Music has always been the main driving force in my life, both during my first 40 years when I lived in England, and the second 25 when I moved to Algarve in Portugal, to live in the land of sun and sangria.
My first experience of making music evolved in south London during Saturday morning sessions of a percussion band run by a Miss Violet Crump. I was about 6 or 7 at the time and viewed Miss Crump as a formidable, or even frightening, figure. We wielded a selection of drums, tambourines and triangles to noisily accompany her piano renditions of The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and other classical favourites. A year later, I started piano lessons with Miss Hettie Warren - what lovely names these teachers had! She kept an ebony rule on her lap, with which she would rap my knuckles if I ever repeated a mistake she had corrected. Nevertheless I stayed with her till I reached Grade 7 some years later. I must thank her for any success I later attained. I was also lucky though that I was born with the talent of perfect pitch and a good ear, which enabled me to play, without music, any tune I had heard. This stood me in good stead years later when I started playing seriously.
I remember one evening in a restaurant in Algarve, a man asking me if I could play a popular song from the late 1940's, "Down in the Glen". I scratched my head, trying to recall a song from 50 years previously, when it came to me. I had last played it in a talent competition when I was 15, but found I was able to remember it note for note. I realised then how marvellous was the human brain.
It was 1968 when I first decided to try to make money out of playing the piano. I had just moved into a new house near Birmingham which happened to be next door to a pub. I easily persuaded the landlord, Chris, that he needed a piano to improve business. We picked up an old upright cheaply and it was agreed I would play at weekends. When I brought up the subject of being paid, Chris explained that the custom in that part of the country was to pass a tray round at the end of the evening for customers to show their appreciation. I went along with that, and, for the first few weeks, things went well and I would get between 5 and 10 pounds a night. Then, all at once, it dropped drastically. I asked Chris if he had any idea why. He explained he'd asked the lady who took the tray round, who told him people were asking why they should contribute every evening if Chris was paying me as well. As he wasn't, I suggested we should regularise the situation and he should give me, say, £5 and the customers could buy me drinks. "Don't worry, said Chris, "I'll sort something out." The next evening, when I came in, I saw a notice on the wall beside the piano - "Please note that the management is NOT paying the pianist." That was the moment I realised there was no easy money to be made out of piano-playing.
The regulars at The Cross were a mixed bag of local businessmen and women, young trendy couples and workers from the local coal mine about 10 miles away. They enjoyed singing so I got hold of a microphone and the word soon got round that all the would-be Tom Joneses and Englebert Humperdinks could fulfil their dreams. Not everyone was impressed though. One evening a fellow came in while I was playing, took a look at the microphone and asked, "You don't sing do you?" Before I could
reply, he went on, "I hope not. I'm fed up with listening to piano-players who think
they can sing." It was to be many years before I plucked up enough courage to seriously sing in public as well as play the piano.
One man with no such qualms, though, was Tom. A big, burly miner, he was a great Elvis fan. His favourite song was "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" In the middle of the original recording, Elvis doesn't sing, he recites a few mawkishly sentimental lines. Whenever we came to that part in The Cross, week in - week out, tears would begin to stream down Tom's face. Even now, more than 30 years later, whenever I play that song during my pub evenings in Plymouth, I remember Tom.
If life really is nothing without music, then there are indeed times when you think the reverse. One such occasion was a wet winter evening in the first bar I had in Portugal, The Galleon Bar in Albufeira.
It was pouring down outside and we only had a few customers in the restaurant and a couple at the bar. The door opened and an elderly couple, sheltering under an umbrella, burst in. "Is this it? asked the man, "is this where the piano is?" I confirmed that it was, so he turned to his bedraggled partner. "Yes, there it is, over there. You get yourself ready." I stood open-mouthed as he went on, "She's marvellous, she is. She'll bring you some custom in - always does. Give us a couple of brandies to warm us up." I started to explain that I was the only one who played the piano when she opened the lid and sat down. Now I was never a fan of Mrs Mills, an elderly cockney lady who was popular in the 60's, making records and appearing on TV, with her pub sing-along style, but she was like Liberace compared with this new visitor. The sound of a mixture of wrong notes and bad chords filled the bar. A couple of diners, who'd finished eating and were enjoying a quiet drink, left hurriedly!
I turned to the man, "I'm sorry, but she'll have to stop. We're losing the few customers we HAVE got." Not at all put out, he replied, "Don't worry, son. They'll soon start pouring in when they hear her. It always works. Give us another couple of brandies." The woman went on playing for about another half-hour before the man said, "That's it. I don't understand it. It's always worked before. Call us a cab and we'll be off." I rushed to the phone but, being a terrible night, there wasn't a taxi available. "I know your game," said the man, "you're trying to keep her here." I assured him I wasn't and tried again. This time I was lucky. Within a couple of minutes a cab appeared outside. They struggled into their coats, picked up the umbrella and made for the door. I called out, "Hey, what about the brandies?" The man turned, "What? You want to charge us for the brandies after all the entertainment she's given you?" before leaving and slamming the door.
I later found out they'd tried the same trick in other bars nearby but had been thrown out. I vowed never to be caught that way again, and always refused if anyone asked to play the piano. A few years later, a group was drinking at the bar, when one of them asked if his friend could give us a tune. Remembering that previous experience, I gently explained that it wasn't possible. There was no argument, but as they were leaving at the end of the evening, the fellow came up to me again. "I'm sorry you didn't let my friend play. You'd have enjoyed it." He turned out to have been Pim Jacobs, then musical director of Dutch television. Well, as they say, you win one - you lose one.
Good to have you with us Mike. Denise Smallwood
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