My Pop Life #116: Left Bank Two (Vision On : Gallery Theme) – The Noveltones

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Left Bank Two   –   The Noveltones

(Vision On :  The Gallery theme)

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Tony Hart

Unmistakable, gentle, playful vibraphone jazz shuffle which evokes immediate memories for my generation of a BBCtv show called Vision On which ran from 1964 to 1976 thus neatly encapsulating my entire life in East Sussex as a youth.  My family moved from Portsmouth in 1964 when I was just seven, Dad having scored a teaching job at Falmer School just outside of Brighton.  We moved into a semi-detached house in Selmeston, a small village of some 200 people, bordered by a railway line at one end and the A27 at the other.

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Selmeston Church

That one-mile stretch of road was my universe until the age of eleven by which time my dad and mum had divorced, mum had spent nine months in a mental hospital and I’d passed my eleven-plus exam and would take a bus into Lewes every day.   Two years later we would all be separated as a family as the landlords – horsey toffs from Sherrington Manor – made us homeless and wiped our debt to them at one stroke.  For the remainder of the 1970s we were in a council house in Hailsham, although I left for Laughton Lodge in 1975, and London in 1976.

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Pat Keysell, Tony Hart

Throughout this period Vision On was on BBC TV.  It was a programme for deaf children, and had almost no spoken words.  It was watched by all children.   Filled with speech bubbles and mime it was largely a visual show.  Presented by Tony Hart and Pat Keysell, who spoke in sign language and spoke, with Tony spening much of the show (so it seemed to me) drawing things.  Encouraging children to create.  Awakening our latent interest in expression.  The centrepiece of each show was The Gallery where the camera lingered over pictures that viewers – ie children – had sent in, with their name and age displayed, and a notice explaining and apologising that pictures could not be returned but that a prize would be given for those shown.  What that prize was we never found out.  We never sent one in, but were transfixed, at least partly by the music.  For this section of the programme was played out to a piece of music which, with its dreamy melody and nimble simplicity appeared to come from another planet.  In fact it came from Holland.

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Left Bank Two was a piece of Library Music originally.   Library Music is licensed differently than other music and is often used for TV shows.  It is much cheaper for producers to use, as the broadcaster in general will pay the royalties, maybe a dollar each time it is played.  If it is a long-running series, over the years this can add up.  If it is a commercial, you could be, as composer, quids in.  I found out a little about Library Music when I was directing an aborted documentary (called Red Light Fever) on British Session Musicians in 2012, inspired by the great doc ‘Standing In The Shadows Of Motown‘.  I’m still learning.  But all of the people I interviewed – singer and composer Barbara Moore, guitarist Chris Spedding, bass players Herbie Flowers and Les Hurdle, drummer Clem Cattini, singer Madeline Bell – all of them great session musicians, arrangers, songwriters, all exceptional musicians as session players have to be – (deep breath it’s a long sentence) – all of them have played Library Music on a regular basis.   How to explain it?  There are some production houses which specialise in this kind of music.  De Wolfe Music is the big one, started in 1927 to provide cheap music for the talkies.

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 They hire a composer to write : seascapes, exciting car chase, a creepy scene, ghostly atmospheres, romantic swoons, mood music of various types.   The Composer will hire a group of session musicians to come and read the dots and they will be paid a session fee.  The pieces of music will be grouped together and issued to TV production companies who can use a short piece – eg Grange Hill written by Alan Hawkshaw – and the broadcaster will cover the royalties.  All the musicians who played on the piece will get a cut, unless they signed that percentage away, in the deal – a “buy-out”.  And if you’re a session musician you never know which piece will suddenly get picked up.  Indeed these days when hip-hop producers and DJs are constantly looking for new samples, obscure beats and licks that other producers haven’t used yet, Library Music is now being plundered like every other form of music.   Barbara Moore provided the marvellous wordless vocal on the theme tune to The Saint.  Les Hurdle ended up playing with Giorgio Moroder‘s band in Munich when Donna Summer turned up and disco was born.   And this particular piece – called Left Bank Two – was an afterthought on one of those De Wolfe sessions in 1963, at the end of the day with half an hour still on the clock – I love these stories, this one reminiscent of Otis Redding’s big break – “has anyone got anything we can play here?”

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It was young vibes player Wayne Hill who offered ‘a thing he’d been playing around with’.   The group of Dutch musicians with whom he was playing (who called themselves The Noveltones) quickly learned it and recorded the vibraphone-led piece.  Carefully listening musos will hear the guitarist having a slight crisis over chords towards the end, the only clue to the tune’s end-of-session nativity.  TV viewers would never get to hear that anyway since The Gallery would only last a minute usually.  Seemed longer though didn’t it ?  A minute is a long time on television…

I bought a vibraphone in 2004 once The Brighton Beach Boys had decided to perform “Pet Sounds” live.  There is one tune on that LP which requires vibes, and although my keyboard has a good vibes sample, the visual of seeing someone strike the keys with beaters as Darian Sahanaja had done with the Brian Wilson Band earlier that year had stuck with me.  I want to be him, I thought.  I wanted to play vibes on “Let’s Go Away For A While“.  I’ll save it for another post.  But the first tune I attempted to play, once I’d set it up and worked out how to use the foot-pedal, was the Vision On Gallery Theme.  Of course !  And wheeling it into rehearsal with the Brighton Beach Boys, everyone wanted a go, and I think almost everyone wanted to play that tune.  Maybe it was just me ;-0

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Live in St George’s – my Penny Lane vibes – concentration is key !

My vibraphone currently resides in the Charlotte Glasson Musical Museum of Earthly Recollections in Brighton’s sexy Surrey Street, being carefully nurtured and oiled.

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Morph

Tony Hart is a children’s TV legend.  An early (ie before my time) Blue Peter presenter, he designed the logo for the Blue Peter badge, and took a buy-out rather than the requested 1d per badge.  After Vision On was discontinued in 1976 would go on to use Left Bank Two as the theme music for his next show Take Hart, and John Williams‘ Deer Hunter Theme Cavatina would take over as the Gallery Music.  He often appeared alongside Aardman Animations creation Morph in the late 70s and 80s until he retired with two Baftas in 2001.  Tony Hart died in 2006, his reputation unbesmirched like others of his generation.

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Left Bank Two – the Vision On Gallery Theme – is often referred to as ‘easy-listening music’ or even ‘elevator music’.   It’s library music.   It’s TV theme music.  And – yes – it’s jazz.

My Pop Life #95 : Delaney’s Donkey – Val Doonican

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Delaney’s Donkey   –   Val Doonican

Now Delaney had a donkey that everyone admired
Temporarily lazy and permanently tired
A leg at every corner balancing his head
And a tail to let you know which end he wanted to be fed…

RIP Val Doonican.  If you grew up in Britain between the 1960s – 1980s, he was a fixture on Saturday night TV.   He had a crinkly smile and perfect teeth and the warmest smile on television.  His daughter said today (2nd July 2015) that she thought no one had a bad word to say about him, that he was as lovely in real life as he appeared on television.  Can this be possible ?  I’d love to think so.

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My own relationship with Val Doonican went from deep joy and abiding affection through to teenaged embarrassment that I ever liked him.  Then growing ever older, childhood’s innocent honesty about what is good and what isn’t trumps the teenager, and just because 13 was when I discovered groovy music doesn’t mean that that I knew anything.    Val Doonican belonged in that easy-listening Saturday night TV world, he sat on a rocking chair, he wore a cardigan, he was simply uncool.  He was too nice.  His songs were childish.  Your nan liked him.  He just wasn’t groovy !

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But he was of course.  First and foremost he was a musician.  He worked for years on the Irish live circuit before eventually joining The Four Ramblers in 1951.  UK tours followed, supporting the great Anthony Newley (who inspired a young David Bowie among others) and who introduced Val to his future wife Lynette.  Newley also suggested that Michael Valentine Doonican go solo, so he did, performing for the BBC on the radio until fate offered him The Royal Variety Performance in 1963, aged 36.  Billy Cotton offered him his own show at the BBC on the strength of that performance and he was – after seventeen years in showbiz – an overnight success.  It was a story he liked to tell, and does so in the clip below, where I searched for an element of steel beneath the warm fuzzy smile.  It’s there all right, look out for the moment when he silences the clap-along audience at the end of the song.  Followed by that killer smile, crinkly eyes.  The Irish charm goes a long way in England, and Valentine made a career of it.

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His big hit was Walk Tall in 1964 – a song with a word of advice for everyone – be proud – look the world right in the eye – and Val sings in in a straight-ahead english accent with a slight Irish twang, barely discernible.  It was a country song really, but I don’t think it was ever released in the USA.  I remember it very well indeed – I was seven years old, my parents were together, we lived in a small village in East sussex called Selmeston, I had a younger brother Paul and a new baby brother Andrew, a cat and a dog and life was big and new.  We lived opposite a farm and we could smell a strong mixture of creosote and cow dung that summer as the farmer painted his barn which was exactly opposite our garden, standing on a huge wooden ladder with a bucket of black goo which dripped everywhere and smelled like pungent tar.  I loved that smell.   The cow dung smell I got used to – country people will understand.  What rose-tinted specs I have on as I remember being seven.   Wow.

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Val Doonican will do that to a memory, even the cow dung is coated is in roses.  Later on in 1966 he had a hit with that great crooners’ song Elusive Butterly, written by Bob Lind.   But perhaps he’ll be remembered most affectionately for the trio of humourous Irish songs which he regularly sang on his show – Paddy McGinty’s Goat, Rafferty’s Motor Car and Delaney’s Donkey.  These were something else entirely – also in a country style, but sung in an unmistakable Irish twang that emanated from Waterford, his home down in the south of Ireland.  These three songs undoubtedly contributed to the cultural English meme of the funny Irishman.

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Briefly – Paddy McGinty’s Goat was written in 1917 by Bert Lee and R.P. Weston with two American songwriters called the Two Bobs.  A song about a randy goat it was a favourite of Val’s and he put it on the B-side of Delaney’s Donkey in 1964.  O’Rafferty’s Motor Car was written by Tommy Connor  (an Englishman) in the 1920s and describes a car (a model T- Ford apparently?) which “used to be black as me father’s hat, now its 40 shades of green”.  It appears to have inspired “Driving In My Car” by Madness…

Delaney’s Donkey is my personal favourite and complete with lyrical mishearings, despite Val’s perfect enunciation.  Like the other two he affects a more Irish accent than he did for Walk Tall and gets the full humour out of the brilliant rhyming couplets and internal rhymes – in fact this song comes across as much like a rap than a song, a talking song, although there is a very strong melody line too.  Music hall rap perhaps…

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There’s a line towards the end : “Hogan, Logan and all the bally crew…” which seared deep into my subconscious, probably because of the other words I might choose to use instead of “bally“.   Another line :  “A grip like a Scotsman on a five pound note” – oh how we laughed at kindly smiley Val as he allowed us to enjoy these stereotypes!  A different time…

I also always thought it was called “The Lady’s Donkey”.  Still sounds like that !

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But the song is pure joy, the love of language, the story that the whole town is trying to get this donkey to run, “they might as well have tried to push the Town Hall down”.   Enjoy this clip – it was on The Guardian obituary today, but much as I hate to be fashionable or repeat someone else’s choices, it’s a brilliant clip.  Enjoy, and Val – rest in peace.   We loved you.

My Pop Life #43 : Finlandia – Jean Sibelius

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Finlandia   –   Jean Sibelius

1964.   We are in our new house.   Perched above the village road behind a thick privet hedge, but we can see the farm opposite, the farmhouse, the barns, the fields beyond.   We can smell the farm opposite.   There’s a sloping narrow path up from the road to our gate.   A large garden.   Two trees.  A large vegetable garden which my dad dug and dug, and where we buried Caesar the large tabby cat I’d owned since I was 1 year old.  He was wrapped in a pillowcase.   My dad dug his grave too.    A back lawn, with another privet hedge, and a gate leading out onto an endless sheep field.  Beyond that, the Manor House.   Sherrington Manor.  They owned our house.    They owned most of the village.   Selmeston.   East Sussex.   The Lewes-Eastbourne A27 at one end, the Lewes-Eastbourne train level-crossing at the other.  One mile long.  About 200 people I calculated one day, including the vicar, the farmer, the Catchloves, the Whitakers, the Criddles, the Bristows, the Colemans, Miss Lamb at the village schoolhouse, Gilda who looked after Paul when things went wrong, Geraldine next door who was Italian and mentioned shopping in “Marks Expensive”, the Spillers at the top of the road on the other side of the A27 and whose daughter Valerie Spiller was my first crush aged about nine.  They were brown-coloured maybe Indian but nobody ever mentioned it.  I hugged my pillow imagining it was her.  Funny feeling in my tummy.  At least I thought it was my tummy.

I would walk to school every day – the village school up near the main road, the pub the Barley Mow, the only shop, the mini-petrol station.   Across the road from the school was the cricket pitch, an acre they said, so you could see what an acre looked like.  It was big.   Sometimes we’d have our breaktime in the cricket field and Midge Millward whose mum was the school cook would tell dirty jokes to us younger ones.  Probably Rastus & Liza.  “I’m fucking dis custard” etc.   I laughed dutifully because of the word “fuck”without knowing what was going on.  Steve ‘Eggy’ Burton and his younger brother Chrissy Burton, Stephen Criddle, David Bristow, Graham Sutton the postman’s son, Mick Spiller and me and my brother Paul.  There were 30 kids in the village school, aged between 5 and 11.   Some of them came from Berwick, or Firle, Chalvington or Alciston.

At home we had a black and white TV which my dad didn’t really approve of, but the kids (Paul and I) were growing and presumably becoming a handful.   Andrew arrived in May after a long labour and a fight with the nurse over gas and air.   Mum would later claim that she had too much.    I remember fights over the TV between Mum and Dad.   I remember him coming into ‘the front room’ where the TV was put (so that it wasn’t in the family room ?!), and switching it off, and Paul, Mum and I skulking out in disgruntlement.   But he never switched off the record player.   Or should I say “the gramaphone”.

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We had a wind-up turntable on a box with a speaker which would fold up and down inside the lid, a corner compartment for needles – about 1/2 inch long – big buggers.   It was my first experience with handling music – or possibly my second because I cannot discount picking up a recorder at the village school and being taught the simple fingering, following the dots on ‘Men Of Harlech’.   But there is a huge difference between playing music and being a disc jockey as any fule kno.   The records were in the lid, which I think means that it was a portable gramaphone, but I may have misremembered that.   They were heavy shellac 78rpm discs and there were three of them.   Three.   One was Chicken Licken.  One I cannot remember.  And one was Finlandia.

I always connect Finlandia with my father.  I’m sure it was his record.  I don’t know where he bought it, or how long he’d had it, or whether it came with the gramaphone, or phonograph.  Maybe there were other 78s in the house, but I don’t remember them.  I remember three.   The unknown one may come back via my dad or my brothers or my mother, all still happily alive and one day perhaps to read this account.   But for now we’ll focus on Finlandia.  Oh – but first, of course, Chicken Licken.

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The story is of a chicken who has an acorn fall on his head.  He thinks the sky is falling in and runs through the village yelling at everyone that the sky is falling.   Henny Penny ?  Is that a character?  I can’t remember the rest but we played this story – on a 78rpm record – over and over again, winding the turntable, changing the needle for no good reason, playing it fast in squeaky voices, playing it slow in underwater voices.

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Finlandia was a different matter altogether.  It was a short classical tone poem, though aged six, seven it was just noise to me, music, horns, violins.  No words.  It was written in 1899 by Jean Sibelius and was part of the Finnish nationalist resistance surge against Russia during that period.  The opening is very energised and expressive with full horn stabs and sudden silences.  Then the timpanis start to thunder and roll.  It is hugely dramatic, then the violins start to swirl and sweep and we get another surge of excitement and a part of a melody.  Again all is excitement and energy, passion and pride.   After about 4 minutes there’s a moment of pause and we are hearing a different tempo, a different hopeful moment, this is how the piece resolves, known as the Finlandia Hymn.  It’s not quite the Finnish National Anthem, but it’s one of their main tunes.  It will always remind me of my father, whom I have to acknowledge as a profound influence on my life, both musical and otherwise.   When I think of him now in 1964 I see him as a young man with glasses and a receding hairline, fresh from Cambridge and moving his young family from Portsmouth, where he grew up, to East Sussex, where I grew up.   He was the only boy in a family of five, all sisters older than him.  His dad was a batman in the Royal Navy, the lowest rank, and they lived in a small terraced house in Fratton quite near the football ground.  My dad – John – was bright and passed the eleven plus, winning a scholarship to Portsmouth Grammar.  Again, although a working-class kid, he took the Cambridge entrance exam and passed, becoming one of the tiny intake of worker’s kids in Downing College 1955.   I understand that he hated his first year, or maybe just missed my mum, whom he’d started walking out with as a teenager (after briefly dating her sister Valerie).   At any rate that summer he was married to Heather my mum and they went back to Cambridge together for his 2nd year.   I think my Mum hated it there even more than he ever could.  My dad and his friends talked of D.H. Lawrence and T.S. Eliot and didn’t really include her in the conversation.  I was born in Cambridge in June 1957.

When I think of my parents now I think of them as young people and marvel.   I don’t judge them, I just see them in their lives, making decisions, trying to do the best they can.  I’ve spent so much of my lifetime in recrimination, trying to understand what went wrong, why my family was dysfunctional, who, in particular, was to blame, to unload all the pain onto.  Well it turns out that every family is dysfunctional, and some far far more so than mine.   I’ve put down my cross, the one I carried all those years, Lay Down Burden.   Now I’m just trying to remember everything and write it down before it’s my turn to lay down.    Not to say that there hasn’t been pain, upset, wrenching sadness and loneliness.   But just to say that I’m just another human being in the end.

This is a wonderful recording of Finlandia conducted by Leonard Bernstein appropriately enough in 1965.