Musical Knowledge

By Ronnie Bray [Inspired by John Victor Collier]

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 tickets will never know the feeling of dread that lasted through the main picture, the B picture, the news, and The March of Time, of immanent detection, arrest, and condign punishment such as decapitation or worse, consequent to furtive and criminal admission, and was not relieved until the back door of my home was footed. 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. It is not widely known, but Les Preludes was Les Dawsons uncle, twice removed and twice forced to put back again, on his mothers side.

Aficionados of the pianoforte and pianofifty have recognised that Liszts and Dawsons piano playing styles were remarkably similar. Acute and classically educated auditors will detect in Liszt's transcriptions of classical composers music for the piano a pronounced Barnsley accent, particularly noticeable in passages where forte fortissimo is required. It is with some apprehension that I disclose an unfortunate event from the distinguished career of Monsieur Les Dawson. He 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 have said other things about it!], he was asked by the Hon Con Sec known as The Man In The Box who the composer was. Maestro Dawson replied in awed tone that 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, that the din was making it difficult for some of the delvers to sleep. The Concert Committee went into emergency session and demanded that Signor Dawson show proof that the composer was Paganini, when the general population, all supping Theakstons Old and Peculiar, and all moved by the passion of the brew into semi-consciousness insisted

that it was the work of a local composer exulting in the name of Haydn Sikh. When the music book in question was set before the Committee, Czar Dawson's stubby finger pointed to the name at the top of the page, and the Committee sighed with relief. There was, they agreed, the name of the composer identified by the pianist. An announcement was made to that effect that should have settled the affair, and all was quiet again. That is, all was almost quiet again, when a lone and familiar 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 little grace and short shrift invited the demurer to the stage to see for thissen! The house lights were turned up as Little Billy Shufflebottom, the Club's nonagenarian pot-man, staggered arthritically up the stage steps where he had the music thrust under his nose, a little roughly in the opinion of two ladies sat at the front table, at which he squinted as Sahib Dawsons digit stabbed at the name before Billys tired old eyes. Monsignor Dawson spoke in his plummy Old Etonian accent,: "Theear, tha wozzak! Can that see nah weear it sez Paganine?" bellowed an excited Tovarich Dawson. However, little Billy couldnt see it, and was not to be cowed, so he retorted in his best Barnsley-Oxford brogue,

"That's nooan Paganini, tha girt lump of lard! It dunt say owt laahk Paganini: it sez 'Page Nine!!!!'" This brought the Club into even more uproar, that in turn brought more protests from the insomniac miners under their feet, and calls from the audience for expert witnesses to be brought in from outside to rule on the matter. And so it came to pass that 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. Their testimony as literate and mostly sober certifiers was accepted, whereupon Little Billy was thoroughly vindicated and raised to the exalted status of life member without parole, and furthermore granted an immediate increase of sixpence a night on top of the ninepence he was already paid for his pot-man duties. At this, Seor Dawson sunk into profound despair from a sense of shame and disgrace, his face assuming the masklike lugubriousity that those who only saw him in his later years read as the face of a defeated man. His manner became withdrawn, and his heart saddened. As he had still ten minutes of performance time remaining, he played the Minute Waltz to a profound and utter silent audience, apart from some titters that escaped from the bar staff when he played some of the cracks between the keys. The audience remained hushed until at the end of the performance, a beaten man, 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 then be had for less than a shilling, and returned home without collecting his fee. It is told that Bwana Dawson never smiled again, 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 carrying their hero, Billy Shufflebottom on their shoulders to the throne room of Ming the Merciless and throwing the diminutive pot-man at the cruel Emperor of the Universe to the rippling melody of Les Preludes, played by a gloomy indistinguishable figure that is hunched over the keyboard, prodding and poking the ivories and ebonies with stubby fingers, as great gouts of salt tears stain the music especially when he reaches page nine. Copyright 2011 Ronnie Bray