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Frustrated Musician
The earliest occasion I became aware of so-called classical music, or any music other than the songs Mum used to sing to me, was early in 1942 when I was still 6 years old. The occasion was probably the only visit the Hunslet grandparents made together to our house in Wakefield.
Every week as soon as the Radio Times magazine was delivered by the paper boy I used to scour its pages to see what interesting programmes were going to be broadcast. The wartime Radio Times bore very little resemblance to the large colourful magazine it is today. For a start it was in black and white and printed on typically poor quality wartime newsprint. It consisted of little more than listings for the two domestic BBC stations interspersed with the occasional fuzzy black and white photograph and a few small advertisements.
In the 1940s, the 5-minute Programme Parade was the only advance publicity there was on air. There were no irritating trails between every programme such as we have to endure these days: a 30-minute programme lasted 29 minutes and 30 seconds! I still fondly remember Frank Phillips, I think it was he, ending his reading of the 9pm Home Service news broadcast every day with the words: "That is the end of the News. The time is now exactly 14 and three-quarters minutes past nine."
Incidentally how many people remember that the 9pm news on the BBC Home Service was preceeded by what was known as 'Big Ben Minute.' The 'minute' was the time it took for all nine of the hour strikes. Big Ben Minute was said to provide an ideal opportunity for the faithful to say their prayers or reflect on the day's events. It seems that the Big Ben Minute started in 1940. Before then the 9pm News had been introduced by the Greenwich Time Signal but when the telephone line bringing the 'pips' from Greenwich to the BBC studios was disrupted by enemy action the chimes of Big Ben were substituted. Big Ben Minute remained a daily event for many a long year.
Back now to the visit by my Grandparents. Grandma happened to see the latest issue of Radio Times on the table and, knowing my penchant for being the first in the house to read it, she asked me what interesting programmes were due to be broadcast. I read out aloud a few programmes and then mentioned that a few days later, someone called Clara Butt would be the subject of the BBC's regular 7.15am programme 'Morning Star', which was a recital of gramophone records. Even at that early age I recognised the names of most of the performers in the BBC's morning recital but this was a new one for me. I can remember the subsequent conversation as though it happened just yesterday.
“I've never heard of Clara Butt,” I said innocently. “Who's she?”
“She's Dame Clara Butt,” said Grandma excitedly, and turning to her husband added, “James, make sure you get me out of bed in good time to listen – and don't forget or else there'll be trouble!”
“But who is she?” I asked again.
“She's a wonderful contralto,” said Grandma. “I haven't heard her sing since I was a little girl.”
I now know that Dame Clara was a very imposing lady, over six feet tall. Her contralto voice apparently ranged from the C below middle C to high B flat and she was said to be especially powerful in the lower range where many less able contraltos start to fade out. Sir Thomas Beecham once remarked that on a clear day one could hear Clara Butt from the other side of the English Channel. During the first World War she raised more than £100,000 for war charities through her public concerts and it was in recognition of this magnificent effort that she was made a Dame Commander of the British Empire.
I don't know if Grandfather woke Grandma in time for the radio broadcast but I certainly listened to it. One of her records the BBC played that morning was the aria “Ombra mai fu” from Handel's opera Xerxes. I already knew Handel's Largo as an orchestral piece but this was the day I discovered that it is really an aria from an opera – a tenor aria at that.
Sadly, a few weeks later Grandma died.
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Sir Thomas Beecham is said to have once remarked that on a clear day one could hear Clara Butt from the other side of the English Channel.