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4
Starting
out
The
BBC Symphony Orchestra in Bristol and
Bedford. Small ‘orchestras’ in restaurants
– Lyons Corner Houses – Alfredo Campoli,
Albert Sammons, Max Jaffa. Author at
Royal College of Music. Many musicians
now in the armed forces provides author
with opportunity of professional experience
that leads to full-time orchestra employment
In
September 1941 I was standing at the
top of the steps behind the Royal Albert
Hall facing the imposing but not unfriendly
facade of the Royal College of Music.
I was full of hope, confidence, and
the ignorance of youth. I was to study
clarinet with Frederick Thurston, principal
clarinet of the BBC Symphony Orchestra
and an established soloist. My second
study was piano, and for this Mr Harry
Stubbs was to be my kindly but unsuccessful
guide. There were to be history lectures
and theory and aural training sessions,
and also the opportunity to play in
one of the orchestras. As I set off
down the steps and approached the doors
of the RCM I thought, ‘this is it! I’m
on my way.’ I was going in the direction
I wanted to go, but, as always, I had
no idea of what or where it might lead.
Early
that morning I had left Bedford, where,
the BBC Symphony Orchestra had been
moved and where my family were now living,
and travelled by train to St Pancras
station in London. This was a journey
I would do several times a week in the
coming year, an empty first-class compartment
often providing an impromptu practise
studio. The LMS (as it then was) rolling
stock was no better than the current
privatised rail companies’, making embouchure
control (the subtle formation of the
lips and muscles around the mouthpiece)
difficult. Still, it was possible to
make up for lost time, when scales or
arpeggios had received less attention
than they needed.
The
BBC Symphony Orchestra were now stationed
in Bedford, then a quiet and attractive
county town. In 1939, very soon after
the outbreak of war, the orchestra had
been evacuated to Bristol. The BBC orchestras,
resident in London before the war, had
all been relocated; the Symphony Orchestra,
the Theatre Orchestra (later renamed
the Opera Orchestra, and now called
the Concert Orchestra), and the Variety
and Revue Orchestras, (both disbanded
many years ago), were all sent to Bristol.
At that time, before the bombing had
destroyed the oldest and loveliest part,
Bristol was especially beautiful, and
even now, in my view, it remains one
of the most agreeable cities in Britain.
Many years later it was, for a time,
a very important city for me.
In their
wisdom the BBC chose the CWS (Co-operative
Wholesale Society) building as the headquarters
for the Symphony Orchestra, and made
the top floor into their studio. This
had to be abandoned fairly soon as the
frequent air-raid warnings required
the conductor and orchestra to yo-yo
up and down five or six floors, from
the studio to the air-raid shelter in
the basement.
For
the next year or so the orchestra used
various churches for studio broadcasts,
and the Colston Hall for their season
of public concerts, before relocating
to Bedford, where they remained until
the end of the war. The old Hall was
excellent with good acoustics. Later
I played there many times with the London
Philharmonic. It survived the bombing,
but in February 1945 before the end
of the war it was accidentally destroyed
by fire, (as the original hall had been).
In 1951 I played at the opening of the
present Colston Hall, in a concert given
by the Royal Philharmonic, conducted
by Sir Thomas Beecham.
Playing
in orchestral concerts in the Colston
Hall, or anywhere else, still lay a
few years ahead, though in fact it was
to be much sooner than I could have
imagined as I stood outside the Royal
College of Music on that first day and
daydreamed of things to come. A combination
of circumstances beyond my control led
to me remaining at the College for only
one year. After two years of war a great
many musicians had been called up and
were in the Army, Navy, or Air Force.
A number of them had joined or been
posted to line regimental Military Bands,
or the various entertainment units formed
to entertain the troops. Many of the
best younger wind players, had joined
Guards’ Bands and the RAF Central Band,
all stationed in London. In fact the
RAF Central Band attracted a number
of outstanding string players, too.
It was their absence that gave me the
opportunity in 1942 to join the Wessex
Philharmonic Orchestra, based in Bournemouth.
As well
as the musicians in the Bournemouth
Municipal Orchestra there were a number
of other musicians working in Bournemouth.
In most English towns of any size at
that time there were still musicians
playing in theatres, music halls and
in restaurants. It was the custom, one
that finally died out around 1950, for
the larger restaurants and cafes, serving
the ‘carriage trade’, to have a small
‘orchestra’. It was also usual for most
large Department Stores to have a restaurant
with its own small ‘orchestra’. The
number of musicians would usually be
between two and five, depending on the
size of the restaurant.
Joseph
Lyons, whose world famous Corner Houses
in London were the flagships of his
vast empire of Tea Shops throughout
the country, employed 500 musicians
on a full-time basis – as many as the
BBC in its heyday employed on contract.
In some of the Lyons Corner House orchestras
there were as many as twelve players,
and perhaps a singer as well. These
orchestras played a very large and varied
repertoire, ranging from Novelty numbers,
such as The Teddy Bears’ Picnic,
and The March of the Little Tin Soldiers,
to selections from popular ballets –
Coppélia, Swan Lake, or
The Dance of the Hours, and operas
– Pagliacci, La Bohème, Rigoletto,
and even Rienzi. The Slavonic
Dances by Dvorak, Hungarian Dances
by Brahms, and some of the shorter Classics
by Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert
rubbed shoulders with selections from
The Merry Widow, The Student
Prince, and Chu Chin Chow.
When
I was a child, my mother would occasionally
take me on a shopping expedition to
the ‘West End’ of London. I hated these
visits. My especial hate was Oxford
Street where I trudged along, down amongst
a forest of legs, seeing nothing, and
with no one to talk to. My mother and
her friend would be chattering away
and enjoying the shop windows way above
my head – with only Mummy’s hand to
assure me that I was not totally abandoned.
There was one redeeming feature to these
dreadful visits: at some point we would
leave the horrors of the pavement to
enter what seemed like an enchanted
palace. It was brightly lit and everything
sparkled; there were great columns from
the floor to the high ceiling, with
golden decoration, and the walls and
floor were richly coloured. Wherever
you looked there were counters laden
with foodstuffs of every kind. There
were boxes of chocolate and sweets,
cakes of every size and description
– piles of little cakes covered in ‘hundreds
and thousands’, or with cherries on
top; birthday cakes and wedding cakes
like castles. Piles of buns, rolls,
croissants, macaroons, biscuits large
and small, loose or in decorated tins
and packets, all inviting and tempting.
There were counters with every sort
of delicatessen – less inviting to me
– with fancy bottles, tins, and packets
of roll mops, anchovies, caviar, tongues,
hams, exotic oils and sweetmeats. The
display seemed never ending.
This
was one of Mr Joe Lyons’s famous Corner
Houses. We usually went to the one in
Tottenham Court Road. As in all the
Corner Houses there were several restaurants
of different sizes in the same building,
each with its own orchestra. We went
to the one that served afternoon tea
because it was there that my Uncle Jimmy
conducted and led one of the orchestras,
as his father had done years before
on the pleasure boats on the Black Sea.
A smartly
dressed man or lady (one can hardly
refer to someone so grand as a ‘woman’),
would direct us to our table. We always
asked for one near the band, so that
we could see and hear Uncle Jimmy –
no doubt there will have been some who
asked to be as far from the band as
possible! – though on the whole, people
went to a Lyons Corner House because
it was special; not only did you get
excellent food, you were waited on with
style and civility, and you had musical
entertainment as well, and all at a
modest price.
Uncle
Jimmy was considered to be good-looking,
and as was the custom ‘played to the
ladies’, directing some sweet and charming
melody in their direction. The orchestra’s
efforts would generally be rewarded
by discreet and genteel applause. On
the one or two occasions when my father
accompanied us, he was always determined
that the band should receive greater
recognition. He would clap with considerable
vigour; some of those enjoying their
tea and seated nearby would be startled;
others, thinking something was going
on that they should be part of would
join in. After several items the applause
had grown considerably and by the time
we left it was tumultuous.
During
each ‘set’ the conductor/leader would
be expected to play a couple of solos,
though each and every piece was, to
all intents and purposes, a ‘concerto’,
since the leader played the first violin
part on his own a very great deal of
the time. But that wasn’t enough. He
(it was almost always a ‘he’, though
there were some Ladies Orchestras),
would play one of the charming pieces
by Fritz Kreisler, the great violinist,
or one of the popular encore pieces
– Meditation from Thais,
by Massenet, or perhaps The Flight
of the Bumble-Bee. In the best groups,
if he was a really good player, he might
include a movement from a concerto;
perhaps by Max Bruch, the Mendelssohn,
or one by Wieniawski.
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Some
outstanding violinists played in restaurants
and cafés: de Groot, Albert Sandler,
Alfredo Campoli (who subsequently had
a long and distinguished solo career),
Max Jaffa, and Albert Sammons, who was
probably the best of them all. Later
he was to become Beecham’s first Leader,
before becoming a very successful and
popular soloist. I remember his performance
of the Elgar and Mendelssohn Concertos
with particular pleasure, from my earliest
days in the orchestra. He was also highly
respected as a teacher, and is fondly
remembered as a professor at the Royal
College of Music.
In 1939,
when the war started, virtually all
the seaside orchestras were disbanded.
Even the Bournemouth Municipal Orchestra
with its long history and considerable
reputation, which unlike the other seaside
orchestras employed musicians throughout
the year, was forced to severely reduce
its numbers. The players who had been
made redundant by the Municipal Orchestra
quickly formed a rehearsal orchestra,
so as to keep in practise. They invited
some of the best musicians who were
playing in the theatres and the restaurant
and café orchestras in the town
and a few of the local instrumental
teachers to join them. Two ladies living
in Bournemouth heard about this group
and decided to provide the money for
them to put on a concert and appointed
a young conductor, Reginald Goodall,
to be its Music Director. They named
the orchestra The Wessex Philharmonic.
The extra players that were required
were mostly recruited from students
who were in their final year at the
Royal College and Royal Academy of Music.
Many
years later Goodall found fame conducting
at the English National Opera and the
Royal Opera House. His interpretations
of the Wagner operas in particular were
much admired. He was knighted in 1986.
In 1939, when the Wessex Philharmonic
Orchestra (later called the Bournemouth
Philharmonic Orchestra) was formed,
he was inexperienced, profoundly musical,
and technically maladroit, as far as
his control of the baton was concerned.
He became increasingly experienced,
and developed into a remarkable musician.
Only his stick technique did not improve.
Whilst
still in my first year at the Royal
College of Music I heard about this
orchestra from one of my fellow students,
a composer/pianist, who also played
percussion in the College orchestra.
He told me that he had been to Bournemouth
to play in this orchestra, and that
it rehearsed on Friday evening, had
two more rehearsals on Saturday, and
a rehearsal and concert on Sunday. Sometimes
this concert was repeated in a nearby
town on Monday. And you got paid! Not
Musicians’ Union rates – about which
I knew nothing – but it sounded like
a king’s ransom to me.
Without
giving any thought to my suitability,
I asked my friend, ‘Do you think there
is any chance that I could play in this
orchestra?’ ‘I’ll ask Mr Goodall,’ he
said, ‘he comes into College from time
to time.’ Some weeks later my friend
told me that he had spoken to Mr Goodall
who had said he would be willing to
hear me play and that I should prepare
some music and be ready to play for
an audition in about ten days’ time.
I was
so keen to do this entirely on my own
that I decided not to tell my father
or my RCM Professor, Jack Thurston (he
was always called Jack by his friends
and colleagues, though his name was
Frederick). The relationship between
Thurston and my father – both principal
clarinettists in the BBC Symphony Orchestra
– had caused some tension in my College
lessons. My father’s remarkable virtuosity,
especially his ability to play fast
staccato passages (involving the rapid
tonguing of detached notes) was envied
by Thurston, and Thurston’s senior position
as, ‘First’ principal in the section,
was resented by my father. Sometimes,
when I wanted help with a technical
problem Thurston would say, ‘ask your
Dad – he’s the one with the technique!’
When I asked ‘Dad’ he’d say, ‘You’re
having lessons with Mr Thurston, ask
him.’ So, though my teacher had sufficient
confidence in me to allow me to teach
his daughter, I never had the sort of
confidential relationship with him that
I tried to achieve with my own pupils.
On the
day of the audition I was very nervous.
I remember going into the room where
Mr Goodall was sitting at the piano.
I had expected a very assured and authoritarian
person. In fact, he asked rather diffidently
for the piano part of the music I was
going to play, which gave me a bit of
courage. I had decided to play the Four
Characteristic Pieces by William Hurlstone.
They are quite short attractive pieces
by a gifted composer, now forgotten,
who died when he was only thirty. I
enjoyed playing them, and they had the
added advantage of not being too difficult.
I have no recollection of how well or
badly I performed as I had no idea of
the standard that was required. It must
have been adequate because a month or
so later I was asked to go to Bournemouth
to play in the Wessex for one weekend.
Fantastic! It seems that the second
clarinet had been called up, and Goodall,
hard pressed to find anyone at short
notice, thought I might get by.
Once
the initial joy and surprise had evaporated,
terror set in. My only experience until
then had been to play in my school orchestra,
plus a few rehearsals and concerts in
the amateur Bedford Symphony Orchestra
and two terms in the College orchestra.
Awareness of my ignorance and incompetence
gradually grew as the date of the first
rehearsal approached. It dawned on me
that though I had listened to a lot
of music, I had only played a handful
of works. I had no experience of even
the standard repertoire, the Mozart,
Beethoven, Dvorak, and Tchaikovsky symphonies
were still virgin territory, and I still
had no real understanding of what skills
and knowledge were required if I was
to become even an adequate orchestral
musician.
The
repertoire I had played in the College
orchestra was very small, and not particularly
useful. I had played the Overture Euryanthe
by Weber, which I think I only played
once or twice again during the next
thirty-five years or so, and a violin
concerto by Sir George Dyson, who was
Director of the RCM at that time. He
is now remembered for his choral work
The Canterbury Pilgrims which
is still played occasionally. Sir George
seemed a rather stern man to me then.
I knew he had invented some piece of
equipment that improved the machine-gun
of his day. But he proved to be kind.
When, a couple of years later, a corrupt
management tried to treat me badly he
was very helpful. Willie Reed, who usually
conducted the orchestra, played his
violin concerto. Reed was no conductor,
but he had been the Leader of the London
Symphony Orchestra for many years, and
had a profound knowledge and experience
of everything to do with the orchestra.
When Sir Edward Elgar was composing
his wonderful violin concerto, which
had so inspired me when I was still
a schoolboy, it was to Willie Reed that
he had gone for advice on the technical
aspects of the solo part.
The
only works we played that I can recall
as being useful to me in later years
were the César Franck Symphony,
a Piano Concerto by Mozart, and the
Water Music by Handel, in the
version re-scored by Hamilton Harty,
which was always used until the 1980s.
The advances of the ‘authenticity’ movement
have, for the present, banished this
version and other re-scorings to memory
and older recordings. The only conductor
of note for whom I had played until
then, Leslie Heward, conducted the Water
Music. He was highly respected in
the music world and it was thought that
he might join Beecham and Barbirolli
as another British conductor with the
imagination and charisma to raise an
orchestra above itself. I certainly
enjoyed the couple of rehearsals we
had with him. Unfortunately he died
too young for his promise to be realised.
At last
the great day arrived when my effrontery
would be put to the test. I set off
by train for Bournemouth, excited and
anxious, with my instruments, and a
suitcase full of second-hand clothes.
I had had to buy a dress suit, a ‘dark’
suit (for afternoon concerts), white
shirts, a bow tie, and some black shoes
and socks. If they had not been second
hand I would have used up the family’s
ration of clothing coupons for a year
or so. A couple of years later, when
I had become more worldly-wise, I would
resort, as so many others did, to the
black market, and buy additional clothing
coupons.
When
I arrived at the rehearsal venue I made
my way to the second clarinet chair
and looked at the music. I had arrived
early so that I could try through some
of the more difficult-looking passages
in my part. If you don’t know the music
– whether the Allegros will be
fast, or the Andantes slow, or
which passages are important and which
are not, you can find that you have
prepared the music at the wrong speed
and wasted time practising those passages
that are completely covered by the brass.
The trumpets and trombones will be blowing
away like mad – whilst you have ignored
what will prove to be exposed and unexpectedly
difficult passages. It takes quite a
while before one gets the ‘feel’ of
what is really important and what is
not, when looking at a piece of music
for the first time.
The
other members of the orchestra gradually
arrived and took their places and I
was comforted to see one or two faces
that I recognised from College. But
there was still no sign of Mr James
Brown, who was to play principal clarinet.
I knew his name because he had been
the principal clarinet in the BBC Empire
Orchestra until it was suspended (never
to be revived) shortly after the outbreak
of war in 1939. It was never certain
whether this orchestra, which broadcast
to the furthest reaches of the Empire,
usually in the middle of the night (it
was all ‘live’ broadcasting in those
days), had been set up to instil a love
of Western European music in the hearts
and minds of our then Colonial cousins,
or whether Sir John Reith, the BBC Director
General and a strict disciplinarian,
believed it would serve to keep some
of the unruly citizens of our far-flung
Empire under control.
The
musicians who had been employed under
contract by the BBC, but whose services
were not required because of wartime
circumstances, could have whatever they
earned elsewhere made up to something
like their previous BBC salary, as long
as it was considered to be work of national
importance. James Brown had found employment
as a postman. Only a few minutes before
the rehearsal was to begin the news
filtered through to me that Mr Brown
was not going to attend that evening’s
rehearsal. It seems that he had decided
that The Royal Mail required his services
more than the Wessex. Though it is so
long ago, I recall that we rehearsed
Valse Triste by Sibelius and
a Beethoven Symphony.
I was
therefore asked to move up to play the
first clarinet part. Fear and delight
struggled for supremacy in my ambitious
breast. Throughout the rehearsal inexperience
and incompetence vied with youthful,
naive musicality. My egotism undoubtedly
led me to believe that everything I
had to play was as important to the
performance as it was to me. It often
comes as a surprise, when listening
to a piece of music one has played many
times, to find how little of one’s efforts
are actually heard. Sometimes something
more important is going on! – as the
double bass player in the Paris Opera
Orchestra of many years ago discovered.
Whilst convalescing from an illness
he thought he would go to the opera,
something he had not done since he was
a student. The night he went they were
doing Bizet’s Carmen. After the
performance he met a few of his colleagues
from the bass section.
‘How
did you enjoy the show?’ one of them
asked him. ‘It was terrific! Do you
know,’ he said, ‘when we are playing
tu-te-tum-te all the time, there is
a marvellous tune going on, Tum-tum-ti-tum-tum-
tum-ti-tum-ti-tum!’ (the Toreador’s
song).
At that
first rehearsal my efforts would not
have borne close scrutiny, but I suppose
the general standard was such that I
got away with it. Sufficiently, anyway,
to be invited back again for subsequent
weekends.
I had
not told either my professor or my father
that I had auditioned for Reginald Goodall
because, from the moment that I decided
I wanted to be a professional musician,
I was worried that I would never achieve
anything without people saying it was
because of my father’s influence. I
was so obsessed by this fear that I
was determined to do something without
any help from anyone. I was also aware
that the family finances were not in
too good shape, and that keeping me
at College, even though I had gained
a small scholarship, was an added strain
on their resources.
Having
survived several weekends at Bournemouth
I thought it was now time to tell them
my good news. In fact neither of them
was at all pleased, even though the
outcome had been favourable. I was too
young, not ready yet, and, anyway, why
had I not consulted them? – I was only
just seventeen and had no right to go
off and do whatever I liked. I was self-willed,
undisciplined... and...and... And it
was all true! But though I understood
what they were saying was intended for
my good, I knew that what I was doing
was right for me.
The
weekend concerts the Wessex gave in
Bournemouth and elsewhere attracted
good audiences and were well received.
This encouraged the management to embark
on a more ambitious project, a month’s
tour of some of the towns and cities
of southern England. It was to start
in the last week in July, during the
College vacation, and I was invited
to join the orchestra as second clarinet.
I accepted with enthusiasm, unaware
that this was to be the start of my
professional life, and that I would
not return to the Royal College of Music
for another twenty years.
Chapter
5
