OPENING BARS - Extracts

FOOL’S ERRAND? My  first step was to find out whether singing lessons would be a fool’s errand. When I put the question the voice at the other end of the line said age didn’t matter but desire did. At the time I wasn’t entirely sure if my enquiry hinged on anything as positive as desire or if I was simply toying with a whim. I think I was prepared to accept a professional verdict that given much of my body was inevitably octogenarian this probably also applied to my voicebox. That I might only expect to croak, a verb with two meanings, neither pleasant.

AND HEREFORD may have been significant in another way. The kitchen in the new house is large and has a fine acoustic; at lunchtime I come down from my study, look out towards the Malverns and burst into a rough and ready account of my Grannie’s favourite hymn, When I Survey The Wondrous Cross. Not from any religious conviction, although my earlier singing voice did have that authentic churchy wobble, the default sound from most men at funerals responding to a CD cranking up How Great Thou Art.

SO WHY did I forsake male teachers? I could blame Mozart. For me Figaro is the greatest opera ever written. In it you’ll find plenty of meaty singing for the men but there can be no doubt women get the biggest and tastiest slice of the brisket. Think Dove Sono, think Voi che sapete, think  Deh vieni. I may have been ignorant about teaching singing but I’m a sucker for Mozart’s heroines. I was never going to turn down an opportunity of discussing why Mi tradi is a masterpiece with someone whose gender gave her an inside track. Per-haps it was fate that a Mozart aria (albeit for a bass) was about to play a key role in this first singing lesson.

AT HOME I’d been trying to improve my tone by singing the Welsh folk tune All Through The Night with its com-fortingly narrow range and plethora of extended vowels. But try as I might the initial word in the first line (Sleep my love and peace attend thee) emerged harshly. V diagnosed the fault immediately: instead of singing Slee-p, I was singing Suh-leep. Obligingly she treated me to both versions, perfectly formed with her exact voice.

ROUTINE? Lessons start traditionally. V uses both piano and voice to accompany my warm-up as I imitate her rising sequences of notes, each sequence moving up one tone at a time to my top limit – F for those who are familiar with these things. Then I descend further than I’ve come, eventually leaving behind V’s higher soprano voice in a manner which, even now, seems vaguely impolite, as if it shouldn’t happen.

ONE OF THE delights at this stage is perceiving the nature of these phrases: some are logical and easy to assimilate yet remain fresh and unaffected by repetition. Here’s a good example from Roger Quilter’s setting of  O Mistress Mine:

“Ev’ry wise man’s son doth know-ow.”

A mere eight notes, no difficult intervals between the notes and no great range. If you’re lucky, and looking ahead, there’s every chance you’ll get it right second time round and it will stick for good.

THRO THE FAIR bothered me in other ways. One of those extended notes, accompanying the syllable “-ly” in “fondly”, not only stretches out inordinately but is comparatively high. That’s two problems in one: as spoken, “-ly” is a short i which is hard to sustain and, for singing, must be converted into a long i (ee) but not too obviously. Also, keeping this highish note going exposes the singer to wobble. Just for one note which supports half a word!

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Shackled no more

Epiphanies are moments of revelation. Fifty-four years ago, almost to the day, one happened.

That year, 1959, I was liberated. I finally left the northern city of Bradford where my adolescence had dried like a peascod. London was my playground. My job consisted of filling two magazine pages a week, more or less any way I wanted. I had met the woman I would eventually marry. The weather was unseasonally warm.

The Christmas break beckoned. I walked along Tudor Street, close to Fleet Street, then the actual and symbolic heart of Britain's newspaper industry. My companion was JM, the handsome, confident, competent deputy-editor of the magazine I worked for. We had both had a couple of sherbets.

Walking towards us on the other side of the street were two attractive women, about our age, who had also been at the sherbet. Not helplessly so: just happy, chatting. A pleasing sight. I pointed them out to JM.

He nodded. Whereupon (this is an anecdote, so whereupon is permitted) he sauntered over and presented himself. I could hear what he said: he complimented them on their looks and admitted he was consumed with a desire to kiss both of them. This, like whereupon, was permitted. He sauntered back.

I was a mere observer yet my heart overflowed with joy. Welcome proof I was no longer resident in the blackened, mean-spirited, navel-contemplating, misogynistic city of my birth. An epiphany.

WIP Second Hand (50,650 words)
During her first month Francine had worn business suits which she hoped would imply she was serious. A contributing editor, specialising in biology, and who attended staff meetings in shorts and flip-flops was the first to break ranks when he asked her, mock-seriously, whether she was looking for promotion to a higher tier of management.

Tingle in anticipation

No one has come up with a formula for writing successful songs but, once written
and recognised as such, they can be enhanced by kicking off with an intro - called The Verse in the trade. This was regular practice in the thirties and singers like Sinatra usually include them. But not everyone is au fait. Can you predict these imperishable masterpieces from their verses? Answers below

(1) Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom-tom
When the jungle shadows fall
Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock
As it stands against the wall

(2) My story is much too sad to be told,
But practically everything
Leaves me totally cold.
The only exception I know is the case,
When I'm out on a quiet spree,
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see,
Your fabulous face.

(3) Times have changed,
And we've often rewound the clock,
Since the Puritans got a shock,
When they landed on Plymouth Rock.

(4) At words poetic, I'm so pathetic
That I always have found it best,
Instead of getting 'em off my chest,
To let 'em rest unexpressed

(5) When the only sound on the empty street
Is the heavy tread of the heavy feet
That belong to a lonesome cop
I open shop

(6) After one whole quart of brandy
Like a daisy I awake
With no Bromo-Seltzer handy
I don't even shake

(7) Behold the way our fine feathered friend
His virtue doth parade
Thou knowest not my dim-witted friend
The picture thou has made

(8) Summer journeys
To Niag'ra
And to other places
Aggravate all our cares
We'll save our fares

(9) Once there was a thing called Spring
When the world was writing verses
Like yours and mine

(10) The world is lyrical
Because a miracle
Has brought my lover to me.
Though he's some other place
His face I see

ANSWERS (1) Night And Day: Cole Porter, (2) I Get A Kick Out Of You: CP, (3) Anything Goes: CP,(4) You`re the top: CP, (5) Love for sale: CP, (6) Bewitched: Rogers and Hart, (7) My Funny Valentine: R&H, (8) Manhattan: R&H, (9) Spring is here: R&H,(10) Dancing on the ceiling; R&H.