Alfie Page 11

  The funeral was amazing. It was such a beautiful bright day, and there weren’t many tears. Mum wasn’t crying. I was carrying Dad’s coffin with my three brothers, and as it was being lowered down to the grave, a handle broke off, one of those awkward moments when everyone freezes. But Mum looked at me and I leant over to her and said, ‘That wouldn’t have broken if Dad had put it on!’

  The church was rammed, and there were people coming up to us after the service, people we didn’t know, saying things like, ‘I met your dad, he picked me up in the pouring rain and drove me home, he didn’t even know me.’ Another: ‘Your dad collected my groceries from the market and brought them home for me when I couldn’t get out the house.’ All these things were coming out about the type of guy Dad was, and it was lovely to hear, because he never spoke about stuff like that, he didn’t come home and say to Mum, ‘Do you know what I did today, love? There was this little old lady at the bus stop in the pouring rain and I offered her a lift and took her home with her groceries.’ He never did that. We heard lots of stories like that after he died.

  We all came back to the house and talked about Dad, reminisced. Afterwards, one of our neighbours said to Mum, ‘I was looking out at your back garden, Pat. Is it some Catholic thing that you do when somebody dies, throwing all those white feathers up into the air?’

  Mum said, ‘What white feathers?’

  He said, ‘I was looking from my window, and all I could see were these white feathers flying up in the air.’

  We haven’t got a clue what he was on about. Weird things like that surrounded that whole period of time. Soon after Dad died, every so often the doorbell would ring and there’d be no one there. My brother-in-law Phil, who’s an electrician, said it was probably loose floorboards hitting the wire, so we got a new bell, new system, but it kept happening. Then when me and Sarah were living in Oxford years later, we had a toy for Gracie that used to chime if it was picked up or shaken. If you just left it on the floor it wouldn’t make a sound, but around the time of Dad’s death in May, the same month as Grace’s birthday, it would always go off on its own. And I’d phone up Mum to tell her and she’d say, ‘The doorbell’s been ringing again.’ So it was just like these little messages. I’m sure there are explanations for it all, but moments like that make you think a little. Even if there are practical explanations, I don’t think there’s any harm with it making you think. It sparks off thoughts and memories. I love things like that that you can’t explain. Death shouldn’t be a depressing thing. Dad spent 63 years on this earth, and he spent 50 of those years with my mum.

  About three or four months before he died we were talking about family and we were all a bit down, depressed, because it had been a heavy time, we were going through a lot with Dad. At that point he was still pretty savvy when it came to talking and communicating. He was always aware of what was happening, he knew he was dying and he dealt with it. He took it on board, he didn’t start feeling sorry for himself or getting angry or moping about. And out of the blue, he said, ‘You know what, Alf, one day, you’ll see me. You’ll see me again.’ Simple as that. Didn’t lead on from any previous conversation. I didn’t know what to make of it, I didn’t know what to say or what to think. After he died I realised what he meant. I saw him in my own actions and mannerisms, and I never had before. I do believe my dad’s spirit and soul still exist. Certainly in me. I see that every day. Just the other morning I was stirring the coffee and rattling the spoon in the cup, exactly the same way he did. With vigour. He did everything with vigour and I’d like to think I inherited that. I like to think so. And it was like he knew I’d experience that after he’d gone, that I’d have a new perspective on what it meant to be his son. I finally realised how much I was really like him. And it made me realise what I had to do for my own family. I wasn’t married then, I’d not met Sarah, but from that point I knew that when I had my own family I’d be as good with them as my dad was with me. Family is now my sole responsibility and I want to make sure everything is right and secure for them. I’m not going to be around for all of my children’s lives, and I think about that a lot, because Dad died at 63. I’m 40 next year. He was very ill, but . . . he’d be 77 now, and it’s gone so fast. So fast. He left us all feeling secure, and instilled a lot in us, but after he went, some of the family had some rocky times. Midlife crises, divorces, heavy drinking, myself included. John was hit hard by it. He said to me, ‘Alf, my best mate’s died. You’ll have to take his place.’

  If Dad was around now, I know he’d be loving my gigs. He’d be on the road with me, he’d drag Mum up. ‘Jump in the car, Patsy, we’re off to see our Alf.’ And he’d drive to Birmingham, Manchester, he wouldn’t think twice about it. And Mum would go with him. She can’t go out on her own now, she doesn’t like going anywhere too much, and I understand that. When she surprised me by turning up in Liverpool to see my concert at the end of last year I was amazed. It was lovely. She’ll come with Annie to see me in London occasionally. But because Dad used to do that sort of thing and not think twice about it, she doesn’t really think anyone else can for her. I totally understand that. It’s like she doesn’t want to be taken out by anybody else. She just wants Dad to take her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ON THE ROAD

  My third year at the Royal College was really tough. I’d graduated at the end of the second year with a first, distinction, and this was the first year of what was supposed to be two years of the opera course, but I was getting itchy feet. I wanted to move, to get going, to step up my game. Dad was getting really ill, and I was having big problems with one of my teachers, who just wasn’t giving me the time I was supposed to have with him. It was a heartache, and it stressed me out. My living situation wasn’t great either. I was in Fulham Broadway with two other students, and the place was so cheap, I’d open my bedroom door and it would hit the bed. I had to crawl around the door to get into my room. I started feeding a rat outside the window. It was the best friend I had. He’d crawl underneath my window and I’d throw biscuits out. That was the highlight of my day.

  The day after Dad died in May I had to come back to the Royal College to do my final opera scenes for my exam. My brother Michael was doing his exam for his sign language course in London, and it was the only chance he’d have to get his qualifications as a national interpreter, so we came down together, and it was so bloody depressing, really hard for us. I did my performance that afternoon and got marked very badly by the acting teacher. Musically I got a distinction, a first, but my acting teacher slated me in her report, said I wasn’t all there, I wasn’t quite in it. Difficult to be completely in it when your dad’s died the day before, and she knew about it.

  I felt like my life was on pause. And I didn’t want it to be, I wanted to keep firing ahead, keep working. I still felt inspired and encouraged about things, because the Clint Boon thing was still happening, I was doing demo recordings and winning competitions, and even Dad’s death seemed like it was part of my story, a part of life that I had to get through. ‘It’s all in the art of growing up, son,’ that’s what he used to say. But his death did hit me really hard. I was feeling aggressive all the time, and I spent a lot of time out and about in London knocking back the drinks, mostly on my own. I’d go into a bar with genuine intent to learn music. I’d have a score in front of me and I’d go through it, get a beer and listen to the music, learning it bit by bit, and another beer would come . . . and the wine would come, and then I’d get a whisky . . . and I’d be mixing and mixing and mixing and before I knew it I was on the tequila, and whiskies turned into double whiskies . . . I was drinking far too much. I’m not blaming Dad’s death for me going out and getting absolutely sozzled. But I had to find some escape.

  I wanted to get the hell out of the Royal College – I was running into problems there with some of the authorities, standing my ground, and I just decided to leave. I’d spoken to Richard Van Allan, who was Director of the National Opera Studio, and after a
n audition there he’d taken me on. And that was a whole different scene, I loved every minute. It was a year’s course at Morley College, Lambeth North, an adult education centre. They rented out a few offices and a rehearsal studio, there’d be pottery classes in the next room, that sort of set-up. My first day there, we all sat in a room, and I thought, ‘Here we go, another lecture about how proud we should all be to be there.’ And Richard Van Allan said, ‘Right, the library’s on the second floor, there are some rehearsal skirts over there, a few swords and props there – let’s get to it!’ And I thought, ‘Yes! At last! Human beings! Human beings running an establishment.’ Fantastic. That’s what this business is about.

  Richard Van Allan died a few years ago, sadly. He was a working class, down to earth guy, who came from a traditional background in Derbyshire, didn’t have to go to Oxbridge to learn his trade. He was a real guy who just sang songs. He was a policeman at one point, and he got into opera singing, as a bass baritone, and he worked all over, worked with Pavarotti, worked in Milan, Covent Garden, Metropolitan Opera. Great fella. And that’s what I’d been looking for, somebody like that to teach me what the business is about. It was great, a huge relief. I was back on track. The pause button had been pressed and was playing again.

  By this point I was determined to earn money solely through singing, and I was finding I could, to an extent. I was doing some small concerts, and also I was playing with a little jazz band we’d formed at the Royal College. We played old nostalgia songs, ‘All of Me’, ‘Autumn Leaves’, “A Foggy Day (in London Town)’, all that stuff. I said, ‘Why don’t we call ourselves Nostalgia?’ and they said, ‘No, let’s call ourselves The Royal College of Music Jazz Band.’ What can you do?

  I was on the drums, I had a tiny little cymbal and snare, and I sang. A guy called Tim Carlston played trumpet, Justin Woodward on the vibraphone, and a double bass player called Richard Pryce, who’d been arrested for hacking The Pentagon and changing everybody’s salaries. He’d done it from his bedroom in Colindale when he was 16, for a laugh. Called himself Datastream Cowboy. Scotland Yard had turned up there at his parents’ house and arrested him. He had the CIA and FBI on his case, the US Senate said he was the number one threat to US security, he was fined a grand or so. He was a bit of a nerd, obviously, but played the double bass like a dream, amazing bass player. I’ve worked with him since, he’s played in some orchestras with me, done some concerts. And we did a few little jazz gigs with that band, museums and the like, the opening of the bar in Harvey Nichols.

  At the National Opera Studio I did a masters in operatics, singing, vocal studies. I was learning roles, having solid coaching, learning tons of music. It was some of the most valuable training I ever had, because it taught you how to deal with the actual job, to get out there and perform, work through a rehearsal process, learn to work with conductors and directors. It was just a great establishment that trained you how to be an opera singer. We had a week’s residency where we’d go into an opera house somewhere, and for me it was Welsh National Opera. We went to Cardiff for a week to see operas, sat in on musical rehearsals and technical rehearsals, production rehearsals, and at the end of the week we put on an opera gala concert in Swansea. The whole thing about the NOS was to learn how to build up your stamina. You’d cram as many operas in as you possibly could, and learn as many as you possibly could.

  I was living in this old fella’s house in Barnes. He lived in South Africa. I think he owned South African Airlines. It was like Miss Havisham’s house, it was a throwback, a bit spooky really. I had a little bohemian attic room with a single corner sink and a single-burner stove. No TV. I wasn’t allowed to use the rest of the house, but his nephew lived there too and he and I got on pretty well. He said I could help myself to some of the wine collection – i.e. not the dust-encrusted vintage section – so I’d grab a bottle sometimes. I lived on lumps of cheese and digestive biscuits for weeks, it was all I could really afford to eat. The kitchen was so old, the knives and forks were ancient, the guy had spent no money on the place, and it was freezing, so we’d walk around in thick jumpers. His nephew would invite me down to eat with him and we’d light a fire and keep warm. All very bohemian.

  I liked Barnes, I’d hang out with college guys in good little country pubs like The Sun, and The Bear. Michael Ball lived in the area and I used to catch the bus past his house quite a bit. I really wanted to meet him and ask him for advice, so I shoved a letter through his door one day. Never heard anything back. I told him about it when I did his radio show a couple of years ago. I said, ‘You never got back to me, ya bastard.’

  He said, ‘Well, would you?! Would you?!’

  I said, ‘Of course I would, if someone put a letter through my door, I would have at least written back.’

  He said, ‘Well I don’t.’

  Fair enough.

  At the end of the course that June we performed a number of different opera scenes at the Royal Festival Hall, and got to sing to a lot of casting directors and agents. Askonas Holt, the agency who’d been watching my progress and had sent me to that concert in Amsterdam, signed me, which was really thrilling. A lot of people from opera houses watched us perform too. Steven Naylor, the head of music at the Glyndebourne opera house, thought I’d be suitable for a production of La Bohème there, as Rodolfo, the lead, so I was brought in for an audition. I sang for him, and David McVicar, who was directing it, and a few other people, including George Christie, the head of Glyndebourne. The guy who auditioned before me was your typical opera singer, wearing his scarf. I lolloped in: ‘Alright!’

  And immediately David McVicar said, ‘He’s the one. I want him.’

  They said, ‘What would you like to sing?’

  I said ‘I’d like to sing “Che Gelida Manina” please.’

  They said, ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

  And I waited, and they waited, and finally the pianist said, rather drolly: ‘Where’s your music?’ I’d left it on the radiator outside, which set David off laughing as I bounded out to get it. The pianist sighed and said, ‘It’s OK, I know it . . .’ And I sang it, and got the job, and also bagged the lead tenor role in Don Pasquale with Scottish Opera Go Round. My first two big jobs.

  So I went on the road with Scottish Opera Go Round, which was an amazing thing to do. We basically sat in a van for a few months, six or seven of us, travelling the highlands and islands of Scotland, performing four times a week. One night you’d play a 500-seater theatre and the following night you’d play a church hall or scout hut to 60 people. Once there was a dog in the audience, just sitting there barking at the back of the auditorium. Another night there were kids in the front row, less than 2ft away from us, opening packets of crisps while I was singing my aria; it sounded like the crackling of an old record, so I started singing like an old 78 album, jerking my voice. That’s what training’s about, you get to work with so many different audiences. It develops you as an artist, to be able to deal with things like that. Kids throwing up in front of you. It was a great experience to do that, to travel around and put on an opera basically anywhere, just to open the doors out of the back of the van and perform to whoever wanted to listen.

  We were living in the moment, getting heckled; it was unpredictable and organic. There’d be a line in the show where one of us would be asking a question, and you’d invariably get someone in the audience shouting out an answer. And there’d be a laugh and the opera would stop and you’d work with it, so you’d be interacting all the time. At one point I was in the middle of singing an aria and a kid at the front cracked open a can of pop and it went everywhere. I walked off-stage, got a cloth and cleaned the mess up, singing throughout. Things like that were fun, we’d turn it into a joke, and that sort of interaction helps you as a performer, to be able to work with the crowd.

  Ernesto’s a great role. I loved it, although there was one point where I forgot the words in the aria. The first line was, ‘I have nothing left to live for,’ and I sang that
line over and over again for the whole song because I forgot the others. ‘I . . . have nothing left to live for, I . . . have nothing left to live for, I have nothing left to live for . . .’ Yeah, we take it you’ve got nothing left to live for, mate. And the shows went down so well, full-house every night. We played the big theatres in Edinburgh, Perth, Inverness, 500- or 1000-seaters, but by their nature they were more organised, more routine. The best nights were in places like Galashiels, Glenuig, Thurso. Little islands like Kirkwood, on the Orkney Islands. Tiny little halls, church halls, scout halls, town halls. People would come out and see it because it was easy for them – they could just walk out of their house and cross the village square. And they weren’t opera fans particularly, just people who wanted to be entertained.

  I found that fantastic. It showed me that this country and the people in this country do have an interest in classical music, it’s not considered boring, you just have to take it to them. It’s not enough to just expect people to come and see you in an opera, or to offer cheap tickets. ‘You can have the nosebleed seats for ten pounds, cos that’s all you’re worthy of having.’ It’s not good enough to do that – you’ve got to get off your arse and take the music to the people. D’Oyly Carte was good like that too. But it’s really the amateur companies that give people access to classical music, and it’s a huge shame. Because the big opera houses have a responsibility to make it accessible, I think. People feel like they need to have been educated in a certain way to appreciate opera, and that’s not the case at all. They’re intimidated by it, because of the image opera can project of itself, and they shouldn’t be. The music’s the thing, and if it’s done well it can emotionally affect anyone. It needs to be more accessible, but there are certain people in the industry who like to keep it to themselves, like a kid with a toy that doesn’t want to share it.