Читать книгу Tom Jones - The Life - Sean Smith - Страница 13

Vernon Hopkins hadn’t forgotten about Tommy Woodward; he just didn’t need him. He had seen Tom once or twice around the Pontypridd pubs, apparently flogging a dead horse, still in Teddy boy gear, the Hawk guitar around his neck, banging out the same Frankie Laine, Jerry Lee Lewis and Ray Charles numbers. Tom didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Although he always believed it was his destiny to be a singer, he was stuck in a rut.

Vernon, a young man filled with energy and a passion for music, changed that for him. He had a steady job as an apprentice compositor with the Pontypridd Observer, while playing with his group, The Senators, who were gradually building a local following. They had even appeared on television.

The band had started out as a three piece – just Vernon and two Rhydyfelin teenagers, Keith Davies and Jeff Maher, who lived next door to one another. By coincidence, the trio had their first gig at the Wood Road in Treforest. Keith, who was a devoted fan of The Shadows, played their famous hit ‘Apache’ and other Hank Marvin classics, but it was clear they needed a singer if they were going to progress.

One of the club members told them his son could sing and would come on stage with them. Keith already knew Tommy Pitman from Rhydyfelin, but didn’t know he could sing. The Senators were happy to give him a try the next time they played at the club. It went well. Tommy jumped up, sang ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, ‘Jailhouse Rock’ and some other Elvis songs, with a dash of Buddy Holly for variety.

Tommy had recently been demobbed after finishing his national service with the RAF in Cyprus. While there, he had joined a group that wanted an Elvis-style singer. They performed regularly on the island, on television as well as in live shows, so he was an accomplished performer by the time he sang at the Wood Road.

Everything seemed set fair for the group. They added a drummer, Brian Price, and decided to call themselves The Senators after the model of Vernon’s Höfner guitar. They soon became much in demand, with some regular gigs, including the YMCA near the Old Bridge in Taff Street, Pontypridd, on Friday nights. They were also booked to appear on a new pop show called Discs A GoGo. This was hosted by the former Radio Luxembourg DJ Kent Walton, who would become much more famous as the commentator on professional wrestling every week on ITV’s World of Sport. They had to audition at the studios in Pontcanna, Cardiff. Tommy sang a Cliff Richard song – only to learn that for the show, a Christmas special, the producers wanted the band to perform ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘Well, that’s me out for a start,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m not going to sing “Jingle Bells”. I’m a rock ’n’ roll singer.’ So the rest of The Senators went ahead without him and performed it as an instrumental.

The Senators were going places. The one problem for the band that Vernon couldn’t have foreseen was that Tommy Pitman was losing his enthusiasm. He was older than the others and didn’t relish playing for what was, in effect, a teenage jive club. He recalls, ‘I wasn’t mad on singing, to be honest. I got a bit fed up with the YMCA on Friday nights. There were no drinks or anything like that – just dancing. I used to go down with my mates and have a couple of beers in a nearby pub and then we’d start playing a few cards until I’d go, “I’m not going up to the Y tonight.”’ Friday night, he decided, was drinks night with the boys.

The rest of the band coped the first time, but something had to be done when it happened again. They laboured through the first set, but Keith Davies observed, ‘I can only play “Apache” so many times.’

Vernon said, ‘I know a fella who goes round the clubs. He’s called Tommy Woodward and he’ll probably be in the White Hart.’ So he set off down the High Street to try to find their substitute.

Sure enough, Tom was with his friends, propping up the bar, when Vernon dashed in. He said Pitman hadn’t turned up and asked if Tom would like to earn a few bob by singing the second set. Vernon remembers Tom giving a little cough into his hand. He has the same mannerism today; it’s a sign that he’s nervous about something. He downed the rest of his pint. ‘OK, Vern, I’ll do it for a couple of quid.’

Just when Vernon thought it was all settled, Tom remembered that the YMCA was a booze-free zone. He stopped in his tracks: ‘I’m out for a good drink, Vern. Out with the boys, like.’ Vernon, thinking quickly, said he would buy a crate of beers and smuggle them in just for Tom. That sealed the deal.

They ran back to the Y as fast as they could go without exhausting Tom, who wouldn’t be able to sing if he was gasping for breath. It’s not easy to get up and start singing with a band you’ve never really met before, let alone rehearsed with. The Senators had also just gone through some changes: Jeff and Colin had left to start their own group and had been replaced by rhythm guitarist Mike Roberts, who was in television, and Alva Turner on drums.

The legend of that first gig has it that Tom bounced on stage and was off. That’s not strictly true, because he was fretting about not knowing what the first number was going to be. ‘Christ,’ he said to Vernon, ‘we’ve never even practised together.’

The familiar swagger was back, however, when he walked on and turned to Keith, who had no idea who he was, and said confidently, ‘Do you know “Great Balls of Fire” in C?’

‘No,’ came the reply, ‘but you sing it and we’ll play it.’

With a voice so strong it made the walls tremble, Tom burst into ‘You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain …’

The rather square and sober 200-strong audience had never seen anything like the menacing figure now before them. He looked as if he would jump off the stage and nut you if you didn’t applaud in the right place. They were too shocked to clap after the first number. Tom marched off to take a lusty swig of light ale from behind a curtain, before continuing in the same vein, standing defiantly in centre stage, legs braced as if he were pulling a cart. Gradually, however, freed from the restrictions of playing his guitar, he began to move about and engage with the audience, who responded by starting to dance. Tom found his rhythm, and Vernon recalls, ‘He was like a man possessed.’ He was helped in that regard by polishing off four light ales while he performed.

Tommy Pitman was a good singer, particularly effective with ballads, but Vernon realised that night that the other Tommy, Tom Woodward, was the future for the band. Keith Davies agreed, ‘He had a much stronger voice than Tommy Pitman. He was just more aggressive all over. They were just two different types of singer.’ Tom wasn’t concerned about that – he just wanted to grab his couple of pounds and make it back to the White Hart before they called last orders.

Tom went round to Vernon’s house a few days later for a run-through and sang an old-fashioned Edwardian ballad called ‘Thora’ in his best gospel style. ‘I’m not having no bugger in this band who sings hymns,’ said young Keith, who would ultimately be persuaded by the obvious quality of Tom’s voice.

Tom began rehearsing regularly with the band on a Wednesday at Vernon’s house in Glyndwr Avenue, Rhydyfelin. Five young men were crammed into the front room, with amplifiers on every chair, and a piano and drum kit wedged in as well. Vernon recalls fondly, ‘You wouldn’t believe the size of it. We rehearsed many of the numbers that he later made famous in that room.’

Five became six the day that Tommy Pitman came down to find out if he was still in the band. Vernon was nervous about so many blokes in a confined space, worried that the two Tommys would come to blows as they competed to be The Senators’ vocalist. He even persuaded his sisters to lay on tea and sandwiches in an attempt to keep everything civilised. In the end, the two Toms behaved impeccably.

Vernon knew he wanted to keep his new singer, but they put it to the vote. Keith supported Vernon’s view that Tom Woodward should stay. Tommy Pitman pointed out that he owned part of the equipment. The next suggestion was that they should have two vocalists. Tom wasn’t having that and told them, ‘It’s either me or Tommy.’

Vernon tried to make the decision painless: ‘The thing is, Tommy, you left us in the lurch and we have been getting on all right with Tom, so I’m going to say we stay as we are now.’ Tommy accepted the decision and the two singers left together, as they lived in neighbouring streets in Treforest.

Tommy Pitman recalls, ‘We weren’t going to fight about a thing like that. We walked back together and chatted about different things. I said, “I paid for half of this sound system and you are coming in for nout.” He said, “OK, I’ll sort you out.” Ha! I never got nothing. When we parted, I said, “I’ll see you. All the best.”’

In fact, Pitman wasn’t too dejected. He had already had an offer to join a group called The Strollers, which Jeff and Colin from The Senators had formed. They were a smarter-looking band, more Shadows than Jerry Lee, and Tommy, who liked to wear an Italian suit on stage, thought they were a better match for him. He recalls with a glint of good humour, ‘It wasn’t too long before I was in Butlins for a season with them. So I thought then I had the best of the deal, obviously.’

The Senators were Vernon’s group. He made the key decisions and was the driving force. Tom was just the singer, but Vernon was in no doubt about his ability. Although they would later have their differences, Vernon acknowledges, ‘Right from when he joined, he was as good a singer as I have ever performed with. His voice was so pure.’

The first thing Vernon had to do was find their new frontman a suitable name. Tommy or Tom Woodward didn’t sound rock ’n’ roll enough in the days of Billy Fury, Adam Faith and Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. They decided to go to the Upper Boat Inn on the Taff River in Pontypridd for a few pints to try to come up with some ideas – they had none, despite the brain-lubricating beer.

Vernon then thought of looking in the telephone book for a name, and nipped across to a nearby phone box to have a quick search for inspiration. The problem with a Welsh phone book was that it contained page after page of people named Jones. Tommy Jones? That would never do, but his finger stopped at S when he reached Scott. Tommy Scott had definite possibilities.

Tom was enthusiastic when he returned to the table, as were the rest of the band, so Vernon went ahead and had some cards printed that read ‘The Senators with Twisting Tommy Scott’. It didn’t take them long to drop the ‘Twisting’ part, although Tom was a master of that popular dance.

Keith Davies remembers helping Tom with his Tommy Scott signature, so he would be ready to sign autographs should he be asked. Originally, Tom wrote his name in a very small and spindly fashion. Keith told him, ‘“You can’t write it like that. It looks like you’re signing the dole, like.” And I showed him, “Do a big S like this, and then put two big lines across the ts.” He tried it and said, “Like that?” and I said, “Yeah, like that.”’

A new name was the first step in smoothing out Tom’s rough edges to make him more acceptable to a paying audience. The next meant binning the beloved Teddy boy suit. It was the end of a long era, but Tom was persuaded to move on to black leather and a stage outfit that Elvis or Gene Vincent might wear.

One of Tom’s notable characteristics throughout his career is that he is amenable to change and suggestion. He doesn’t let ego get in the way of what he considers good sense. He accepts things and gets on with it. He wanted to look good, but what mattered most to him was the music he was going to sing. The biggest influence he had within the group was on their repertoire.

First and foremost, he wanted Jerry Lee Lewis. As Keith Davies remembers, the rest of the band would be mischievous about that: ‘He was just Jerry Lee Lewis orientated all the time. He would introduce a song by saying, “We would like to sing a song now by Mister Jerry Lee Lewis,” and we would all look surprised and go, “Jerry Lee Lewis???”’

Tom took the gentle ribbing in good spirit and was never less than dedicated. At their weekly rehearsals, they used to take it in turns to suggest a number to perform during their week-long round of gigs.

Keith recalls, ‘He would say something like, “I want to do a song called ‘Bama Lama Bama Loo’” and I would say, “Christ, what’s that?” It was usually something I had never heard of. Then it would be my turn and I would say I wanted to do “The Young Ones” by Cliff Richard, and Tom hated his music – he just didn’t like it. Every time I used to do the intro, you could see his face going. It was a soppy tune for him to sing!’

Tom had to grit his teeth and learn some of the more anaemic chart songs, because that was what their audience wanted. ‘He used to feel a prat doing it, but they were in the charts and people used to sing them.’

Tom was doing his homework though. Most Saturday afternoons, Vernon would go around to the house in Cliff Terrace, say hello to Linda and young Mark and then join Tom upstairs in his mother-in-law’s lounge and listen to records on his old portable record player. Tom and Vernon weren’t interested in rugby or football or social injustice – just music. They would spend hours talking about it.

Jerry Lee Lewis, of course, featured a lot in Tom’s expanding record collection. ‘Listen to the drums on this,’ he would say enthusiastically, as he put yet another of The Killer’s tracks on the turntable.

By a quirk of fate, soon after he joined The Senators, Tom noticed that his hero was performing a concert at the Sophia Gardens in Cardiff as part of his comeback. Tom had been disappointed four years earlier, when Jerry Lee, then twenty-two, cancelled his concert in Cardiff after revelations about his marriage hit the front pages. He had arrived in Britain for a six-week tour in May 1958, when journalists spotted a young girl in his entourage called Myra, who he said was fifteen and his third wife. That was bad enough, but she turned out to be his first cousin once removed and was only thirteen. Their union was a product of the hillbilly mentality prevalent in the Deep South. His management pulled Jerry Lee out of that tour after only three concerts. Tom recalled, ‘When the public found out about it, there was uproar and he got sent out of the country.’

Tom managed to get tickets in the front row for his hero’s return and would later reveal that it was his favourite musical performance ever. Jerry Lee did all his favourites, including show-stopping versions of ‘High School Confidential’ and an encore of ‘Good Golly, Miss Molly’. One critic described his act as ‘far and away the most exciting thing I have ever seen on a British stage’. Tom was mesmerised and would use that performance as a template for his own.

The night was made even more memorable when he spotted Jerry Lee’s car leaving, followed him in a taxi and jumped out to ask for his autograph when they stopped at a red light. The fact that Jerry Lee was happy to oblige under these slightly bizarre circumstances made a lasting impression on Tom. He has never underestimated the importance of fans and always made time for them when he became famous.

While Tom continued to be obsessed with Jerry Lee’s music, he did absorb the influence of other singers – chiefly great black artists with distinctive and soulful voices, including Solomon Burke, Ray Charles and, in particular, the rich tones of Brook Benton. The American singer had a breakthrough hit with ‘It’s Just a Matter of Time’ in 1959. Tom would listen intently to the way he used the whole range of his voice to carry a song. Play a Brook Benton song and you can easily imagine Tom singing it. Vernon admits that Tom had a much broader knowledge of music than the rest of the band and listening to records at his house was a musical education.

Tom was always keen to find new material, however. One day, after a rehearsal at the Y, he noticed that Keith was carrying a new record by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates called ‘A Shot of Rhythm and Blues’. Keith told him that it was fabulous, so they went to Cliff Terrace to listen. Tom loved it. ‘“Leave this with me,” he said. “I’ve got to learn the words and we’ll do it next time.” So I left it there and I never saw it again from that day to this.’

Tom improved dramatically as a performer with The Senators. He was more confident and didn’t just stand and sing. They used to do a version of the UK number one ‘The Twist’, by Chubby Checker, in which Tom would twist over to Keith and the guitarist would twist back to him. They were only messing about, but the crowd always loved it.

They had regular work and a supportive following. During these early days, they had no formal manager, but Horace Turner, the father of the drummer, Alva, helped them for the sheer enjoyment of it. He took no commission for sorting out their fees, bookings and regular work. On Tuesday nights, they played the Empress Ballroom in Abercynon; Wednesday, they rehearsed from 7 p.m. until 10 p.m., so they could make the pub for a beer before closing; Thursday, they travelled to Caerphilly for their favourite night of the week at the Bedwas Working Men’s Club, popularly known as the Green Fly; and Friday, they still had their usual alcohol-free night at the YMCA in Pontypridd. Many other local venues formed an orderly queue to sign them up when it became clear that they could fill the place. They played often at the Memorial Hall in Newbridge, known to everyone as the Memo, the Cwm Welfare Club in Beddau and the Regent Ballroom in Hopkinstown, on the west side of Pontypridd.

The band was being paid between £12 and £15 a night, which left them with £2 or £3 each after petrol and other expenses. Tom acquired a reputation for never putting his hand in his pocket to buy a drink. Vernon recalls with a smile, ‘The only way he would buy a drink would be if you turned him upside down and shook him.’ Keith also confirms, ‘I can’t remember too many times when he bought me a pint, put it that way. Nothing comes to mind.’

The reality of Tom’s situation was that he was the odd man out, because he had a wife and son at home and had to hand most of his wages over to Linda. He was still signing on the dole every week for his twelve shillings and sixpence. From time to time, he would take on a manual job, but, as Gill Beazer remembers, ‘He never really worked.’

On 26 May 1962, Tom had his first mention as a singer in the Pontypridd Observer. A young reporter called Gerry Greenberg had seen them rehearsing at the Wheatsheaf one evening and, because he was keen to be involved in the local music scene, decided to write about them. He recalls, ‘I thought he was a good singer, but back then I had nothing much to judge him against in terms of stars. He was a local singer and it was difficult to compare him to big stars.’ The paper published a small picture of the band on page three, with a caption that read: ‘The Pontypridd group who are making quite a name for themselves in modern music. Their soloist is popular Tommy Scott, Keith Davies on rhythm guitar, Alva Turner on drums, Vernon Hopkins on bass guitar and Mike Roberts on lead guitar.’

Three days later, Tom and The Senators appeared on television for the first time, on a BBC Wales show called Donald Peers Presents – not the catchiest of titles by today’s standards. Peers was a self-made man from the small mining town of Ammanford. He ran away from home at sixteen and became one of the most popular singers in the country. His signature song, ‘In a Shady Nook by a Babbling Brook’, was perfect for a singalong at the Wood Road on a Saturday night.

The TV show gave unknown local acts three minutes in the spotlight. Tom was firmly told that he had to tone down the gyrations for polite television. He chose to sing ‘That Lucky Old Sun’ – another Vaughn Monroe hit he had loved growing up. The producers were impressed and asked him to come back on a future show.

Tom bought a new eight-guinea suit to wear; that was a lot of money then. Keith Davies recalls, ‘I thought he was going to sing “Sixteen Tons”, but of all the songs they could have chosen for him to do, they decided on a Cliff Richard song, ‘I’m Lookin’ Out the Window’. At least he had the suit, which he had been measured for and everything, but the wardrobe mistress said, “You are not dressing in a suit.” So she gave him a pair of jeans, a red shirt and a tartan dicky bow tie. He looked like Rupert Bear. And he said, “I’m not wearing that.” So they came to a compromise and he wore the jeans with a red open-necked shirt.

‘I shall never forget him trying to keep a straight face as he sang “I’m Lookin’ Out the Window” to a window made of plastic. And what you couldn’t see on TV was a man up a stepladder with a watering can, pouring the “rain” down the window. It was hilarious. I was laughing so much Tom told me that if I carried on like that, I was going to have to bugger off.’

Tom didn’t add ‘I’m Lookin’ Out the Window’ to The Senators’ set list, but many of the songs, like ‘Sixteen Tons’, which he performed with them around the clubs of South Wales, would later feature on Tom’s albums. They used to open with the Ben E. King soul classic ‘Spanish Harlem’, which had been a hit in the UK charts in the summer of 1962 for Jimmy Justice and was another Tom would record in the future. The song let sceptical audiences know that they weren’t going to perform rock ’n’ roll exclusively.

One song he introduced to the set list was the powerful Sophie Tucker lament ‘My Yiddishe Momme’, which his father had taught him when he was a little boy and became a crowd favourite during his later live performances. On one memorable evening at the Wood Road, he sang ‘My Yiddishe Momme’ a cappella to his mother Freda. She loved the song and was in heaven when her son sang it for her.

Tom was very methodical about learning a new song. He played a disc over and over on the turntable until he had mastered the lyrics, then put his own phrasing on it in time for the Wednesday night rehearsal.

The greater exposure that 1962 brought led to the formation of The Senators’ own concert party. They were the headline act of an evening’s entertainment that was like a small-scale summer season at a seaside resort. They had a piano player, a girl singer and a comedian called Bryn Phillips, who was known as Bryn the Fish, because he had a fish round in Abercynon and smelled of haddock.

Tom’s stage presence was evolving more by luck than design. He would use a series of hand gestures to make sure the band was in perfect synch with him. Many of his powerful arm movements and body gyrations were code for the band and just as much for their benefit as for the watching audience. Quietly, The Senators were becoming less of a band in their own right and more Tom’s backing group. Gerry Greenberg remembers, ‘He was on a pedestal without anybody saying anything really.’

Gerry recalls watching them regularly at the New Inn in Taff Street. ‘Tom would sit downstairs having a drink while the band got the show going upstairs.’

Tom didn’t practise or warm up properly. His voice was nurtured on a diet of beer, cigarettes and curry. Young hopefuls starting off in music then weren’t particularly aware that you needed to care for your voice. As Vernon observes, ‘That was something opera singers did.’

On one occasion, Vernon suggested Tom should have a singing lesson with Brenda, the music teacher who lived next door to him in Rhydyfelin, to see if there was any advice he should be following. Tom dutifully agreed and popped round. At first Vernon could hear the familiar sound of la-la-la voices running up and down scales, and then it went dead quiet.

Eventually, Tom came back, red-faced and flustered. ‘You’ll never bloody guess, Vern. She sat on my chest.’