Cabaret arguments notwithstanding, Norrie seemed pleased enough with my arrangements and the Decca recording was green lit. There was a minor hiccup, however. We got a letter from Technicolor demanding that we drop the word from our title as we were infringing a trademark. I replied saying that was fine by us, as we were doing a deal with Eastmancolor who were keen to be associated with vibrant new cutting-edge stuff. Practically by return we got a letter saying we could use Technicolor provided we spelt it correctly. Naturally we had been spelling it the British way with a “u” in the colour bit.
When you write an orchestration it’s a bit like an artist with paint. You have musical colours in your head and the palette is infinite. The big difference is that an artist executes a picture himself. A composer relies on others to execute what he has written. I, like all composers who orchestrate, hear the complete work in my head as I want it to sound. Unfortunately the reality doesn’t always turn out that way. Come the Joseph recording, the delightful but very amateur playing of our Potters Bar stars was shown up hugely when combined with the hardened orchestral session musicians that Norrie hired for our day in Decca Records’ long-vanished North London recording studios. Alan Doggett, an amateur conductor himself, was way out of his comfort zone. I found the solo vocal performances under par. In short I was not the happiest bunny in the control room.
I worked myself up into such a lather that I didn’t stay till the bitter end. My lather foamed further when I heard the finished mixes. Some of the playing was so ragged that I wondered if the recording would even be released. The production values I had hoped for were zero. Lather turned to meltdown. Tim was scheduled to play the finished tapes to Norrie the next day. I told him we couldn’t play him such amateur night out stuff.
How wrong I was. Norrie loved it and so did Decca. The homespun quality of the “pop group next door” combined with the kids for whom Joseph was written exactly conveyed the irresistible joy that happens when people make music just for the fun of it. But as a recording to rival Sgt. Pepper or “MacArthur Park,” as I had hoped, Joseph didn’t stand a chance. The vocal performances were merely pleasant and not remotely charismatic enough for there to be a serious shot at a hit single. “Any Dream Will Do” had to wait over 20 years to chart when Jason Donovan’s recording went to No. 1 in Britain.
Parenthetically in 2002 “Any Dream Will Do” was sniped at from an unexpected quarter. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, chose the annual Dimbleby Lecture to challenge the lyric for suggesting “The personal goals recommended were simply activating your potential in any direction you happen to set your heart on.” He caused quite a stir and Tim was not best pleased. My quibble with the lyric is its pessimism, “May I return to the beginning / The light is dimming / And the dream is too. / The world and I / We are still waiting / Still hesitating / Any dream will do.” It is interesting that in the original Colet Court version the lyric read “My dream is dimming” rather than “the light.” I wonder how many of the school kids who have sung my jaunty tune over the years were aware that what Tim is saying is world weary – the lyrics aren’t jaunty at all.
Looking back, I realize that my angst in the studio was the first of many meltdowns I have had when faced with less than bullseye performances. Bad sound is one of my pet hates and even today I go to too many musicals where it seems the creative teams have cloth ears. My problem always has been, and still is, that I am a perfectionist. Any substandard performance drives me bonkers. I think I have got slightly better at controlling myself in my old age but only slightly. Anyway, shortly after Decca announced they were happy we were offered a performance of Joseph in St Paul’s Cathedral. But it was not until November. Furthermore Decca decided they would release Joseph in January 1969. The record company honchos figured it might get more noticed than if it was smothered by the Autumn/Christmas schedule. So I had an outsize hole in the summer. It was filled by the not inconsiderable bulk of darling Auntie Vi.
YOU MAY RECALL THAT I alluded earlier to the matter of Auntie Vi and too many cocks spoil the breath. This issue was about to percolate into my life in a major way. It began with a telegram that read thus:
GOD BUGGER THE POPE STOP ARRIVING IN UCL HOSPITAL TOMORROW STOP SORRY HOLS OFF CALL STOP VI STOP
Just as well the postmistress in La Mortola has scant English, I thought, as I booked a call to find out what on earth had happened on the Costa Fiore.
The matter had two nubs. Nub one, my uncle George explained, was that poor Vi had very badly broken her leg in three places. She was being freighted back to England by air ambulance and would be ensconced in UCL Hospital in London. Since I was her favourite relative, I was expected to rise to the occasion. So far so good. Hospital visits to see Vi would doubtless be colourful and George, being a doctor, would see she got great treatment.
It was nub two that proved more troublesome. She had started writing a cookbook and wanted me to help her continue with it in her hour of need. The manuscript to date was in the post via registered mail. Had I received it? I hadn’t. No matter, first off after arrival her leg would have to be reset, but George was sure Vi would be compos mentis fairly soon after the surgeons had strutted their stuff. Then she would need cheering up and help with the book was the prescribed tonic. None of this sounded unreasonable. I loved nattering food with Vi. Then the manuscript turned up. The title page of the draft in the registered brown envelope said it all.
THE QUEENS OWN COOKBOOK
Camp Cooking for Town Dwellers
by Rodney Spoke
Auntie, no doubt inspired by her many theatrical friends, and maybe Kenneth Williams on the BBC World Service, was writing a gay cookbook.
Before you say “what’s wrong with that?,” you have to remember this was more than 50 years ago. London may have been swinging and recipes like Coq Up and her version of Spotted Dick might have hit my funny bone, but away from the Kings Road things hadn’t swung far enough for mainstream publishers to embrace this volume wholeheartedly. I quote the introduction.
Running mascara, eye-lashes slipping, nose unpowdered, nails unvarnished and even a hint of stubble. There is no excuse for it. You can stop messing about in the kitchen and come out in the sitting room. Here at last is a cook book for the Bona Viveur.
It struck me there was only one publisher for Auntie. Desmond Elliott. I was right. Soon after Vi’s leg was reset, she had a deal set with Desmond’s Arlington Books. Vi had broken her leg very badly and her stay in hospital through that hot summer was a long one. I enlisted my friend David Harington to help Vi concoct chapters like “Game Meat” and we did keep Vi merry as she created the character of Rodney Spoke, whose “graceful hand has been behind so many of London’s leading restaurateurs.” The book eventually was published in 1970 and I spent most of that year and a few years after praying that nobody discovered that Rodney was my aunt or that I had anything to do with it.
THE REVEREND MARTIN SULLIVAN, the New Zealand-born dean of Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece St Paul’s Cathedral, was not averse to publicity in the name of Jesus. He inaugurated a summer youth festival called Pop-In at St Paul’s by abseiling down the cathedral’s West Front. Traditionalists were not keen. There are historical connections between St Paul’s School in West London and the cathedral and Rev. Sullivan thought Joseph would be a perfect follow-up to his summer high jinks. Not a few eyebrows shot up at the announcement that a pop cantata was to be performed on November 9 in the cathedral hailed as one of the better consequences of the Great Fire of London.
Unfortunately when Sir Christopher designed his iconic dome he did not have a rock drummer in mind. The St Paul’s Cathedral echo is a good twenty seconds long. And there’s more than one of them, as anyone who has climbed the steps to the Whispering Gallery at the rim of the dome will testify. In short, St Paul’s Cathedral isn’t top of the venue list for a highly public performance of a piece which much depends on hearing the words. So there were a lot of heads buried in the words in the programme when the Joseph Consortium, as our massed forces were now named, gave the first performance of Joseph Mark 2.
The dome did a great job of masking the Joseph Consortium’s rhythmical deficiencies