11. Musical Appreciation
A session of classical records was held once a week in the library and, as Gill Cook’s memories tell us, it was a tradition that dated from before Betty Rayment’s time. But, just as Betty believed in getting advice from the top and learning to play by performing in front of an audience, so she believed in learning to appreciate music by attending live concerts – though she could sometimes be sharply critical of what we heard.
In a few cases, the performers came to us. I remember hearing in the library a trio consisting of Maria Lidka (violin), Sheridan Russell (cello) and Angus Morrison (piano). Though not household names, all three had considerable careers behind them. There was a Robert Anderson who more than once brought a small orchestra with him. We also had somebody from nearby Finchcocks to demonstrate harpsichords and clavichords to us.
Another ancient form of music that came to us was Morris Dancing. Once a year, presumably around May Day, we were allowed to sit on the front steps – otherwise out of bounds – and watch the performance by the Morris Men. The country dancing was doubtless very nice if you liked that sort of thing, but our favourite was “Cherry Nose”, who darted in and out amongst them, apparently doing his best to upset the dancers’ rhythms. A curious episode regards “Cherry Nose”. One half-term holiday, Miss Travers took a group of us to Dungeness for a guided tour of the nuclear power station and to enjoy a spot of the local radiation. After an initial explanation of how nuclear power stations work by a teacherly young man, our tour guide arrived, a bright and cheery soul who immediately made things look interesting. “Does anyone here think they know me?” he asked with a big smile. No one came forward till he started to remind us of the Morris men. “Ah, the Fool”, said Miss Travers, which sounded tactless even to our young ears. “Cherry Nose!” we all called out, whereupon he beamed at us merrily. I must say he was as good at explaining as he was at dancing.
More often, though, we were taken to hear concerts in Ashford and Folkestone. Betty expected those studying instruments to come along, but she also tried to encourage any others who showed a willingness to forget “Top of the Pops” for an evening and give classical music a try. The Ashford Music Society developed a policy of splashing out on the first concert of the season, engaging a big name. I remember hearing there the cellist Paul Tortelier, the baritone John Shirley-Quirk and the Amadeus Quartet. Great concerts, but the inherent snobbishness of the system sometimes led to comic results. When Vladimir Ashkenazy’s name came forward in a big way, they decided to get him to open their next season. Some sort of mix-up occurred and they discovered that the gentleman they had engaged was actually Stefan Askenase, not so much remembered today but a very prominent pianist back then. An emergency meeting was called and with much head-shaking it was decided that Askenase “hadn’t quite made the grade”. They ended up with neither pianist. I know this because the music teacher of the Ashford Grammar School, Adrian Dorey, was on the committee. He would have been more than happy with Askenase. Ironically, the week this happened, both pianists were giving recitals at the Royal Festival Hall, so Askenase was good enough for there, if not for Ashford. Ignorance reigned in Folkestone, too. Their musical society, for which I gave a recital myself in their last season, folded up some time in the 1980s. It must be difficult to keep a society going if you announce proposals for a season and get a phone call from an irate retired colonel (or somebody who sounds like one), asking, “What is this Amadeus Quartet anyway? Are they any good?” For non-musical readers, the Amadeus Quartet was the leading British string quartet for at least two decades, with an international reputation, and its name remains a legend.
Musical conservatism was a problem in Kent, too. I attended a concert at Wye College by the recently formed Kent Sinfonia, an attempt by the conductor Béla de Csilléry to create a Kentish response to such thriving bands as the Northern Sinfonia. One of the works was Stravinsky’s “Dumbarton Oaks” Concerto. Just in front of me, a lady arranged to swap seats so she could sit at the end of the row because she “might have to leave”. In the end she did not – if ever there was a Stravinsky work that should frighten no one, this is it – but she sat half on, half off her seat, with the nervous smile of someone who has told the dentist she does not need an injection and is regretting it. Another incident took place at the Leas Cliff Hall. We went there mostly for orchestral concerts, though I remember a piano recital there by Moura Lympany. The Royal Philharmonic, London Philharmonic, City of Birmingham Symphony, BBC Symphony Orchestras and the London Mozart Players appeared regularly, though not necessarily with world famous conductors. The young Bernard Haitink underwhelmed us and Harry Blech was more of an engaging character than a great conductor. But we heard excellent concerts under Alfred Wallenstein, Anatole Fistoulari, Walter Susskind, Hugo Rignold, John Pritchard and Rudolf Schwarz. As long as the programmes revolved around Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, the Grieg Piano Concerto and the “New World” Symphony, they played to a full hall. The BBC Symphony Orchestra had the temerity to put on a programme under Norman Del Mar consisting of Britten’s “Sinfonia da Requiem” and Violin Concerto (played by Erich Gruenberg) and Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony. A few days before, the BBC were announcing on the national networks that tickets were still available. When we got there, we understood why. Apart from the small Caldecott group, there could not have been more than fifteen people in the audience. It was a terrific concert.
At Wye College, we heard a delightful one-act opera for two singers and piano, “Key Money”, by Michael Head. As an added attraction, we realized from snatches of conversation reaching us before the music began, that the composer was sitting behind us. He said nothing of great moment, but it was nice to think we had been listening to him. Another composer we saw elicited a memorable comment from one of my Caldecott contemporaries. This was at a recital by the harpist David Watkins. The programme included a piece by Watkins himself. He has had a distinguished career and is equally known for his harp playing and as a composer for his instrument. “Not bad for something he wrote himself”, said the condescending young know-all. The idea being that, in order to be a composer, you have to be dead and preferably foreign. All these experiences went into the melting pot that enabled me to develop my own musical path.
Perhaps I should add that, though Betty Rayment believed in getting advice from the top, she did not uncritically admire what the top people did. Of Sir Thomas Beecham, whom she saw regularly in her younger days, she remarked, “He always kept me guessing”. When Horowitz made his famous televised return to Moscow in 1986, I was bowled over by the broadcast. Betty saw it too and said, “Perhaps he was thinking a bit more about the music than he used to”. Another who had not impressed her much back in the 50s. When I was preparing a Beethoven sonata for my Grade VIII, the Music Room acquired Arthur Schnabel’s recording of it. Betty thought his rhythm so unstable she advised me not to listen to it again. In truth, I have always found these celebrated recordings a rather hit or miss affair.