Nancy Carson - Rags to Riches

‘Will came up with the idea of all the family getting together and going along to see your maiden concert , as he called it, then all coming back here afterwards for a celebration. For your twenty-first. What do you think?’

Maxine grinned happily. Her widest grin that night. ‘Oh, that would be smashing. Oh, isn’t that husband of yours kind, Henzey?’ She looked at Will. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Will. Thank you. Thank you ever so much.’

‘And tomorrow,’ Henzey added, ‘I’m going to buy the tickets for the concert.’

It was with some nervousness that Maxine took her place by her beloved cello on the stage at Birmingham Town Hall that second Saturday in May 1936. She looked bewitching in a new black evening dress she’d treated herself to, and her eyes shone with expectation. Along with everybody else she checked her tuning, at the same time peering into the audience, trying to locate family and friends who had come to both support her and celebrate her twenty-first birthday afterwards. Gwen Berry, at her side, nodded her encouragement as she adjusted the music score on the stand in front of them that they were to share.

Before Maxine knew it, they were into the first elegant phrases of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major. John Ball, the soloist, whom she had met briefly, was the orchestra’s own clarinettist. At rehearsal Maxine had been impressed with his ability.

It was a glorious feeling playing with other musicians. The music was like a magic carpet flying them all to exotic places. The tempo was the speed of flight, the melodies the delightful undulations in it, each trill the carpet’s frill rippling in an ethereal breeze. It all seemed unstoppable. Not that she wanted it to stop. It was addictive. Maxine likened it to riding in Stephen’s car; moving was infinitely more agreeable than not moving; stopping was inevitably a disappointment. But all too soon the music was at an end. All too soon the magic carpet had landed.

After the applause they took off again on another ride: a fairly recent piece by Ravel, called Boléro . Leslie Heward controlled the emotion in the music skilfully, building the tension almost imperceptibly. At first it was coquettish, provocative like a frivolous woman tantalising an admirer. Halfway through, their mutual arousal was already obsessive, ascending steadily to an orgy of compelling passion till the last, loud, staccato chords brought it to a shuddering, juddering finish like sated lovers spent of their last drop of energy.

Applause was immense and sustained and Maxine turned to Gwen, smiling with satisfaction, proud to be a part of this orchestra. So profound had been her concentration that, at the interval, she felt drained. Yet still to come was Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Backstage she joined the queue at the trestle table that supported a pile of cups and saucers and a huge urn containing enough tea to refresh the orchestra with at least two cups each.

‘How’s it going, Maxine?’

She turned to see Brent Shackleton standing behind her and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, hello.’ She smiled brightly as she would at an old friend and hoped he could not detect her nervous reaction. The opportunity to speak to him had not presented itself since after last Sunday’s concert, even at rehearsals, and she wondered if he had deliberately avoided her. Well, he was not avoiding her now.

‘So? How’s it going?’ he asked again. ‘Are you settling in all right?’

‘Oh, fine, yes, thank you.’

‘Good. I spotted you in Boléro . Kept you busy towards the end, didn’t it?’

She laughed awkwardly. ‘You, too. I saw you had plenty to do as well.’

‘I’m still breathless.’ He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Good, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Great.’ They shuffled towards the head of the queue together.

‘You can hear the jazz influences in Boléro , can’t you? The sliding trombone and all that.’ He offered her a cigarette which she declined, and lit one himself. ‘It’s not so stuffy as some of the music we play.’

‘I suppose not. Still…’ She shrugged, hesitant, not sure in what vein to continue the conversation, anxious not to disagree with him. ‘To tell you the truth, I love it all.’

‘Mind you, some of these so-called modern classics are a bit pretentious. You know…Mahler, Scriabin…stuff like that.’ He deeply inhaled smoke and seemed to hold it in his lungs for ages. ‘In my opinion.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Maxine said inadequately. They had reached the trestle table, so she picked up a cup and saucer and held it under the tap of the urn.

‘Not like jazz,’ he remarked.

She moved away from the table when her cup was full. ‘You like jazz, then?’ she asked when he’d rejoined her.

‘Oh, I love jazz.’

‘I like jazz as well,’ she replied truthfully and sipped her tea. ‘I used to listen to jazz records all the time. The people I used to lodge with – before I went to live with my sister – have a daughter who was a keen jazz fan. She used to get hold of some obscure records from America. She’s a musician as well and we used to play it together, mimicking it – just for a laugh, me on the piano usually, she on clarinet. I don’t get the chance to hear much now. Occasionally I hear a snatch on the wireless. Yes, I quite like jazz.’

‘You play piano as well?’ He sounded surprised.

‘I started out on piano.’

He nodded his approval. ‘Oh, it’s great, jazz. It’s not so contrived as this stuff we play here, is it? You know where it comes from?’

‘America, I suppose.’

‘Africa.’ He drew on his cigarette and paused long enough for this gem of information to register. She saw his probing eyes, steady upon her, awaiting her response.

‘Africa?’

‘Missionaries.’ Now he took a gulp of tea.

‘Missionaries?’

‘Missionaries. Missionaries achieved Africanisation of their own hymnbooks, you know, when they were converting the natives to Christianity.’ He sounded pat, as if he’d held the same discussion many times before.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Well, African tribes interpreted our Christian hymns their own way, using the influences of their own music. That’s what I mean. You know…their own ritual music – chants, tribal songs – stuff like that.’

‘And that was jazz?’

‘Not yet. It was just the beginnings.’ He was laughing. She had not seen him laugh like this before; he always seemed so serious; a touch preoccupied maybe.

Maxine lifted her cup and sipped her tea again, still drawn to his penetrating eyes like a beautiful moth drawn to a night-light.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘African music developed in a way totally differently to our European music. It was less abstract, less aesthetic – do you know what I mean?’ Maxine nodded her increasing understanding. ‘It was more practical, more of a language – a way of communicating – and they could alter its meaning or emotion just by altering the pitch of a note, or changing the inflection in the voice.’

‘So it was more functional than music for mere art’s sake?’ She was glad that her interest in his explanations was genuine. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes, and more rhythmic. Much more rhythmic. They used what they could lay their hands on for percussion instruments. A stick to beat out a rhythm. On a hollowed out tree trunk, for instance.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Maxine had never seriously pondered the roots of jazz before. It was quite intriguing. Brent Shackleton was certainly intriguing.

Brent puffed more smoke into the room, then drained his cup. ‘Then, when those poor Negroes became victims of the slave trade, these songs – these hymns if you like – evolved into work songs with lyrics to suit the situation. The slave owners encouraged them to sing such songs – apparently they improved the work rate. They weren’t daft, you know. When the slaves were freed, the more musically inclined of them that could afford it got hold of proper instruments. Some got to be brilliant and, because of their own Negro influences – you know, using complicated rhythms and altering notes and sounds by pitch and inflection – jazz evolved.’