THE COMPERE RECOLLECTS

by Barri Hurford

“You are travelling all this way to London for your rugby football. Why not make the effort and come here to sing as well?”

The invitation that was to change my entire life-style came from “Sam the Song”. The place was Old Deer Park and the date 1981. At the time I was Headmaster of Bitterne Park School, the largest comprehensive in Southampton, where one of my best appointments to the teaching staff had been that of one David Gwyther, ex-Pembroke Grammar School and Trinity College, Carmarthen and - perhaps even more importantly - physiotherapist to London Welsh 1st XV.

Together we were travelling up the M3 on match days. And it was in the players’ room after one match, where he was dispensing the free beer, that Sam made his suggestion. Accepting was one of my best decisions ever because it marked the start of nine unforgettable years with the Red Jackets.

From the outset I was totally immersed in the culture, spending every available moment in the necessary task of learning what was necessary for concert appearances. Getting away from school early on Thursday afternoons in order to travel to Grays Inn Road presented no problem; after all, I was first to arrive and last to leave on every other day of the week. It was a wrench to have to leave every rehearsal 15 minutes early but this was necessary in order to hurl myself into a taxi and make Waterloo Station in time for the train to Winchester and the car journey to my home in the Bassett area of Southampton.

As with every other newcomer, I was auditioned and measured and my grasp of words and music assessed in readiness for that magic day, the first appearance on stage. My day came in the School Hall of Eton College [Saturday 14 November ‘81] and I was far too apprehensive to make much of a dent in the huge array of eatables presented by the ladies of the Langley Guides group. But a fellow Old Barrian, the friendly Phil Olsen, was Choir Chairman at the time and he did much to convince me that there may have been one or two others in the choir who did not know every word of every song in every language either and that the attention of the entire audience was unlikely to come in my direction anyway.

The learning process went on and by the summer of ‘83, with some 20 concerts and one Albert Hall Festival under my belt, I felt emboldened to enquire if my services could be utilised further on stage by way of introducing the items to be performed.

So began, at Ailwyn School in Ramsey, Cambridgeshire, a career that took me out front on more than 70 occasions and projected me into the happy position of being “the Choir’s Compère of the 80’s”. It was with considerable misgivings that my association with the choir ended at the end of 1990. At the age of 58, I was offered early retirement from my Head teacher post and accepted with alacrity, although this also coincided with a return to South Wales.

It’s from the study of my retirement home in Barry, looking out to the wind-swept and spumy Bristol Channel, that I have been sitting at my “word loom” and enjoying the opportunity to contribute to a record of the choir’s history.

You see, compèring for other choirs back here “at home” is comparatively easy because many of them carry scores. This means that the introductions can also be made by reference to prepared notes filed in the correct order alongside the music sheets.

But with LW, any notes have to be smuggled into the jacket pocket [in a sweat-resistant folder] and brought out only when a group of songs has concluded. Many is the time my brain has gone into automatic pilot mode - whilst singing Myfanwy or Nant-y-Mynydd - in order that I may prepare how to update my introduction of the next individual or group item.

The secret is of course to appear as if one’s introductions are in the main spontaneous. And the only way to do that is to work extremely hard and to be thoroughly well-prepared, a task sometimes occupying weeks in advance!

Off-the-cuff remarks are fine in their own way because there are times when you want to share a golden moment with an audience. Making a well-timed observation can cement the bond which develops between you in the course of an evening.

But they will never excuse you for getting a name wrong or confusing the running order. Making them laugh is all very well, but the compère’s raison d’être is to make sure the choir’s next performance items are understood and appreciated. It helps if the conductor and accompanist have been brought back on stage for the second half: an error which has caused red faces among performers in more than one choir on more than one occasion but one to which I can honestly plead “not guilty”.

Pitfalls exist aplenty. Dubious microphone systems are a real menace because whilst you think your dulcet tones are comfortably reaching the people in the cheaper seats at the back, they in their turn are furious with you for mumbling something that they are hearing not at all. There are local organisers who fail to accept your suggestion that they wait with their floral tributes and instead rush on to present bouquets to soloists who are not yet gracing the stage for the arranged curtain call. One gentleman still has sleepless nights because he did not accept our advice and reduce audience participation in his fund-raising Southampton Guildhall raffle, the result being a second half that over-ran by at least 20 minutes and made everyone edgy. “Look out,” murmured the first bass behind me at one stage. “He’s going to raffle that box of eggs one by one”.

Then there are the programme errors which must be pointed out. Sir Thomas Beecham once startled an audience by saying “We shall now play the item that you thought you were listening to just before the interval.“ There are printers whose version of submitted copy is risible, making it appear that it is the choir which cannot spell composers’ names.

We had great fun at the Oxford Town Hall when Iorwerth Pritchard pointed out their version of the National Anthem was Mae Hen WIAD fy Nhadau, translating as the Old Ducks of My Fathers! The audience loved that but one wonders if the printer was in fact that red-faced man in the front row.

If you are responsible for smooth running of a concert, then it is also part of your bag to check with all those taking part. I treasure a paper plate on which one soprano soloist recorded for me what she would be singing that evening. The spellings were correct but the pickle that she had enjoyed with her sandwiches at tea-time caused some difficulties in deciphering details.

What about the Welsh Guardsmen at our final appearance at the Fulcrum in Slough? They assumed they would be filling a later slot in the programme. While I blandly announced what they would be playing, they were firmly ensconced in their dressing-room deep below ground level. “Tell ‘em a story” came the usual stage whisper from my colleague in the baritone section. Fun to recall but a major sweat when it was happening.

A curtain call is something which should not be difficult to organise. Tell performers that the organisers have a little souvenir of the evening for them and they will usually be there. But at Hyfrydle Chapel in Holyhead we were without the very young and emerging treble Aled Jones. “His Mam has put him to bed” said one wit from among the second tenors. And for all I know that may have been true.

The show must go on, says the old phrase. I was personally made to realise this was so at the first of our regular appearances at the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, in April ‘85. My mother had died earlier in the week and it was not easy for me to appear, to participate and to perform introductions with her funeral taking place the next day. But she would have wanted it to be that way. I am only glad that she lived long enough to hear London Welsh in full song, with her only son a paid-up baritone making his contribution in their midst.

It was on another Chelsea evening that we had one of those comical moments that occur without any of the audience having an inkling. The choir’s soloist that night had been “singing his socks off” but for some reason was left off the list of presentees. I knew that my name was there because Bucket’s Mum [one of the organisers] had told me so! So when the carrier of a fine bottle held the gift out I hadn’t the heart to tell our dependable contributor that it was intended not for him at all. I’m sure he would have received something when the gaffe was discovered. In the event a set of coasters, made in the Lord Roberts Workshops, arrived at my home by post a few days later. They are treasured possessions to this day.

Tearing off to London for midweek appearances with the choir made me feel something of a split personality. Apart from Chelsea, there was on one occasion an opportunity to support Carys Hughes in a recital from the steps of the nave at Westminster Abbey [July ‘88]. Next morning I found myself conducting an Assembly at my school wondering whether I had been dreaming and what the pupils [and the staff and the Governors] would say if they knew where their Headmaster really had spent the previous evening.

In truth, the pupils of Bitterne Park School were given the opportunity to involve themselves directly in the affairs of LWMVC on more than one occasion. Not only did they acquit themselves well but they also contributed a great deal to the success of each occasion. Having heard the choir for the first time in a rather dismally supported affair not particularly well organised by the St Dismas Society, I determined that their return to the sumptuously restored Guildhall in Southampton was going to be something special.

Choristers taking part may remember it as one occasion when they shared the large stage with the Staff-Pupil Choir of the school. Haydn James certainly remembers it as the first occasion when he conducted a string orchestra and was kind enough to list the concert among personal highlights in his end-of-year report submitted at the following AGM.

Teaching and admin staff had a rough idea after that of what their boss man was up to when “off the patch”. But it was not until we appeared on the “Jim’ll Fix It” show on BBC television that others in the greater county of Hampshire had their chance to make recognition. “Fancy you moon-lighting with Butlin’s as a Redcoat” was typical of the remarks quoted, telephoned and even written. These days one would have to suffer instant faxes and e-mails on the subject as well.

Incidentally, two youngsters will almost certainly have caught the eye that evening in the Guildhall when performing a piano-violin duet. One of them, Philip Walsh, went on to graduate from Queens’ College in Cambridge [the same college later attended by Haydn and Gwyneth James’ son Gareth] and was later in charge of music in Wellington Cathedral, New Zealand.

Keeping in touch with young men like Philip ranks high among the residual pleasures of school-teaching. Remember the young trombonist playing the Londonderry Air at the Turner Sims Concert Hall of Southampton University? His name was Adrian Fry and he progressed from that appearance to great success with the National Youth Jazz Orchestra of Great Britain. Bitterne Park pupils also formed the basis of the flute group Flautissimo that performed with us in Romsey Abbey. Has “Softly As I Leave You” ever sounded better?

It has of course, but in a greatly different context. It was in the crematorium in Leatherhead, at the conclusion of the funeral service for that great friend of mine, the onliest Les Hayward. We had of course sung Leslie J’s favourite hymn Gwahoddiad. But it was when Carys quietly played the Matt Monro classic on the organ after the coffin had gone from our sight that grief really took over. I am not ashamed to say that I cried like a baby and know that others did too.

Phil Olsen had a deserved mention earlier in this commentary. There were in fact four “boys from Barry” in the ranks at one stage. In addition to Phil and myself, Rob ‘Squeak’ Weekley and Jim Dunkley were members of the first bass section at the time of one tour of Denmark, the one in 1989. The local newspaper could not resist a title for the photograph taken in the Danish village of Store Magleby which read “London Choir’s Unique Barry-tones”.

‘Squeak’ was not over-impressed with his first sighting of the world-famous Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen before our second appearance there. “A bit like Barry Island - with trees” was his throw-away remark.

Those visits overseas were of course memorable, even though each one meant learning the words of the National Anthem of the country being visited. The act was well-intentioned but one would have to steel oneself against remarks such as “That was nice to hear. Nobody has sung it here for at least 40 years”.

Dear Bill Jones was of course our prime mover. He could charm the birds off the trees if it meant his choir getting preferred flights and favourable terms. I remember his description of one of the venues on the Austrian tour in 1987 as “in the lakes above Salzburg”. A few weeks later he came out with the village name of Fuschl-am-See. When he came clean and declared the precise venue as the Hotel Seerose, I could not help marveling at the long arm of coincidence. It was the hotel where Molly and I spent a holiday soon after our wedding in 1955. There was a very special bottle of champagne on our table on the occasion of that return visit.

That tour had opened with a concert in a residential school where some of the “inmates” in the audience offered nothing like the polite and deferential welcome to which we are accustomed. Geraint Hopkins and I were itching to get down off the platform and show the staff of the school what a couple of professional school-masters could do to persuade those youngsters of the errors of their ways.

Tours in the UK produced their fair share of events worth recording too. Especially if it meant travelling into the hinterland of Wales. None of us will ever forget that evening in Corwen. Having been warned that the only anthem to be sung must be Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau, we were amazed to hear the “home” compère announce The Other One. Asked whether his decision not to join in was a political one, the accompanist of the folk dance group standing next to me declared that it was because he didn’t know the words!

No wonder some of the men returned from a trip to town next day with T-shirts specially made which declared “We Sang The Queen At Corwen”.

Neither shall we ever forget those magical summer evenings with the Welsh Guards Band in the gardens of Cliveden. Invited to bring a picnic supper, ticket-holders clearly decided to make it the excuse for a big blow-out and brought with them fold-up tables effectively laden with hamper-loads of food and wine and bearing even portable chandeliers. Perhaps that’s still the Order of the Day. It certainly caused comment at the time and made one wonder if these people had anything to eat for the rest of the year.

London Welsh’s venues certainly raise some eyebrows in male voice choral circles. Committee men in South Wales are constantly asking how they may build a list like ours. My answer is that firstly they need a Rowland Francis; secondly I advise them to exhibit patience and to build slowly. The idea of booking two or three years ahead is one that doesn’t come easily to those who are accustomed to schedules on a much smaller and shorter scale.

Looking down my list, venues such as St John’s in Smith Square, All Souls in Langham Place [that 1990 celebration for the life of BBC broadcaster Peter Jones; when were so many sporting greats ever clustered together in one place for our recognition?] and Tabernacle in Morriston - my final concert with LWMVC before retirement - spring to mind.

But the December ‘85 event in London’s Guildhall has to be up there with the most memorable. This was the glittering concert graced by the presence of HRH Princess Alexandra. She said that she enjoyed my introductions [such as the dedication by “Satchmo” of a piece to King George VI with the words “Dis one’s for you, Rex”] and had the grace to enquire of my wife Molly if she allowed me to practice my jokes on her at home.

With Côr Meibion De Cymru, I have had the opportunity to sing for HM the Queen in Ypres, for HRH the Duke of Gloucester in Thiepval and for President Nelson Mandela in Cardiff. Like the last-named, the gracious Princess Alexandra is particularly remembered because she so freely gave of her time to mingle after the concert with choristers whose performance she had clearly enjoyed.

It takes time to be accepted in Gray’s Inn Road circles. I had been plying my trade for some five years before there came about a combined 1987 concert under the auspices of the LWA at “HQ”. The Gwalia controlled proceedings in the first half with Wendy Haldane conducting, Tom Jackman accompanying and Wynne Evans compèring. LWMVC took over after the interval, with a fronting team of Haydn James, Marilyn Phillips and myself. It was an opportunity not to be missed. Arriving early [as always] for rehearsal on the Thursday afterwards, I was greeted by a smiling “Auntie Nellie” Evans with the words “You’re a cheeky thing”. But “thing” was not the word she used.

Reprise concerts are popular these days. The ‘96 and ‘98 Albert Hall Festivals were followed with scaled-down re-runs in Birmingham’s Symphony Hall. When Haydn attempted something along those lines in January of ‘89, local reactions to his suggestions were amusing to say the least. The primary intention was for a number of the Festival choirs to take part in a combined programme in Maesteg’s venerable Town Hall and for Haydn, the local boy returning home, to take along his own accompanist, soloist and compère.

Two weeks before the “off” he was advised to leave Iorwerth at home because unless a local man was invited to take part, two of the choirs would withdraw their services. One week before we travelled down to Maesteg, Marilyn had to be dropped from the list of participants because two other choirs wanted their regular to provide the accompaniment and unless this happened they too would go “on strike”. Somehow I hung in there and have a glass candlestick as a souvenir of what was in the event a most enjoyable occasion.

That story is typical of the way in which the shape of programmes has unfolded over the years. At one time nobody seemed to notice whether choir and solo items were being introduced or not. Gradually the rôle of presenter has evolved and the job been taken progressively more seriously.

So was it all worth while, the long journeys to and from London and the treks up the M1 that meant getting back to Southampton late each Sunday following a concert, with a full briefcase of work to be worked through before school re-opened next day? Of course it was - and I would most certainly do it all again. If any improvements were to be made, then perhaps the aim would be to get to that four-poster bed in Llandovery - specially provided by our efficient Concert Secretary as a treat for myself and my wife - before four o’clock in the morning. These are mere details.............

London Welsh Male Voice Choir is a very special body of people. As I tried to emphasise at the last rehearsal I attended at Gray’s Inn Road, the choir is unique and every one of its members needs reminding of his good fortune in being able to participate in its multifarious activities.

Let me close this chapter with special memories of two special men to whom I owe a personal debt of gratitude. Each shall have a paragraph to himself.

The first is Alun Williams, surely one of the finest exponents ever of the compère’s art. I have always tried to emulate his stance, which is to be informative and entertaining whilst at the same time making it clear that one is up there because of the hard work of others. Sitting next to him shortly before an Albert Hall Festival, I heard him receive from BBC Radio Wales the day’s rugby results for interpolation into his commentary during the evening. A mental note was made at the time that when that happened to me, I would know that I have truly arrived.

The other man is the one and only Cliff Morgan. As a rugby player, he had given me enormous pleasure to the extent that he and the ethereal Barry John are for me the best outside-halves of our time. And Cliff was always the more exciting of the two. Realising Cliff’s involvement with the choir, I nursed the aspiration to work with him and to generate some of the warmth for which audiences venerate him. That certainly came about and he has always been forthcoming with encouragement and recognition. The book-plate he signed in my copy of his own autobiography reads “From one London Welsh compère to a better one”. Thanks, Cliff.

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Last updated 28 September, 2008
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