21/10/2024
After finishing my apprenticeship at BL in May 1983, I went on an Arvon writing course. Malcolm Bradberry, Rose Tremain, and Dyan Sheldon were present in the thatched roof cottage of Totleigh Barton, near the village of Sheepwash. I recall my first morning, hearing the sound of typing coming from the 15 other people on the course. I luxuriated in the sensation of hearing the rhythmic clatter of keyboards about the cottage. It fired me to prove that I could write, or not. I set out to write something entirely new, rather than continue with a work. That would be the only way to prove to myself that I possessed creative ability. That decided, I leapt from my bed, found a typewriter, and started a short story. The objective was to have it ready for that evening, as it had been agreed that half of us would present ourselves, and a sample of our work. I became so engrossed in the task that it was only on introducing myself, that I realised that my completed story had no title. I requested my audience to provide one for me at the end of the narration. They did, and so my short story became ‘Feathers’. It was well received, and I was most content. I had succeeded in proving my writing ability to myself, but not how to channel it. What genre of writing did I wish to write in? This was not to be answered until many years later.
*I asked Rose Tremain whether she knew exactly where she was going when she wrote.
"Of course", she replied.
I countered that I prefer not to know the route. That a rough idea was sufficient to aim for, as this left room for the story to go off in ways unexpected… years later, I can confirm that this way works for me.*
So, for now, I continued with my songwriting.
That autumn, I started on my university days in Glasgow. On my first night, I went to the Union building with a posse of younger, undergrads. It was silly of me to expect otherwise, but we sat in the bar, and drank. I soon became aware of the number of unfinished glasses lining up in front of me. My comrades were in a merry mood, and seemed intent on consuming beer, a cask an hour. I could not compete. I had just finished a relationship with a girl, where drinking no more than 2 pints was the norm. Surreptitiously, I began emptying my glasses under the table. Every time the ribaldry gave vent to shouts and guffaws, down went another glass (as an aside, I can’t say the beer in Scotland worthy of downing any other way. Perhaps it has improved since). Toward the end of the evening of gaiety, one of my colleagues shouted that the floor was wet, but fortunately no-one else made comment, and so I escaped notice. However, I was terribly sick on my return to my room in Saint Margaret’s Hall. That, I swore, would never happen with that crowd again. I ought not have been too precise with my oath.
The next evening, I went with new acquaintances to the Young Conservatives Club. This was to be, I initially thought, a different affair. We quaffed wine with our cheese, and biscuits, and a merry time was had… and then I returned to halls and was on Sir Billy Connolly’s Great White Phone to God.
“That was it”, I thought. Never again with students. I'm not capable of holding my drink. In no way were the 2 evenings partaken with strangers, made all the better through drinking. Spinning bedroom ceilings, and all night vomiting were definite negatives. Again, I swore. Then, I determined that on this third evening, I would not drink. That I would go do something away from students, and a bar. That was how I came to attend the final night dress rehearsal of ‘Die Rosenkavalier’ at the Glasgow Citizens Theatre. On stage, the players performed brilliantly! Sean Bean, and Gary Oldman were on stage. Afterwards, I buttonholed the Artistic Director, Giles Havergal to enthuse about the performance before an empty house. My regret is I didn’t think to ask if I could help out at the theatre, in any way. Hindsight came decades later. So, my first (alibi, comic) opera came in a roundabout way, though my ignorance of my being a librettist was to remain such for many more years, alas.
I continued to write. I met Marcus, a Swedish student studying architecture. He could play saxophone. I decided to compose a jazz/blues number for a student performance that was to be performed in 1984. This was the one and only time I saw a song that I composed, performed publicly. The audience enjoyed the piece. I remember first creating the song in my head, whilst standing in a queue at Birmingham Digbeth coach station, boarding a bus to Glasgow. I fashioned it all on the long route north. Blue River was very much influenced by Alison Moyet’s ‘Cry Me A River’. See my SoundCloud page 'redbard composer' to listen. At a Burn’s Night supper in 1985, I sang ‘Blue River’ to guests. One revealed himself to be an employee at EMI, and said my song was strong. That it had potential. Nothing came of it though.
End of Part 2
PAWN QUEEN - a new opera Hello, my name is John, founder of Everyman Opera. A libre… John Tatlow needs your support for Help get my first opera performed
