royal Highness. Just before the Princess entered the room, a fearsome looking guy whose short, squat, menacing appearance reminded me of James Bond’s lethal adversary ‘Odd Job’ in the film ‘Goldfinger’. Obviously the Princess’s bodyguard, his unblinking, unsmiling gaze and bulging tuxedo breast pocket made it only too cleat to us that he was not to be trifled with. However, the atmosphere changed dramatically with the arrival of the Princess, whose beauty and radiance immediately thawed the preceding icy tension. Arthur Davies was first in line for presentation, and when the Princess enquired whether he would normally have been performing an operatic role elsewhere that evening, he shyly confessed that he had originally intended taking his family to see the film ‘Crocodile Dundee’, whereupon Diana, bubbling with enthusiasm, blurted out, ‘Oh, but you must see it. It’s wonderful. I’ve seen it three times already!’ This spontaneous display of childlike candour put us all at ease; but more importantly, it revealed those sublime qualities that eventually earned her the sobriquet, ‘The People’s Princess’. And when it was my turn to proffer my hand, her impact, attired as she was in a ravishing blue dress which was probably worth a fortune, was devastating. She exuded a stunning beauty which seemed to emanate from within- a truly gorgeous, gracious lady.
Another singer to appear with RSO was Rhondda’s very own Eldrydd Cynan Jones, daughter of John and Mary Cynan Jones of Treorchy. My first memories of Eldrydd were of her as an overtly energetic young girl enjoying a ‘rough and tumble’ with her elder brothers, Geraint and David, at the family home. Little did I realise what a fine professional operatic soprano she would become. I recall with joy her powerful timbre soaring effortlessly above the combined forces of choir and orchestra in the latter section of Verdi’s ‘Requiem’.
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The undoubted pinnacle of achievement for RSO during my thirty years as conductor was our appearance at London’s Royal Albert Hall, no less, in October, 1983. This was for ‘The Festival of a Thousand Welsh Voices’, which brought together mixed choirs from the length and breadth of Wales- quite an undertaking! RSO was chosen as the accompanying orchestra-quite an honour for an amateur ensemble to appear at such a prestigious venue!
In charge of the vast choral battalions was John Peleg Williams, aided by the London based organist, Carys Hughes. As to be expected, the choir’s programme was unashamedly peppered with Welsh hymn tunes and excerpts from Handel, Mozart and Verdi; but I had insisted, from the outset, that the orchestra’s role was not to be merely a subservient accompanist to the more grandiose choruses. Consequently, I opened the concert with Elgar’s arrangement for full symphony orchestra of Handel’s ‘Overture in D minor’. We also performed movements from Tchaikovsky’s ballet suite, ‘Swan Lake’. Whilst compiling the orchestral items, I was urged by my good friend and wise old sage from Selsig Opera, the ever amiable Gwyn Thomas, to play the rousing Finale from Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony which he’d recently heard us perform in a concert at Parc and Dare Hall. ‘But Gwyn, mun’, I protested, ‘It’s the Royal Albert Hall, home to the Proms!’ Not daring to offend this gracious gentleman, I towards nervously acceded to his suggestion. On the actual night, towards the end of this hectic movement, I deliberately drove the orchestra to its limits, with a frenetic tempo which had leader, Bill Rogers, believing that we were airborne; but it really came off, and the capacity audience rewarded us with thunderous applause. I knew my players, and my immense respect and confidence in their ability allowed me, occasionally, to indulge in some carefully gauged ‘risk taking’ with the tempi. But the orchestra came with me, Thank God!
I did not realise it at the time, but in the future I would return to conduct at the RAH on numerous occasions with the South Glamorgan Youth Orchestra as regular participants in the annual School Proms series, organised by ‘The Festival of Music for Youth’, the brain-child of the dynamic entrepreneur, Larry Westland: but that was yet to come!
RSO’s success at the RAH resulted in our being invited to perform in the annual series of, ‘Corau’, concerts held at Cardiff’s St. David’s Hall. These concerts featured a massed choir made up of all the principal choral societies in South Wales. These events were admirably compered, bilingually, by Dr. Neville Evans, HM Senior Inspector of Schools in Wales. Neville’s erudition was allied to a wicked sense of humour, which added immensely to the evening’s entertainment- a healthy fusion of the classical repertoire in the ambience of a traditionally Welsh ‘Noson Lawen’.
CHAPTER 14
In all of my thirty three years as conductor of RSO, only two occasions was I unable to fulfil my commitment to the orchestra.
In May, 1983, I was appointed as the first Head of Strings and Orchestral Studies to South Glamorgan Education Authority. Whilst this was an immense thrill, it was tinged with sadness, as I would be leaving the Rhondda and the old ‘Glam’ set- up I had been part of for so many years. My Glam colleagues sprang a surprise party for me at the Sea Lawns hotel at Ogmore, which Margaret had led me to believe was merely an informal get-together with some of her staff at Wella Hair Cosmetics factory in Pontyclun. However, I guessed that something was afoot when I caught sight of ‘Big Dave’ Williams trying to hide his bulky frame behind an Austin Mini car – a singularly futile task! It was still, nevertheless, a big surprise to be greeted at the hotel entrance by my teaching mate, George Thomas, and escorted into a large room full of friends and colleagues, including Mr and Mrs. Sheppard. I found it an emotional and humbling experienced to be feted by such lovely people.
Then a few weeks later, I awoke one morning with the most overwhelming abdominal pain. My GP quickly diagnosed pancreatitis, a life threatening ailment. Within an hour or so, Margaret was driving me to the old East Glamorgan Hospital in Church Village. Unfortunately, my illness coincided with the period of national strikes and ‘working to rule’ by elements of the NHS. Ambulances were unreliable and we were confronted at the hospital entrance by a picket line of strikers who demanded to know if my condition was sufficiently serious to merit my admission- what a damn cheek! Margaret furiously shouted: ‘Serious, you morons? He’s dying, for God’s sake!’ In my semi-comatose state I distinctly heard one of the strikers respond: ‘Let the bastard die!’ With that, Margaret hit the throttle hard and sent these men scampering as she sped through the gates. I was quickly ushered into the reception area where nurses and other assorted staff were heroically attempting to maintain a semblance of normality amongst the chaos brought about by the prevailing union action. As I was obviously in a state of imminent collapse, the other patients unanimously insisted that I should be dealt with ahead of them. It has always been a wry fascination for me that humour can occur even in the most dire of circumstances. The exasperated lady receptionist asked, yet again, a passing porter to transport me in a wheelchair to the awaiting medical staff, but he replied: ‘he’ll have to wait, ‘cos I’m on my tea break!!’ Whereupon, the receptionist called the unsuspecting porter back with the priceless threat: ‘Harry, if you don’t take Mr. Lloyd to the ward now, I’ll phone your wife and tell her what you tried to do to me in the Christmas party!!’ Despite my pain, I managed to emit a feeble chuckle before I finally passed out. Apparently, the hapless porter leaped to my aid in record time!
In the next few days, I had suffered a collapsed lung, required an electric shock to correct my heart function, and an assortment of other serious bodily failures; but, against general expectations, I survived to tell this tale! But I remained in that hospital for seven lengthy weeks, during which I was allowed small quantities of solid food only in the last few weeks. Consequently, upon my discharge I resembled an inmate of Belsen, having lost over seven stone in weight! Indeed, the first time I was allowed to visit my ward’s bathroom unaccompanied, to shave, I faced a mirror for the first time in ages and instinctively turned around to identify the unfamiliar, skeletal face that stared at me!
The RSO had a concert scheduled, in mid-September, during which time I was still a guest of East Glam Hospital. So I asked my good friend, viola player, Stuart Telling, to conduct in my place: and with a programme including Sibelius’s tricky 2nd Symphony, Stu really had his work cut out, and at short notice. But he coped magnificently, as I knew he would. He had played principal violin for each of my various ensembles: and I had perceived in him an obvious conducting talent aided by a penchant for sardonic humour.
My next ‘baton crisis’ occurred in October, 1999, when I developed dizzy spells just a week before a concert in Pontyclun’s sparkling new Bethel Baptist Church. My doctor daughter, Cathy, advised me to pull out of the concert: and my son’s down to earth common sense dictated that if I fell forward over the players in the concert, the audience would conclude that I was inebriated! So, with their dual pronged insistence, I reluctantly opted for a quiet night in front of the telly. Although leader, George Thomas, could have confidently taken my place on the podium, I decided that his presence was vital in the leader’s seat. As a result, I requested another fellow fiddler, who was also a skilled conductor, to take over the baton: this was Phil Roberts, who did a fine job in a programme which included Borodin’s treacherous 2nd Symphony.

CHAPTER 15
A ‘SWINGING’ BOLERO–FIRST DESK FRIGHT - NEW LEADER AND NEW PRESIDENT
It was a great joy to invite back, as soloists, former members of RSO who had found success in the professional orchestral world. Prominent amongst these was the Ferndale born percussionist, John Jeffreys, who had become a member of the renowned BBC Symphony Orchestra. I invited John, then still a young man, to play the extremely taxing side-drum part in Maurice Ravel’s evocative ‘Bolero’. Its constant, repetitive rigidity has reputedly caused many a nervous breakdown amongst established percussionists. In our particular rendition of this work, all appeared to be proceeding well, with some superb solo contributions from the principals. Not blessed then with the mature judgement of later years, I had naively accepted the kind invitation of a recently recruited woodwind player, who offered to play the fairly undemanding solo saxophone part: and securing another saxophonist at that late stage was out of the question. However, as soon as our volunteer sax player started his easy, but pivotal, solo I swiftly realised that our respective tempos were somewhat at variance. He seemed to favour a distinctly rubato approach, which may well have wooed some ‘tipsy’ dancers in the local ‘Palais de Dance’, but was anathema to the strict pulse of the Bolero. Poor John Jeffrey’s rigidly insistent beat gradually descended into a musical ‘stammer’! With my arms thrashing around wildly, like a demented windmill, the strident, rock solid entry of trombonist Phil Morgan, appearing like a lifeboat in a force eight gale, restored a semblance of normality to the tempo. Thankfully, thorough pro that he was, our guest percussionist quickly regained both tempo and his composure and carried on heroically to the end – but was visibly shaken by the trauma. Afterwards in the Pengelly pub, I believe our hero of the hour, Phil Morgan, received quite a few ‘thank you’ drinks from John Jeffrey and me for pulling us back from the precipice that was ominously approaching!
Just a few years later, in September 1977, I spotted John on television playing with the BBC Symphony Orchestra on The Last Night of the Proms in the live broadcast from the Royal Albert hall. Watching engrossed with me, was my ever inquisitive young daughter, Catherine, who innocently asked at the end of the concert, ‘Daddy, will they go for a nice party now?’ I replied that they would most certainly go for a few drinks, totally unaware of what my statement would portend.
Apparently, having returned to his London flat after some celebratory imbibing, John had put some food in a plastic container to boil on the stove. Feeling weary after the evening’s exertions, he swiftly drifted off to sleep, and was killed by the toxic fumes which had escaped from the container that had been placed on the cooker. John was just twenty six years of age. Such a tragic end to a young, gifted life, which was so full of promise. The image of this loveable, bespectacled young lad with the curly, tousled mop of hair and boyish grin, refused to fade from my memory for many years.
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For a concert with RSO in March, 1972, I had decided to invite a non-musician to act as ‘soloist’. Having worked with and been very impressed by the local amateur actor, David Morgan, I perceived him to be the ideal narrator in Prokofiev’s musical story ‘Peter and the Wolf’. With his richly sonorous voice, David portrayed vividly each character in the tale, and his depiction of Peter’s curmudgeonly old grandfather was as convincing as anything I have heard from many a ‘big name’ professional actor.
But for different reasons, this particular performance had a longer lasting significance. As we were approaching the latter section of the piece, I became alarmingly aware that the dependable RSO leader, Bill Rogers, had stopped playing and looked unusually pallid as he sat there with his fiddle resting limply on his lap. It was obvious that he was not at all well, so I accelerated the tempo in a manner which the composer would not have approved; but, at that same time, I was far more concerned with seeing Bill exiting swiftly backstage than the niceties of Prokofiev’s tempo markings. Whilst, at the end of the work, narrator and orchestral solo players duly acknowledged the applause, Bill discreetly left the stage. Thankfully, the interval followed immediately and amazingly, after sipping a glass of refreshing water, Bill regained his composure and his colour and insisted that he felt fit enough to resume playing in the second half, which he did without any recurrence of his earlier symptoms.
After the concert a gang of us beat a hasty retreat back to our house in Tonyrefail where Margaret had prepared a small party. With me suffering from a bout of an old malady – piles, and Bill feeling unusually weary after the concert, we decided to grab half an hour’s rest in my bedroom. Beryl Jones, the wife of sub-leader, Alun, looked in to check on us. She unsympathetically dismissed my ailment as ‘---just a pain in the bum!’ But, being a nursing sister, she instructed Bill to roll up his sleeve so that she could check his pulse. Without registering undue alarm, she gently suggested that Bill should contact his doctor next day ‘to be on the safe side!’ her advice was proven timely, because Bill’s doctor swiftly despatched him to Bridgend hospital: his heart was on the verge of total collapse. This heralded the start of life saving procedures and pioneering surgery which culminated with the insertion of a ‘pacemaker’. In many respects it could be argued that Bill was something of a medical guinea pig, as the ‘pacemaker’ technology was still in its infancy, and various treatments were sought and ‘tried’ in specialist centres ranging from the old Sully hospital, on the Glamorganshire coast, to St. Mary’s and Golders Green hospitals in London. Thankfully, after months of hospitalisation, and with years of out-patient monitoring and replacement surgery ahead, Bill made a remarkable recovery. He returned to RSO and continued as leader, complete with his ‘pacemaker’ firing on all four cylinders!
In 1985, however, Bill with the added responsibility of fatherhood, decided to relinquish his position as leader which he had acquitted with such distinction since the orchestra’s inception. His obvious successor was George Thomas, whose technical prowess and calm temperament made him the ideal replacement for Bill. In fact, George remains in the first seat to this day, and has led the orchestra with distinction which he combines with a subtle blend of patriarchal wisdom and dry humour, which has often diffused the odd moments of tension.
So it was, in a concert at Parc and Dare Hall, in the Autumn of 1985, that I paid my warm thanks and respects to RSO’s departing leader, and welcomed our new leader, George Thomas. The orchestra’s sadness at Bill’s departure was, however, tempered by the arrival of our new President in the revered personage of Mr. Russell Sheppard!
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Along with RSO, my freelance activities were also keeping me pretty busy. In 1975 my good friend and musical collaborator, John Cynon Jones, was invited to become Music Director of the world famous Treorchy Male Voice Choir, following the retirement of the illustrious John Haydn Davies. This created a vacancy for the conductorship of the Treorchy Choral Society which was soon filled by another teaching colleague, Norman Harris. As with John Cynan, I quickly established a comparable working relationship with Norman. Although handicapped by the debilitating disease, Haemophilia, he constantly strove to flourish and delivered many fine performances.
As well as presenting the usual ‘pot-boiler’ works, Norman expanded the choir’s repertoire with lesser known items such as Elgar’s ‘The Kingdom’ and ‘The Music makers’: both these works were technically challenging, especially with just one three hour rehearsal for each concert.
I recall with a degree of amusement, an incident during a performance of Mendelssohn’s ‘Elijah’. Norman had engaged a choir boy to sing the part of the young lad sent up into the hills to scan the darkened horizon for any signs of life. This merely involved the youngster walking to the front of the stage in the Parc and Dare Hall, declaring his observations, and making a discreet exit. It worked perfectly well in the afternoon rehearsal, but not on the night. Having arrived at this dramatic point, Norman waited, waited and waited, but the cherubic young boy failed to appear. With quick thinking, Mary Cynon Jones emerged from the chorus and sang the vital linking part with consummate ease, thus averting a catastrophe. It later transpired that the poor young man, overcome by stagefright, had literally wet himself whilst waiting in the wings!
Very popular were the series of ‘Nights at the opera’, for which we collaborated on quite a few occasions. These concerts involved many distinguished London based soloists such as the delightfully flamboyant tenor, Kenneth Woolham, who would arrive at rehearsal wearing a large colourful fedora; the delectable, Nicola Lanzetter; Sybil Michelow; the great tenor, John Mitchinson together with the Welsh tenors, Wynford Evans and Keith Erwin, the latter of who’s premature death robbed the opera world of a natural voice full of potential and exciting promise.
I remember one occasion when Norman was suffering an intensive bleed, which made it extremely difficult for him to physically raise his arms. To reduce his workload that night, he asked me to rise from my leader’s seat and conduct the overture plus a few miscellaneous items on the programme. I never ceased to admire Norman’s fortitude and determination never to capitulate during these crises. He has continued to conduct various choral and amateur theatrical groups to the present day with conspicuous success.
As the invitations to provide orchestras for numerous choral societies kept rolling in, it became apparent that an identifiable name was required for the ‘straight’ orchestra I fixed. I had resisted emulating Morgan Lloyd’s individual style of naming his orchestra after himself; there could never be another Morgan- he was unique. It was John Cynon Jones, over a coffee in Pentre grammar, who suggested the novel title of ‘The Festival Orchestra’. As he wisely indicated, most of the choral societies regarded their major annual concert as their own indigenous festival. So it was Rhondda Symphony Orchestra for the symphonic concerts, Rhondda Theatre Orchestra for the shows, and The Festival Orchestra for the choral concerts. I cannot deny feeling a certain euphoria and pride in having created, and being in control of, three orchestras. I must, I mused, be getting something right at last!