Essay 3: A Bandsman’s Story

Essay 3 in a group of autobiographical essays - this one dealing with my musical career.

Essay 3:  A Bandsman’s Story

Music is a great art: and its production, a passionate craft…

 

I left Woolbrook Secondary Modern School in December 1958 " a couple of weeks shy of my 15^th birthday.  At school, I’d never had the remotest interest in music, nor could I read a note of the hieroglyphic musical score; what’s more I didn’t even know my Sousa from my Gilbert and Sullivan.  Unusually perhaps, for a teenager, I didn’t even have much of an interest in pop music.  In summary, I was a total musical dork!  Apart from perhaps a carnival procession or some official occasion on TV, I doubt if I’d even been within spitting distance of a brass band " let alone understood what one was; or what belonging to a band entailed!  Looking back, one wonders how brass-banding and music ever took me by the hand, to accompany me throughout a very nomadic life?  I had never ‘joined’ anything in my life.  I was, and probably still am, a fairly distant person, a loner; definitely not the gregarious or ‘joining’ type!   

 

Chris Beavis and I had grown up pretty much within the confines of Oak Tree Square, our ‘territory’ in Manstone Avenue " which is a large English council-house estate.  I’d started work, age 14 yrs, in December 1958, immediately after the end of the final school term, and a couple of weeks before my 15^th birthday, on the 29^th of December.  January 1959 rolled around, I was back at work and Chris, a little younger, was still on school holidays.  

 

Dinner over, after work, I wandered out into the Square, to see who was about.  The street was strangely deserted; I wondered where Chris could possibly be.  It turned out his father had ‘joined him up’ to the Sidmouth Town Band!  HELL!

 

The exact series of events leading to the bandroom escape me, but I think Chris suggested I tag along with him to see what it was all about.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained; the next time Chris cycled off to the bandroom, I went also. 

 

Our destination was about half a mile cycle ride from home.  The bandroom itself - reached by a flight of worn mossy wooden stairs - was a picture postcard, wooden thatched building; overlooking the ‘Byes’ " as it does to this day. 

The actual ‘bandroom’ was small, little more than an over-sized garden shed.  The room was cluttered with a variety of music stands and old chairs.  An untidy framework of wooden orange boxes and makeshift shelves filled the far wall; these we learned were home to the Band’s sheet music library. 

 

The room was cold; the late afternoon sun highlighted the mote filled air. 

A sly winter wind filtered through the open studwork and roughly fitted wooden slat exterior.  Grimy windows, bare board floor, and a worn chalkboard reminded me somehow of my recent escape from academia.  Overall, it was a very depressing introduction to the musician’s world.  Most disturbingly, I still found anything even vaguely suggestive of school, and the regimentation which was always so difficult to handle, much to my dislike. 

 

An elderly white-haired gent " introduced as Mr Derbyshire " (George) " welcomed us warmly enough.  He was an odd little character with a north-country accent that sounded very foreign to our broad local Devonshire dialect.  To add to the verbal amalgam, George also had a pronounced stutter.  I recall, he looked badly shaven, particularly on his top lip.  You could tell he was in charge because he had a little pointed stick " I later learned was called a baton.  

 

George seemed friendly enough; he weighed me up, possibly wishing for someone who looked a little more promising.  He looked thoughtful as he turned to sort through the assortment of terribly battered black cases, piled unceremoniously beneath the bench.  Eventually he emerged triumphant with a decrepit, badly tarnished relic of a cornet; complete with scruffy case to match.  The ancient flat mouthpiece was pitted and bruised, as was the instrument’s tubing.  Dried out, worn valve and spit key corks caused the valves to rattle and the spit key to leak.  A strange stale, unwashed smell, emanated from the abused ‘beginner’s instrument’. Oh dear " not the most salubrious start.  Chris hadn’t fared any better " we ended up with matching battered relics.

 

Mr Derbyshire had one thing in his favour " as I suspect he might already have realised " I’d never laid eyes, or hands, on a musical instrument in my entire life.  The only cornet I’d ever come across, I’d eaten before it melted! 

We were instructed, I remember, not to pull the slides out without first depressing the valves " although I can’t remember if it was ever explained why we shouldn’t do this.  The obvious result if one pulled the slide rapidly from the instrument was a loud ‘pop’.  Perhaps the pop was not conducive to producing harmonious musical notes " this as it turned out was nearer the truth than I realised.  Anyway, at the beginning, all that information was academic because the thing I was provided didn’t actually come apart; hence its obnoxious effluvia.    

 

Being a newly employed apprentice plumber, the challenge of dismantling a length of obstinate brass tubing, soldering and repairing various parts of it, then restoring the whole thing to some semblance of its former glory, was undertaken with great relish.  Not that I was aware of ‘what exactly’ its former glory might have been!  Nevertheless, as the black tarnish came off, it revealed the once high quality, heavy silver plating, hidden beneath.  The actual engraved bell of the instrument, once I’d polished it, became a thing of sparkling beauty.  Again Chris was lucky because his father was a plumber, and we in fact both worked for the same local firm.  Needless to say " Les " Chris’s dad " had been lumbered with the job of restoring his relic.

 

Restored or not, trying to get a note out of the bloody thing was another story altogether " fffoooooofffffff " a big straight blow, produced nothing but " fffoooooofffffff.  At home I’d managed a few bubbling noises, which I soon discovered were left over water from my enthusiastic cleaning session.  The boiling water I’d initially siphoned through the instrument had expelled some of the foulest looking basic life forms I had ever seen.  Black, jelly-like, stinking substances!  This stuff had somehow transferred from a former player’s spittle to emerge, alien-like, in my washbowl.  OH YUK!  Welcome to the world of brass banding!

 

Never mind; dear old George was justifiably proud of the efforts to restore the gleaming wrecks to working order and soon had us working in a small junior group under his enthusiastic baton.  His instruction was, sadly, pretty basic.  The main objective seems to have been to get us boys into the 3^rd cornet positions as soon as possible.  First though, how to get a ‘mooooo’ instead of a ‘fffoooooofffffff’!  ‘

 

“SPIT " blow raspberries " ‘CHRISSSSTTTTT”, he yelled " which turned out to be George’s favourite stuttered expletive!  The baton waved impatiently; the blasphemies grew or subsided with his frustration levels.  All in all, it was quite good fun.  Loud farting noises gradually became recognizable as ‘musical notes’ " even though I use that term advisedly. 

 

Daily practice continued at home in my bedroom.  My father, not always one to encourage my life’s endeavours, complained bitterly about a cow being murdered upstairs.   Still I persisted " bottom ‘C’ to middle ‘G’ being the first major hurdle. 

F-A-C-E, learnt off by heart, E-G-B-D-F, likewise; this is a ‘stave’, and this black dot with a stick is a crotchet.  A whole new representational codified world opened up in front of me.  Melodic sound " represented by ink - on paper.  Who can forget those first few weeks of introduction to the sweet secret world of the musician?

 

“Good, good”, stammered George in the bandroom " his stick waving happily as he coached his merry little group.  As soon as we could ‘play’ middle ‘C’, we were assured, ‘we could be in the band’.  And so it was…

 

Apart from Chris, another childhood mate, Ken, who was a month older than me, also started band about the same time.  Some other boys joined " and left fairly soon; the reality and rigours of banding obviously not being ‘their thing’. 

 

And so, in a way, three young boys who had grown up together, moved forward into the adult world as a developing group with a unified purpose " to annoy the crap out of adults, and discover the joys of producing a wide variety of music.  More importantly, we learned how to be part of something worthwhile within the local community; something intrinsically fulfilling and mentally stimulating.

 

Sidmouth Town Band in those days " at the end of the 1950s into 60s " was strictly a working class male domain.  I wouldn’t have known if females played in other bands throughout the country, but Sidmouth certainly didn’t have female players at that time.  The very idea of having women in the room would have seemed an affront and almost objectionable " not simply as players either " but as part of the exclusively very male companionship. 

In fairness, those were a group of men, many of them ex-services, who still had raw memories of World War II.  Some of them certainly would have remembered World War I, and grown up during the desperate 1930 Depression years.  The fabric of that culture is as foreign to today’s society as any other forgotten ‘historical culture’.  Historical stories can be retold " but historical lives cannot be relived in their crude, often savage, reality.  Suffice to say, the dedicated members of the Sidmouth Band " or any similar group of the same period - stood apart as working men.  They were the working male intellectual elite in their own right.  They wouldn’t have seen themselves as such " but compared to the ‘man in the street’, metaphorically, they stood head and shoulders apart.

 

On band practice nights, the crowded smoke-filled room rumbled to happy male chatter, cussing and swearing, or worse, the deadly male fart!  Whoops " excuse me " cheesy grin!  How would it be possible to fully enjoy such a convivial male atmosphere with ‘ladies’ in the room? 

 

Men " men’s stories " men’s behavior, which the presence of women is guaranteed to restrain " men’s arguments and their ability to clear the air, or make a substantial point, with an instant profanity " the maleness of banding in its primeval glory would change forever once women were accepted into the fold.  And so it was " this was how it had always been; the male bastion of brass banding. 

 

Once elevated to the 3^rd cornet line I quickly discovered that getting a note out of an instrument was a minor challenge, compared to that of getting a note played at all once the whole band was playing!  Trying to read music at the same speed as everyone else was impossible.  Understanding the musical terminology was like learning a foreign language " well, it was Italian anyway!  Understanding dynamics " loud and soft, piano and forte!  Timing and trying to watch the conductor whilst reading sheet music; producing a complimentary note in harmony with the rest of the band, all added to my frustration!  And then some bright spark decided to introduce sharps and flats!  Just when you think you’ve cracked it " more complications!  It was at that early stage, the ‘bad habit of foot tapping to keep time’ crept in.

 

The horror of it all " how I survived I’ll never know.  The worse moments had to be " when the rest of the band stopped " BUT " I played on " PARPPPPP!  We all did it! The embarrassment!  “Tut-tut " Chrissttttt” and a sideways glare from George ensured it didn’t happen again.  The sad part was, I didn’t actually try to play that particular part again - ever!  Silence was golden, and you didn’t get glared at!  The idea of a mentor, as such, didn’t exist in our early playing days; it was sink or swim " ‘parp’- or be silent!

 

There were lighter moments, especially when one of the adults copped the abuse.  Our ancient drummer, Reg, wore a frequently whistling, antique hearing aid.  The heavy wires that ran from his oversized red ears, ended up at a large box device in his top pocket.  To stop the whistling, Reg had to fiddle with knobs on the black box to adjust the volume.  No problem with that really, except, Reg was the only one who couldn’t actually hear the whistling!  When the hearing aid started playing up; it was guaranteed to send George into a stuttering fury " and send Reg scrambling madly for his volume control.

 

Slowly but surely, that first winter of practice nights passed, and with each night, twice a week, Wednesday and Friday evenings, we improved.  The overpowering sound of a brass band with upward of 30 men and boys, producing music, full belt, compressed into that tiny wooden box of a room, became a fundamental part of our evolving world.  Most nights were all business, unless you include the night Chris and I engineered a stink bomb to get crushed as the next unfortunate person entered the door.  Oh boy " that joke didn’t go down too well.  The smell of rotten eggs pervaded the room all night long " and we couldn’t keep the silly smirks off our faces.

 

With the approaching summer season it was necessary to get kitted out with a musty-smelling black serge band uniform.  The black military styled coat with its multitude of brass buttons.  Brass pocket buttons " brass buttons down the front " brass buttons and gold stripes on the sleeves all topped off with gold epaulettes at the shoulders.  Completing the outfit was a stiff-peaked cap, with yet more gold braiding; a hat that sat on the head like a large wobbly pea on a drum.  How over-dressed was it possible to be?

At 5’6”, I’ve never had a pair of trousers that fitted me!   That was the easy part; Mum came to the rescue " as always " and took them up.  The coat wasn’t too bad, the sleeves might have been a bit long " but when you’re playing an instrument that didn’t really bother you anyway.  The bugger of the thing was all those badly tarnished, green brass buttons!  Luckily, Dad still had his old army button stick, which I gratefully used when polishing the buttons; thus avoiding getting Brasso all over the black material. 

 

The interlocking brass buckle on the coat belt " would have been the envy of anyone with a buckle fetish!  Last, but not least " and probably most fiddly - was the hat badge!  The badge had a split pin that slid though two hoops on its back, tucked inside behind the hat band.  The badge itself consisted of a silver lyre on ‘gold’ backing and was a bit of a challenge to clean. 

 

When the cleaning was finished however, the overall results were magnificent, especially on a sunny day.  BLING-BLING " 1960’s style! Everything was so " well " 1960’s and kitsch!  Naturally, the whole affair tarnished again very quickly in the crisp sea air.  The chore became ongoing and tended to lapse badly once the novelty had worn off.  Cycling down the street to a concert or walking around in public in this garish uniform had its predictable effect.  You felt conspicuous " you were conspicuous " and whilst you gained the anonymity of a uniform, you lost your own hard won individuality.  Well " you did until recognised by other teenagers " but that’s another story.

 

Having roughly mastered the instrument, been fitted out with the uniform and gained a modicum of confidence, it was time to perform in public!  Oh hell!  Another unforeseen challenge!  Why " when you could play notes in the bandroom " did the spit refuse to flow in public?  Why did the lips refuse to comply with mental commands?  Why only dry rasping silence instead of off-beats emitting from the shiny bell?  Stage fright; something else to get over!  In general though, sitting on stage, the focus of rapt audience attention, proved to be quite exhilarating.  Eventually, mind did take command over matter, and normal service was resumed twixt brain, mouth and mouthpiece. 

There were still the bloopers, wrong notes, the occasional over-enthusiastic " PARP " where only silence should have been " but hey " that’s how we learnt.

I loved performing at the Connaught Gardens, and have carried a mental image of that setting and time in my head, all around the world for many years.  A stirring opening march always moved the musical program swiftly into action; those two-part concerts, with a short intermission.  We played a well rehearsed, varied program of light music, always concluding with a final beautiful hymn. 

 

How could anyone forget Ketelby’s ‘Bells across the Meadow’; the crystal clear tones of Albert’s Cornet, echoing across the peaceful gardens? The cornet accompanied by the mellifluous Euphonium " played by chubby Les Glade.  And, of course, Reg - dear deaf drummer - Reg " with ‘bird whistle’, and tubular bells, completed that unforgettable musical picture.  In the distance, away across the gardens, the white, wooden clock-tower, striking the hour as the sun went down.  Those beautiful summer memories will stay with me forever.

 

The smell of the sea, the vibrant flowerbeds, trees, and canvas council deckchairs, filled with appreciative audiences; often I’m sure undeserved.  The stage at the Gardens in those days was open and not overly complimentary to the sound of the band.  Later, a roof was fitted, and the acoustics improved greatly; if a shower came by, only the audience got wet.  The wind could still be a problem, so, common or garden washing line pegs were always the order of the day.

 

Our other regular weekly performance venue in later years was the Blackmore Gardens " in the centre of Sidmouth town.  Whilst a little more urban, it was nevertheless an equally tranquil, protected spot.  All these special places spring to mind when I think back to those early days. 

 

The Band’s diary was forever full.  We eagerly looked forward to such unmissable annual events as Lady Cruickshank’s charity garden party, held at Windmill House, her private residence on Hillside Road.  These days such events would be viewed as something out of the TV series, ‘Midsomer Murders’, but they were grist to the mill in the Sidmouth town of that era. 

As a bandsman, they also provided experience of playing in different environments.  The most noticeable result of performing at Windmill House was brought about by ‘playing on grass’.  The band always set up on the lawn; a combination of being outside " on grass " and quite literally amongst the crowd, made the band sound " at least to our ears - diminutive.  Playing was noticeably harder work.

 

Nevertheless, such occasions always had something positive going for them, and this one was no different.  It was renowned for the chance to fill your face with luscious, delicate, triangular sandwiches and a cup of tea " or some other equally non-alcoholic beverage.  I didn’t really know the financial business of the band in those days, but can only assume the band funds would have been suitably remunerated for such services.  In any event, Lady Cruickshank loved the band, and I’m sure she was a long-time patron.

 

Those first few years passed so quickly.  Band life and the rest of my life back then were in two very separate compartments.   As a typical teenager, I was fairly rebellious and busy trying to establish myself as an ‘individual’ in the wider pub n’ pop world.  The local pubs became the hub of my Jekyll and Hyde social life.  I had a group of ‘rougher’ uncouth acquaintances who knew little or nothing of my tranquil ‘brass band life’. 

 

Saturday nights at the Sidmouth Manor Pavilion, a dance hall back then " with its raucous Rock n’ Roll bands " became a regular event.  Fights, drunkenness and vandalism were nothing unusual for me in those days.  And yet, none of that delinquent behavior seemed to touch or influence my precious ‘brass band life’ or its gentle associations. 

 

Chris left school and became an apprentice carpenter.  Ken worked at the Belmont Hotel, as an assistant porter.  My job as an ‘apprentice’ plumber was a bit of a farce, as I spent more time working on my own, doing small plumbing jobs within my capacity than I spent actually ‘learning’ my trade with a plumber.  There are many facets to life, but none of them develop in total isolation. 

 

‘Brass banding’ added an aspect to my life experiences that made me a little more like those ‘elite working men’, of whom I spoke earlier.  There was a budding intellectual side to my character that others my age didn’t have.  I started to understand music and musical history.  Our band programs always contained selections from the big musicals of the day " ‘My Fair Lady’ " ‘Student Prince’ " ‘Showboat’ " ‘Porgy and Bess’.  Composers and arrangers, such as Rogers and Hammerstein " Eric Ball " Ord Hume " Gilbert and Sullivan and countless others, became common knowledge to me.  The foundations of my wide musical predilections were laid at that time. 

 

Overtures, such as Nebuchadnezzar " Orpheus in the Underworld " and William Tell, to name but a few, swiftly became firm favourites.  Marches " hymns " waltzes " polkas " an endless list; unfamiliar to my peers " and unfamiliar even to my own family!   If only I had realised at the time the value of what I was getting " perhaps I would have tried to make even more of that wonderful experience.  Instead, I simply accepted what was happening as a normal part of everyday life " as we all do I guess.  On reflection, brass banding enriched my life beyond anything I had experienced thus far.  I still practiced at home, but tended to use a mute, cutting down as much as possible on domestic annoyances.  Mum and Dad never attended band concerts, and their interest in my musical progress was practically non-existent.  Mum continued press my trousers and kept me looking tidy " what more could any young bloke ask!

 

On a more practical level, although too much time has passed to recall the exact details; I remember a proposal being made about lining the inside studwork of that sparse bandroom, making it a tad more civilised.  Who else was involved I can’t recall, nor can I recall my exact contribution " except to say that I was a part of that project.  Over a period of a few short weeks, we transformed the inside of the bare studwork, into a respectable looking white walled ‘room’ in the true sense.  The results of that transformation not only made the room more comfortable for the coming winter practice sessions, but totally altered the acoustics of the room.  I think perhaps the neighbouring houses also appreciated the deadening effect our efforts had on the local ambiance.

 

The new playing experiences continued as the time passed.  Most notably, I found a pet dread " one that remained with me throughout the years and across the world.  Playing on the march was definitely not my preferred pursuit; I quite literally hated it!  Marching bands practice marching.  Sidmouth Brass Band was quite plainly a concert band.  We sat on seats, and we played concerts " that’s what we practiced. 

 

However, civic duty dictated we attend events such as Remembrance Day parades, and the local annual carnival procession.  If I had the choice, I’d have to say carnival processions were more preferable than Remembrance parades " simply because carnival processions were evening events.  At least one didn’t have to worry too much about being in step!  However, night marches did present an additional hazard; they required a battery-pack and light clip to illuminate the music.  The lights were all homemade affairs " insulation tape, wire, soldered to bulb holder, all attached to a large paper clip.  I remember my first daytime march " a Remembrance Day " and not having a lyre (a music holder that fitted to the instrument). 

 

After a quick panicked trip to the bandroom, we found a likely looking candidate; with shaking fingers, I attempted to fit the lyre into the bracket on the cornet " it was too big!  As always, the practical aspects of my life came into play.  A swift bit of filing removed enough excess brass to allow the oversized lyre end to fit more snugly home.  Well, nearly snugly!  The filed down lyre was in fact a little round and a little wobbly.  Anyone who has marched with an instrument up " and music about nine inches at the maximum " in front of their nose, will know that reading music and marching are difficult enough without any extra movement.  By the time the march is finished, your head is aching, and your eyes are going around like loose ball bearings.  And so it was " left " right " left " right " wobble-wobble here and wobble-wobble there. 

 

You’re out of step " a harsh whisper from behind.  Hop " double skip " you’re still out of step!  F**k off " the thought flashed automatically through my mind!  In step " the beat of the drum ensuring a correct left " right " left " right!  The band master’s directions filtered back " a corner approached!  Right " left " right " left!  Oh S**T!  What’s happened now?  As the band wheeled around the corner " those on the inside had to shorten step, whilst those on the outside had to lengthen theirs. 

Why do people have non-standard legs anyway?  It didn’t matter much on which side I happened to be " I never did master the art of marching in straight lines " let alone around corners.

 

Any Sidmouth band member back in the 60’s would recall with great amusement the night of one the longest carnival procession I have ever had the misfortune to attend.  As any foot-weary shopper will tell you, Exeter is a very hilly city.  It also had the longest carnival route I had ever experienced up until that time " and possibly since.  Just getting to Exeter in those days was a major undertaking.  The (slow) coach journey took a good hour or more to travel the narrow, meandering country roads.

 

It would have been around October time " the usual carnival season.  The nights had drawn in and a winter chill was evident.  Being a large regional centre, the old Roman city always put on one of the larger carnival processions held across the county.  That year was no exception.  Previously, there had been some discussion amongst the men in the bandroom about the practicalities of attending the Exeter parade due to the logistics involved.  No doubt some of the older and wiser band members were also aware of the extraordinary distance the march covered!  To us younger members, it was all just another adventure.

 

Arriving in Exeter, we unpacked ourselves from the coach, forming up in our allotted parade position; there we waited impatiently to be marshalled off.  There was some idle chatter amongst us about the fact the position directly in front of us was occupied by a number of very large, frisky police horses.  It goes without saying, as the march progressed " the police horses were not polite horses.  As we marched, I could see in my peripheral vision the ranks of players in front of me either split left and right or, alternatively, rise upwards several inches!  The smell of fresh horse dung filled the air and caused great mirth in the ranks; not very helpful when you’re trying to march and play.  The laughter and smell soon dissipated as we plodded on " up hill and down dale!  The nonstop march was exhausting and the band was sounding very tired by parade end; the thud " thud " thud of the solitary bass drum barely keeping us in step.  At last we turned into a side street and the carnival parade finally terminated. 

 

As a group we gathered tiredly under a yellow, sodium street lamp in the cold autumn night.  Sighs, grunts and groans filled the air as various players off-loaded their instruments.  The bass drummer gladly unstrapped his load as did the other larger instruments.  Les Glade, our portly euphonium player, could be heard above the din, bemoaning the fact that his instrument had seemingly put on weight. 

He removed his peaked hat and a cloud of condensation visibly filled the cool night air above his shiny bald head; causing everyone to laugh.  Sweat streaked his face.  Around his steaming forehead a band of blue dye, transferred from inside his hat, stood out as if permanently tattooed in place.  As he placed his euphonium carefully on the pavement he looked down and swore loudly!  We turned to see him pulling a music stand from the bell of his instrument.  “Bugger; I didn’t know that was there!”  Renewed laughter echoed across the street, lifting our flagging spirits.  The music stand, you must appreciate, wasn’t the average light-weight version.  It was one of the older, very sturdy types, built to last and take a beating.  Les’s habit of carrying his stand in euphonium bell backfired well and truly that night.

 

Everyone’s favourite time of year was Christmas.  In the fortnight run up to the Christmas holiday break the band was out every night carol-playing.  The fortnight was always full-on with formal and informal engagements.  We traipsed the streets from Bickwell Valley to Manstone Avenue.  We played in the market square, pubs, private houses, hotels, the local hospital and old folk’s home; we played from Sidmouth to Sidford and Sidbury. We even ventured halfway to Seaton to play outside the Three Horseshoes pub; where one year it was so cold the tenor trombone slide froze solid.  The landlord took pity on us and invited us inside to play.  From then on we played inside that pub every year.

 

Always singled out for special attention was Lady Cruickshank " who had mince-pies and a large donation ready for the proffered black donation box.  The Sidmouth Cottage Hospital always got a visit, where we played a restrained selection for those unfortunate enough to be stuck in hospital over the festive season.  Several of the larger hotels were also on the ‘special list’ " as those were also extremely generous with their Christmas donations.  Bert Pike, who owned Cotmaton House, was on the local council and a patron of the band, always received an exclusive visit. 

Bert’s place was a really seasonal turn-out because the port and sherry would always make a welcome appearance.  Once the carols were over, everyone was too inebriated to play " so it was wisely always a last call.

 

Perhaps, one of the most special venues for me personally was our visit, usually on Christmas Eve, to 101 Manstone Avenue; I then lived at 102.  Our neighbours were the Gosling family " Wally, a postman, was one of the Band’s summer collectors; and Winnie, his wife, one of our greatest fans.  Imagine, maybe 20 or more bandsmen gathered in the 12’ x 12’ front room of a Manstone council house " where a family of four usually fell over each other.  Men " instruments " furniture and the Gosling family " all crammed in together.  Then came the requests " and off we would go to quite literally raise the roof.  Mince pies and warming port " followed by more enthusiastic carols; the more filled with Christmas spirit we became, the greater the passion was reflected in the carol playing. 

 

Not to end this short tale on a mercenary note; but in truth, the greatest incentive to carol playing was not simply the conveyance of seasonal goodwill " but the financial reward at the end of each night.  I’m sure the band funds saw some growth " but on the other hand " for men who never took a penny at any other time of the year " Christmas was always a welcome chance to earn a few extra pounds.  For us boys " even at a reduced rate " the financial donations were gratefully accepted as a Christmas gift, without question.

 

There is an aspect to all organisations that exposes the uglier side of human nature: politics.  At work or at play, group dynamics have their part.  Meek and compliant members fall victim to the power-hungry; the over-bearing types, who enforce their will on the whole group.  The same power-hungry people inevitably hold individually powerful positions within the group.  Such is the nature of all factions " brass bands being no exception.  Albert, the principal cornet, was the first example of this sort of disagreeable behaviour I had ever experienced.  Whilst I would not speak ill of the dead " his actions were instructive to anyone open to learning the ways of men.  Likewise " the reactions of others to such behaviour were a consummate example of how to cope with selfish disruptive behaviour when it occurs.

 

Albert, an ex-Salvation Army band member, was without doubt a top-notch musician.  The only problem was " he knew it.  As with many of his ilk, he was prepared to use his unique position to coerce and bully the band to achieve his own selfish ends.  He thought himself absolutely indispensable.  Whilst the exact details of Albert’s demise elude me, they are of no real importance.  The significance of those events lay only in their resolution and how they changed the history of Sidmouth Town Silver Band forever.

 

Albert had been imposing his wishes on the committee and the band for a long time.  He occasionally directed his vitriol towards the 2^nd and 3^rd cornet lines " which in turn provoked a negative reaction from us boys.  In the end even we younger band members picked up the bad vibes that resonated amongst the older members.  Something was going to happen " but what?  Everyone knew that if Albert’s latest bluff were called, he could withdraw from the band.  That would spell disaster; no one had the requisite musical skills to replace him.  A dilemma of magnificent proportions faced the band " a veritable black hole opened before us like a yawning chasm!

 

Maurice Gooding was Albert’s frontline backup, and although a stoic character, he was no match for Albert’s natural musical talent; more importantly, he was the first to admit his technical musical failings.  If one looked for a model of ‘meek and mild’ amongst band committee members, Maurice would seem the outstanding example.  However - and herein a lie a lesson " Maurice was in fact a powerful force to be reckoned with.  His singular devotion to the welfare of the band and its ultimate fate was without par.  No doubt he could foresee the dark days ahead " but for the greater good - he stood up to Albert and his over-bearing nonsense.  Of course " as predicted " Albert took great umbrage to being challenged.  In his utter arrogance, he packed his cornet and left; leaving behind a vacant Principal Cornet seat and a sense of doom and depression.  Knowing and expecting the consequences, Maurice stepped forward and filled the principal cornet position.  Whilst his natural thin playing tone left much to be desired " his courage and passion were indisputable.  Lesson one: no one is indispensable.

 

Again there are gaps in my memory, but around this time, and sort of interconnected, George the conductor also departed the scene.  At one point, Albert returned for a short period " but nothing was ever quite the same again.  A new conductor was required, as was a new principal cornet.  Enter Garth Reece " a Welshman - of outstanding musical talents " both as a player and later as a conductor.  Garth also brought with him the Welsh passion par excellence for both music and showmanship.  His infectious humour and his natural bubbling ebullience lifted everyone’s spirits.  He injected new life into a badly flagging organisation.  Yet another lesson for everyone " even when the world looks really dark " just around the corner lies a new and brighter day.

 

One could reminisce forever about the various characters that comprised the band in those days " for each and every one had an important story to tell.  However, for me, Bill Tyrell, the flugelhorn player, stood out and merits special mention.  Bill was just an ordinary very imperfect human being.  He appeared reserved and at times even morose " but in fact could be extremely funny.  He had a contagious laugh and a dry sense of humour.  Bill was very clever in his own right, (possibly a genius) holding a responsible position in an Ottery St Mary factory, and teaching mathematics as a private tutor in his spare time.  Sadly, he also had a darker side that unfolded before our eyes as time passed.

 

Bill liked a drink " as many bandsmen did, and still do!  I recall, for example, one Christmas, Bill, driving his black Ford Anglia " with three forward gears and a side-valve engine - transporting a group of us younger players out to Sidbury.  Unbeknownst to us, Bill, as usual, had had a few tipples.  His driving was erratic " and a cause of great mirth to us innocence passengers.  As we approached Sidford Cross, on the downhill run " Bill accelerated flat out.  He was probably only doing 50 MPH " but nevertheless, he was well outside the 30 MPH speed limit.  At the bottom of the hill the HALT sign loomed large; Bill never noticed.  If he did, he chose to ignore it completely.  We screamed with delight and fear as Bill’s car hurtled across the main road at the crossing without even slowing.  An angel must have been watching over us because there was nothing coming the other way " not even Santa’s sleigh!  Over time Bill’s general behaviour became even more erratic and unpredictable.  He was often missing from band practice.  Tales abounded about Bill being in and out of mental hospital " of Bill losing his daytime employment " of Bill losing control of his life.  Now and again, he would turn up at band " each time a little more disheveled.  His car disappeared to be replaced by an old rusty bicycle.  He lost his job at the factory, and found alternative employment " as a dish washer in a local hotel.  Instead of beer, Bill sunk to drinking cheap cider.  His life became a total mess.

 

One day Bill simply disappeared off the face of the earth.  No one could find him or account for his movements.  We learned he was suffering from, what in those days, was called manic-depression.  Today we call it bi-polar disorder.  The mystery of Bill’s departure remained unsolved for many years " but as with most mysteries - his disappearance was eventually explained quite simply.  Fed up with life and no doubt at his wit’s end, he had taken himself off to the top of Salcombe Hill.  There he had lain under an overhanging hedgerow " taken a bottle of pills and committed suicide.  His skeleton and scant remains were found many years later.  So ended the life of a real local character, a bandsman; RIP Bill.  Thanks for the memory.

 

My life moved on eventually too.  I married a local girl " my first wife " a disaster of unmentionable proportions.  Banding became one of ‘those things’ that no longer featured highly in my busy new life.  My newly won musical talents and the social lessons I’d learned were all well ingrained " but temporarily redundant.  After a few years that unfortunate marital relationship fell apart and my life moved on once more.

 

In an attempt to eradicate Sidmouth and its raw bad marriage memories from my life, I joined the merchant navy.  During my time at sea, I purchased a shiny brass trumpet in a feeble attempt to retain some of my musical skills.  I needn’t have bothered; my shipmates were neither particularly musical, nor appreciative of my mournful solos.  Disenchanted, the trumpet gathered dust and verdigris.

 

As with all dark periods " a new day did eventually arrive.  I met and remarried - a young Australian lady.  In 1978, and we settle in Chard " Somerset.  Just down the road from our house in, Coronation Street was the old Chard fire station.  From there, on practice nights drifted the familiar discordant sounds of a brass band being put through its paces.  The old feelings were quickly reignited and without further ado, I joined Chard Town Band.  The same camaraderie existed in that band as had existed in Sidmouth.  There were now female players and a noticeable change in male attitudes and manners.  All to the good I’d say on reflection.  It felt good to be back in the exclusive land of musicians.  After some time with Chard band a new musical character entered my life " a Scotsman, Matt Robertson.  Matt joined the band " much as me " an outsider, but with a longer and more illustrious musical history.  Not to put too fine a point on it " politics once more raised its beastly head and Matt decided Chard band was not to his liking.  A clash of personalities was the official line; call it what you will: history has a habit of repeating itself.  At the same time as problems were occurring in Chard band " Sidmouth was once again going through another internal crisis.

 

Chris Beavis and I had remained in touch over the years and my interest in Sidmouth Band’s progress had remained strong.  At that point in time however " Sidmouth once more had desperate need of a new conductor.  Matt Roberson " a fantastic euphonium player in his own right " was also an incredibly talented musical director.  I organised an introduction for him with Sidmouth Band committee, and from there things took their own path; Matt took over the baton at Sidmouth.

 

Recognising Matt for what he was " a musical gift that only passes once in a lifetime " if you are lucky " I followed Matt to Sidmouth and rejoined my old band.  The journey to and from Chard was arduous and demanding, but there followed a wonderful period I can’t even begin to describe.  Many of my old friends were still in the town band, plus a few new faces; I was made to feel instantly welcome. 

 

Matt was a powerhouse and an inspiration.  He injected a similar sense of rebirth into the band as that injected by Garth so many years before him.  As Matt worked himself and the band hard, his sweat fell to the dry wooden floor creating an unmistakable glistening circle of wetness on the worn floorboards.  He took the band right back to utter basics.  Notes picked out and played individually across the whole band to balance the chords.  Dynamics practiced as never before " true ppp " to true fortississimo fff.  No more lazy notes " all notes held to full value.  All notes tongued, crisply, each note attacked correctly with the tongue.  Anyone present would tell you of the awe in which we all held that man.  In my opinion, he took Sidmouth Band through one of its ‘little glory periods’.  Contesting and the Albert Hall in London were once more a real possibility " and the band rose to the challenge perhaps as never before.  If I have any regrets about Sidmouth Town Band, it is being present at the start of practice sessions in preparation for contesting in London under Matt, only to miss out on the major contest.  As a family we had decided to return to my wife’s homeland " Australia.  Our departure date for was booked and we were packed ready to go.  On attending my final practice at Sidmouth, I was presented with a memento - an inscribed pewter pot " which we still have to this day. 

 

We landed in Sydney on Wednesday the 20^th of July, 1988.  My mother-in-law (rest her soul) had booked me in with a local band (she’d do anything to get rid of me).  On Friday the 22^nd of July 1988, two days after arriving " still jet-lagged, - I attended my first band practice night with the City of Holroyd Brass Band " Holroyd being a suburb in Sydney: http://www.holroydbrass.com.au/. 

 

Music is an international language; there’s always a spare seat for a willing player.  One of the great advantages of brass banding quickly became evident " with a little musical knowledge, you can find a band and musician friends just about anywhere in the civilised world. 

 

My time with Holroyd was brief as we only spent ten weeks in the Sydney area before moving inland to the NSW city of Orange, on the Central Tablelands. 

However, my first official engagement with Holroyd was at the Sydney Opera House. 

To say I was thrilled at the prospect of playing at such a celebrated venue was an understatement.  Life, however, has a way of bringing you back to earth with a bump, and making you laugh in the process.  On arriving at the Opera House, we were directed the spot where we would set up. 

 

Imagine my face when I realised we were not playing IN the Opera House, but on the concourse " OUTSIDE the famous venue!  Oh well " close!  From 12,000 miles, I could still honestly say to friends in England " I had played AT the Opera House.

 

Whilst moving to inland New South Wales is a story in its own right " and the subject perhaps of another essay - nevertheless, music is inextricably interwoven throughout its very fabric.

 

Being new to any country tends to produce culture shock.  Even my wife, herself Australian, found returning to her homeland after a ten-year absence quite a shock. 

On arrival in the bush, however, one quickly learns that any urban area in Australia, with a population that exceeds six people, and has a large municipal building " is designated a ‘city’!  So it was with Orange City " population approximately 30,000 souls, if you included the surrounding rural catchment area.  Although incredibly different from Sydney, Orange, nevertheless, had astounding similarities with parochial environments worldwide.  It was full of people who were very ‘clannish’ " and we certainly didn’t automatically fit in. 

 

As a stranger in town, naturally, one of my first calls was to the local brass band " City of Orange Brass Band, where I was welcomed warmly enough into the fold: http://www.facebook.com/pages/City-of-Orange-Brass-Band/211321713278

I guess some might say - when you’ve been in one band you’ve been in them all " but they all have their own charms.  City of Orange Brass was pretty standard as a concert band " similar to Sidmouth in many ways " concerts in the local park, the occasional parade " and a tradition of caroling and rattling the can at Christmas time.  Mind you " playing carols in 35° to 40° c - is not a pleasant experience.  I actually prefer the cold in that instance.  I guess if I had to pick a couple of highlights from my time with Orange band, I would first select our quartet sessions, which were more for sheer pleasure than public entertainment.  Secondly, I finally found my true calling in a brass instrument " the tenor horn.  Apart from a short period on flugelhorn in Sidmouth, after Bill’s mysterious departure, I’d played cornet throughout my musical career.  Changing from a B^b to an E^b instrument, with a bigger mouthpiece, wasn’t too bad " but the increase in my comfortable playing range was astounding.  Also, I was always blessed with a nice natural tone on the cornet; that natural tone was only further enhanced on tenor horn.  I continued to play with Orange for some time, but drama was never far away and before long I was up to my eyes in it again!  Work had been difficult to come by in Orange, which by definition is practically in the outback or ‘bush’.  I had eventually secured a position as a labourer in a local factory.  Unfortunately, then in my mid-40s, my physical condition was starting to wane.  Whilst undertaking a heavy task one afternoon, I ruptured the infamous, L4, L5, S1 disks in my lower back.  That buggered things up for a while, but as always, after the dark comes a brighter day.  Music led directly to that brighter day " and a much brighter future.

 

Our three girls were attending primary school in Orange.  The school had a school band, in which Sheryl, our eldest, played cornet.  Home on sick leave " and in some considerable pain " I decided to forget my woes by offering to help with the school band.  The offer was gladly accepted by the music teacher, Miss Mickle, who was struggling at the time with quite a large group of keen young musicians.  Again, something new entered my life " teaching and sharing the skills of music with the younger generation.  It was wonderful. 

 

As with most musical endeavours one sometimes finds oneself a bit out of one’s depth " but what fun.  School concerts were a laugh, and then in my mid-40s, I had to sit in line with ‘little people’ playing solo and leading the ‘pack’.  Then came the big one " an eisteddfod; those are big events in rural New South Wales.  I found myself not only conducting " but playing both B^b cornet and E^b tenor horn on stage, with small groups of children.  In spite of my wide experience of banding " I had never stood exposed as a soloist on a stage in my entire life.  Remember " the stage fright all those years ago!  Well, regarding playing solos, it was still there " until this particular day on the stage in Orange City Civic Centre.  One minute I was playing cornet with one group " then a quick swap to tenor horn, to stand and play with another group.  No time for stage fright.  I was much too busy concentrating on changing instruments and the complications that arise going from one pitch of brass instrument to the other.  Another first; and a feeling of absolute euphoria; bugger the bad back.

 

A return to reality, the news on my spinal damage wasn’t good.  The specialist delivered his prognosis: no more heavy physical work!  Find a more sedentary career or risk ending up in a wheelchair.  Not a good choice " a rock and a hard place.  As it happened, the principal at the primary school provided the answer I was seeking.  He suggested I go to university and enter the illustrious academic world. 

Hum " some challenge at forty-something!  To cut a long story short " that’s what I did.  After a rocky start as a new immigrant, in 1990 I entered Charles Sturt University " Bathurst: http://www.csu.edu.au/oncampus/accommodation/on-campus/bathurst

 

My first three years were spent gaining the Diploma of Teaching, and then a further year for the Bachelor of Education. Again music was an essential part of the course; we were required to master two musical instruments " guitar and recorder.  Being able to read music put me in a privileged little group, who had an immediate advantage over the less fortunate.  In addition to the coursework requirements, the university had its own orchestra, where I was immediately accepted as a cornet player.  Back to cornet " oh well " it served me well in the past.  Trumpet is more usually played in an orchestra, but in this instance, I had my own instrument " and beggars can’t be choosers. 

 

On completing my studies, we moved from the country back to the metropolitan area outside of Sydney. After a period of casual teaching, I took up a permanent teaching post in the Campbelltown area, in the south-western suburbs of Sydney.  The nearest brass band was Liverpool City " about a 40-minute drive up the road.  This was to be my final brass band.  Not to put too fine a point on it " at that time, Liverpool band left a lot to be desired.  In the first instance, most of the band’s jobs were parades " marching was still not my thing!  In addition, many of the players at that time attended band practice " just for a blow!  I never found ‘just having a blow’, to be very rewarding, nor a really big incentive to attend practice regularly.  Whilst not always achievable, perfection is worth striving for.  The social side of banding was wonderful " but music-making is the ultimate aim.  My dissatisfaction with the general lack of enthusiasm reached frustration point, and after a long association with the brass band world, I finally decided to call it a day.

 

These days, my breathing is not good enough to play a brass instrument, and my fingers are too arthritic to handle guitar or the recorder.  Nowadays, I have to be content to listen to music " and yet hardly even listen to those stirring brass band renditions of old. 

 

Of course, there’s always the Sydney Opera House " which is a wonderful venue on the INSIDE as well as the outside.  We are also very lucky here in Sydney with a wide choice of theatres; my wife and I manage a few shows each year.

 

What would life have been like without music?  I dread to think!  Music was my first love…

                                  

 

On the 29^th of May, 1911, Sir William Schwenck Gilbert - of Gilbert and Sullivan fame - drowned in a lake near his home.  He had been giving swimming lessons to two young ladies when one of them got into difficulties and called for help.  In going to her aid, Gilbert suffered a heart attack in the middle of the lake; he was 74 years old.

 

His memorial on the south wall of the Thames Embankment, in London reads:

“His foe was folly, and his weapon wit.”

 

NOT MANY PEOPLE KNOW THAT!   J 

 

Davy Jones " 29^th May 2011  -  updated December 2015

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Comments are always welcome...

Reviews

[Tevo77777]

"I left Woolbrook Secondary Modern School in December 1958"

I have no idea where this place is.

"Chris Beavis and I had grown up pretty much within the confines of Oak Tree Square, our ‘territory’ in Manstone Avenue " which is a large English council-house estate."

Did you explain in the previous essays where these places were? They could be in South Africa for all I know.

"a north-country accent that sounded very foreign to our broad local Devonshire dialect."

England? I have no idea. Also the baton sounds intimidating, no idea why he would be carrying one.

Wait was this all in Australia?

"The only cornet I’d ever come across, I’d eaten before it melted! "

I have no idea what this means? I don't understand this part.

"F-A-C-E, learnt off by heart, E-G-B-D-F, likewise; this is a ‘stave’, and this black dot with a stick is a crotchet. A whole new representational codified world opened up in front of me. Melodic sound " represented by ink - on paper. Who can forget those first few weeks of introduction to the sweet secret world of the musician?"

I don't understand what the FACE thing is or what a stave is or what a crotchet is. These are all words not used in America in the last 20 years.

I'm pretty busy and not 100% right now, so I'll go look at the other essays later.