Letter From America: Musical Knowledge
Eh ther's some reight argey-bargeyin' when they get ter talkin' music i' yon' Yorkshire clubs.
Ronnie Bray was inspired to write this piece by a remark made by John Victor Collier on FaceBook.
I won't say how old I am, but the back door at the Picturedrome [the later and higher priced Curzon] was sevenpence in real money. The Picture House was tenpence at the back door. The Ritz was a shilling and didn't have a back door unless you counted the side door fire escapes where for the price of a shilling ticket several others could get in for nothing when the escape door was silently and deftly opened under cover of darkness. Those that always bought a ticket will never know the feeling of dread that lasted throughout the main picture, the 'B' picture, the news, and The March of Time, of immanent detection and arrest consequent to furtive and criminal admission. Saturday morning matinee at the Lounge, Newsome Road, was fourpence, and I can still hum the Flash Gordon theme music. I was sixty before I recognised it was stolen from Liszt's Les Preludes.
Les Preludes was the uncle of Les Dawson, and it is rumoured that Liszt’s and Dawson’s piano styles were remarkably similar. The acute and classically educated auditor will detect, in all of Liszt's transcriptions of classics for the piano, a decided Barnsley accent.
It is with some apprehension that I now disclose an unfortunate event from the distinguished career of Monsieur Les Dawson. He has appeared at a classical concert in memory of the great English Musical Group, Rock Man and a Half, and after a performance of piece that can only be described as scintillating [well, true it is that some folks said other things about it!] was asked by the Con Sec who the composer was. Maestro Dawson said it was Paganini.
At this, the musically knowledgeable audience of the Dodworth [Dodd'uth] Miners' Welfare Club rose in protest. The furore grew loud that it disturbed the night shift in't pit, three miles down, and a message was sent by telephone to quell the near riot [during which someone made off with the Bingo prize money] as it was making it hard for some of the delvers to sleep.
The Concert Committee went into emergency session and demanded that Signor Dawson show proof of the composer being Paganini. When the music was presented to the Committee and Mr Dawson's stubby finger pointed to the name at the top of one page, the Committee sighed with relief. There was the name of the famous composer. An announcement was made that should have settled the affair, and all was quiet again. That is, all was almost quiet again. A lone voice from out the gloom and smoke of the Concert Room declared, "It worn't Paganeeeeeny, sithee. It wor Sindig!"
A vindicated Dawson San, and an equally beaming Con Sec, with short shrift invited the sole demurer to the stage to see for himself. The house lights were turned on as little Billy Shufflebottom, the Club's nonagenarian pot-man, staggered arthritically up the stage steps and had the music thrust under his nose, a little roughly in the opinion of two ladies sat at the front table, and he squinted as the finger stabbed the name before his tired old eyes.
"There, tha wozzak! Can that see nah weear it sez Paganine?" cried an excited Tovarich Dawson.
However, little Billy was not to be cowed, and retorted in his best Barnsley brogue,
"That's nooan Paganini, tha girt lump of lard! It sez 'Page Nine!''
The Club relapsed into further uproar, that brought forth more protests from insomniac miners, and a call for expert witnesses to be brought to the matter.
A passing schoolmaster and a sleeping Police Constable taking forty naps in the doorway of the butcher's shop that adjoined the Club premises were brought in as expert witnesses, and their testimony as literate and [mostly] sober testifiers was accepted, and Little Billy vindicated to the extent that he was immediately raised to the status of life member without parole and granted an immediate increase of sixpence a night on top of the ninepence he was paid for his pot-man duties.
Senor Dawson sunk into profound despair at his disgrace, his face becoming lugubrious, his manner withdrawn, and his heart saddened. He played the whole of Rachmaninoff’s First in profound and utter silence, and apart from some laughter when evidently played some of the cracks between the keys.
The audience remained hushed until at the end of the performance he left the stage carrying the grand piano – a present from a doting aunt – and kicked the piano stool before him off stage, out of the club and all the way to Barnsley Railway Station where steam trains to anywhere could still be had for less than a shilling, and went back home without collecting his fee.
It is reported that Bwana Dawson never smiled again, and that his piano playing suffered irreparably, and he never played Dodworth Miners' Welfare again.
To this day, I cannot think of Pianomeister Dawson without seeing in my imagination, the heroic Clay Men emerge from the tunnels below Dodworth Main Colliery.
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http://yorkshiretales.com/integrityhonourhonesty/
http://yorkshiretales.com/journalsnormagoodwin/
http://yorkshiretales.com/ashoutfromtheattic
