Книга - Tom Jones — The Life

Tom Jones - The Life
Sean Smith


From bestselling biographer Sean Smith comes the fascinating and tumultuous true story behind Sir Tom Jones, the nation’s treasure, sage of The Voice and living music legend.Celebrating his 75th birthday this year, Tom Jones’ life has been an unforgettable rollercoaster ride. From starting out in a little Welsh mining town where he married his sweetheart at just 16, who could have known that seven years later he would go on to become a major musical hit that would propel him to Bel Air? Through intimate interviews, Smith uncovers all this and more, including the years Tom spent as little more than a Vegas lounge singer, before being rediscovered in the late ‘80s and becoming a maestro on the music scene once again.As revealing as it is entertaining, this is the definitive story of a great talent who is showing no signs of slowing down.










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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

FIRST EDITION

© Sean Smith 2015

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Also by Sean Smith (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


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Royal Racing

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Sophie’s Kiss (with Garth Gibbs)

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Dedication (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


To HB




Contents


Cover (#u7739618a-4e5c-5ed0-9819-ecf446d03f81)

Title Page (#ulink_0375b0f5-aba5-509f-832e-a2671877c61d)

Copyright (#ulink_f27d0744-1d3b-5c1c-bda9-efa5df727179)

Also by Sean Smith (#ulink_d837905a-78b2-5352-b54c-d345a148a1f3)

Dedication (#ulink_e3e98706-a6b3-5154-b30f-d34d94d998b9)

Part One: Tommy Woodward

1 The Show-Off

2 The Prisoner of Laura Street

3 A Teenager in Love

4 The Making of a Man

5 The Girl with the Red Dress On

6 Senator Tom

7 The Green Fly Boys

Part Two: Tom Jones

8 The Black Hole

9 It’s Not Unusual

10 Pussycat

11 Green, Green Grass

12 A Love Supreme

13 This Is Tom Jones

14 On Top of Miss World

15 The King and I

16 The Slump

Part Three: Sir Tom

17 Kiss-Off

18 You Can Leave Your Hat On

19 My Best Friend’s Funeral

20 Reloading

21 In Search of Credibility

22 The Road

23 The Voice

Last Thoughts (#litres_trial_promo)

Tom’s Stars (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Select Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)

List of Searchable Terms (#litres_trial_promo)

Picture Section (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



Part One




1

The Show-Off (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


Even as a small boy, it was always about the voice. Tom calls it his ‘God-given gift’. Freda Woodward believed her son was musical as a baby when she held him in her arms: ‘As soon as music came on the radio, he would start to move like a jelly. And if you left him in his cot, he would make musical sounds at the top of his voice. I remember thinking, “What’s eating this boy?”’

Tom’s first memory of impressing his mother was when he was a blond, curly-haired five-year-old and she heard him singing the popular wartime novelty song ‘Mairzy Doats’. She asked him to sing it again, and when he had finished, she told him, ‘You’ve got a lovely voice.’ That parental approval was all the encouragement Tom needed to believe that he would be a singer one day. ‘I had this voice and the love of it. So any chance I could get, I wanted to get up and sing.’

Tommy Woodward liked an audience as a little lad. His first cousins, Jean and the twins Ada and Margaret, would come over to his parents’ house on Laura Street for a concert. There would just be time to have a fight with Margaret, which Tommy usually started by trying to stick a spider down the back of her neck, before it was showtime. His doting mother Freda knew the routine, because he used to pester her almost daily to announce him dramatically, in a proper show business fashion.

‘I would be cleaning the lounge and there was a deep windowsill and Tom would get up there and pull the drapes over and he would say, “Mum, call me out now.” And I would say, “Wait a minute now, because I’m busy.” And he would say, “No, call me out now.” So I would say, “Tommy Woodward, he will be out next” and he would jump out and start to sing. Well, I knew there was some talent there. He was never shy.’

Margaret remembers the concerts well. ‘He would be up in auntie’s window, pretending that he was on stage then. And we would all have to clap. He was always very talented, but none of us children were allowed to be shy.’

The Woodwards were originally from Cornwall, but moved to the small village of Treforest overlooking Pontypridd at the end of the nineteenth century, drawn by the prospect of finding work in the mines that were thriving at the time. Thousands of families poured in to transform the landscape of South Wales. Row upon row of small terraced houses were built for the ‘immigrants’ who created the mining communities for which the Valleys became famous. Tom’s father, Thomas John Woodward senior, was the first of his family to be born in Wales.

It is a huge simplification to describe these areas as poor, deprived or underprivileged. Working down the mines was considered a good job and, more importantly, it provided a regular wage. Being a miner was exceptionally hard work, but Tom’s dad was proud to follow in the footsteps of his father and two elder brothers. He earned his first wage at the age of fourteen, when he went down Cwm Colliery in Beddau, three miles across the mountain from Treforest.

For forty years, rain or shine, frost or snow, he would rise at 5.15 a.m., pull on his hobnail boots and go to work to shovel fourteen tons of coal. It was man’s work – hard, physical and dangerous. A year after he began, the General Strike of 1926 saw proud mining families having to queue at soup kitchens because they had no money to put food on their tables. It was the worst of times.

Tom senior was a dapper man, polite and popular with the ladies. He met Freda Jones at a local dance in 1933, when she was eighteen and he was twenty-three. Theirs was a whirlwind courtship. She was much more sociable than her quieter suitor, but those who knew him well would often remark on his dry sense of humour. The vivacious and statuesque Freda was already pregnant when they married on 3 September of that year. Their first child, a daughter called Sheila, was born on 11 March 1934. She was a quiet child, taking after her father by being more of a listener than a talker.

A further six years had passed and the Second World War was raging before a much wished-for son was born on 7 June 1940. He was given the same name as his father, Thomas John Woodward. As many babies were then, Tommy was born at home, 57 Kingsland Terrace, Treforest. When Tom was one and a half, the family swapped houses with his father’s widowed mother and moved into her larger house at 44 Laura Street.

Treforest was spared the worst of the German bombs, but the village didn’t escape the warning sound of the sirens or the planes rumbling overhead. Mothers used to tell their children that it was thundering outside, before ushering them under the stairs or the kitchen table until the ‘all clear’ was sounded. If you looked out of the window, you could see the searchlights illuminating the night sky over Cardiff, twelve miles to the south.

The house in Laura Street had a cellar, so Tom’s family would shelter under the steps leading down to the basement level. The village wasn’t a specific target for the Luftwaffe, which was seeking to destroy the factories engaged in wartime production on the Treforest Trading Estate a few miles away. There was always the chance, however, that unused bombs would be jettisoned when the planes turned back for Germany, as the pilots needed to lighten their load so they would have enough fuel to make it home.

These were dangerous days. One older boy had his leg blown off by stepping on a mine that had ended up on the recreational area known as the White Tips, where schoolchildren played rugby and football. Nobody escaped the blackout, or the eerie sense created by the darkness when the street lamps went out at sunset.

Tom was too young to remember much of the rationing, the long shop queues or the nights lit only by the moon. The noise of it all stuck with him though: ‘I can remember the searchlights and there were always guns going off. At the time I thought that’s the way the world was.’

There were no supermarkets in the post-war days when rationing was still enforced. You could, however, get everything you needed for your family, without leaving Treforest, at the grocer’s, Hale’s the butcher’s or Howells the baker’s. All the housewives bought their groceries in a little shop and post office called Marney’s in Wood Road.

Tom Marney, a bustling, popular figure, had run his store for as long as anyone could remember. The shop was a bit like the Valleys’ equivalent of Open All Hours. It was the place to go to catch up with your neighbours, while the shopkeeper in his trusty brown overall leaned on the counter and amused everyone with the latest gossip. He’d heard Freda telling a friend what a talented singer her little boy was, so he wanted to hear for himself.

He persuaded Freda that she should let the lad give everyone a song the next time they went in. Sure enough, the waiting queue was transfixed as Tom clambered on to a crate and burst into his then high-pitched vocal. According to local legend, Mr Marney told the small crowd that had gathered to put their hands in their pockets and ‘give the boy a few coppers’. Despite Freda’s protests, Tom’s hands were filled with pennies, much to his delight. It was his first paying gig.

Tom was always encouraged to sing by his extended family in and around Pontypridd. He was by no means the only good singer among the Woodward and Jones clans, but he was the only one taking an interest in the popular songs on the radio. Others, like his Uncle George and Uncle Edwin, his father’s brothers, had magnificent voices, but stuck to the more traditional hymns and ballads.

Uncle George gave Tom an early piece of advice, which he always followed. One Saturday, when everyone had gone back to Laura Street for a last drink and a sing-song, he told young Tommy, half asleep and wanting his bed, that he should always sell a song to people’s faces. Never stare at the floor or the ceiling or close your eyes, because then you are trapping the song and keeping it prisoner. ‘Let people see what you are singing about,’ said George.

Tom had an edge, even as a youngster in short trousers. He didn’t just sing a song; he performed it with verve and passion. In 1946, when Tommy was six, the Oscar-winning film The Jolson Story was released. The biopic, starring Larry Parks, told the life of the star who, from humble origins, became the most famous entertainer in the world. Fortunately, it glossed over the singer’s marital problems brought about by his inveterate womanising.

Tom was transfixed when he saw the film with his parents at the Cecil Cinema in Fothergill Street, Treforest. He recalled, ‘I thought Al Jolson was great, because he was a great entertainer.’ Back at the house in Laura Street, he would stand in front of a mirror and practise the famous Jolson gestures and hand movements, so he could impress his audience the next time he gave a performance in the lounge. He wanted to be like Jolson, because ‘he’s moving and singing.’

Performing in front of an audience for Tom was like swimming for other youngsters: after you have overcome an initial fear of the water, it becomes second nature. Tom wasn’t overawed when Uncle Edwin stood him on a chair to sing to a crowded pub or when his mother showed him off at the weekly meetings of the Treforest Women’s Guild, which met in a small hall at the top of Stow Hill, a short, lung-busting walk from home.

Little Tommy was, in fact, a big show-off. Looking back at his childhood self, Tom admitted, ‘It was my strength. A lot of boys in school were great rugby players or football players. But I was lucky that I had this voice. It gave me confidence.’ In that regard, Tom took after his vivacious mother. His cousin Margaret, who was very close to Tom growing up, used to tell him that he would always have another career if his voice ever gave out: ‘He has my auntie’s personality. She was a very natural woman and would be the life and soul of the party. Tom was the same. I told him he would make a marvellous stand-up comedian.’

The one member of clan Woodward who was a reluctant singer was his father. Tom recalled, ‘My father was a shy man. But he could sing if he had had enough beer.’ His mother had no such inhibitions, however, and would happily burst into song. Unfortunately, she couldn’t match her husband as a singer, although her son says she could just about hold a tune.

Tom’s universe was very small when he was growing up. He usually says he hails from Pontypridd, but he is a Treforest boy through and through. Until he left school, his entire life was acted out within a few hundred yards of his home, and even then his first job was only a five-minute stroll away. His mother’s sister, Auntie Lena, lived with her husband, Albert Jones, in adjoining Tower Street, so his first cousins were so close you could almost hear the kettle going on. His best friends, Brian Blackler and Dai Perry, were within shouting distance and he never had more than a ten-minute walk to school.

The boy was called Tommy at home and among family to avoid confusion with his father, but his school friends always knew him as Tom, or sometimes Woodsie. The local children would never have dreamed of referring to Tom senior as anything other than Mr Woodward. Proper respect for your elders was very important in this small, insulated mining community. One story in particular illustrates this. When both her children were of school age, Freda took a job in a local factory to bring in some much needed extra cash. One day she and her husband were queuing for the cinema when a boy shouted out to them, ‘Hello, Freda.’ Tom senior was enraged by the impertinence and wanted to know who he was. Freda said he was just a young lad who worked at the factory. Her husband was incandescent. ‘You’re not going to the factory any more,’ he insisted. ‘If they can’t call you Mrs Woodward, then you don’t work there!’

Freda never took another full-time job, but she was the woman local families called on when someone died. She would be asked to lay out the body, which involved dressing the deceased so they looked their best for the funeral. It was a sign of the regard in which she was held that she was trusted with such a significant task.

Tom was decidedly spoiled and, perhaps because he was indulged, he was slightly on the chubby side. His sister was six years older, so he was very much the little one in the family. Coincidentally, his mother was the youngest sibling, eleven years younger than Lena, and the baby of her family too. The Woodwards were relatively better off than many in the area, because they were a household of only four. Both Tom’s mother and father were one of six children, so there were lots of cousins living in Treforest. Lena and Albert alone had seven children.

As far as young Tom was concerned, it was entirely normal to grow up with such an extended family in close proximity. He loved it and has always stressed that family is of paramount importance to him. It would come as no surprise to those who knew him well that his immediate family would later live within five minutes of him in Los Angeles or that he made sure his cousins were always welcome there.

Tom enjoyed a traditional and idyllic childhood, despite the dismal landscape of an impoverished area. The house in Laura Street was an end of terrace and bigger than some of the others in the street. Freda liked the decoration to be bright and colourful – a cheerful place for her family. ‘It was a beautiful home,’ recalls Cousin Margaret. ‘Auntie Freda was very house-proud but she would always give you a welcome.’ Like so many housewives then, she would invariably have a pie or a tray of Welsh cakes baking in the oven of her kitchen on the lower ground floor and the smell would waft enticingly up the stairs.

A coal fire kept the house warm. Tom and the other boys in the neighbourhood used to enjoy helping when the coalman came round with a delivery. He would lift up a round, steel plate in the pavement and tip the coal in. The boys would then push the coal down the hole, so it would land in the room on the bottom floor known as the coal house.

Visitors always came to the back door, which was never locked. The house had no bathroom, but hanging on a hook outside was the small tin bath that Freda would fetch down every night and put in the scullery across the hall, ready to fill with hot water so her husband could scrub himself clean of the coal dust and grime every evening.

On Tom’s birth certificate, his father listed his occupation not as miner but as Assistant Colliery Repairer (below ground). The work was just as dirty, dark and forbidding as digging the seam. It was also hugely important, because it involved repairing the wooden joists that kept the tunnels from collapsing, preventing calamitous results.

The daily rituals in the Woodward home never changed and the roles that his mother and father had within the household had a profound effect on young Tom’s outlook on life and the development of a set of values that many would see as old fashioned. His father worked hard to provide for his family, and his wife was equally diligent in making sure his house was spotless, his children were clean and tidy and he was cared for from the moment she could hear the click of the garden gate announcing he was back. Tom observed, ‘Most of my values have been formed from that working-class environment. They were good people.’

Freda was always up first to light the fire, make breakfast, lay out Tom senior’s work clothes and prepare his packed lunch ready for his journey over the mountain to the colliery. He usually walked with Brian Blackler’s father, Cliff, and the many other miners from Treforest. While he spent the day with a pickaxe in his hand, Freda would make sure the children were safely at school before beginning her daily tasks of shopping, baking and cleaning. She took particular care in polishing the horse brasses that were dotted about the best room and were her pride and joy.

At the end of a strenuous day, a miner needed his hot meal. Freda always had her husband’s tea ready on the kitchen table for him to enjoy as soon as he had washed his hands. Tom and Sheila, hair brushed and tidy, were there to welcome their father home.

After he had eaten, he would take his bath. It was far too small for a grown man. Tom described his father’s routine: ‘He would have to kneel on the floor first of all and take his shirt off and wash his top half and when he had done that he would stand in the bath and wash his bottom half. And he would shout for my mother to come and scrub his back.’ Freda would wash his back with a flannel, unless they’d had a tiff and she wasn’t speaking to him, in which case she would send Tommy in to do it instead.

Sometimes Tom senior would pop out to the Wood Road Non-Political Club – known locally as ‘the Wood Road’ – for a beer with his friends, but on Saturdays he took Freda with him. It was a traditional working men’s club that tended to be all male during the week and more family oriented at the weekend.

Mr and Mrs Woodward always made a handsome, smartly turned-out couple. Freda looked glamorous with her blonde hair styled immaculately, and favoured beads to accessorise her dress. Her husband would wear a three-piece suit with a brightly coloured shirt and tie and pristine suede shoes. His son always appreciated his sharp dress sense and sought to emulate him when he became older.

At the club, Freda and the other wives sat together and gossiped while the men drank their beer at the other end of the room. Only one topic of conversation was banned – politics. That was why it was called the Non-Political Club. Sometimes there was singing. Freda’s tour de force was her version of the old favourite ‘Silver Dollar’, which she performed with great verve and humour. She relished the memorable first line ‘A man without a woman is like a ship without a sail’. Afterwards, they would usually finish the evening off at Lena and Albert’s, because Tom’s aunt had a piano, which she would play, making a late sing-song even jollier.

The piano was in much demand at Christmas time. Tom would join the other young children at his aunt’s at teatime for a lucky dip. Aunt Lena would buy a lot of little gifts and wrap them in preparation. The children would then draw numbers out of a hat to see which present they received – it was Santa’s lucky dip. As Margaret explained, ‘The money wasn’t there to be extravagant, but we never realised this, because our home was so nice. All of us would be there with the piano going. Tom said to me once that we never realised we were poor, because we were all together and it was absolutely lovely.’

Everyone in the village was in the same situation. Nobody had a car, but everything was so near that they walked everywhere. The children could easily get to the Cecil Cinema for a matinée. They had to pay just once and could stay all day – they could watch the feature as many times as they liked. Of course, if it were something the girls found scary, then Tom would make it his mission in life to race around or jump out and frighten them as much as possible on the way home. He could be a rascal, but he was never rough, especially with his younger cousins. ‘We were very close, I’ve got to be honest,’ said Margaret.

Sometimes they played on the White Tips, or in summer walked to Ponty Baths, as it was called, and swam and splashed around in the enormous paddling pool that had been an attraction in Ynysangharad Park since the 1920s. Tom didn’t spend all his time with the girls, however. Most afternoons, after tea, he joined his pals to muck about or kick a ball in the old quarry behind Stow Hill. These days, health and safety officers would have a fit at the sight of so many small boys in short trousers scaling the sides and scrambling around in the earth and stone.

Even better was when they were allowed, in the holidays, to go and play and camp on the Feathery, the spectacular mountain behind Treforest. In the late forties and early fifties, children had to find amusements that didn’t revolve around television, computers and phones. Invariably, about ten of the younger boys from the Laura Street area would be together – all the usual suspects, including Tom, Brian, Dai and the Pitman brothers. The older boys would be on one side of the mountain, ignoring the youngsters. Brian recalls, ‘It was good fun in those days … Great times! We never slept – never slept all night.’




2

The Prisoner of Laura Street (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


Tom didn’t enjoy going to school. He was a poor student and, like most of his pals, couldn’t wait for the time to pass so he could leave and become a man. In later years, he was able to attribute his slow academic progress to dyslexia, but that diagnosis wasn’t readily available in the 1940s, and Tom was perceived variously as being disinterested or not very bright. Even the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic failed to inspire him.

He began in the local infants school before moving on to Treforest Primary School in Wood Road and then to the Central Secondary Modern School at the top of Stow Hill. He wasn’t much interested in playing football or rugby, like his friend Dai Perry, but he did enjoy watching boxing. He liked drawing, but his principal interest was singing. Surprisingly, he showed little desire to join a choir. He knew he was the best singer in the school, but he wasn’t a team player and, from an early age, was very much a solo artist in the making.

That inclination extended to traditional carol singing at Christmas, when a group of his friends called for him at the house and asked if he would join them. He responded, ‘No, I don’t think I will tonight,’ and let them carry on, before slipping out to sing by himself. ‘If I was singing with four or five fellas, they drowned you out. They would always cock it up. You couldn’t shine. And I made more money singing by myself.’

His family obviously knew about his talent as a singer, but his friends didn’t realise he was gifted until they heard him sing at school one Friday afternoon. The teacher told the class to entertain themselves for a while during a free period. Tom started drumming his fingers hard upon the desk – he was beating out the sound of galloping horses. Then he began, ‘An old cowpoke went riding out one dark and windy day.’

The melancholy song ‘Riders in the Sky’ had been written in 1948 by Stan Jones, a friend of the multi-Oscar-winning director John Ford, the master of the Western genre. Jones composed songs for some of the most famous Westerns of all time, including The Searchers and Rio Grande, both starring John Wayne. The hugely evocative ‘Riders’, one of his earliest compositions, became his most famous, mainly because it was covered by a string of singers that included Bing Crosby, Johnny Cash, Peggy Lee and Frankie Laine.

The lyrics are based on an old folk tale about a cowboy told to change his ways or end up damned and forever chasing a thundering herd of cattle across the endless skies. Tommy Woodward was less concerned about the moral of the story and more interested in the famous chorus of the song, which was tailor-made for a young boy with a big voice who loved Westerns: ‘Yi-pi-yi-ay, Yi-pi-yi-oh, ghost riders in the sky’. It was his party piece and he never tired of singing it. Fortunately, his classmates didn’t get bored of his rendition, which became a weekly favourite. For many, their abiding memory of school was of Tom Jones singing that song.

His preferred version of the classic was by bandleader Vaughn Monroe, whose rich, resonant baritone vocal suited the ethereal nature of the song. Tommy could only imitate it by cupping his hands together, covering his mouth and pretending he was in a cave. Monroe’s recording was called ‘Riders in the Sky (A Cowboy Legend)’ and was the most successful of all, reaching number one in the Billboard charts in the US in 1949. If you listened to the radio, you couldn’t fail to hear it. Later versions added the word ‘Ghost’ at the beginning of the title, but Tom always remained loyal to the original. He acknowledged the significance of the song when he recorded it as the rousing opening track of his 1967 album Green, Green Grass of Home.

‘Riders in the Sky’ was important to Tom not just because it was a song he performed so much as a child, but because it told a story. He observed, ‘I love songs that paint a picture.’ Many of Tom’s best-loved songs, such as ‘Delilah’ and ‘Green, Green Grass of Home’, are hugely descriptive and evocative. He wasn’t a fan of repetitive pop chants like ‘She Loves You’.

One of Tom’s favourite stories is about the time he sang the Lord’s Prayer in class, performing it not as a solemn church song, but as a negro spiritual. His teacher was so amazed that he was asked to sing it again in front of the whole school. Schooldays weren’t filled with too many highlights for Tommy Woodward, but that was one of them.

Tom had recently celebrated his twelfth birthday when he started complaining to his mother that he was feeling tired. The normally lively boy had no energy. It was difficult enough at the best of times to get him up for school, but Freda couldn’t help noticing how listless her son had become. Sensibly, she decided that a trip to the doctor was called for. A precautionary X-ray revealed that Tom had a dark shadow on his lung: he had tuberculosis. The only good thing about such upsetting news was that the condition had been diagnosed early.

TB, or ‘The Black Spot’ as they grimly called it in the mining communities of South Wales, was a killer. The disease, which usually affects the lungs, is caught through the air by coming into contact with an infected person coughing or sneezing bacteria near you. Wales had one of the highest rates for TB in Europe – hardly surprising in close-knit communities where nearly every miner coped with a cough all his life.

The Woodwards were touched by the disease, as so many families were. His father’s side of the family experienced several instances of TB during Tom’s lifetime. His cousin Marie died from the disease at the age of twenty-one. Her sister Valerie was also stricken, but survived after spending two years in Sully Hospital, near Penarth, which specialised in tuberculosis cases and where the fresh sea air helped young lungs to heal.

The first decision that had to be made was whether to send Tom away to rest and recuperate and break up the family or accept the difficult challenge of nursing him back to health at home. Even if victims of the wretched disease survived, they faced the prospect of being crippled for life.

Freda decided she wanted to nurse her boy back to health at home. His condition was extremely serious, but he wasn’t a sickly child by nature and the disease had been identified at an early stage. As a result, the chances of him making a complete recovery were good. He was infectious for only a short time, while the treatments he received fought the bacteria. During that period, he needed to be kept isolated from his friends, so he wouldn’t cough and spread the infection. There was no magic cure, however. He needed absolute rest and a long period of convalescence to rebuild his strength, which wasn’t easy for an active boy.

His mother decided he should be moved down to the middle floor of the house, to a bigger room where the coal fireplace could keep him warm when the days became chilly. He needed to have the windows open at all times, lowered only slightly when a bitter wind whistled down Laura Street.

After the initial elation of not having to go to school, life became pretty boring. He explained, ‘Bed was a novelty at first. I didn’t have to go to school, which was great, since I wasn’t a good student. But being forbidden to sing during the first year was a real drag!’ In his boredom, he would drive his poor mother to distraction by frequently banging on the floor with a stick to attract her attention in the kitchen on the floor below. She would drop everything to rush and see what he needed.

Freda did her best to amuse her son. Sometimes she would sing and dance around the room to cheer him up. She urged him to draw with a set of Indian inks she bought for him. When he was allowed to have visitors, she encouraged friends and family to see him.

Cousin Margaret, who was ten at the time, recalls, ‘We realised it was serious. We were up there visiting him most of the time. Auntie Freda would say, “Come up and keep him company.” We would tell him about school and what we were doing. We were never bored with Tom.

‘But we could never play cards. My mother wouldn’t have us playing cards. Auntie Freda was the same. Cards were like the devil in the house. We were chapel – only a man could play cards, not a woman.’ Tom, perhaps as a result of his mother’s disapproval, has never had any inclination to play cards and has always shown a strong dislike of any form of gambling.

From his bed, Tom could look out of the window and see all the way down the valley. He recalled, ‘As good as that view was, I’d grow restless. So my parents would routinely move the bed around the room to change the scenery for me.’ Freda was forever cutting out pictures of cowboys from magazines and sticking them to the wall, so he would have something fresh to look at. Margaret observes, ‘It was lovely, his bedroom.’

The lifesaver for Tom was when his parents rented a heavy, dark-brown radio for him. It was the sort of old-fashioned wireless you could imagine listening to when the declaration of war was announced. Tom loved it. His parents didn’t mind if he listened to it late at night, when the BBC played American music into the small hours – time didn’t matter when you were in bed for twenty-four hours a day. Pirate radio and Radio 1 had yet to change the musical taste of a nation. In 1952, ‘Rock Around the Clock’ was still two years away. Instead, Tom grew to love the records of Mahalia Jackson, the ‘Queen of Gospel’, an influence he carried with him throughout his career. He also discovered the music of Big Bill Broonzy, the acclaimed master of the Chicago blues, whom Eric Clapton once called his role model and both Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood of The Rolling Stones identify as a key figure in the development of their guitar-playing.

This was music to stir the imagination of a twelve-year-old boy in Treforest. These wonderful performers helped shape his destiny and Tom never forgot the effect they had on him. He included Mahalia’s uplifting recording of the traditional American hymn ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and Big Bill’s protest song ‘Black, Brown and White’ among his Desert Island Discs in a programme broadcast shortly after his seventieth birthday in 2010. Tom had heard the song ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ many times, because it was a favourite of Welsh choirs and was often sung at funerals and formal occasions. Tom had never heard it sung like this, however, and he was keen to try out the style.

After a year confined to his room, Tom had shown enough improvement to be allowed to get up for two hours a day. He still couldn’t go out, but was well enough to stand by the front door and wave to his friends as they walked up the hill to the quarry or the White Tips to play or gathered around the gas lamp-post as darkness fell to laugh and chat. Tom was frustrated and jealous. ‘I promised myself that when I could walk to that lamp-post, I’d never complain about anything again.’

Once he was stronger, Tom was allowed to resume singing. When he turned thirteen, his parents rented a black-and-white TV set in time to enjoy the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. Tom was able to watch the performances of popular artists of the fifties, like the snappily dressed Frankie Vaughan. Ever since he’d first seen Al Jolson on screen, Tom was a magpie when it came to imitating other entertainers. He would absorb a hand gesture or a facial expression and file it away to use himself.

His parents also bought him a guitar, on which he could strum a few basic chords as rudimentary backing. Freda never forgot his delight when he saw the parcel wrapped up at the bottom of his bed: ‘There was happiness! To see Tom smile was all I wanted.’ Through the open window of his second-floor bedroom, he would serenade the neighbourhood. It was like a scene from the period drama Call the Midwife, as the mums in the street would pause their chores to listen to young Tommy Woodward sing.

Just imagine if The X Factor had existed back then. Tom’s would have been the ultimate sob story – young boy stricken with TB raises himself from his sickbed to ‘nail’ ‘Riders in the Sky’. There wouldn’t have been a dry eye on the judging panel.

Brian Blackler remembers visiting his friend, who was sitting up in bed singing ‘Riders in the Sky’ and other songs he had picked up from the radio, including ‘That Old Black Magic’. Artists from Marilyn Monroe to Frank Sinatra had recorded the song, but the version that had caught Tom’s ear was by Billy Daniels. Nobody sang the standard like the great black singer and Tom was struck by his unique phrasing. He decided he wanted to sing it that way too.

Eventually, after two long years, the fourteen-year-old Tom was considered well enough to venture into the outside world once more. Holidays during his childhood – as for most mining families – tended to consist of a day trip to Barry Island, but this time his parents thought he deserved a proper summer treat. Brian Blackler remembers the boys had borrowed bicycles and, as they were riding, Tom shouted over, ‘I’m going now to Porthcawl for a week. Do you fancy coming down?’ Brian, who was one of eight children and had never had a proper holiday either, jumped at the chance, and joined the Woodward family in a caravan by the seaside in the popular resort some thirty miles west of Cardiff. There wasn’t much to do other than muck about on the dunes or ‘freeze your balls off’ in the water – it was always cold in Porthcawl. Tom found a place to sing though: the back of an old lorry by the beach, where he could entertain other holidaymakers.

The holiday was a positive outcome at the end of his two-year sentence in Laura Street. The resumption of school wasn’t particularly welcome, however. A teacher had come in from time to time to help the patient with his lessons, but Tom’s heart had never been in it. For his age, Tom was well behind and hadn’t mastered the most basic elements of education. His handwriting and spelling were hopeless – not that he cared much. After all, he had met the girl who would be the love of his life.




3

A Teenager in Love (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


Being laid up in bed with tuberculosis isn’t an ideal situation for a lad struggling through adolescence. Tommy could only gaze out of his ‘prison’ window in frustration and watch the local schoolgirls laughing and gossiping in the street below. One in particular grabbed his attention – Melinda Trenchard was the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood.

Linda was the daughter of Bill and Vi Trenchard, who lived in Cliff Terrace, just a few hundred yards away from Laura Street across Wood Road. Her parents ran the County Cinema, near the railway station in Pontypridd, and were well known in the area. Vi was friendly with Tom’s mother, Freda, and, like her, was outgoing and popular.

As youngsters, Tom and Linda’s paths seldom crossed. Boys and girls played separately, unless they went to the same school. Linda, who is six months younger than Tom, went to a Catholic primary school, so he was only vaguely aware of who she was at that age. He noticed that she wore little crucifix earrings, like many of the local Catholic girls, but that was about all.

Tom first became aware of Linda properly, before he was struck down with TB, when she was playing marbles in the street with some friends. He recalled light-heartedly, ‘I must have been eleven. I walked down her street and she was bending down and playing marbles. I saw those great legs and all of a sudden I thought of her in a new light.’

He did pursue Linda, after a fashion, but it was more for a game of kiss chase than anything else. All the boys would chase the girls and if they were lucky enough to catch up with one, they had to give her a kiss. ‘My first proper kiss was with Linda and it was her first kiss too. Afterwards I had to run my wrists under cold water. I was an early starter.’ It was nothing more than a playground romance at this stage, although Tom has always been disarmingly frank and earthy about growing up: ‘I can remember the first time I got to know myself better – I thought I had broken it!’

When he was confined to his room, Linda was the girl he would watch out for most. He would quietly seethe when he saw her talking to the other boys, but he could do nothing about it. She never came to visit him, because, in those prim and proper days, girls who weren’t family didn’t visit boys in their homes. Linda, as Tom could see from his window, was maturing into a lovely teenager. Her old school friend Vimy Pitman observes, ‘She was very, very attractive. She was everybody’s cup of tea. She had a lovely figure and was the sweetest girl. She would never say anything nasty about anybody or get involved in arguments or anything. She really was a nice girl.’

When Tom emerged from Laura Street, he had changed. He was taller and broader and his hair had turned the colour of coal. Linda hadn’t seen him for two years. She recalled, ‘When we met up after he went back to school, I didn’t recognise him at first, but I was immediately attracted to him again.’

Tom was equally smitten. ‘I don’t know what the feeling was. All I knew was I had a feeling for this girl. She looked fantastic.’

It was a classic case of opposites attracting – good girl in the A stream meets a boy who couldn’t care less and was languishing in the Ds. Tom’s lack of interest in all things academic had become even more pronounced. He had fallen so far behind during his two years away from school that he saw little point in trying to catch up. Linda, on the other hand, was particularly accomplished at drawing and illustrating – an interest she might have had in common with Tom if he had stuck with it. Perhaps art was too closely associated with the boredom of TB, because music took over as soon as he was allowed to sing again.

The girls at school weren’t too bothered about Tom’s classroom credentials. Vimy acknowledges, ‘Lots of the girls, well, most of the girls, I suppose, found him very attractive. He seemed a bit rough to me, but he definitely had the charisma. He had a way with him – a swagger.’

Linda had no idea at first that he was a gifted singer. She hadn’t been present at any family sing-songs, nor had she heard him entertain classmates. Instead, she had to wait until his sister Sheila’s engagement party to hear him. She described it in a rare interview in the 1960s: ‘Tom’s mother and mine knew each other well, so it was quite natural that when his sister got engaged he should invite me to the party. It was there I first really heard him sing. He sang “Ghost Riders in the Sky” and accompanied himself by tapping his fingers on the table. I wish it had been recorded.’

The opportunities for teenage courtship in Treforest were few. Linda and Tom got together first of all at the local youth club. She recalled, ‘We were too young to say we were going together, but we always seemed to end up with each other.’ They would synchronise running errands for their mothers, just so they could walk to the local shops hand in hand.

Tom and Linda became an item almost without anybody noticing. It wasn’t a case of them going into class one day and announcing that they were going out. His cousin Margaret can’t remember a time when they weren’t together: ‘I used to think they were like Darby and Joan – like an old pair of slippers. They were always together, with their arms around each other. They were very loving.’

Many of her contemporaries have likened Linda to Doris Day, the epitome of movie-star niceness. Tom, on the other hand, had a touch of Marlon Brando about him, being more brooding than clean cut. But something clicked between them. Looking back on those days in 2006, Tom said, ‘Teenage love is great. It never really happens like that again. We were so wrapped up with one another then and we’ve never really lost that. We like one another’s company. We are friends, we laugh and we are natural with one another. That’s something you can’t learn. It’s either there or it’s not.’

Things soon became more serious. If it was dry, they would walk for hours in the hills above the village. If it was raining – and it rained a lot in the Valleys – they would shelter in the old red phone box at the end of Laura Street. Fortunately, it was a fine day when they decided to make love for the first time. Tom was fifteen and Linda was fourteen when they found a secluded spot in a field overlooking the village. Tom said simply, ‘It was very special.’

Tom’s devotion to his girlfriend was clear from his reluctance to brag about her to his mates. He didn’t provide them with a blow-by-blow account, and flatly denied they had done the deed. It was all right to indulge in some swaggering talk with the lads about sex, but he wouldn’t talk about his sweetheart. As Vimy Pitman perceptively observes, ‘Linda was sacred.’

Tom had only a year of school left after recovering from TB. As well as Linda and singing, his other interest when he resumed his education was smoking Woodbines. He would join the boys and pop into the shop opposite the school gates, where they would buy one fag for a penny. Brian Blackler recalls, ‘Then we would go up the White Tips and smoke it and die on the way home. You think you are big when you have a fag in your mouth when you are a young kid.’

Tom left school at fifteen, as did practically everyone in Treforest. You had to be at the grammar school in Pontypridd to stay on and take A levels. Tom had no qualifications, but one thing had already been established: he wouldn’t follow his father down the mines. Even before his brush with TB had ruled it out, his parents wanted a different life for their son. Margaret observed, ‘He was brought up that he wasn’t going down the mines. Uncle Tom would never have agreed to that.’

In any case, Tom belonged to the first generation of Welsh sons who weren’t expected to follow in their fathers’ dusty footsteps. Instead, he found his first job as an apprentice glove cutter at the Polyglove factory in the Broadway, the main road between Treforest and Pontypridd.

His friend Brian joined him there when he, too, left school. Brian recalled, ‘We just used to shift some gloves. That was about it and a machine would do the rest.’ It was hot, dull and repetitive, and all for thirty-eight shillings a week in old money. Tom admitted that he hated it – not least because the cutting room was men only. The female staff were in another part of the factory, dealing with sales, packaging and retail.

At least he was earning just enough money to indulge his interest in records, clothes and beer. Far more important than work was the emergence of rock ’n’ roll, with the release of the film Blackboard Jungle and the impact of the theme tune ‘Rock Around the Clock’ by Bill Haley and His Comets. The song, with its hugely catchy, danceable melody, played over both the opening and closing credits. The film transformed a minor hit into a sensation. ‘Rock Around the Clock’ was everywhere.

The song was released at the start of 1955 and made some waves in the UK before the movie came out in March. It re-entered the charts in November 1955 and marched all the way up to number one. Bill Haley was no Elvis though. He was already thirty, on the chubby side and just as likely to be performing an old country and western song as anything cutting edge. His music was much more influential than the man himself.

Tom first heard the song blaring from the radio that was constantly playing at the factory to keep the workforce entertained as they faced the daily grind: ‘All of a sudden this “Rock Around the Clock” came on and I thought, “This is jumping out of the radio”.’ His workmates were less impressed and failed to understand what he found so exciting about it. An exasperated Tom told them to ‘just bloody listen to it’.

At least Tom’s enthusiasm for the new music gave him a head start when it came to the two Christmas parties he attended during his time at the factory. All the staff had the opportunity to mix together, but the men tended to stand around drinking, while the girls wanted to dance. Tom had a big advantage, ‘I was the only one who could jive. I was like a kid in a candy store.’

Tom’s ability on the dance floor had been finely tuned by Linda when they went out dancing on the weekend. She had left school a few months after her boyfriend, and she found a job in Pontypridd, working as an assistant in a draper’s shop, where one of her tasks was looking after the window display.

By this time, Tom had embraced the new Teddy boy culture that was sweeping the country and Linda was happy to wear the uniform of the girlfriend. Becoming a Teddy boy was part of growing up for many young men who left school at fifteen and wanted to announce to the world that they had arrived. This was nothing like the gang culture of today, although it helped if you could handle yourself in a fight.

Teddy boys weren’t a natural product of rock ’n’ roll. The famous attire had been around for several years, ever since fashion leaders in Savile Row, London, had tried to reintroduce the Edwardian style to affluent upper- and middle-class young men after the end of the Second World War.

Gradually the uniform filtered down to working-class youths. They were known as working-class Edwardians until the Daily Express printed a story in September 1953 with a headline shortening Edwardian to Teddy and the term ‘Teddy boy’ passed into mainstream usage. The fashion lost its appeal to the middle classes when that happened, so the famous suits could be picked up for bargain prices on second-hand market stalls.

Tom was a Treforest Ted. He wore all the gear: gaudy waistcoats, cowboy hats, bootlace ties, black suede crepe-soled shoes, known as brothel creepers, and, his pride and joy, a sky-blue suit, consisting of a long jacket with a velvet collar and narrow trousers. Local journalist Colin Macfarlane memorably described Tom in the 1950s: ‘He could be seen walking along the streets with his Teddy boy coat and trousers that were reckoned to be as narrow as the thinnest drainpipe in the village.’

Tom always fancied himself in his Teddy boy finery. The proprietor of Linda’s drapery shop wasn’t so impressed when this dandified vision came to call during working hours. Tom may have thought he was the height of fashion but, to others, Teddy boy was synonymous with young hooligan. Linda had to make sure he stayed out of sight at the back of the shop during working hours.

Linda, who was always smartly turned out, had a figure that looked good in anything, especially the pencil skirts that were fashionable in the mid-fifties. She also had a DA haircut, which was a polite shortening of the coarser ‘Duck’s Arse’, so called because it resembled the rear end of a duck. In the US, where it originated, the style was known as a ‘Duck’s Tail’ or a ‘Tony Curtis’, after the heart-throb actor who popularised it. The cut was short at the back and long and curled over in a quiff at the front. The general idea was to pile as much of your hair onto the top of your head as you could, using slabs of hair gel to hold it in place. Tom had one as well, lovingly teased and shaped by Linda.

The young women were more impressed with his efforts than the men. One of the lads recalls Tom’s image: ‘He looked like a dipstick. Always did when he was younger – a greasy-haired gypsy.’

Brian Blackler, whose Teddy-boy suit was silver, remembers: ‘We would go down to Cardiff and see the boys down there with their hair like Tony Curtis and we would come home and copy them. We all looked the same then.’

After the working week was over, Saturday was dance night. The Teds would meet up in a pub for a few bevvies to start off the evening. Tom and Dai, who was a year younger but didn’t look it because of his size, would generally be served, because they seemed older than they were. The girls, meanwhile, would usually congregate at someone’s house before making their way to that night’s chosen venue. ‘We girls never touched alcohol,’ confirms Vimy. They would make do with crisps and lemonade and wait for the boys to arrive. The Ranch in Pontypridd, St Luke’s Church in Porth and the Catholic hall on the Broadway were popular for a night of jiving – at least until 10.30, when they had to play the national anthem and finish for the night.

Boys and girls would put on their best clothes on a Sunday afternoon and meet up in the centre of Ponty for what was known locally as the Monkey Parade – a weekly ritual in which the young men were like peacocks trying to attract the best-looking female. They would pair off for an innocent stroll through town. If Tom were delayed for any reason on the Saturday or Sunday, none of the local lads would chat up Linda, because she was strictly off-limits. She was Tommy’s girl.




4

The Making of a Man (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


Another rainy day in the autumn of 1956 changed Tom’s life for ever. As usual, he and Linda were sheltering in the phone box at the end of Laura Street, when she plucked up the courage to give him some news. Tearfully, she told him they were expecting a baby in the spring. Tom was now sixteen and she was fifteen.

They hadn’t bothered with contraception. There was no family-planning clinic in Treforest in those days. Tom admitted that he didn’t care about precautions, because he knew ‘I loved this girl’. He hadn’t given it a second thought until it was too late. He described his shock, ‘I thought, “Oh my God, what is my mother going to say. Or my father, what is he going to say!” The initial thing was “I am in hot water.”’

Despite his youthful swagger, Tom was still living at home and young enough for his mum to give him a clip round the ear and tell him to get his hair cut, which she frequently did when she noticed it was longer than Linda’s. He had huge respect for his parents and didn’t want to disappoint them.

Tom was right to be nervous. He later confided in bass guitarist Vernon Hopkins that his father was very angry at the news that he was going to be a grandfather. He thrust a wad of notes into his son’s hand and told him to head off to Cardiff and join ‘the bloody merchant navy’. When everyone had calmed down, Freda and Tom senior called a family conference to decide what should be done.

The meeting to decide the teenagers’ future was held in the best room at Laura Street, which was usually reserved for special occasions. While, strictly speaking, this was a very special occasion, it wasn’t a celebration. Linda walked round with her parents, Bill and Vi, then settled in a corner of the room with Tom, as the two families tried to agree a plan of action.

One option was ruled out right away. The Trenchards were a good Catholic family, so there was no question of an abortion, which, in any case, was still illegal in 1956. One solution, followed by many families, was for Linda to go away and ‘visit relatives’ for the later stages of her confinement, give birth and have the baby adopted. She could then return to Treforest refreshed and rested after a lovely ‘holiday’ and none of the neighbourhood gossips would be any the wiser.

A third possibility was that Linda could leave Treforest for a while, give birth and then hand the baby over to her aunt, who had no children, which would at least have kept the child within the family. None of these possibilities seemed ideal and the adults continued to try to reach an agreement. The whole time, Linda and Tom sat together, holding hands and whispering affectionately to one another.

Eventually, Freda noticed them. Tom recalled the moment, ‘My mother, God bless her, said, “Look at them. We’re trying to decide what’s going to happen and they’re oblivious to what’s going on. How can we get in the way of that?”’

Thomas senior asked his son what he wanted to do. Tom replied without hesitation: ‘I said, “I want to get married to Linda and she wants to get married to me.” My father just looked at me, it all went dead quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Go ahead.” I always loved him for it.’

It wasn’t quite as simple as that, though. Linda was not yet sixteen and was therefore too young to be married legally. They would have to wait until after her next birthday, on 14 January, and by that time there would be no hiding her condition. There was the wider family to convince that this was the right course of action as well. At least Tom’s mother and father weren’t hypocrites about their son’s situation: they, too, had married after Freda became pregnant – and that was in the 1930s. Tom’s cousin Margaret remembers her Auntie Freda telling her that Tom wanted to get married: ‘He wasn’t forced at all. Some parents might have done that, but he wanted to.’

Linda’s friends weren’t judgemental. While there was some inevitable gossip behind closed doors, Vimy Pitman recalls, ‘Everybody felt immensely sorry for her, because she was such a nice person. Nobody put her down. I didn’t know of any other pregnancy when we were that young. It was all so shocking. She was far too nice to say anything nasty about. You wouldn’t say, “Oh look, what has she been up to, then?”’

Any childhood dreams Linda may have had of a romantic wedding were put firmly behind her when, eight months pregnant, she and Tom made their way to the Pontypridd Register Office in Courthouse Street on 2 March 1957. At that time, it was still important to be married before giving birth, however late in the day.

Register offices haven’t changed much. It was an impersonal affair, with the cheery registrar, the master of ceremonies, seated behind a plain wooden table, while immediate family sat in rows on the facing chairs. Tom’s sister Sheila was there with her new husband, Ken Davies, who was one of the two main witnesses on the marriage certificate. Tom’s grandmother Ada, Aunt Lena and Uncle Albert, parents of the twins, were there and, of course, so were his parents, watching their teenage son grow up before their eyes. Linda’s parents were joined by some of her close relatives, including her aunt, Josie Powell, who was also a witness. Nobody realised then that Linda’s father, Bill, a quiet man like Tom senior, had only a short time left. He was battling tuberculosis – a grim reminder of how close to death Tom had come.

The ceremony was mercifully brief and the family retired to the Wood Road for a celebratory drink on the way home. It was very low key, but there were more pressing matters for the newlyweds to consider – where they were going to live and how they would provide for their child.

The living arrangements were easily sorted. Tom just packed his clothes and sauntered round to Linda’s, where the now Mr and Mrs Woodward were given the basement area of 3 Cliff Terrace as their first marital home. Linda’s parents and her younger sister Roslyn were on the floor above. Their living quarters were below the level of the street, so there wasn’t much natural light, but Linda set about making the place presentable. It was very basic, however, with no fridge, Hoover or phone. The old stove she had to cook on was something from the 1940s. Visitors would bang on the grill with a boot to attract their attention, although that was liable to set the dogs barking up and down the road.

Tom had taken on some extra shifts at the Polyglove factory to try to build up a nest egg to get them started as man and wife, but it soon became clear that he would have to look for something better paid. He started work as a general labourer at the British Coated Board and Paper Mills on the Treforest Industrial Estate.

Tom was just leaving on his bike to cycle to work for a night shift, when the ambulance drew up to take Linda to the maternity hospital in Cardiff. ‘I couldn’t even take a shift off when my wife went into hospital.’ Even if he hadn’t been working, this was the 1950s and long before prospective fathers were expected to hold their partner’s hand while she gave birth.

On his return from the mill the following morning, Tom dumped his bike on the pavement and excitedly rushed into the all-too-familiar phone box to ring the hospital. It was 11 April 1957 and Tommy Woodward, aged sixteen, was informed he was now the father of a baby boy.

Tom dashed to the hospital in Glossop Terrace. He can chuckle now about what he must have looked like. He told the 1991 TV documentary The Voice Made Flesh, ‘I walked to the hospital with a shopping bag, which I wouldn’t have been seen dead with the week before. I had this bloody Teddy suit on with a shopping bag. And I walked into the hospital and I saw Linda and my son and I came out of there and I thought, “Who can touch me now!”’

He took the bus home, but decided to stop along the way at one of his favourite dance halls to toast the birth. ‘I went into the toilet and one kid said, “Oh, we heard that you had to marry Linda Trenchard.” And I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up, you know, on the wall and then people pulled me off. I was so “lifted” by the fact that I had a wife and little boy. It made me feel much stronger than I was a week before. It made me a man.’

Despite that feeling of masculine bravado, Tom’s situation was far from promising. He was a teenage father of one with no prospects. To a certain extent, Tom’s life was following the norm for this part of South Wales: boys would leave school at fifteen, go down the mines or find a factory job and then look to marry and settle down. Circumstance may have dictated that Tom started a year or two earlier than most, but the majority of his school friends were married, with young families, while they were still teenagers.

Family life for Tom began with some grim news. Linda’s father had to go into hospital as his tuberculosis worsened. Bill Trenchard died from TB just six weeks after the birth of his grandson, Mark. He was forty-two. Linda tried to rally round her mother and younger sister, but she had to care for her baby. Tom did his best to be supportive and, for a short time at least, was very attentive to his young family. He went everywhere they went. Brian Blackler recalls that the first time he saw Mark Woodward was when Tom was walking on the Feathery with his little boy perched on his shoulders. He was clearly a proud new dad.

Tom’s routine began to follow a pattern remarkably similar to that of his father. During the week he worked hard, and on Friday nights enjoyed a beer with his mates at the Otley Arms in Treforest or the White Hart pub in the area between the village and Pontypridd known as The Tumble.

Brian also left the glove factory and started work at a local pit, the Maritime Colliery in Maesycoed, on the outskirts of Pontypridd, so Tom inevitably saw less of him as time passed. Tom still enjoyed the company of his old friends, but his best mate as the years went by remained Dai Perry. In Dai’s own words, they were like brothers, and they forged a lifelong bond, supping pints together and getting into scraps. It was a time when Tom’s nose was reshaped many times. He later complained to the renowned journalist Donald Zec, ‘I hate my horrible nose – it’s been worked over, bent sideways and patched up more than any other part of me. And always hit by a head – we liked to keep our hands nice and smooth like.’ His crooked teeth weren’t much better.

Generally speaking, Tom and Dai didn’t go looking for trouble. It had a habit of finding them, however, usually when one beer too many had been downed. On one memorable occasion, Tom was head-butted so hard, he ended up flying through the plate-glass door of a fish and chip shop.

The fight had been brewing for several days, after a row and a frank exchange of insults outside an Indian restaurant had resulted in Tom punching a man he described as a hooligan. The word went out in the days that followed that the man’s friends were looking for Tom to even the score. Dai warned him to be careful, but Tom was sure he could handle any trouble. He told Dai overconfidently, ‘He’s got no chance.’

Sure enough, the man – and his father – caught up with Tom as he ate some chips in the doorway of a Ponty takeaway. Tom has never been slow to tell the story of his comeuppance: ‘I told him, “Why don’t you run along?” Dai whispered to me, “Keep an eye on him,” but I didn’t care. I said, “Where do you want to go?” and while I was talking, he suddenly let me have it and I smashed right through the door into the fish and chip shop.’

He was still scrambling to his feet, ready to continue the fight, when the police arrived and moved everybody on. Tom, fuelled by the beer, followed the pair up to the Graig, where they lived, and jumped on them without even bothering to take his overcoat off. It was a big mistake, because there were two of them. That became three when the man’s mother charged out of their house, and four when his brother arrived as well. As Tom put it succinctly, ‘They beat the shit out of me.’ He still has the scar where one of them bit him on the finger.

Dai Perry looked on while his friend took a beating. Although he could have sorted things out for Tom, he did nothing because of an unwritten code of conduct: you couldn’t fight a woman or a much older man, especially if he was someone’s father. It was a question of respect, and Tom never held it against him.

On the streets of Pontypridd, the Teddy boy rules did not, for the most part, include the use of knives. Drugs weren’t a feature of the lifestyle either, and Tom never saw the point of narcotics. Instead, it was a macho culture of beer, Woodbines and the occasional brawl. Brian Blackler is adamant that Tom didn’t deserve his reputation as a ruffian: ‘He could look after himself, Tom, but he wasn’t a fighter. I think most of the boys were like that in them days. We wouldn’t get bullied, would we? I never liked a bully and I wouldn’t get bullied and Tom was the same.’

Despite not looking for trouble, there were many nights when Tom greeted his wife with a black eye or a fat lip after a night out. There must have been a lot of bullies in Pontypridd then. An evening rarely ended without some sort of punch-up between those Teds who were looking for trouble. If you went out to a dance hall in town, you needed eyes in the back of your head to keep watch for any menacing Ted sneaking up on you from behind. The British Legion in Rhydyfelin was so notoriously rough that it became widely known as the ‘Bucket of Blood’.

The history of that era reveals that there were some massive fights between rival gangs of Teds. But Keith Davies, who later played guitar alongside Tom, observes: ‘Sometimes I think the whole Ted thing is overcooked. It was just a way of life for everyone. Everybody was a Teddy boy. I wouldn’t say Tom was a tough Ted. He was aggressive on stage though.’

Tom, meanwhile, was promoted at work to a job as a machinist. As a result, he was earning more money, but alternate weeks he had to work a night shift from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. Even that small advancement was threatened by an overzealous trade unionist, who complained that he was too young to receive a man’s wage. Tom had to hold his tongue – and his fists – when some of the other staff tried to sabotage his machine so he would be out of favour with management. He began to hate his job.

Letting off steam with his mates was poor compensation for his general unhappiness at the way things had turned out for him. He was linked to some petty crime in the area, which gave Freda some sleepless nights, worried that the next knock on the door might be someone ready to arrest Tom. Mostly, though, it involved sneaking into the cinema without paying or nicking the occasional 45 from the record store.

He laughed the troubles off: ‘When the officials came to see my mother with the brasses nicely polished in the front room and a picture of granddad with his medals on, they went away saying, “No ruffian could live here!”’

Perhaps most alarmingly, he temporarily lost his appetite for singing, weighed down by his responsibilities. Linda, whose contribution to Tom’s career should never be underestimated, had to prod and cajole him into singing again, starting off while shaving in the mirror before work. She was delighted when he came home one afternoon in early 1957 with a new single in his hand.

Tom had been walking through the centre of Pontypridd, when he heard ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On’ by Jerry Lee Lewis for the first time. It was blasting out from the speakers at Freddie Feys’ record shop. He was immediately stopped in his tracks: ‘Good God. To me that was it! I loved that record and it was a white man singing boogie-woogie that he had heard black men play.’

Tom would never forget the effect Jerry Lee’s music had on him. He admired Elvis and would spend afternoons listening to Brian’s elder brother John’s collection of The King’s records. But he loved the man from Louisiana, who was known as ‘The Killer’. Tom liked his aggression and the way Lewis would chew his audience up and spit them out. He was a white man who sounded like he was black, and that was the effect Tom had always wanted.

At least money wasn’t as tight and he could buy a new Hawk guitar. He was earning £18 a week and they weren’t paying any rent. Until now, Tom had sung at school and family get-togethers. It was time for him to start singing in public.

Urged on by Linda, he approached his uncle, Albert Jones, to ask if he could perform at the Wood Road. ‘Could you put us on, Uncle Albert – you know, do a gig down there?’

Albert, who was quite a stern chap, replied, ‘It will never go down well here – rock ’n’ roll.’

Tom persevered, however, and eventually he had a lucky break, when an act they had booked failed to show one Sunday evening. Tom stepped up and sang three numbers, including the classic Elvis hit ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ and ‘Sixteen Tons’, a number one for Tennessee Ernie Ford in 1956. The reaction was much more favourable than Albert had expected, so Tom came back after an interval and sang three more. Afterwards, the club’s entertainment secretary, Charlie Ashman, was so pleased, he put his hand in the till and handed Tom a £1 note. In those days of pre-decimal money, he could buy thirty pints in the club for a quid. The only problem was that everyone knew how old he was and he could never get served there.

Tom was encouraged to think he could sing for money, or at least beer money, in the pubs and clubs around Treforest and Pontypridd. His mates supported him, especially when he started singing at one of their favourite pubs, the Wheatsheaf, at the bottom of Rickards Street. They would have a few beers in the downstairs bar before adjourning to the room upstairs, where Tom would belt out his mix of Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis and Ray Charles numbers, accompanying himself as best as he could on his guitar.

The audience loved him at the Wheatsheaf, but it was practically his local and didn’t really count. The landlady, Joan Lister, recalled that the audience wouldn’t get up for a pint when Tom was on, which may or may not be true. He needed more than that generous appreciation, however, and for a while joined a local beat group called the De Avalons. He was the drummer, not the singer, but soon tired of that arrangement, much preferring to be the centre of attention.

He joined a concert party called The Misfits. These variety ensembles, which often included a comedian and a group, were very popular. They were like a mini evening of Britain’s Got Talent. Tom liked the set-up, because the money was good – anything from £2 to £5 for a night’s work – and he found he could earn almost as much at a weekend as the rest of the week in the paper factory. Tom was one of three acts, which included a singer who specialised in Frankie Laine numbers.

Linda had no objection when Tom decided to quit his job at the paper factory and sign on the dole. Tom was reassured by a workmate, who told him, ‘If you fail, you can always return. It doesn’t take a genius to work in a paper mill.’ He needed to be free from shift work so he could accept evening bookings. From time to time, he would take a job selling vacuum cleaners or working on a building site, carting bricks, but his heart wasn’t in it and these jobs rarely lasted more than a few weeks. His only ticket out of the Valleys was with ‘singer’ stamped on his passport, so he was much happier concentrating on that ambition than grafting for a few pounds a week. The reality was that he had started to drift.

The most significant member of a Tommy Woodward audience during this time was a young guitarist from Rhydyfelin called Vernon Hopkins. He had heard about a rough and ready lad with a big voice doing his time on the pub and club circuit around Pontypridd, so he turned up at the Wheatsheaf one night to watch Tom perform. Vernon was unimpressed with his act, but admired his voice.

‘His voice was great, but he would just stand there and sing. He wouldn’t even introduce a song. It was like he didn’t want to be there at all, but he had to do it, because he wanted the money. It wasn’t a good picture. He looked intimidating.’




5

The Girl with the Red Dress On (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


Not everyone found Tom scary. One of his long-standing drinking pals, Alan Barratt, wasn’t overawed, even though he was the smaller man. According to local legend, he once gave Tom a fearful pasting in an argument over a girl. Tom literally had to drag himself home on his hands and knees. The pair remained good friends and Tom was later rumoured to have helped Alan buy the newsagent’s in Church Village, where he settled, just a few miles from Pontypridd.

They were together one evening eating a takeaway outside a curry house, when Tom met a curvaceous fifteen-year-old called Gill Beazer. When he came across a girl he liked, Tommy Woodward was no longer one of the lads. He acted in a completely different manner. He had been impressed when, as a boy, he walked with his father around the terraced streets where they lived. The local housewives would come to the front door just to smile and say to his dad, ‘Good morning, Thomas.’ The friendly greetings brightened his day. He learned from his father and the other men in his family that women were to be treated with respect, consideration and as equals. He didn’t swear or act the macho man in front of them, and it made no difference how pretty they were.

Gill was most definitely attractive, though. The tabloid papers of today would describe her as a stunner. Tommy’s relationship with the shy teenager was a million miles away from his later image as Tom Jones, sex-obsessed superstar.

In the early summer of 1960, the curry house had just opened in Central Square, Trallwn, on the other side of Pontypridd. It was a general store as well, and Gill was browsing there when Tom, then aged twenty, showed up with Alan Barratt. They were there for two reasons: Tom loved curry and, to this day, lamb curry remains a favourite dish; he also liked a pint. He and Alan would pop into the Llanover Arms on the corner or the Central Hotel across the square. The hotel had a music room, where Tom would appear occasionally, so he knew it well.

Gill lived with her nan, Ruth, around the corner at the top of East Street, third house down on the right. Her mother left when she was a baby, and her father, a carpenter called Elias Beazer, made a new life in Rhydyfelin, where he remarried and had a large family. Gill still saw her dad, but was brought up by her grandmother.

In the evenings, Gill, who was a bit of a loner and had few friends of her own age, would often take a stroll around the square to soak up the atmosphere and have a passing conversation or two. It was a much more innocent time, when people looked out for one another. Gill was well known in the neighbourhood and would pop in and out of the shops – a cobbler’s and a hairdresser, a sweet shop, a greengrocer and the Co-op at the end. ‘I just used to like to go out of my door, onto the square and talk to whoever was around.’ There never seemed to be any girls her age, so she usually ended up talking to the boys, who would be chatting and trying to look cool on their motorbikes.

She began joining other underage girls to sneak into pubs where they could get served, providing they stayed at the back, away from the men-only bars. Perhaps because of that and her large bust, the boys would talk about her and she developed a bad reputation that was entirely unjustified.

She knew nothing about Tom when they met. Treforest seemed a world away from Trallwn. She didn’t know he was a local singer and she had no idea he was married with a young son – information that he certainly didn’t volunteer. It would be a common theme, where Tom was concerned, that women he became involved with didn’t know his marital status. Gill told him she had just left school and was working as a shop assistant in the Star Supply Stores in Pontypridd, waiting for a better job to come up in the Aero Zip factory on the industrial estate.

One thing struck Gill at that first encounter: Alan, who was a couple of years older than Tom, was much more handsome than his friend. Gill observes, ‘Alan was a very good-looking guy. He had black curly hair and was smartly turned out. He was looked-after smart, if you know what I mean. He was slighter than Tom, although Tom was slight, mind. Tom wasn’t particularly handsome, because he had this long jawline.’

Alan may have been better looking, but it was Tom who had the charm. He had a bent, lopsided nose, crooked teeth and an elongated jaw, but he was easy to talk to. ‘He just had this lovely personality as far as I was concerned,’ recalls Gill, who readily agreed to meet up a day or two later by the railings on The Parade, the street below the curry house.

‘He told me when he wanted to meet me there, but he didn’t come. I just hung about for an hour and eventually he turned up. No matter when he made arrangements with me, it would be an hour or two later that he would turn up.’ Gill didn’t realise that he had responsibilities elsewhere.

Nothing happened between them on The Parade other than a walk and a chat. They just seemed to like each other’s company. It was very relaxed and Tom suggested that she might like to hear him sing at a gig or perhaps take in a dance one evening soon; he would call her to let her know when.

The next time she saw him, he was walking underneath the bridge by the railway station in Pontypridd, looking unrecognisable in a double-breasted navy blue pinstriped suit. Gill assumed he had paid a trip to the magistrates’ court nearby: ‘He might have been a naughty boy, but he was very smartly dressed.’ She didn’t quiz him about it. It wasn’t her business and she wasn’t a pushy sort of girl anyway. She admits, ‘I never had any confidence in myself.’

Tom’s luck with the law had, in fact, run out when, desperately short of cash, he had broken into the old tobacconist’s shop in Treforest with a pal. They were hardly criminal masterminds. The stupid petty crime was unearthed when, by all accounts, they tried to sell their haul down the Wood Road. The police, hearing the rumours of some dodgy cigarettes for sale, put two and two together and found the goods hidden in Tom’s mother’s house.

Even the dole office knew of his misdeed, noting in its records: ‘Applicant is on bail pending being heard for a charge of breaking and entering at the next quarter session.’ Tom has not denied this transgression and later admitted he had once been placed on probation.

Tom started calling Gill to suggest when they might meet up. Neither of them had a phone. Tom would step out to his red phone box and she would be in hers outside the Central Hotel, just across from the top of East Street. Tom would dial the number – 2026 – and wait for someone to answer the ringing phone. It didn’t matter who it was, he would simply ask the person to pop over the road and tell Gill that he wanted to speak to her. She would dash for the phone, pleased to hear from him.

Gill had the same routine if she was staying the night at a friend’s house. She would simply ring the phone box and ask whoever answered to go and tell her nan what she was doing, please, so she wouldn’t worry. She never knew the number of Tom’s phone box, presumably because he didn’t want to run the risk of his wife answering. Gill recalls, ‘I would have to wait for him to do things and I suppose I was patient enough to wait without even thinking about it.’

She loved it when they went jiving at Judges in Porth or the Bucket of Blood in Rhydyfelin: ‘I was a good jiver and so was he.’ But, in the main, she would just be his girl when he went to a gig. Often she had no idea where they were, although Franchies in Taff Street was one she enjoyed. Neither of them had any money – Gill used to make a lot of her clothes – so it would be a trip on the bus to the gig, where she and sometimes other friends would cheer him on. Tom would usually be paid a couple of pounds and perhaps some beer. Afterwards, there was no hanging around. He needed to get home to his family, so they would catch the bus back to Pontypridd, get off in Merthyr Road and he would set off for Treforest, while she walked back to East Street. She recalls, ‘He would do the gig and then he would be gone. We never had any money. We never had anything at all.’

Looking back with the privilege of hindsight, Gill believes Tom wanted company: ‘He needed someone when he went to these gigs – he needed someone in the audience there for him, someone whom he could focus on or relate to. He didn’t want to go on his own.’ He was clearly fond of her, however.

On one evening she was due to accompany him to a gig in Caerphilly, eight miles away. Tom suggested she get the bus, which left from the Broadway, with him and his friend Gwyn Griffiths. The bus ran only once an hour, so Tom had to catch it or he would be late. Gill and Gwyn, whom she already knew, caught the bus as arranged, but, typically, there was no sign of Tom. As they travelled down the Broadway, they saw Tom running along, clutching his guitar and trying to catch them up. He banged on the side to attract the driver’s attention and Gill started shouting to him to stop the bus as well. Thankfully, he stopped and let Tom on board.

She had dolled herself up for the occasion, wearing her long brown hair up and putting on a red dress that an aunt had brought over from Jamaica as a present. Gill will never forget that gig, because after his usual smattering of Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis, Tom turned towards her, midway through his next song, focused his gaze directly on her and sang, ‘See the girl with the red dress on …’ It was his power-packed version of ‘What’d I Say’, the song that took the legendary Ray Charles into the mainstream in 1959. Jerry Lee had made a rock ’n’ roll recording of the track at the famous Sun Studio in 1960. ‘I was elated,’ says Gill. ‘He was singing to me.’ It was lovely for Gill, but it also revealed that Tom hadn’t forgotten the advice of his Uncle George and was selling the song to his audience. It was a technique he continued to employ as a Las Vegas headliner.

Gill thought there was more to the relationship than there was. Perhaps she was naive, but she acknowledges simply: ‘Yes, I thought he was my boyfriend.’ That changed when she saw him in Pontypridd with a young blond boy who was clearly his son and turned out to be Mark. ‘I didn’t have bad feelings towards him about it. I’m a “what will be, will be” sort of person. I think that a little bit of something is better than nothing. That’s the only way to explain why I went on seeing him.’

Gill admits that she and Tom enjoyed plenty of ‘kisses and cuddles’, but she denies there was anything more. If they weren’t going to a gig or jiving, then they would simply stay and chat on a street corner or go for a walk in Trallwn or the nearby village of Ynysybwl. She strongly believes that the image of Tom as a rough and ready macho man is completely wrong. She explains: ‘I think people got the wrong impression of him. He wasn’t at all as he was portrayed. I never found him to be a forceful person. He never expected anything from me and he told me that, and it was very important to me. He said to me that whatever I wanted physically would be OK. He was never, ever nasty with me and treated me as an equal. He was a gentle person.’

Everyone assumed that Gill was sleeping with Tom, because for nearly two years they were often seen together. They never went all the way, however. Eventually Gill found a proper boyfriend, whom she would marry. She still saw Tom occasionally. He would pop in to find out how she was doing and make sure she was all right. They lost touch when Tom’s career began to move forward, although Alan Barratt would call round to catch up from time to time. When Gill had a son, Alan brought her a card from Tom on the boy’s first birthday that contained two crisp pound notes. By strange coincidence, in later life, she became the best friend of Marion Crewe, who was Dai Perry’s sister and was close to Tom, whom she adored. Gill remained on the fringes of Tom’s world and would say hello on the sad days he came home for funerals.

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.’




6

Senator Tom (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


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.

Tommy Pitman was a good singer, particularly effective with ballads, but Vernon realised that night that the other Tommy, Tom Woodward, was the future for the band. Keith Davies agreed, ‘He had a much stronger voice than Tommy Pitman. He was just more aggressive all over. They were just two different types of singer.’ Tom wasn’t concerned about that – he just wanted to grab his couple of pounds and make it back to the White Hart before they called last orders.

Tom went round to Vernon’s house a few days later for a run-through and sang an old-fashioned Edwardian ballad called ‘Thora’ in his best gospel style. ‘I’m not having no bugger in this band who sings hymns,’ said young Keith, who would ultimately be persuaded by the obvious quality of Tom’s voice.

Tom began rehearsing regularly with the band on a Wednesday at Vernon’s house in Glyndwr Avenue, Rhydyfelin. Five young men were crammed into the front room, with amplifiers on every chair, and a piano and drum kit wedged in as well. Vernon recalls fondly, ‘You wouldn’t believe the size of it. We rehearsed many of the numbers that he later made famous in that room.’

Five became six the day that Tommy Pitman came down to find out if he was still in the band. Vernon was nervous about so many blokes in a confined space, worried that the two Tommys would come to blows as they competed to be The Senators’ vocalist. He even persuaded his sisters to lay on tea and sandwiches in an attempt to keep everything civilised. In the end, the two Toms behaved impeccably.

Vernon knew he wanted to keep his new singer, but they put it to the vote. Keith supported Vernon’s view that Tom Woodward should stay. Tommy Pitman pointed out that he owned part of the equipment. The next suggestion was that they should have two vocalists. Tom wasn’t having that and told them, ‘It’s either me or Tommy.’

Vernon tried to make the decision painless: ‘The thing is, Tommy, you left us in the lurch and we have been getting on all right with Tom, so I’m going to say we stay as we are now.’ Tommy accepted the decision and the two singers left together, as they lived in neighbouring streets in Treforest.

Tommy Pitman recalls, ‘We weren’t going to fight about a thing like that. We walked back together and chatted about different things. I said, “I paid for half of this sound system and you are coming in for nout.” He said, “OK, I’ll sort you out.” Ha! I never got nothing. When we parted, I said, “I’ll see you. All the best.”’

In fact, Pitman wasn’t too dejected. He had already had an offer to join a group called The Strollers, which Jeff and Colin from The Senators had formed. They were a smarter-looking band, more Shadows than Jerry Lee, and Tommy, who liked to wear an Italian suit on stage, thought they were a better match for him. He recalls with a glint of good humour, ‘It wasn’t too long before I was in Butlins for a season with them. So I thought then I had the best of the deal, obviously.’

The Senators were Vernon’s group. He made the key decisions and was the driving force. Tom was just the singer, but Vernon was in no doubt about his ability. Although they would later have their differences, Vernon acknowledges, ‘Right from when he joined, he was as good a singer as I have ever performed with. His voice was so pure.’

The first thing Vernon had to do was find their new frontman a suitable name. Tommy or Tom Woodward didn’t sound rock ’n’ roll enough in the days of Billy Fury, Adam Faith and Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. They decided to go to the Upper Boat Inn on the Taff River in Pontypridd for a few pints to try to come up with some ideas – they had none, despite the brain-lubricating beer.

Vernon then thought of looking in the telephone book for a name, and nipped across to a nearby phone box to have a quick search for inspiration. The problem with a Welsh phone book was that it contained page after page of people named Jones. Tommy Jones? That would never do, but his finger stopped at S when he reached Scott. Tommy Scott had definite possibilities.

Tom was enthusiastic when he returned to the table, as were the rest of the band, so Vernon went ahead and had some cards printed that read ‘The Senators with Twisting Tommy Scott’. It didn’t take them long to drop the ‘Twisting’ part, although Tom was a master of that popular dance.

Keith Davies remembers helping Tom with his Tommy Scott signature, so he would be ready to sign autographs should he be asked. Originally, Tom wrote his name in a very small and spindly fashion. Keith told him, ‘“You can’t write it like that. It looks like you’re signing the dole, like.” And I showed him, “Do a big S like this, and then put two big lines across the ts.” He tried it and said, “Like that?” and I said, “Yeah, like that.”’

A new name was the first step in smoothing out Tom’s rough edges to make him more acceptable to a paying audience. The next meant binning the beloved Teddy boy suit. It was the end of a long era, but Tom was persuaded to move on to black leather and a stage outfit that Elvis or Gene Vincent might wear.

One of Tom’s notable characteristics throughout his career is that he is amenable to change and suggestion. He doesn’t let ego get in the way of what he considers good sense. He accepts things and gets on with it. He wanted to look good, but what mattered most to him was the music he was going to sing. The biggest influence he had within the group was on their repertoire.

First and foremost, he wanted Jerry Lee Lewis. As Keith Davies remembers, the rest of the band would be mischievous about that: ‘He was just Jerry Lee Lewis orientated all the time. He would introduce a song by saying, “We would like to sing a song now by Mister Jerry Lee Lewis,” and we would all look surprised and go, “Jerry Lee Lewis???”’

Tom took the gentle ribbing in good spirit and was never less than dedicated. At their weekly rehearsals, they used to take it in turns to suggest a number to perform during their week-long round of gigs.

Keith recalls, ‘He would say something like, “I want to do a song called ‘Bama Lama Bama Loo’” and I would say, “Christ, what’s that?” It was usually something I had never heard of. Then it would be my turn and I would say I wanted to do “The Young Ones” by Cliff Richard, and Tom hated his music – he just didn’t like it. Every time I used to do the intro, you could see his face going. It was a soppy tune for him to sing!’

Tom had to grit his teeth and learn some of the more anaemic chart songs, because that was what their audience wanted. ‘He used to feel a prat doing it, but they were in the charts and people used to sing them.’

Tom was doing his homework though. Most Saturday afternoons, Vernon would go around to the house in Cliff Terrace, say hello to Linda and young Mark and then join Tom upstairs in his mother-in-law’s lounge and listen to records on his old portable record player. Tom and Vernon weren’t interested in rugby or football or social injustice – just music. They would spend hours talking about it.

Jerry Lee Lewis, of course, featured a lot in Tom’s expanding record collection. ‘Listen to the drums on this,’ he would say enthusiastically, as he put yet another of The Killer’s tracks on the turntable.

By a quirk of fate, soon after he joined The Senators, Tom noticed that his hero was performing a concert at the Sophia Gardens in Cardiff as part of his comeback. Tom had been disappointed four years earlier, when Jerry Lee, then twenty-two, cancelled his concert in Cardiff after revelations about his marriage hit the front pages. He had arrived in Britain for a six-week tour in May 1958, when journalists spotted a young girl in his entourage called Myra, who he said was fifteen and his third wife. That was bad enough, but she turned out to be his first cousin once removed and was only thirteen. Their union was a product of the hillbilly mentality prevalent in the Deep South. His management pulled Jerry Lee out of that tour after only three concerts. Tom recalled, ‘When the public found out about it, there was uproar and he got sent out of the country.’

Tom managed to get tickets in the front row for his hero’s return and would later reveal that it was his favourite musical performance ever. Jerry Lee did all his favourites, including show-stopping versions of ‘High School Confidential’ and an encore of ‘Good Golly, Miss Molly’. One critic described his act as ‘far and away the most exciting thing I have ever seen on a British stage’. Tom was mesmerised and would use that performance as a template for his own.

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.’




7

The Green Fly Boys (#u62725f21-d8e7-52b8-9c54-a268af863b50)


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.’

Meek clearly thought he heard something in Tom’s voice, because he lost no time in signing a one-year production agreement with Myron and Byron. The Senators made the first of several seven-hour journeys to London to record in Joe’s flat. When they got there, they didn’t know where to look when they were greeted by Meek’s sometime lover Heinz, the singer and bassist with The Tornados, sprawled naked on the bed. The boys were happy to indulge in some blokish humour about keeping their backs to the walls, but they hadn’t come into contact with anyone as blatant as Meek.





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