April 26th, 2008
Not much of a birthday present. Not only have I still not recovered from a virus that’s sent me to bed for the last four days, but I woke up to the news of the death of Humphrey Lyttelton.
“Humph” was one of the best-loved personalities on Britain; in some ways he was part of what made Britain the curious country that it is. Irreverent and hilarious but never ever offensive, despite some very close-to-the-bone material, his radio and live audiences on I’m Sorry I haven’t a Clue adored him. As did his fellow performers on the show. Most comics would have given their right arms for his sense of timing and ability to hold an crowd in rapt attention. I listened often, and always cursed the times I’d missed it.
Yet that was his sideline. As a jazz trumpeter and bandleader he was one of the very best, at 86 still gigging up till a few days before he died. He was doing what he enjoyed most – may we all go out in such a way. It must have been great fun working with him.
As a jazz broadcaster he must have drawn many thousands of people to appreciate his favourite music just because he was the one telling them about it, such was the respect in which he was held. Many were inspired to follow his example into the music profession and he seems to have been generous in his support of them.
Britain is a bit less British today. But we still have his recordings, both jazz and comedy, and our memories of a unique man. I hope the BBC have kept copies of every minute he ever broadcast because it’s more precious than gold.
I’ll raise a birthday glass to your memory Humph, we’ll miss you.
August 6th, 2007
It very easy to fall into wondering where the years went when you’re 52, and if you’re not careful you begin to think you must have wasted them. However the realisation that the Edinburgh Festival was about to start brought back some fond memories the other day and quickly dispelled any gloom caused by the dismal summer.
Cafe Graffiti nights
As anyone who has trudged through my life story will know, I used to be a sound engineer many years ago, and for two years I was resident engineer at Cafe Graffiti; a long-time favourite cabaret venue in the capital. I spent many happy hours behind the mixing-desk there, enjoying the talented madcap actors and musicians on display. But the periods during the festival were very special; a blaze of frantic set and equipment changes, intense and inspired work fuelled by adrenaline and the odd pint, wonderful teamwork and friendship, and some truly amazing performances – sometimes snatched from the jaws of disaster.
I remember standing on top of a high ladder in the old Caley cinema, soldering connectors to a speaker system to cure a hum-loop with two minutes before the audience were let in. Other memories creep back of switch-overs to fantasy stage sets that shouldn’t have been possible let-alone successful – transformations that left audiences open-mouthed in wonder even before they’d had a drink! We had the Natural Theatre Company weaving magical characters. We had Neil Innes for two weeks of brilliant musical comedy and Hank Wankford, doing his own inimitable form of Country Music, who insisted on Chilli for dinner every night and then decided that the recipe that Phil the Lighting Engineer and I had was better. We had a brilliant core team of John Sampson, Pat O’Connell, Julia Gordon-Smith, and Pete Bains, and we turned the Caley into a cruise ship sailing to distant shores every night.
Then there were the special appearances from performers who were playing at other venues – we had the fabulous Brass Band, and the impossible Flying Karamasov Brothers. I particularly remember us having a surprise visit from the ANC choir who were touring Europe to publicise the struggle against apartheid; fifty voices and five brass players. Phil and I had less than 10 minutes to prepare for them going on and then the curtain opened. They were magnificent and we looked at each other and simultaneously said ‘if we can do that we can do anything’ before clapping each other on the shoulder in triumphant celebration. Memories like that I wouldn’t swap for the world.
The odd thing is that when I wasn’t working in the Festival I never felt part of it and often used to take holidays to get away from the crowds. I suspect a lot of Edinburgh people are like that. Yet when I was working, despite having barely enough time to sleep, I felt energised by the whole scene.
Cafe Graffiti closed in 1985, and while I still worked on the shop floor at at Thins I’d often get people recognising me and asking why it had gone. A few years later Pete Simpson tried running it again just during the festival and I went down a couple of times – meeting some of the old crowd also paying homage to happy times. Sadly I’ve lost touch with most of them apart from my dear friend John Sampson. One day we’ll probably run into each other in a pub somewhere and I’ve no doubt the old camaraderie will still be there. When you rely on each other completely to put on a performance that balances on a knife edge you develop a deep respect and affection. Like much of my time in the industry we didn’t make much money but by god we had some wonderful creative nights. Wherever you are guys, I wish you well. Those years certainly weren’t wasted.