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3
The
War 1939 –1945
The
Author wants to learn the Clarinet.
His father is against it – he hopes
his son will be a doctor. The author’s
school is evacuated and he plays in
the school orchestra. The joy of playing
chamber music. He hears a recording
of Menuhin: his future is sealed.
Had
I been born into a comfortable middle
class family in 1875 instead of 1925
I would probably have satisfied my father’s
wish and become a doctor or lawyer.
To become an orchestral musician would
have been out of the question. By 1940
attitudes had begun to change and children
like myself were having their aspirations
to become musicians satisfied. None
the less, my father remained opposed
to me becoming a professional musician.
I am sure that his opposition did not
stem from any lack of respect for his
own profession, but was caused by his
fear of unemployment and the financial
insecurity inherent in being a musician.
At that time, 1936, there were still
very many musicians looking for work.
When
the ‘talkies’ replaced the ‘silent’
films, thousands of musicians previously
employed in the ‘orchestras’ in every
cinema to accompany the silent films
were thrown into the already large army
of unemployed. The relatives I referred
to earlier who were sustained by my
father’s kindness were amongst those
affected by this technological advance.
I
suppose it is not surprising that having
had very little formal education himself,
my father was anxious to give me the
opportunities he felt he had been denied.
He certainly was not keen for me to
develop any ideas of following him into
a profession that remained extremely
precarious. He resisted my desire to
learn the clarinet, but in the end agreed
to let me have piano lessons. It was
not long before he realised that he
was wasting his money. My lack of talent
and interest in playing the piano was
all too apparent. Being a practical
man, he at last gave in to my persistence
and agreed to start giving me clarinet
lessons.
I
was then eleven. When he was that age
he was just starting out on his professional
career and must already have been ‘street-wise’
and something of a man of the world,
whereas I had only known the comfort
and security of a middle class home.
I was at Colet Court, the preparatory
school for St. Paul’s, where he hoped
I would acquire an education that would
enable me to fulfil his ambition that
I should become a doctor, or a barrister.
In fact, that I might join any other
profession than that of music. And to
satisfy this ambition he was prepared
to make financial sacrifices.
Probably
the great differences between my father’s
youthful circumstances, personality
and talents and mine did little to make
the teacher/pupil relationship easy.
In retrospect it is so obvious and understandable.
At the time it was the cause of considerable
impatience and disappointment to him,
and distress to me.
In
the early stages all went well, as is
usually the case. One makes most progress
in the first lesson, going rapidly from
not being able to produce a note to
playing three or four different notes,
and, perhaps, even playing a short,
simple melody. The clarinet is particularly
rewarding in the early stages. It is
quite easy to play in the low register
– no doubt this is why it is so popular
with youngsters who have already made
some headway on the recorder.
Of
course I had quite a lot of school homework
to do each evening and, though I was
keen to make progress on the clarinet,
my motivation was just to enjoy myself.
I had as yet no thoughts about the future,
nor had I remotely considered the possibility
of playing the clarinet to earn my living.
In the light of my own experience of
teaching the clarinet for many years
at all levels, I think it fair to say
that I made above average progress.
But to my father I am sure it seemed
that I was moving forward at a snail’s
pace, and with little sense of purpose.
He had done very little teaching and
because of his own quite remarkable
gifts as a clarinettist – he was generally
recognised as a technical virtuoso in
his day – he had no understanding of
those less gifted than himself. In addition
he was one of those players who are
never really happy unless they have
their instrument in their hands. By
contrast I am naturally indolent, and
though it took many years for me to
realise it, I am now aware that I was
always more interested in music than
actually playing an instrument. I think
it is unlikely that anyone will become
a really outstanding instrumental performer
unless the actual act of playing the
instrument continues to give a great
deal of satisfaction throughout his
or her life.
Doing
something easily and well is a great
spur to making further progress. I found
playing reasonably easy, but with the
sound of my father’s expertise constantly
in my ears I did not think very highly
of my own performance and this inhibited
my enthusiasm and confidence. This was
compounded by the fact that there was
no set day for lessons, say once a week,
as is usual. If my father was at home
and heard me playing, up in my room,
and he heard something that was incorrect,
out of rhythm, tempo, or a wrong note
– as was frequently the case – he would
come up and put me right. This could
be a lengthy process, as he appeared
to have little sense of the passing
of time. At that age a half-hour, or
at most a forty-minute lesson, is quite
long enough. I recall times when an
hour and a half or even longer passed
before, mercifully, we ‘packed up’.
The
hardest single technical difficulty
on the clarinet is ‘crossing the break’.
At one point, (between the notes A and
B, in the middle of the treble clef)
one moves from having one finger on
a key to covering seven holes and pressing
three keys. You may wonder how it is
possible to perform ten actions with
only eight fingers and a thumb (the
other is used to support the instrument).
In fact that is a large part of the
problem. The thumb of the left hand
has to do two things; cover a hole,
and press a key, at the same time. Early
attempts at this feat are generally
unsuccessful, resulting in the dreaded
‘squeaks’ to which the clarinet alone
is heir. This is usually the cause of
merriment to others, but is humiliating
to the player. It takes quite a while,
and a good deal of persistence, before
this move can be made with confidence.
In fact passages involving crossing
the break at speed, several times in
succession, remain one of the most difficult
things to do, however long one plays
and however accomplished one becomes.
There
is one particular study in Klosé’s
famous Tutor for the Clarinet, written
to develop the ability to cross the
break. The first note of each group
is above the break and the following
two are below. If the top note is emphasised,
and especially when the study is played
up to speed, it sounds like a tune with
its own accompaniment. Even after several
weeks’ practise I was still stumbling
and squeaking, but I was starting to
hear and enjoy the faint outline of
the melody. ‘No! No! No!’ shouted my
father, ‘It goes like this’, and he
then dashed it off at a very fast speed,
so that the top notes sounded like a
row of ringing bells, each with its
own delicate accompaniment. I listened
with delight, but wondered what hope
there was for me. I felt like someone
with a broken foot hobbling along as
an Olympic athlete races past.
Looking
back, having mastered that study, I
realise that he was trying to set me
an example, a target to aim for. For
some, my father included, that style
of teaching will provoke the right response
– ‘You think you’re good – I’ll show
you!’ For many others like myself it
has a very different effect, inhibiting
and creating doubt in one’s capacity
ever to reach one’s goal. My own experience
was to have a considerable influence
on my future method of teaching.
Many
years later I was talking to my father
about a pupil I had who was using the
same study book that had caused me to
feel so inadequate, the one written
by the very great French clarinettist
Camille Klosé. He had developed
the Boehm system clarinet in 1843 by
applying Boehm’s flute ring-mechanism
to the clarinet. I had learned from
the copy of this Tutor that my father
had used when he was a boy at the Guildhall
School of Music. I asked him why so
many of the pages were separate though
the volume as a whole seemed to be complete.
He explained to me that he was given
a halfpenny for the tram to take him
to the Guildhall because as well as
his clarinets he had this large and
rather heavy book of studies to carry.
But he had decided that the money would
be better spent on buying some sweets
and so he had torn out the pages he
was currently studying, put them in
his clarinet case and walked – no doubt
happily sucking his illicit purchase.
In
August 1939, a few weeks before the
outbreak of war, St Paul’s School left
London. Along with tens of thousands
of other children we became ‘evacuees’.
It was an exciting experience; rather
unsettling, but as it turned out, fortunate
for me. Had I not left home when I was
just fourteen I think it is unlikely
that I would have spent most of my life
as a clarinettist. The tension between
my own self confidence and unwillingness
to bow to authority, and my sense of
inadequacy in the face of my father’s
overwhelming ability, would have led
to my abandoning my efforts to master
the technique required to become a useful
player.
In
contrast to the situation today, woodwind
players were rather thin on the ground
at a public school such as St Paul’s.
In fact they could not have been thinner.
Apart from one of the more elderly masters,
a Mr Bartlett, who performed on the
flute in a frail and indecisive manner,
I was the only other woodwind player.
The combination of his indecision and
my inaccuracy did not make for a very
strong or effective woodwind section.
There
were a reasonable number of strings,
but here again neither technique nor
musicality were of a high order. Just
the same, I enjoyed the weekly rehearsals
even though the music master, Mr Wilson,
often seemed to be rather bad tempered.
Looking back, I suppose that he must
have been quite a kindly and patient
man not to have cursed us and run screaming
from the noise we were making.
Sometime
in the late nineteen seventies or early
eighties, I was invited to adjudicate
at the school’s annual music competition
and award the prize to the best woodwind
player. There were a great many entrants
and the standard was remarkably high.
The best were up to music college entrance
level and could tackle something as
difficult as the Nielsen clarinet or
flute Concerto, unthinkable in my time
at school. There was no longer any difficulty
in forming a full and competent woodwind
section. In contrast, the number of
string players had not increased to
anything like the same extent, nor had
the quality of the playing much improved.
The
very first concert in which I took part
was in the school orchestra. We played
a symphony by Boyce, in an edition that
would make today’s ‘authentic’ specialists
go white (I do not recall ever again
playing another piece by Boyce during
the rest of my life as a musician),
and the Fantasia on Christmas Carols
by Vaughan Williams. This is quite an
attractive work though seldom played
today. It is written to be played on
the ‘A’ clarinet. In the orchestra clarinettists
use two clarinets – not at the same
time, of course! – one in ‘Bb’ and the
other in ‘A’. (The clarinet is a
transposing instrument. The note you
read from the music, and finger on the
instrument, is different from the note
that actually sounds. When you read
and finger the note ‘C’, on the ‘Bb’
clarinet, it will sound one tone lower,
‘Bb’. When you read and finger this
same note (‘C’) on the ‘A’ clarinet,
you will hear the note ‘A ‘, a tone
and a half lower. The instrument the
composer selects to write for depends
on the key he intends to write in. If
he is writing a piece in the key of
D major, he will probably write for
the ‘A’ clarinet, so that the clarinet
part will be in F major, rather than
for the ‘Bb’ clarinet, on which, to
play the same sounds, the player
would have to play in E major, making
the fast passages much more difficult
technically.)
Faced
with the problem of playing an ‘A’ clarinet
part on the ‘Bb’, the only one I possessed,
I decided to rewrite the part transposing
the notes in the process. My lack of
skill in playing the clarinet was matched
by my inexperience in transposition.
The next rehearsal was marred not only
by my normal failings, but had the added
disadvantage of a great number of wrong
notes. Whole passages were well ahead
of their time – they would be more acceptable
today, in Boulez, or Stockhausen, than
they were then in Vaughan Williams.
When I wrote home and reported this
disaster, my father with remarkable
generosity sent me an ‘A’ clarinet.
Subsequent rehearsals only suffered
from my usual inadequacies. Though I
was aware that our efforts were pretty
awful, it gave me pleasure to be making
music with other people, and whetted
my appetite for more.
In
1939, when the school left London to
escape the bombing, we were evacuated
to Crowthorne, still a quiet Berkshire
village. Here I was free from discerning
parental ears. Wrong notes, inaccurate
rhythms, and mistakes of every kind
went by without interference from anyone
but myself. If I was away on the wings
of a melody I let them pass, and came
back later to try to improve what had
been wrong. I blossomed. The occasional
‘stroking’ that praise from my uncritical
friends provided, rather than the constant
criticism I had experienced at home,
increased my desire to ‘perform’.
For
the first year that we were in Crowthorne
I was billeted in a small house with
a family of rather modest means – in
those days it would be referred to as
a ‘working-class’ family – Mr. and Mrs.
Benham, their two daughters, and Mrs
Benham’s old father. Mr Benham drove
lorries for the army, and his wife had
been a nurse at Broadmoor, the criminal
asylum, just at the top of the road.
I
got along with the family very well,
except for Mrs Benham’s father who was
an evil-tempered chap. He had been in
the army, and at some time played the
clarinet in a part-time army band. He
took an instant dislike to my middle
class style, and made it clear he considered
me a ‘Nancy-boy’. On one occasion he
decided to search out his very ancient
instrument, and insisted on displaying
his ability. This had always been primitive;
the passing of time and his age had
reduced his performance to a ghastly
series of squawks, squeaks, and gurgles.
I was unable to respond with the enthusiasm
that he no doubt anticipated. Naturally
this did little to improve our relationship.
I
suppose it was a measure of my enthusiasm
for the clarinet that I got up early
each morning to practise, from seven-thirty
until eight o’clock – before breakfast.
I used the ‘front-room’, normally reserved
for special occasions such as christenings,
deaths, and the like. In winter it was
freezing cold. The only room that was
warm was the kitchen, which was heated
by a traditional range, on which they
cooked as well. This was very different
from my cosy middle-class home in Bedford
Park, but the Benhams were kind, and
somehow came to terms with this strange
unruly lad they had had deposited on
them. I was happy, and learned to know
and appreciate a way of life I would
otherwise never have experienced.
In
the second year I had the opportunity
to join two of my closest friends in
what the school called a ‘hostel’. This
was one of the big houses in the village
where the owner(s) still lived, but
which was large enough to accommodate
twenty or more boys, usually with some
poor unfortunate master in charge. The
hostel I was in had the charming name
‘Pooks Hill’, and an equally charming
owner, Mrs Bryant, whose husband had
been called up and was in the Royal
Air Force. She was probably about thirty
at the time, though like nearly everyone
else who was not my own age, she seemed
to me to be in the same age group as
my parents. She was an amateur musician,
played the piano, and was not too critical
– she thought I played quite well.
Through
her I learned the joy of playing chamber
music. As well as accompanying me in
some of the solo pieces I was vain enough
to attempt, she invited a violinist,
a violist, and a cellist to join her
so that we could play the Mozart Clarinet
Quintet. My own skills were limited,
but compared to the string players,
gentle and delightful ladies from good
families around Crowthorne, I was a
virtuoso. The first violin part was
usually played on the piano, as the
violinist had sufficient problems with
the second violin part. The viola and
cello parts were sketched in fairly
adequately, if you were of an understanding
and forgiving nature. Unfortunately
the violist was inclined to be wayward
– perhaps impatient – she tended to
dislike staying on one note for more
than a couple of beats, and would dash
off on her own. We seldom played more
than sixteen bars (often far fewer)
without a stop, and every bar was flawed
in some way or another. Yet I waited
each week for Wednesday afternoon to
come round again so that I could wallow
in those wonderful sounds, and the thrill
of making music with other people.
There
were several events during this time
that were of some importance for the
future. From time to time the whole
school was subjected to concerts of
Good Music. They were not very popular,
and were sometimes the occasion for
fooling about – not always without good
reason. I remember one time when a singer
of distinction, but past her prime,
came to give a song recital. The hall
in which Assembly and concerts took
place had rather grand doors that opened
from the centre in two halves. Normally
only one half of the doorway was used.
The door was opened for our soloist
to enter, and she made to do so. Unfortunately
she was a lady of extremely ample proportions,
and neither her full frontal, nor her
sideways efforts to gain access to the
hall were to any avail. Amidst some
tittering and general merriment, and
the discomfort of our visitor, the other
half of the door was unlatched, and
she sailed in.
Why
it was thought that a song recital that
would appeal to a limited and sophisticated
audience should be suitable for boys
aged between fourteen and eighteen,
lacking any experience of classical
music, remains a mystery. I do remember
that I spent most of the concert with
a handkerchief stuffed into my mouth,
trying to suppress my giggles, and nearly
bursting in the attempt. There were
to be a number of occasions during my
professional life when I was reduced
to a similar condition.
Other
concerts included the performance of
a symphony by the eighteenth century
composer William Boyce, the Christmas
Fantasia by Vaughan Williams, referred
to earlier, and my first solo effort
– the slow movement from the Clarinet
Concerto No.1 by Weber. The mis-fingered
note I played in the middle of this
attractive movement still haunts my
memory. It was also at one of these
concerts that I allowed myself to be
persuaded to turn the pages for one
of the two pianists, in a performance
of Scaramouche, by Milhaud. This
terrifying experience was so nerve-
racking that I vowed – a vow I have
kept – never to undertake that responsibility
again.
But the most important
experience for me took place one Sunday
evening. The Music Society – or was
it the Gramophone Society? – met at
Mr Wilson’s house each Sunday. There
would be about fifteen or twenty of
us, to whom Mr Wilson would play music
of his choice. This was still the era
of the 78 rpm. 12 inch record, requiring
one to leap up and down every four minutes,
to turn the record over, change the
record or needle, and, on some machines,
even wind it up – I think we had a radiogram,
so that was not necessary. One Sunday
he put on
the Elgar
Violin Concerto, the recording made by
the fifteen year old Yehudi Menuhin. I
was overwhelmed, as I am to this day,
by this miraculous performance. Not because
a performance of such remarkable dexterity
was possible from a boy of that age, nor
even because I was aware of the extraordinary
musical maturity of someone so young.
I was just captured by the sheer beauty
of the music, and the feelings it aroused
in me. I felt an intense desire to make
music like that; to affect others, as
I had been affected. At that moment my
future was sealed.
Chapter
4
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