Sean Smith - Tom Jones - The Life

Gill paints a contrasting picture of the young Tom Jones from those who have portrayed him as some sort of yob. The most likely explanation is that there were two sides to Tom, fashioned from his upbringing in this quiet part of South Wales. He would act the big man over a pint or two with his mates, swear like a navvy and was quite prepared to nut someone if they were threatening him. Facially, he looked much tougher than he actually was. He wasn’t a huge man by any means, being slim and fit and about 5ft 10in tall. But his badly misshapen nose and teeth meant he could look menacing without even trying. He liked dressing as a Teddy boy because he thought he looked ‘slick’, as he put it.

The reality, at least as far as women were concerned, was entirely different. ‘I think he was quite shy underneath,’ says Gill. Her view of Tom is one endorsed by Linda: ‘He is the most mild-mannered man you could wish to meet – and so patient with everyone. He is kind and gentle.’

The real man doesn’t sound like a love-them-and-leave-them stud. Inevitably, he changed when he became a superstar and had to live up to his image as a sex god. Women were willing and readily available to him then, but at this stage of his life that happened only occasionally. Looking back on her own experience with the man who would become Tom Jones, Gill reveals the moral dilemma of Tommy Woodward: how to reconcile becoming involved with other women while being happily married. She observes, ‘He loved his wife dearly.’

Vernon Hopkins hadn’t forgotten about Tommy Woodward; he just didn’t need him. He had seen Tom once or twice around the Pontypridd pubs, apparently flogging a dead horse, still in Teddy boy gear, the Hawk guitar around his neck, banging out the same Frankie Laine, Jerry Lee Lewis and Ray Charles numbers. Tom didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Although he always believed it was his destiny to be a singer, he was stuck in a rut.

Vernon, a young man filled with energy and a passion for music, changed that for him. He had a steady job as an apprentice compositor with the Pontypridd Observer , while playing with his group, The Senators, who were gradually building a local following. They had even appeared on television.

The band had started out as a three piece – just Vernon and two Rhydyfelin teenagers, Keith Davies and Jeff Maher, who lived next door to one another. By coincidence, the trio had their first gig at the Wood Road in Treforest. Keith, who was a devoted fan of The Shadows, played their famous hit ‘Apache’ and other Hank Marvin classics, but it was clear they needed a singer if they were going to progress.

One of the club members told them his son could sing and would come on stage with them. Keith already knew Tommy Pitman from Rhydyfelin, but didn’t know he could sing. The Senators were happy to give him a try the next time they played at the club. It went well. Tommy jumped up, sang ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, ‘Jailhouse Rock’ and some other Elvis songs, with a dash of Buddy Holly for variety.

Tommy had recently been demobbed after finishing his national service with the RAF in Cyprus. While there, he had joined a group that wanted an Elvis-style singer. They performed regularly on the island, on television as well as in live shows, so he was an accomplished performer by the time he sang at the Wood Road.

Everything seemed set fair for the group. They added a drummer, Brian Price, and decided to call themselves The Senators after the model of Vernon’s Höfner guitar. They soon became much in demand, with some regular gigs, including the YMCA near the Old Bridge in Taff Street, Pontypridd, on Friday nights. They were also booked to appear on a new pop show called Discs A GoGo . This was hosted by the former Radio Luxembourg DJ Kent Walton, who would become much more famous as the commentator on professional wrestling every week on ITV’s World of Sport . They had to audition at the studios in Pontcanna, Cardiff. Tommy sang a Cliff Richard song – only to learn that for the show, a Christmas special, the producers wanted the band to perform ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘Well, that’s me out for a start,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m not going to sing “Jingle Bells”. I’m a rock ’n’ roll singer.’ So the rest of The Senators went ahead without him and performed it as an instrumental.

The Senators were going places. The one problem for the band that Vernon couldn’t have foreseen was that Tommy Pitman was losing his enthusiasm. He was older than the others and didn’t relish playing for what was, in effect, a teenage jive club. He recalls, ‘I wasn’t mad on singing, to be honest. I got a bit fed up with the YMCA on Friday nights. There were no drinks or anything like that – just dancing. I used to go down with my mates and have a couple of beers in a nearby pub and then we’d start playing a few cards until I’d go, “I’m not going up to the Y tonight.”’ Friday night, he decided, was drinks night with the boys.

The rest of the band coped the first time, but something had to be done when it happened again. They laboured through the first set, but Keith Davies observed, ‘I can only play “Apache” so many times.’

Vernon said, ‘I know a fella who goes round the clubs. He’s called Tommy Woodward and he’ll probably be in the White Hart.’ So he set off down the High Street to try to find their substitute.

Sure enough, Tom was with his friends, propping up the bar, when Vernon dashed in. He said Pitman hadn’t turned up and asked if Tom would like to earn a few bob by singing the second set. Vernon remembers Tom giving a little cough into his hand. He has the same mannerism today; it’s a sign that he’s nervous about something. He downed the rest of his pint. ‘OK, Vern, I’ll do it for a couple of quid.’

Just when Vernon thought it was all settled, Tom remembered that the YMCA was a booze-free zone. He stopped in his tracks: ‘I’m out for a good drink, Vern. Out with the boys, like.’ Vernon, thinking quickly, said he would buy a crate of beers and smuggle them in just for Tom. That sealed the deal.

They ran back to the Y as fast as they could go without exhausting Tom, who wouldn’t be able to sing if he was gasping for breath. It’s not easy to get up and start singing with a band you’ve never really met before, let alone rehearsed with. The Senators had also just gone through some changes: Jeff and Colin had left to start their own group and had been replaced by rhythm guitarist Mike Roberts, who was in television, and Alva Turner on drums.

The legend of that first gig has it that Tom bounced on stage and was off. That’s not strictly true, because he was fretting about not knowing what the first number was going to be. ‘Christ,’ he said to Vernon, ‘we’ve never even practised together.’

The familiar swagger was back, however, when he walked on and turned to Keith, who had no idea who he was, and said confidently, ‘Do you know “Great Balls of Fire” in C?’

‘No,’ came the reply, ‘but you sing it and we’ll play it.’

With a voice so strong it made the walls tremble, Tom burst into ‘You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain …’

The rather square and sober 200-strong audience had never seen anything like the menacing figure now before them. He looked as if he would jump off the stage and nut you if you didn’t applaud in the right place. They were too shocked to clap after the first number. Tom marched off to take a lusty swig of light ale from behind a curtain, before continuing in the same vein, standing defiantly in centre stage, legs braced as if he were pulling a cart. Gradually, however, freed from the restrictions of playing his guitar, he began to move about and engage with the audience, who responded by starting to dance. Tom found his rhythm, and Vernon recalls, ‘He was like a man possessed.’ He was helped in that regard by polishing off four light ales while he performed.