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 15th birthday. At school, I’d never had the remotest
interest in music, nor could I read a note of the hieroglyphic music; 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 15th birthday, on the 29th 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 band room 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 band room, I went also.
Our destination was about half a mile cycle ride from
home. The band room 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, this
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 suit. 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 didn’t fare 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, nor 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 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 polished, was 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, got 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 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. That instruction was, sadly, pretty
basic. The main objective seems to have
been to get us boys into the 3rd 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 band room – 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, now 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 know 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, these 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 3rd 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 this 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 is golden, and you don’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 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 thirty 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, a stiff peaked cap,
with yet more gold braiding, which sat on the head like a 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 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 band
room – 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, the white, wooden clock-tower,
striking the hour with the setting sun. Those
beautiful summer memories will stay with me forever.
The smell of the sea, the vibrant flowerbeds, trees, and canvas
council deckchairs, filled with an appreciative audience; 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, 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 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 this 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 this 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 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 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 band room, 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 this 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
march – a Remembrance Day – and not having a lyre (a music holder that fitted
to the instrument).
Eventually, after a quick trip to the band room, we found
a likely looking candidate; excitedly, 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 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! Fuck 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 SHIT! 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 band room 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, we waited to be marshalled
off. There was some 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 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, and
lifted 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 these were also extremely generous with their Christmas
donations. Bert Pike, who owned Cotmaton
House, and was on the local council, always received an exclusive visit. Bert’s place was a really seasonal turn-out
as the port and sherry would make a welcome appearance. Once 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 twenty
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 2nd and 3rd
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
lies 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, stands 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. Unbeknown 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 he 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 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 this 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 this 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 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
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 20th 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 22nd 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 twelve thousand 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 as a ‘city’! So it was with Orange City – population
approximately 30,000 souls, if you include 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:
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°s heat is not a pleasant experience. I actually prefer the cold in this 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 departure, I’d
played cornet throughout my musical career.
Changing from a Bb
to an Eb 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; this 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 managed to secure a position as a
labourer in a local factory.
Unfortunately, then in my 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 this 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. This 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, now in my
mid-40s, I had to sit in line with ‘little people’ playing solo and leading the
‘pack’. And then the big one – an eisteddfod; these are big events in
rural New South Wales. I found myself
not only conducting – but playing both Bb
cornet and Eb 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 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 forty-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…
I dread to think!
Music was my first love…
On the 29th 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!
Davy
Jones – 29th May 2011
- updated September 2013
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