George Melly

In the early seventies, the Greyhound, Croydon, was home to pretty much every important rock band of the early seventies. But it didn't interest me. No, I went every Tuesday evening to the Lord Napier pub in Thornton Heath to see Alan Elsdon's band storm their way through Louis Armstrong, Pee Wee Russell and, occasionally and memorably, Bessie Smith, as interpreted by a guest vocalist - George Melly.

I must stress that I was not alone in these trad jazz excursions - I had, and still have a group of friends who shared my interest. We also liked Tom Lehrer - acerbic humour and jazz have always been good bedfellows, at least in the UK - Humphrey Littleton is testament to that theory. But if you liked your humour and your jazz broad and bucolic - George Melly was your man. Every time George appeared at the Napier, my little group of social misfits swelled to a manic crowd of under aged carousers, lapping up such tender arias as "Gimme a Pigfoot" and - of course "Nuts" George's only chart hit. A couple of times I spoke to the great man after the gig and was rewarded on both occasions by being kissed - a brandy fuelled expression of bonhomie rather than a sexual statement, I remain convinced.

Immediately following this musical baptism, I went to Music College, where Joseph Horovitz encouraged me to write my thesis on post war British Jazz, rather than "wasting my time with Beethoven string quartets". Since there was only one textual source available, I was forced to research my project in the jazz pubs and clubs of London - an activity that I embraced with enthusiasm. Needless to say, George was part of this source material, not only through his performances, but his autobiography of his life as singer with Mick Mulligan's band, "Owning up". This book is the best and funniest account of the trad boom of the fifties and early sixties and along with "Revolt into Style", his highly regarded history of the emergence of pop culture would alone cement his reputation as a fine and authoritative writer.

In the late eighties I was commissioned by a friend, Phil Partridge, to write the title song for a sitcom pilot he was producing at the BBC. We both agreed that George was the man to sing the song and, much to our surprise and delight, he agreed with alacrity. The only proviso was that we give him lunch before the recording - which resulted in a wonderful cabaret, followed by a session which Phil and I were too pissed to recall, other than that George performed with consummate professionalism, despite his stupendous intake of alcohol.

Entertainer, singer, surrealist, art critic, film critic, writer, angler - George Melly lived many joyous lives. I mourn his passing as if he were a close friend - many many people assuredly feel the same way. The world is now a poorer and drearier place.

The Kathleen Ferrier awards

Who can forget the unique sound of the great Kathleen Ferrier, a creamy contralto allied to perfect diction and that indefinable ability to get truly inside whatever she was singing, be it "When I am Laid" or "Blow the Wind Southerly". Her early death seemed to embed her in the public consciousness and the awards created in her name keep her name well and truly alive.

Over the last few months I have heard performances from two recent Kathleen Ferrier award winners, both sopranos. Elizabeth Watts won the prize last year and went on to win the Rosenblatt Recital song prize at the Cardiff Singer of the world competition last month, narrowly failing to pick up the overall prize. Laura Mitchell won the Ferrier song prize this year and will no doubt continue her ascent.

Both young ladies are still in their late twenties, but they exhibit a precocious ability in recital, perhaps a far more difficult arena than the opera stage. Miss Watts won this year's outstanding young artist award at the MIDEM classical awards in Cannes. Part of the prize was an appearance at said awards - a poisoned chalice if ever there was one. About three hours into an interminable celebration of the self satisfied mediocrity of the classical recording business, Miss Watts made her appearance, to sing a couple of Mozart arias. My heart went out to her - those that hadn't already escaped to the delights of the Croisette were numb with boredom and indifferent to more or less anything. The young singer must have sensed this, but she still gave us an exquisite ten minutes, which made the whole dreary event worthwhile.

Last night, Laura Mitchell had an easier ride - a small but enthusiastic audience at Simon Rowland-Jones's enterprising North Norfolk Music Festival. Miss Mitchell, accompanied with great flair and sensitivity by the young Mexican guitarist Morgan Szymanski, performed songs by de Falla, Albeniz, Rodrigues etc with consummate skill, style and charm. The artists took turns in presenting the material, with never a moment of awkwardness or cliche, just proper professional poise and - yes - charm, which is very hard to bottle and harder still to teach.

My point is that Elizabeth Watts and Laura Mitchell can not only sing beautifully - that has to be a given, but clearly know how to deal with the performance situation and can really communicate with the audience- be it a thousand bored executives in a huge ugly cinema or a hundred "mature" music fans in a remote Norfolk Church. Onward ladies, Kathleen is smiling down on you, although she is perhaps wondering when it will be the turn of a contralto!