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to Chapter 4
5
The
joys of touring
The
pleasure and hazards of touring with
London orchestras and the pre-war BBC
Symphony Orchestra.. The Wessex Philharmonic
Orchestra touring in war-time – its
musicians, conductors (a young Reginald
Goodall), soloists and repertoire. Experience
in this orchestra leads to many distinguished
careers. Author leaves to join London
Philharmonic Orchestra.
‘My
boy, you’ve never really lived till
you’ve been on tour.’ comments a character
in Smetana’s lovely opera The Bartered
Bride. Well, it can be enjoyable
– in small doses! Whether it’s really
living is another matter. I set off
for that month’s tour in the summer
of 1942 in high spirits. I was very
young and everything was set fair for
a good time; we were going to visit
places which sounded interesting; there
were girls in the orchestra and above
all I would be playing nearly every
day, and getting paid for it.
Going
away on tour in wartime in the Wessex
Philharmonic Orchestra under an inexperienced
semi-professional management was something
very special indeed. No tour I was to
undertake for the rest of my life compared
with this first venture into nomadic
life. For one thing it lasted longer
than any other tour by a British symphony
orchestra that I have heard of – I left
after nine months and the tour went
on for quite a while after that.
None
the less, going on tour is always a
special experience. Over the next thirty-eight
years I went on a good number of tours
with the London orchestras, under a
variety of conditions, sometimes very
good, at other times much less so. I
certainly had the opportunity to visit
many places that I would never have
seen if I had not been a musician. But
though one can hold friends and relatives
entranced with tales of travel to exotic
places such as Mexico, Japan, or Uruguay,
and tours of the USA, Israel, and throughout
Europe, the reality of these visits
is frequently less exciting.
The
best tours, those that I have nearly
always enjoyed, involved going to only
one town or city; a visit to Vienna,
Lucerne, or Tokyo, when one stays for
perhaps three or four days, or even
for a week or two, can often be quite
delightful. Then there are tours when
one goes to a large city, say New York,
where one plays several concerts and
then the orchestra makes a few forays
to nearby towns, somewhere between seventy-five
and a hundred and fifty miles away,
returning to base after the concert
each night. These, too, can be very
pleasant, if well organised.
Least
agreeable, most tiring, and sometimes
unbearable, are ‘one-night stands’ –
especially if they go on for more than
four or five days. Such tours involve
setting out each morning and travelling
by train, or, more usually during my
touring days, by coach. There was more
often than not an early start; sometimes
as early as six-thirty or seven o’clock.
The worst I can remember was leaving
Barcelona at four-thirty a.m. More often
one left between eight and nine-thirty.
However, there were a number of hitches
that often had to be overcome before
a successful departure was accomplished.
There
was the problem of getting the suitcases
of a hundred or more musicians onto
the coaches. There were two methods,
neither of which was wholly satisfactory.
One was to leave it to the musicians
to make their own way to the coach,
with their cases and instruments. The
large instruments – the cellos, basses,
tuba, etc., were left at the hall, and
were put on the orchestra’s van by the
orchestral porters, along with the music
stands, music, and percussion instruments.
With a group of thirty-five or forty
players this method can work reasonably
well, but with a large orchestra it
is a recipe for disaster.
In the
big hotels, the bedrooms are on many
floors – certainly on seven or eight,
and in the USA, Japan and a good many
European Hotels, possibly on as many
as twenty or more. As might be expected,
nearly everyone left it until the last
moment to take his or her case to the
coach. Sometimes one or more of the
lifts would be out of order. Those whose
rooms were on the upper floors got angry,
because the lifts never seemed to come
up to them; meanwhile those on the lower
floors became increasingly indignant
as they saw lifts whizzing past to the
floors above. When a lift did at last
stop at their landing, twenty people,
all carrying large cases, tried to force
their way into a lift intended for no
more than fifteen – without cases. This
is not conducive to goodwill, or to
the harmony that will lead to a happy
and contented group of musicians able
to give of their best at the end of
what is often a long and tiring journey.
An even more serious risk was that carrying
a heavy case and fighting one’s way
in and out of lifts could lead to injuries
to arms and hands.
For
some years another system was also used;
more sensible on the face of it, but
not by any means foolproof. This method
required everyone to put their case
outside their room, as a rule about
an hour before departure time. The first
snag was that not everyone received
their ‘wake-up’ call – some may have
omitted to ask for it; others may have
fallen asleep again. So their cases
will not have been collected and taken
to the coaches.
The
next hurdle to be negotiated was breakfast.
Hotels are as a rule not geared up to
deal with a large number of guests all
demanding service at about the same
time, especially between seven and eight-
thirty a.m. There will usually be one
or two sleepy waiters who, when they
have been goaded into action, find that
their colleagues in the kitchen go berserk
if more than three or four pots of coffee
are ordered at once. Even five star
hotels can fail when required to serve
eighty or so croissants and coffees
quickly. Indeed, they have sometimes
been known to run out of croissants.
For one reason or another some members
of the orchestra still remain only partially
served, or not served at all, by the
time decreed for the coaches to leave.
Not surprisingly they are unhappy; on
occasion they let their feelings be
known rather forcibly to the hotel staff
who, already harassed and discontented
by the demands being made of them, sometimes
respond in kind. Not a good start to
the day. A few minutes before the coaches
are due to leave, the personnel manager
goes to each coach (there were generally
three with a large orchestra) to take
a roll-call. It can be a disaster if
on arrival at the next town some essential
player is found to have been left behind.
Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony minus one
trombone or the New World Symphony
without the cor anglais can sound rather
bare in places.
Not
infrequently one or more of the company
could have enjoyed the ‘strong waters’
after the concert the previous evening.
On tours overseas the alcoholic beverages
available can be strange and quite often
very agreeable. Their effect can be
devastating. It can and does happen
that one of the previous evening’s revellers
is still abed, or struggling to dress
and pack, when he or she should be sitting
quietly in the coach. The personnel
manager goes off in search of the miscreants.
When they appear, stumbling along with
their suitcases and instruments, bleary
and unshaven, or without make-up, or
with it too hastily applied, they are
greeted with mildly benevolent jeering,
mixed with some obscene expletives if
this is already the fifth or sixth day
on the road.
I remember
my father telling me about some of the
incidents that occurred when the BBC
Symphony Orchestra went on a grand tour
of Europe in 1936. It was still a major
event for a British orchestra to visit
Berlin, Paris, Vienna, and Prague and
the BBC had arranged everything with
great care. Sir Adrian Boult and the
Orchestra were received with ceremony
everywhere they went. There were receptions
and speeches and the players in the
resident orchestra and those in the
BBC Symphony would meet and exchange
experiences. After the reception groups
of players would go off to continue
their reminiscing in the bars and taverns
frequented by the local players.
In Prague,
one distinguished cellist was so overcome
by the hospitality offered by his companions
that the following morning he had to
be carried to the railway station. He
arrived, still in full evening dress,
laid out like a corpse on his cello
case, with four of his colleagues acting
as impromptu pallbearers.
On
Tour in Wartime
This
was a far cry from my first experience
of touring with the Wessex Philharmonic
Orchestra, which was a much less sophisticated
affair. There were no five-star, or
even one star-hotels; no reserved carriages
on the trains, nor personnel managers.
It was all pretty much catch-as-catch-can,
relying a good deal of the time on a
‘wing and a prayer’. We travelled mostly
by train, quite often requiring a number
of changes, with long waits on unfriendly
station platforms. When the weather
was warm it was not too bad, but during
the winter, with the rain, snow and
cold winds, it became increasingly unpleasant.
The
biggest problem was finding ‘digs’.
In 1942 nearly every town still had
its own theatre, or music hall, to which
touring theatrical companies would come
each week. Accommodation for the artists
was provided by landladies, who ran
‘theatrical digs’. Pre-1939 very few
actors, or music-hall artists, including
the most famous and prestigious names,
would stay in hotels. The theatrical
landladies understood the needs of their
visitors, who would want a good meal
after the show, and a late breakfast,
at ten or ten-thirty in the morning.
In the best digs artists were well cared
for, and their particular likes and
dislikes remembered; younger members
of the profession would be mothered,
and, if necessary, offered practical
advice in times of trouble. Landladies
took great pride in those who had stayed
with them, and evidence of their success
was displayed on their sitting room
walls by signed photographs from their
more famous and grateful visitors.
Of course,
not all were so good, by any means.
The worst could be dreadful. Dirty and
unkempt, with indifferently cooked food,
a lack of hot water – vital on tour
with washing to be done. The very best
landladies would even undertake this
task for their most favoured ‘gentlemen’
visitors. Worst of all were those where
the rooms were cold in winter. Everyone
with any experience tried to avoid these
torture-chambers. The best places would
always be booked well ahead and landladies
who knew that they were much sought
after would be selective. Artists of
distinction, and those with charm, would
flatter their hosts, provide them with
free seats at the show they were in,
bring a bunch of flowers at the end
of the week, and write complimentary
remarks in the visitors’ book. These
guests would be assured of good, comfortable
accommodation on their next visit to
that town.
Our
problem was that we stayed in each town
for only one night, and all these places
took weekly bookings. In addition, we
didn’t know where accommodation was
to be found. One got off the train in
a strange town with a largish case and
one’s instrument and just didn’t know
where to begin. It was especially bad
at the start of the tour because we
didn’t know the ropes. As time went
by and we returned to a town for a second
or third time it became easier. One
would write off beforehand, rather than
look for somewhere on the day.
In
Reading, where we stayed for a week
giving concerts each evening in the
theatre, I stayed with Mrs. Perry, a
tiny, elderly lady, who in her small
house in Zinzan Street provided the
best accommodation I can remember. There
were four of us; Jack Greenstone, the
leader of the orchestra, and Alfie Friedlander,
a violist and one of the most amusing
men I have met, had one double bedroom.
I shared the another room with my friend
Dennis Wood, then an oboist but later
principal viola in the BBC Radio Orchestra.
The four of us also had a sitting room
to ourselves in which Mrs. Perry served
our meals. Although there was food rationing,
she seemed to have a special relationship
with her butcher. We had bacon and eggs
each morning for breakfast, meat every
day, and, on one occasion, steak – a
real luxury at that time. For this she
charged each of us £1.00, for the rooms,
and an extra seven and sixpence each
(37½p) for
the food – she totalled up what it cost
and would not allow us to pay her anything
for preparing and cooking it. Of course,
£1.37½p
went a very great deal further in 1943
than it would today, but even so it
was incredibly good value.
Unfortunately
we never went to Reading again. We did
go to Swansea, where my friend Dennis
and I searched for seven hours for somewhere
to rest our weary heads. In despair
we were obliged to accept accommodation
of a very different kind to Mrs. Perry’s.
On the many occasions I have returned
to Swansea to play in Brangwyn Hall,
with its wonderfully exciting (though
strangely undervalued) murals by Sir
Frank Brangwyn, I have always found
somewhere reasonable to stay. But never
anywhere to match Mrs. Perry. Sadly
her like have virtually disappeared.
Playing
in the Wessex Philharmonic Orchestra
When
we set off in July, Jimmy Brown, (the
BBC Empire Orchestra clarinettist, now
Bournemouth postman) was the principal
clarinet, but when, because of good
audiences, the management decided to
continue beyond the original month’s
tour, he decided not to stay on. The
Post Office had already extended his
holiday leave, so that he could do the
month’s tour. The fees the Wessex could
offer did not compare with his Post
Office salary, which the BBC made up
so that it equalled his previous salary
in the Empire Orchestra, and so he returned
to Bournemouth.
No doubt
working on the principle that the evil
you know is better than the one you
do not, the management let me take over
as principal clarinet. I write ‘let’
rather than ‘invited’ as I do not recall
that this decision was taken with any
enthusiasm, which is hardly surprising.
What I could play I think I probably
played in a musical and attractive way.
There was a good deal that I found technically
difficult, and, of course, my inexperience
was such that I made mistakes. It is
too long ago to evaluate with any accuracy
what it must all have sounded like.
The
standard within the orchestra was very
varied. There were some excellent players,
who went on to distinguished careers:
Henry Datyner, a Polish violinist and
an excellent musician, came to England
when the Germans advanced into Poland.
The only work he could get when he arrived
was playing the piano in London nightclubs.
After playing in the Wessex he went
on to become, first, Leader of the Liverpool
Philharmonic, and then of the London
Philharmonic Orchestra. Stuart Knussen,
father of Oliver Knussen, the composer/conductor,
was an outstanding double bass player
and, later, principal double bass, and
a feared Chairman, of the London Symphony
Orchestra. For a time Alfred Barker,
a former Leader of the Hallé
Orchestra, led the orchestra, before
going on to become leader of the BBC
Theatre Orchestra. A number of others,
like Jack Greenstone and Alfred Friedlander,
flourished in the highly paid light
music session world, playing for recordings,
broadcasts, TV, and films.
For
many, playing in the Wessex Philharmonic
Orchestra was to be the start of what
would be a long and successful career
in one of the BBC Orchestras or in a
London or Regional symphony orchestra.
For others it led to a very successful
free-lance career. But a number, for
whom only wartime conditions had provided
the opportunity to play in a symphony
orchestra for a short time, drifted
into teaching supplemented by the occasional
semi-pro engagement. In many ways conditions
for musicians are now much better than
at the time about which I am writing
– touring, in particular, is now usually
much better organised. But the opportunities
to learn one’s craft in relatively less
stressful conditions than in a major
orchestra have gone.
In the
past there were a considerable number
of ‘characters’: colleagues in the orchestra,
conductors, and solo artists. Today
everyone is so serious, concerned that
they may not be engaged again if they
don’t conform. Now that the ‘music business’
has replaced the music profession there
is no room for the oddball who can be
wonderful on Tuesday and rather less
good on Friday. Recording demands consistency,
leaving no opportunity for the quirky,
improvisatory and dangerous spur of
the moment
The
bassoonist in the Wessex, Albert Entwhistle,
was a marvellous ‘character’. He was
a decent player, in a quiet, undemonstrative
way; what used to be called a ‘nice
little player’. Some years later, when
Entwhistle was second bassoon in the
Hallé Orchestra, he was required
to step up to play principal in place
of his colleague who had been taken
ill. During the rehearsal, when there
was a solo that required the bassoon
to take on the role of a musical clown,
Sir Malcolm Sargent, who was the orchestra’s
guest conductor on this occasion, said,
‘Come along Mr. Entwhistle. You really
must make that passage sound much more
amusing.’ So Albert roared it out in
a rather raucous style that caused some
laughter. ‘No. No. No. Mr. Entwhistle.
That will not do at all’, said Sir Malcolm,
with some asperity. ‘Well’ replies Albert,
in a pronounced Lancastrian accent,
‘You asked for it fooney, so I plays
it fooney.’
Our
repertoire was limited by the size of
the orchestra. We usually had eight,
sometimes ten first violins, and the
appropriate number of second violins,
violas, cellos, and double-basses; two
each of flutes, oboes, clarinets, and
bassoons; four horns, though we sometimes
had to manage with only two, two trumpets,
three trombones, and tuba; a timpanist,
and one percussionist. Very occasionally
an extra percussionist would be engaged,
but as a rule the one player, with a
little help from the timpanist, seemed
to manage what now calls for five or
more players. No doubt some of the parts
will have been left out, though these
chaps achieved miracles with a stick
in one hand and a tambourine in the
other, hitting out in all directions.
The percussionists of today would certainly
not be willing, or be allowed by Musicians’
Union rules, to do anything like that.
This
was the normal practice in the theatre,
music hall and many small orchestras
that played on the band stands at seaside
resorts, in the parks and elsewhere,
and in the large number of light orchestras
and ensembles that broadcast regularly
until about the 1960s. It was usual
in these bands and little orchestras
for there only to be one flute, two
clarinets, sometimes an oboe, but very
seldom a bassoon, instead of the necessary
two of each. There would be one or two
trumpets and a trombone when two trumpets,
three trombones and tuba had been requested
by the composer. The missing woodwind
and brass parts would be ‘cued’ into
other player’s parts. Whenever there
were bars rest or a part of more importance
than in that player’s part, notes from
another part would be printed in smaller
notation so that they could be played
if required. Any other missing instrumental
parts or harmonies would be played by
the pianist. Nearly all the well-known
orchestral repertoire – overtures, suites,
symphonies, opera and ballet selections
– had been ‘boiled down’ by Emile Tavan.
Though his name is not to be found in
the dictionaries and encyclopaedias
of music, his arrangements were played
world-wide and enabled ensembles of
all sizes, from only 5 or 6 players
to small orchestras of 30 or more, to
bring a wide repertoire of music to
the general public.
Even
in the symphony orchestras it was quite
common until the 50’s for extra woodwind,
brass or percussion parts to be omitted
and for the few really important notes
to be put in by one of the other players.
Very frequently when three flutes were
called for – two flutes and piccolo
– the second flute would play whichever
part, second flute or piccolo, was most
important.
Sir
Malcolm Sargent was a dab hand at ‘boiling
down’. Delius, who frequently wrote
for triple wind, would appear in Sargent’s
version, with only two required in each
woodwind section. If essential to the
harmony, the missing part was inserted
into one of the other player’s part,
perhaps a 3rd oboe part being played
by one of the clarinettists. The amateur
choral societies that engaged Sargent
were naturally delighted by his reduced
scoring; they could include items in
their programme that would otherwise
be too costly. Always a favourite with
the ladies of the chorus, on these occasions
the society’s treasurer and finance
committees were equally pleased with
him. On occasion, when he conducted
the major orchestras he would also try
to get away with using his own reduced
parts, but as the years went by the
players objected more and more vociferously,
until he reluctantly gave way and used
the proper printed parts.
Although
Reginald Goodall was the principal conductor
we had many guest conductors. Dr Malcolm
Sargent, as he was then, was one of
the most celebrated. An extremely efficient
conductor, Anatole Fistoulari who conducted
the major orchestras, also worked with
us frequently. He had been principal
conductor with the Monte Carlo Ballet
for some years, before he settled in
Britain. A charming, quiet man, he always
succeeded in getting a good performance
at the concert, though his rehearsals
could be boring. He had little to say,
and seemed content to play through the
music, allowing the players to become
familiar with it. If you already knew
the music pretty well this could become
tedious. He had good rhythm and a clear
beat, and these qualities, combined
with an innate musical feeling for a
limited repertoire, produced very good
results. Perhaps because he was amiable
(he was always referred to as Fisti),
spoke softly with a foreign accent,
and used some rather idiosyncratic phrases,
there was a tendency to laugh at him,
and not take him seriously enough.
I enjoyed
playing for Fisti, as I have for all
conductors who gave me the space to
play with some freedom of expression.
He indulged my liking, especially when
I was young, for making ritardandos
at the end of phrases, even when the
composer did not indicate one. One piece
we frequently played with him was the
Overture The Italian Girl in Algiers,
by Rossini. In the slow introduction
there is a short solo for the clarinet,
at the end of which I always made a
ritardando. A few months later
on one of my visits home I was talking
to my father about some of the conductors
that I had played for and mentioned
Fistoulari. ‘Oh, Yes!’, said my father,
‘He conducted us recently. He’s quite
good. But, do you know, in The Italian
Girl in Algiers – in the slow introduction,
at the end of that little solo – he
made me make the most dreadful ritardando.
Goodness knows where he got that idea
from.’ I felt it best to leave my father
in ignorance of from whom, or where,
he had picked up this bad habit.
Charles
Hambourg was a very different sort of
conductor. He made up for not being
very good by being extremely pleasant
to work with – sadly, lack of ability
is not always accompanied by an agreeable
personality. He was quite wealthy (the
source was believed to come from manufacturing
shoes) and had a passion for music,
but little talent for conducting. Later,
when I was in the LPO, colleagues told
me that the orchestra had done a four
or five day tour with him. Each concert
had commenced with the Overture to The
Bartered Bride, by Smetana. This
is a well-known disaster area for conductors.
The Overture, which is in a fast tempo,
starts with a silent beat: the conductor
has to bring the baton down in silence
in the tempo at which the piece is to
continue, the first notes sounding a
moment or to two later. Poor Charles
just couldn’t manage this at all, and
his efforts became less successful at
each succeeding concert. At the last
concert of the tour he made such a determined
and violent attempt to get it right
that he fell off the rostrum into the
viola section. In the interval, I was
told, he went round to all the members
of the orchestra, apologising and distributing
£1 notes (a reasonable amount in those
days).
Even
some of the very finest conductors find
the ‘silent beat’ difficult. George
Alexandra, who was for many years principal
bassoon in the London Philharmonic Orchestra
(LPO), told me of an experience he had
had shortly after joining the LPO as
second bassoon. The orchestra was giving
a concert in Bristol Cathedral, a lovely
building, but disadvantaged, as far
as concert giving is concerned, by being
extremely resonant. Sir Thomas Beecham
was conducting a programme that commenced
with one of these problematic works.
Fairly near the beginning there were
a number of loud chords interspersed
with ‘silent’ bars, which are marked
by the conductor bringing the baton
down gently in rhythm. On this occasion
Sir Thomas brought the stick down in
one of the silent bars with one of his
extremely vigorous downbeats. George,
being young and inexperienced, followed
Sir Thomas’s beat, and played the low
note in his part fortissimo –
and all on his own. The rest of the
orchestra had realised that Tommy had
made a mistake and remained silent.
The loud, low bassoon note rang out
and reverberated round and round the
Cathedral, much to George’s consternation
and distress. In the interval he went
to see Beecham to apologise. ‘Don’t
worry, my boy. Thank God you came in
– I might have broken my arm if you
hadn’t.’
The
most devastating chaos resulting from
an unsatisfactory silent beat that I
can recall occurred in the Royal Albert
Hall. The conductor, a charming and
refined musician, who broadcast from
time to time with a chamber orchestra
he had formed, engaging some of the
best players in London. The then first
flute of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra
(RPO), Gerald Jackson, was one of them.
After having undertaken a number of
broadcasts under this conductor’s direction,
and since he was Chairman of the RPO’s
orchestral committee at the time, he
recommended to the management that Mr
B... might perhaps be given the opportunity
to conduct the RPO.
At the
first rehearsal Mr B. was introduced
as ‘An Artist and a Gentleman’. No doubt
this was true. What was not announced
was the fact that he was also a rather
poor conductor. This became evident
very soon. In fact almost immediately
he started to rehearse Manfred Overture,
by Schumann. The overture begins with
a bar requiring four quick beats in
a fast tempo. The first beat is silent.
Several attempts at starting the overture
did not inspire confidence that the
concert was likely to begin well.
At the
concert Mr B. came onto the platform,
took his bow, turned to the orchestra,
looked round, giving everyone the benefit
of his tremendously toothy smile, and
swiftly brought the baton down. There
was no upbeat and the movement of the
baton then or subsequently gave no indication
of the tempo. The sound of 85 musicians
playing very loudly at 85 different
speeds, even for a short time, is to
be avoided. Fortunately, after the first
bar there is a pause, when it was possible
for the orchestra to regroup itself,
before proceeding into calmer waters
at a slower and more dignified pace.
For some years to come the phrase ‘An
Artist and a Gentleman’ was a Royal
Philharmonic Orchestra euphemism for
someone seriously lacking in ability.
Reginald
Goodall continued to be the Wessex orchestras
most frequent conductor. He had joined
Oswald Mosley’s Fascist party before
the war and he and his wife had made
themselves unpopular by distributing
pamphlets for their chosen cause. He
had intense admiration for German culture
in general and German music in particular.
He had studied in Germany, and been
very influenced by Wilhelm Furtwängler,
whose readings of Beethoven and Wagner
he greatly admired. He was a very serious
musician of considerable integrity,
and I learned a lot from him, especially
in the classical repertoire. But at
that time he was not a very agreeable
man. He never appeared satisfied with
anything he conducted, quite often returning
only once to take a bow, even when the
audience showed evident approval and
continued to applaud. He also seemed
unable to show any pleasure or positive
response however hard the orchestra
tried to satisfy his wishes.
It must
have been about thirty years later that
I played for him again. One of the clarinettists
in the Royal Opera House Orchestra had
fallen ill and I had been called in
at the last moment to replace him in
a performance of Die Meistersinger
by Wagner. Goodall had established
a considerable reputation as a conductor
of Wagner’s operas and was enjoying
some celebrity, after many years of
obscurity. As a result he had become
far more benign. Die Meistersinger
is a very long opera; with Goodall’s
propensity for slow tempi it became
a very long opera indeed.
Composers
have written some of their most inspired
works for solo piano, solo violin, and
solo cello, with orchestral accompaniment.
I soon realised that one of the pleasures
of playing in an orchestra is the opportunity
of performing with outstanding instrumental
soloists, and comparing, and enjoying,
each artist’s interpretation. In general
the standard of the soloists and singers
who came to play or sing with the Wessex
was well above that of the conductors.
This continued to be the case all through
my professional life. I suppose there
are many more good instrumentalists
and singers than conductors.
Two
fine violinists, Albert Sammons and
Eda Kersey, were outstanding; I particularly
remember performances of the Mendelssohn
and Max Bruch Concertos. Later, in the
LPO, I enjoyed playing a number of other
concertos with them.
Then, as now, piano concertos
were the most frequent solo items in our
programmes. The Tchaikovsky No.1, the
Beethoven Concertos Nos. 3, 4, and 5 –
No.5 especially – Rakhmaninov 2, the Grieg
Concerto, and the Warsaw Concerto
were the most popular. The last of these
has virtually disappeared, though during
the war and for a the next few years it
was immensely popular. Every orchestra
included it in their programmes – it was
a ‘must’ on Saturday nights – and it could
also be heard in a variety of arrangements.
Written by Richard Addinsell for the film
Dangerous Moonlight in 1941, he
expanded it later into a very short, romantic,
one movement concerto, in a style sometimes
called ‘film-Rakhmaninov’. It was most
often played by Eileen Joyce. I wonder
how many times she must have played it?
I recall a great many performances,
first with the Wessex, and then with the
LPO and she
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will also have played it many more times
elsewhere. She was a good pianist, very
popular, and marketed extremely well,
something practically unheard of then.
She usually played one piece in the first
half of the programme, the Grieg, or Rach.
2 (the musicians’ abbreviation), and the
Warsaw Concerto in the second half.
She always wore a different coloured dress
in each half. They were usually frilly
and had an inviting décolletage.
They gave her a film-starry glamour and
that somehow spurious sexiness that seemed
to be the style of the ‘forties’.
Cyril
Smith dazzled us with his virtuosity
– our own British Horowitz, we thought
then – though it was rather brittle
and lacking in warmth. Moura Lympany
delighted us with her brilliance and
charm, and Moiseiwitsch, though no longer
in his prime technically, brought musical
insight and beauty of tone to everything
he played. Here was an artist one never
tired of hearing.
Music
and playing the clarinet remained my
over riding preoccupation though I was
not unaware of members of the opposite
sex. During the nine months I was on
tour with the Wessex I had formed an
attachment with the young lady who was
the principal oboist. She had also been
at the Royal College of Music, but as
she was several years older than I was,
and in her final year when I arrived
at College, we had only met once or
twice at College orchestra rehearsals.
Amongst many other attractive qualities
she had red hair, and wore a vivid green
fake-fur coat, a combination that I
found both dramatic and irresistible.
Later she became my wife, and together
we produced two splendid daughters.
She
was far more worldly-wise and informed
than I was. Indeed, I hardly knew what
day of the week it was, being preoccupied
with playing the clarinet. I knew nothing
of the Musicians’ Union; indeed, I had
only a vague idea of its existence.
I certainly did not know that if I wanted
to be a professional musician I needed
to join, because members of the Union
– and all professional musicians were
members – were not allowed to play with
non-members. She took me up to the London
Branch Office, nominated me, and saw
to it that I paid my first year’s subscription.
Having
made sure that I was now persona grata
as far as the profession was concerned,
she suggested that I should try for
another, better job. After nearly nine
months ‘on the road’ I had become rather
dissatisfied with the continual touring,
and some of the less satisfactory performances
we gave. But I had no idea of what else
might be available, and I didn’t think
I was really good enough for anything
much better. On my own initiative I
would not have considered taking the
step she now initiated. She said I must
write to the London Philharmonic Orchestra.
She dictated what I should write, and
she saw that I sent it off. In due course
I received a reply asking me to arrange
an appointment to meet Mr Haines, the
Assistant Secretary, at the LPO offices
in Welbeck Street. When I met him, to
my great surprise, he asked if I would
be free to play with the LPO for three
weeks as second clarinet, starting on
the 9th of May. Of course, I did make
myself available, and thereby took another
step forward; a step that was to shape
the rest of my life.
Chapter
6
