London Welsh Male Voice Choir
Côr Meibion Cymry Llundain
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London Welsh Male Voice Choir Côr Meibion Cymry Llundain |
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London Welsh Male Voice Choirat WOOTTON BASSETTSaturday May 1st 2010 By Ian Edwards Always leave them wanting more. The old show business adage came to mind as I left the church after our concert at Wootton Bassett, when I met a lady with a generous smile and a warm handshake. She had obviously enjoyed the evening’s entertainment. “ I loved your singing,” she said, “but I would have enjoyed it even more if you had sung Myfanwy.” I suggested she might join us in the pub across the road, when in about ten minutes’ time I was sure the choir would sing it specially for her. “Oh, thank you, but no, I have to be in church by eight o’clock in the morning.” To me, this summed up the attitude of the people of Wootton Bassett over the last three years. They have given the rest of the country an example of how to recognise the supreme sacrifice made by our armed forces in Iraq, Afghanistan and elsewhere. There is no fanfare, no grand ceremony in their repatriation tributes that, regrettably, have become all too frequent in recent months. They pay their tribute, and afterwards they get on with their lives as people in any country town would. We had arrived in the early afternoon for our usual rehearsal, and as we walked towards the church hall the sight of a huge, lumbering Hercules aircraft slowly preparing to land at nearby RAF Lyneham had brought a lump to my throat. We had known for weeks beforehand that this was going to be a special concert. There would be no admission charge. It was to be our gift to the people of the town. We felt privileged to be able to recognise, through our music, the moving simplicity of their tributes that have struck a chord with the people of Britain. Much care had been taken over our programme, which included the light-hearted pirates’ Song of the Jolly Roger as well as hymns including The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, is Ended and Cwm Rhondda. In both of these hymns, we invited the audience to join us, and it combined to shake the rafters of the old church. At the end they gave us a standing ovation. Our compère Berwyn Evans had struck the right balance between off-the-cuff jocularity and solemnity where it was required, none more so that in the song Mansions of the Lord, which opened with the lines so appropriate for Wootton Bassett: To fallen soldiers let us sing, where no rockets fly nor bullets wing, But the lady was right. We should have sung Myfanwy as well.
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