Tom Jones - the Life (7 page)

The night was made even more memorable when he spotted Jerry Lee’s car leaving, followed him in a taxi and jumped out to ask for his autograph when they stopped at a red light. The fact that Jerry Lee was happy to oblige under these slightly bizarre circumstances made a lasting impression on Tom. He has never underestimated the importance of fans and always made time for them when he became famous.

While Tom continued to be obsessed with Jerry Lee’s music, he did absorb the influence of other singers – chiefly great black artists with distinctive and soulful voices, including Solomon Burke, Ray Charles and, in particular, the rich tones of Brook Benton. The American singer had a breakthrough hit with ‘It’s Just a Matter of Time’ in 1959. Tom would listen intently to the way he used the whole range of his voice to carry a song. Play a Brook Benton song and you can easily imagine Tom singing it. Vernon admits that Tom had a much broader knowledge of music than the rest of the band and listening to records at his house was a musical education.

Tom was always keen to find new material, however. One day, after a rehearsal at the Y, he noticed that Keith was carrying a new record by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates called ‘A Shot of Rhythm and Blues’. Keith told him that it was fabulous, so they went to Cliff Terrace to listen. Tom loved it. ‘“Leave this with me,” he said. “I’ve got to learn the words and we’ll do it next time.” So I left it there and I never saw it again from that day to this.’

Tom improved dramatically as a performer with The Senators. He was more confident and didn’t just stand and sing. They used to do a version of the UK number one ‘The Twist’, by Chubby Checker, in which Tom would twist over to Keith and the guitarist would twist back to him. They were only messing about, but the crowd always loved it.

They had regular work and a supportive following. During these early days, they had no formal manager, but Horace Turner, the father of the drummer, Alva, helped them for the sheer enjoyment of it. He took no commission for sorting out their fees, bookings and regular work. On Tuesday nights, they played the Empress Ballroom in Abercynon; Wednesday, they rehearsed from 7 p.m. until 10 p.m., so they could make the pub for a beer before closing; Thursday, they travelled to Caerphilly for their favourite night of the week at the Bedwas Working Men’s Club, popularly known as the Green Fly; and Friday, they still had their usual alcohol-free night at the YMCA in Pontypridd. Many other local venues formed an orderly queue to sign them up when it became clear that they could fill the place. They played often at the Memorial Hall in Newbridge, known to everyone as the Memo, the Cwm Welfare Club in Beddau and the Regent Ballroom in Hopkinstown, on the west side of Pontypridd.

The band was being paid between £12 and £15 a night, which left them with £2 or £3 each after petrol and other expenses. Tom acquired a reputation for never putting his hand in his pocket to buy a drink. Vernon recalls with a smile, ‘The only way he would buy a drink would be if you turned him upside down and shook him.’ Keith also confirms, ‘I can’t remember too many times when he bought me a pint, put it that way. Nothing comes to mind.’

The reality of Tom’s situation was that he was the odd man out, because he had a wife and son at home and had to hand most of his wages over to Linda. He was still signing on the dole every week for his twelve shillings and sixpence. From time to time, he would take on a manual job, but, as Gill Beazer remembers, ‘He never really worked.’

On 26 May 1962, Tom had his first mention as a singer in the
Pontypridd Observer
. A young reporter called Gerry Greenberg had seen them rehearsing at the Wheatsheaf one evening and, because he was keen to be involved in the local music scene, decided to write about them. He recalls, ‘I thought he was a good singer, but back then I had nothing much to judge him against in terms of stars. He was a local singer and it was difficult to compare him to big stars.’ The paper published a small picture of the band on page three, with a caption that read: ‘The Pontypridd group who are making quite a name for themselves in modern music. Their soloist is popular Tommy Scott, Keith Davies on rhythm guitar, Alva Turner on drums, Vernon Hopkins on bass guitar and Mike Roberts on lead guitar.’

Three days later, Tom and The Senators appeared on television for the first time, on a BBC Wales show called
Donald Peers Presents
– not the catchiest of titles by today’s standards. Peers was a self-made man from the small mining town of Ammanford. He ran away from home at sixteen and became one of the most popular singers in the country. His signature song, ‘In a Shady Nook by a Babbling Brook’, was perfect for a singalong at the Wood Road on a Saturday night.

The TV show gave unknown local acts three minutes in the spotlight. Tom was firmly told that he had to tone down the gyrations for polite television. He chose to sing ‘That Lucky Old Sun’ – another Vaughn Monroe hit he had loved growing up. The producers were impressed and asked him to come back on a future show.

Tom bought a new eight-guinea suit to wear; that was a lot of money then. Keith Davies recalls, ‘I thought he was going to sing “Sixteen Tons”, but of all the songs they could have chosen for him to do, they decided on a Cliff Richard song, ‘I’m Lookin’ Out the Window’. At least he had the suit, which he had been measured for and everything, but the wardrobe mistress said, “You are not dressing in a suit.” So she gave him a pair of jeans, a red shirt and a tartan dicky bow tie. He looked like Rupert Bear. And he said, “I’m not wearing that.” So they came to a compromise and he wore the jeans with a red open-necked shirt.

‘I shall never forget him trying to keep a straight face as he sang “I’m Lookin’ Out the Window” to a window made of plastic. And what you couldn’t see on TV was a man up a stepladder with a watering can, pouring the “rain” down the window. It was hilarious. I was laughing so much Tom told me that if I carried on like that, I was going to have to bugger off.’

Tom didn’t add ‘I’m Lookin’ Out the Window’ to The Senators’ set list, but many of the songs, like ‘Sixteen Tons’, which he performed with them around the clubs of South Wales, would later feature on Tom’s albums. They used to open with the Ben E. King soul classic ‘Spanish Harlem’, which had been a hit in the UK charts in the summer of 1962 for Jimmy Justice and was another Tom would record in the future. The song let sceptical audiences know that they weren’t going to perform rock ’n’ roll exclusively.

One song he introduced to the set list was the powerful Sophie Tucker lament ‘My Yiddishe Momme’, which his father had taught him when he was a little boy and became a crowd favourite during his later live performances. On one memorable evening at the Wood Road, he sang ‘My Yiddishe Momme’ a cappella to his mother Freda. She loved the song and was in heaven when her son sang it for her.

Tom was very methodical about learning a new song. He played a disc over and over on the turntable until he had mastered the lyrics, then put his own phrasing on it in time for the Wednesday night rehearsal.

The greater exposure that 1962 brought led to the formation of The Senators’ own concert party. They were the headline act of an evening’s entertainment that was like a small-scale summer season at a seaside resort. They had a piano player, a girl singer and a comedian called Bryn Phillips, who was known as Bryn the Fish, because he had a fish round in Abercynon and smelled of haddock.

Tom’s stage presence was evolving more by luck than design. He would use a series of hand gestures to make sure the band was in perfect synch with him. Many of his powerful arm movements and body gyrations were code for the band and just as much for their benefit as for the watching audience. Quietly, The Senators were becoming less of a band in their own right and more Tom’s backing group. Gerry Greenberg remembers, ‘He was on a pedestal without anybody saying anything really.’

Gerry recalls watching them regularly at the New Inn in Taff Street. ‘Tom would sit downstairs having a drink while the band got the show going upstairs.’

Tom didn’t practise or warm up properly. His voice was nurtured on a diet of beer, cigarettes and curry. Young hopefuls starting off in music then weren’t particularly aware that you needed to care for your voice. As Vernon observes, ‘That was something opera singers did.’

On one occasion, Vernon suggested Tom should have a singing lesson with Brenda, the music teacher who lived next door to him in Rhydyfelin, to see if there was any advice he should be following. Tom dutifully agreed and popped round. At first Vernon could hear the familiar sound of la-la-la voices running up and down scales, and then it went dead quiet.

Eventually, Tom came back, red-faced and flustered. ‘You’ll never bloody guess, Vern. She sat on my chest.’

Tommy Woodward and Vernon Hopkins were kindred spirits united by a love of music and a desire to find a better life away from the terraces of the Valleys. They were also two young men, only a year apart in age, who enjoyed the company of women and wanted some adventure in their lives. Vernon, tall and dark, was probably the best looking of the two, but he acknowledges that Tom was better at talking to girls.

Linda came to a gig only occasionally, when she could leave Mark with her mother for the night. Most evenings, the lads would try their luck with the few girls hanging around to meet the band, but Vernon admits that their success rate was pretty close to zero. One of the band might get lucky every six weeks or so, which was hardly something to brag about to The Rolling Stones.

Vernon and Tom did manage to pick up a couple of air hostesses after a Saturday night gig in Ystrad Mynach, five miles from Pontypridd. They were so busy getting steamy with the girls in the car park that the others drove off, leaving them to make the long walk home. That would have been no problem if it hadn’t started to rain heavily. Fortunately, they found a shed to shelter under for the night. They managed to keep the girls warm until everyone fell asleep contentedly.

In the morning, the sun was shining and it would have been a lovely day, except that they were all covered from head to toe in pigeon shit. They had spent the night underneath a dovecote, but hadn’t noticed in the throes of drunken passion. The boys found it much funnier than the girls, who kicked them both very firmly in the shins as a thank you. The walk of shame back home was not a happy one, especially as nobody stopped to give them a lift.

Clearly, Tom wasn’t being faithful to Linda and, if the stories are to be believed, he has never been. She knew that. She heard the gossip. She felt uncomfortable seeing other women chatting up her husband and certainly didn’t want the knowledge of his philandering brought to her doorstep. Despite their success with the air hostesses, the Senators weren’t girl magnets, much as they would like to have been.

If there weren’t enough fast women around in the Valleys, then perhaps Tom would have better luck with a fast car. Vernon was astonished when Tom, who hadn’t even passed his test, turned up outside the house in a sparkling new scarlet Ford Corsair. It wasn’t his. The car belonged to his brother-in-law, Tony Thorne, who was married to Linda’s younger sister Roslyn.

He shouted, ‘Hop in, Vern. We’re off to Barry Island!’ They spent an hour or two sitting on the beach and eating ice cream. Vern told Tom that he was desperate to get away from Ponty; Tom was in whole-hearted agreement. They drove back happily, until Tom was pulled over by the police a few hundred yards from Tony’s house. The car had been reported stolen that morning. He had no insurance, as well as no driver’s licence. The matter inevitably reached the magistrates’ court and ended in a fine.

The escapade prompted Vernon to invest in a car of his own. His old Morris was nothing like the flash Corsair, but did come in useful occasionally, transporting the band to gigs. By late summer of 1962, the group had become friendly with a young engineer called Chris Ellis, who used to come and watch them at the Green Fly and would lend an expert hand if a piece of the equipment wasn’t working properly. He soon volunteered to be their roadie, and was responsible for setting up the gear at concerts and driving the van. He remained an integral part of the Tom Jones machine for more than ten years.

Tom was always the last to be picked up when they were travelling to a gig. He was never ready on time. One of the group would run over and bang on the grill with their heel and Linda would let them in. They would chat to Tom while he shaved in a small, cracked mirror that he had used for years. Then they would set off, all of them filled with anticipation, except for Tom. He would get in the back, lie down and fall fast asleep. He was a very deep sleeper. Vernon recalls, ‘Tom just used to lie there, out for the count. We always had a hell of a job waking him up when we arrived.’

The Green Fly continued to be the focus for events, both good and bad, in the story of The Senators. On one night, three of his old Teddy boy mates decided to drive over to watch Tom perform. The evening went well, the beer was flowing and Tom decided to catch a lift back with his friends. On the way, they were involved in a nasty collision, which left them all injured. Roy Nicholl had a broken jaw, Johnny Cleaves had a serious head injury and Dai Shepherd needed thirty-six stitches. Tom escaped with a bang on his forehead that gave him concussion and forced the cancellation of several gigs. They were all very lucky.

The band, and Tom in particular, were getting progressively more desperate for something to happen. They were stuck in a provincial rut. Most Tuesdays after collecting his dole money, Tom would drift into the
Pontypridd Observer
and chat to Gerry Greenberg. He was forever trying to persuade the reporter to include a mention of the band in his pop column ‘Teen Beat’. Gerry did profile Tom in the column, in which readers learned that Tom had green eyes and that his ambition was to perform with Jerry Lee Lewis; his principal dislike was sarcastic people. It was good exposure, but publicity in the local paper wasn’t going to be enough to get them noticed in London.

On one occasion Tom arrived at Gerry’s office with a badly cut mouth and swollen cheeks. Gerry recalls, ‘He was in a mess. He was struggling to speak, so I asked him, “What happened to you?” And he said the band were over at the Green Fly when they were jumped on by a gang. One of them jumped on him from behind and put his hands in his mouth and ripped it apart. I said, “God, that must have been painful, because you look in a right state.”

The Senators gave the impression of being a rough pub band, bashing out a series of rock ’n’ roll standards from the fifties. Out front, Tom cut an intimidating figure in a leather jacket. Behind him, the rest of the band incongruously wore blue blazers and white trousers. They were exciting, but they weren’t current. The Beatles had their first top ten hit, ‘Love Me Do’, in October 1962 and music was never the same again. The boys from Pontypridd were in danger of being left behind.

After another night at the Green Fly, they were approached by two ambitious young songwriters, Raymond Godfrey and John Glastonbury, who told them they had enjoyed their performance. They were seeking an up-and-coming band to showcase their songs. None of the band, according to Vernon, was particularly impressed by the duo, who looked like students and, for some reason, called themselves Myron and Byron: ‘They didn’t fit in at all. They were a square peg in a round hole. Byron was all right, quite affable, but Myron – I hated him. He was really slimy. Tom didn’t like him at all.’

Raymond Godfrey later said that he and John Glastonbury were really only interested in Tom, as he was the one with the obvious talent. This was the first indication that outsiders listening to the band would concentrate on the singer.

The Senators could go on playing local gigs for years to come, but here were two people talking seriously and enthusiastically about London for the first time. Myron and Byron told the boys they wanted them to make a demo of their songs, which they would take to record publishers and producers in the capital. It was a start.

Alva Turner decided he didn’t like the way things were going, so he left. Fortunately, they managed to recruit a new drummer right away – a seventeen-year-old Pontypridd shoe salesman called Chris Rees. He changed his name to Chris Slade and would go on to become one of the best-known rock drummers of the past forty years. After he left Tom in 1970, he played with, among others, Manfred Mann’s Earth Band in the seventies, AC/DC in the nineties and Asia in the noughties. Keith Davies was also having doubts about continuing as a guitarist with the group and left abruptly after a gig one night. He remained as part of the set-up, however, travelling to venues with them and helping with the equipment. He was happier without the pressure of playing every night. He was also in love and, now aged eighteen, planning to marry soon.

He spent the night before his wedding in the front room of the house in Glyndwr Avenue, talking with Tom and Vernon and getting very drunk. Tom turned to him after more than a few beers and said, ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot now, Keith. Do yourself a favour. Get up to Treforest Station now. There is a milk train that goes out at six. Get on it and don’t bloody get off.’ Keith ignored that advice and celebrated his golden wedding in 2013. He was in such a state on his wedding day, however, that he can’t remember anything about it.

He and Tom didn’t always get on so well. One Christmas Eve, after a couple of shows, the band were having a few beers in the Labour Club in Treharris. Vernon started playing ‘Moonlight Sonata’, while Tom messed around on the keys. Keith, a little drunk, unintentionally closed the lid on Tom’s hands. The next thing he knew, he was up against the wall and Tom had to be calmed down by the others. Later, while Keith was putting the gear back in the van, Tom came to apologise.

Keith recalls, ‘He said, “I’m sorry,” and me, like a big kid, said, “Fuck off.” And I turned back to carry on with what I was doing. The next thing I knew, I had this hand on the back of my collar and I went flying out the back of the van. I always remember it was a lovely night and I was looking up at the stars, and he gave me a little dig with his foot. Cut my mouth and all that nonsense.’

The atmosphere was terrible for a short while, until one night before leaving Cliff Terrace, Tom asked simply, ‘You all right?’ He also went out and bought Keith a new white shirt to replace the one that had been damaged in the spat. That brief altercation stands out as the only time there was any trouble between Tom and the band.

Before Myron and Byron could take the sound of The Senators – and Tom – to London, however, they needed to make the demo. After much investigation, the duo decided that the perfect place would be the toilets in the YMCA. Tom already liked to sing there while he was having a pee because the acoustics were so good. They recorded four tracks, written by Myron and Byron, reel to reel on an eight-track portable stereo.

Meanwhile, Myron and Byron started taking on more responsibility for the band, eventually signing them to a management contract. They found them gigs that were out of their comfort zone. They were booked as a support act to Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas at the Grand Pavilion in Porthcawl. Kramer was one of the ‘Mersey sound’ acts that sprang up in the wake of The Beatles’ success and was, for a while, hugely successful. He was managed by Brian Epstein and took a succession of Lennon and McCartney songs into the charts. Billy J. was a heart-throb in the old mould – more Cliff Richard than Mick Jagger, and definitely not Tom Jones.

The Senators raised their game that night and were rapturously received by the Welsh crowd before the headline act closed the show to less than enthusiastic applause. The crowd started chanting for Tom and the boys to come back on, which, after being approached by the management, they were happy to do. They played for another half-hour. Vernon recalls, ‘We converted a lot of Dakotas fans to Senator fans that night.’

At the end of a memorable night, Billy J. Kramer was still a star, however, and Tommy Woodward, aka Tommy Scott, wasn’t. He kept telling the people at the dole office in Pontypridd that things were definitely moving for him at last. The officials at the Labour Exchange, as Jobcentres were called then, were sceptical about the whole thing. They thought Tom was too smartly dressed for the average unemployed person and guessed the band was more successful than he was letting on.

A dry assessment from a supervisor at the employment office in 1963 reveals: ‘He does not want shift work but I believe the reason for his not liking shifts is because he is a member of a vocal group, which is supposedly an amateur affair. From the adverts one sees in the local press, however, it seems that this group had a good thing going.

‘From the way he is able to dress, it would seem that Mr Woodward’s little hobby is highly lucrative and this would account for his non-enthusiasm in securing employment. Consider and submit as soon as possible to anything which wouldn’t dirty his fingernails! Nothing on offer at present.’

Godfrey and Glastonbury tried their luck in London, hawking their demo without success, until they managed to attract the attention of one of the best-known men in pop. His name was Joe Meek and he was a nightmare. His legendary status now owes much to the dreadful circumstances of his death rather than his achievements during his lifetime, although he was by far the most successful figure that Tom had come across. He was a maverick tortured by his sexuality at a time when sex between men was illegal in the UK; it remained so until 1967.

Meek was an innovative producer with an unmistakable style – not as instantly recognisable as Phil Spector perhaps, but one who put his stamp on popular music in the early sixties. Sadly for him, he went out of fashion almost as quickly as he came in. Many of the studio techniques that are taken for granted today, however, were first introduced by the tone-deaf Meek in his home studio in a flat above a handbag shop in the Holloway Road, North London.

His first major hit was the summer of 1961 smash ‘Johnny Remember Me’ by the actor John Leyton, a lament for a dead lover that featured Meek’s trademark eerie electronic sound. When the song was played on the panel show
Juke Box Jury
, Spike Milligan dismissed it as ‘son of “Ghost Riders in the Sky”’. The track did have the galloping beat that Tom had liked so much in the latter – he could have drummed ‘Johnny Remember Me’ on the desk at school.

Meek’s reputation as the UK’s foremost independent producer was firmly established by the success of ‘Telstar’ by The Tornados in December 1962. The instrumental was one of the first British records to top the
Billboard
charts in the US and sold an estimated five million copies worldwide. The
New Musical Express
(
NME
), which named Meek the most influential producer ever, commented, ‘It was unlike anything anyone had heard before, packed full of claviolines, bizarre distortions and weird sonic effects, all achieved in Meek’s home recording studio above a shop.’