From Bing to Bach music was the food of love and much more

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Music has always made the world go round. Well before ipods and MP3 players made it possible to carry hundreds of favourite tunes in your pocket, youngsters were rocking and bopping, twisting and shouting to sounds which emanated from crackling wirelesses, wind-up gramophones, dance halls and concerts. Here Stuart Haywood, of Church Gresley, tracks his own musical journey over the past half a century.

Lady Barbirolli who used to organise the international oboe competition on the Isle of Wight

MY first experiences of the world of music came, as with almost all of my generation, via the wireless.

Our set was a three-waveband, five-valve Cossor and was a considerable piece of furniture. It stood about 3ft high, 2ft wide and 1ft deep, and had about 10 yards of wire plugged into the back to act as an antenna.

It held pride of place in our front room in a corner by the side of the coal fire.

After tea, we all retired to the parlour – this was the name we gave the front room – and prepared for an evening’s entertainment. We never ate in that room. Meals were taken in the living room/kitchen.

My mother liked Sam Browne’s singing and later she was fond of Donald Peers (Babbling Brook).

Grandfather’s favourites were Josef Locke, the Irish tenor, and Leslie A Hutchinson, a Jamaican who was known simply as “Hutch” and was a cabaret performer who accompanied himself on the piano.

Turner Layton was a similar performer to Hutch. I recall many arguments as to who was the superior.

Another favourite singer was Cavan O’Conner, the “Strolling Vagabond”, who delighted us during the war years and after.

All the family liked the singing of “the Forces’ sweetheart” Vera Lynn, and Anne Shelton and Gracie Fields.

My father was keen on Bing Crosby, the “Old Groaner”, but my grandfather was disdainful of Bing’s talents.

“Aye’s not a singer, you know,” he used to sneer. “Aye’s ony a crooner”.

One programme devoted to music and never missed was Grand Hotel, in which a trio of musicians played popular classics. The trio I remember best was led by Albert Sandler on the violin, Reginald Kilbey on cello and Jack Byfield on the piano.

I was also introduced to music at both day school and Sunday school. Hymns were learned and, when old enough, I would be on the platform for the chapel anniversary.

At our chapel, we had an outstanding organ and a talented young organist named Gerald Rodgers, who later introduced me to the works of J S Bach, which have delighted me for more than 60 years.

In the infant school, we had a percussion band. All the boys wanted to play the drums, tamborine or castanets and competition was fierce. I always seemed to be put on the triangle, which I thought was a particularly “girlie” instrument, but I learned to love it.

At junior school, my interest in music was nurtured by Dennis Freeman. In his desk he kept a metronome and a tuning fork, with a prism on his desk.

The musical highlight of my five years at Burton Grammar School was a visit to Burton Town Hall to hear a concert given by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, conducted by George Weldon.

It was performed specially for children, the programme being the Nutcracker Suite by Tchaikovsky and Peter and the Wolf by Prokofiev. The latter was designed to familiarise listeners with the various instruments of the orchestra.

Outside school, there were plenty of opportunities to hear choirs, mainly male voice, and brass bands in the local parks.

My mother liked accordion bands which were quite popular just after the war.

Before I left school, I began to get interested in popular music and my favourite singers at that time were Frankie Laine, Johnnie Ray and Tennessee Ernie Ford.

This interest sparked a desire to own a gramophone.

One day I saw an advertisement in the local newsagent’s for a record player being sold by a man living nearby.

I went to inspect it and found that it was a wind-up machine in polished wood, with a lid covering the turntable and two doors at the front that were opened when the player was in operation.

Thrown in to the sale were about a dozen pre-war Woolworth’s records.

I can only recall four. One was a piece by the two Leslies (Sarony and Holmes); another was Grandma Buggins at the Pantomime – a comedy record by Mabel Constanduros; a third was a performance of The Old Rugged Cross; and the fourth was Isle of Capri.

This was my first venture into recorded music as I had bought the gramophone records and a box of needles for a total of £2 10s (£2.50)

Having started to work, I had some spare money to spend and started to build up a collection of 12-inch 78s.

It was usual in those days to work a five-and-a-half day week. Most workers finished at lunchtime on Saturday but, in my job, I worked all day on Saturday.

To make up for this, I was allowed a day off every fortnight and it was then that I started to visit Derby regularly.

My favourite shop was the Central Education book shop and also Boots, where they had an excellent book department. It was in Boots that a group of young girls once thought I was Freddie Garretty of Freddie and the Dreamers.

I was not so portly as I am now and wore the same type of spectacles as Freddie. Although I could not see the resemblance, there must have been one, as the same thing happened in Hatton and Bournemouth!

I discovered the Felix record stall in the Market Hall and this was one of my first targets when in Derby. It was from that stall that I bought a pick-up arm for my record player, one that was much lighter than the original one and fitted it myself.

My wind-up player was not really adequate for my needs, so I bought a radiogram from our local electrical dealer, Jones and Harvey, in Swadlincote.

It was complete with autochange, making it possible to play half a dozen records at a time without any trouble.

In the mid-50s, a ban that precluded American bands coming to England, and vice-versa, was broken when Stan Kenton came over here in exchange for Ted Heath and his band visiting American shores.

The nearest venue to hear Kenton was De Montfort Hall, Leicester. This was my first visit to a big band jazz concert and I was bowled over by the experience.

One piece particularly took my fancy, a short composition called The Peanut Vendor.

Next day, I called at the nearest record shop to where I worked to collect a recording of the piece. The shop was in Station Street, Burton, and was called the Horne Thompson Music Warehouse. I don’t know whether it had anything to do with Horne’s in Derby.

The Burton shop was much like Foulds in Iron Gate. A lot of the considerable floor space was taken up with musical instruments, from piano to piccolo, and at the back of the shop was the record section. They stocked quite a good selection and were equipped with listening booths.

I once proffered a £5 note in Horne Thompson to pay for something. In those days, the note was white and only printed on one side. They were also much bigger than any other note. They accepted the note but requested that I write my name and address on the back.

Horne Thompson, unfortunately, went out of business in 1958.

In 1955, I started going regularly to local dance halls. There were 14 bands in the Burton area at that time.

My most regular port of call was the Rink, Swadlincote, which engaged many top artists and bands over the years.

It was built in 1912 as a roller-skating rink and was renowned for its first-class floor of Canadian sugar maple.

The annual dances of T C Green (pottery) and Midland Red (bus company) were always looked forward to.

I was a regular for about three or four years and heard some great bands there. Joe Loss, Victor Sylvester and Alex Welsh were regulars. I also heard John Dankworth and Cleo Laine, Ray Ellington and Marion Ryan and many others.

Occasionally, our group of friends would venture further afield. Two of our favourite haunts were the Trocadero, Derby, and the Grand Ballroom, Coalville.

Juke boxes were just making their presence felt in local pubs. In my home village of Newhall, there were about 20 pubs, but only one had a jukebox.

The machine contained 30 78s, not a wonderful choice. When you had made a selection and inserted the required threepenny bit, the machine would slowly go into action, finally dropping the record on to the turntable with a thud.

My brother and I visited Ostend and discovered that their machines very often offered a choice of 200 records.

On one occasion, I was browsing at a secondhand bookstall in Derby Market when I noticed an unusual sound coming from the Felix stall.

I had never heard that style of singing before and so I dashed to the stall to inquire about this strange record.

The man in charge informed me that the singer was the next great thing to happen in the “pop” world.

The name of the song was Heartbreak Hotel and the vocalist was Elvis Presley.

Mr Felix did not have a sound booth but he had a record player and would play your selection before purchase, if you wished. In the meantime, he played a selection of his own.

I liked Elvis up to the time he joined the army but, after that, he became much tamer in his presentation.

My favourites were Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino and Buddy Holly.

In 1958, I met Rhona, my future wife, and we started “stepping out” as they used to say. Our first outing together was a visit to the Picture House in Babington Lane to see Gigi.

We visited the same cinema a few weeks later for a filmed performance of the ballet Swan Lake, danced by the Bolshoi.

We did not always go to the cinema. One night, we intended to hear Chris Barber play at the Gaumont but, when we got there, we found that the hall was full.

A quick look down the entertainments column in the Derby Telegraph revealed that another musician was performing in Derby. Rhona pointed out the advertisement to me but I turned it down.

“How can anybody with a name like Acker Bilk be any good?” I asked.

We once went to a cinema in Chaddesden. I believe there was a comedy showing but, before I ordered the tickets, the cashier lent forward and whispered: “It’s not Jack the Ripper tonight, sir.” I never understood why she said that.

February 19, 1961, was Rhona’s first birthday as a married woman and I saw that the London Mozart Players were appearing at Burton Town Hall on the 21st.

As a surprise I booked two tickets as a present. What a remarkable night that was. The first piece on the programme was the serenade Eine Kleine Nachtmusik by Mozart. To use a silly modern phrase, I was blown away by it.

Since that date, I have bought hundreds of records, only a handful being pop.

The very next morning, I went straight to Foulds and bought a recording of the Mozart masterpiece. It was on an extended play record (EP) at 45rpm compared with the 33rpm of the long plays.

That morning I bought 10 EPs and I still have them all. Unfortunately, I do not have a single one of my old 78s.

I left them at home when I moved out and, when I went to collect them, discovered my father had given them away.

We now own quite a large collection of long players and have also acquired a CD player.

One of our highlights in recent years has been to go to the international oboe competition on the Isle of Wight.

It was organised by Lady Barbirolli, the widow of Sir John, and she ran it with a rod of iron. Because we were regulars at the event, we got to know everyone there.

I remember telling Lady Barbirolli that she had given me more pleasure than any other woman I knew. She thought that this was most amusing.

I would point out that her ladyship was a famous oboist and I have several of her records.

This did not prevent the master of ceremonies from introducing me to visitors as Lady Barbirolli’s beau.

She was 92 years old.