My path to becoming a music teacher was by no means ordinary, and I would describe it as a mix of determination, sheer luck and the right people at the right time.
I knew my first step was to become a member of the Society of Recorder Players (SRP), which has branches in most UK cities. Everyone who can read music and play the recorder is welcome; conducted by professional volunteers, we would sight-read all afternoon.
I enrolled in the Marylebone SRP, a very lucky branch run by Theo Wyatt as chairman and musical director. No one more witty and knowledgeable would ever be found. Theo also ran many other courses off his own bat, each one with a distinctive agenda. His most ambitious course took place over a week every summer near the sea, outside Drogheda in Ireland. The sessions went on all day and were inclusive of all levels, ranging from brilliant (who might even be professionals already) to competent, to those who sometimes lost their place. Grouped by ability into one-to-a-part quartets and quintets, it must have been an enormous task to curate the music, especially before technology as we know it.
The venue was a large, comfortable house and in the seventies we could safely leave our instruments and belongings in unlocked rooms. The sea was less than a ten-minute walk away, close enough for a quick dip in between music sessions. Our communal evening ensembles were hugely enjoyable, and sometimes the more professional players delighted us with a performance of their own. There were also lessons in ceilidh dancing – I remember my partner once being a nun! There were often nuns there, who enhanced the music by playing their fiddles. One didn’t sleep very much but it was worth it for the fun we had. I treasure the memories of such a variety of new music, beginning to understand the Irish, making new friends and the many gems Theo would come out with while conducting, such as, ‘Speed in music kills just as much as it does on the motorway.’
Back in London, I was enjoying my evening classes at the ILEA (now led by Nancy Winkelman), but I discovered that the one-week residential courses were far and away the biggest help and stimulus for me. There was a new one coming up that I was really interested in, and some of my group (Bob Horsley, Alistair Read, Annie Pegler and Terry Over) had already booked in. It was months away, but I planned to go with them to Herefordshire. Now that Julia and Andy were older, I felt Eric would cope. Also, these residential courses always took place during the relaxed holiday times – relieving Eric of juggling the practicalities of term times.
This course was the jackpot for me. While it offered a variety of areas for study, it was not at the top of my agenda to concentrate on my own performance and virtuosity at this time. My mind was elsewhere – I wanted to work with children. I liked introducing music to them. There was indeed a daily session on teaching recorder in schools, and it was here I found my true calling. I was delighted it was run by the musical director of the mid-Hertfordshire SRP, Herbert Hersom, and I already knew his pull was towards recorder learning at primary level.
Herbert had much fine music up his sleeve and introduced us to beautiful compositions for beginners that included only three to five notes. Here we had our very own English composer, Colin Hand, starting with his Come and Play Books 1 and 2. To me they seem like Lieder without words for young children. The titles of the pieces are evocative enough and tell you all you need – ‘Waltz’, ‘Swinging’, ‘Sailing’, ‘Fanfare’, ‘Echo Song’ – with delightful piano accompaniments.
On this course I picked up even more tips and insider knowledge over meals and during our free time, as we all talked shop non-stop. No one listened to the news, and the outside world didn’t exist. I found amateur musicians were on the whole extremely amiable, modest and jovial people – quite a different species from academics. Coming home was always fantastic. The children were beside themselves with excitement and eager to talk without pausing, even though we were only apart six days. Alone together over supper that evening, Eric sensed this shift in me and suggested that before committing to deeper education in music college (which I was about to investigate), I should consider getting a teaching job, ‘Why not see if you like it first?’ He was convinced that I knew how to play the recorder well enough to teach in primary school, and he knew my flair with children. I took his comments to heart and I got in contact with the head teacher, Terry Seaton, of the nearby Carlton Junior School. He was ambitious for his school and eager to introduce instrumental music there.
I felt good vibes. Terry made it obvious that he wanted me to join his school. He was straightforward with me and I recall him saying most awkwardly, ‘I am not concerned about you not being a good fit for this school, but that you may be shocked or upset by some of the things that come out of the mouths of the children here.’ I reassured him that I was a woman of the world and could handle what was coming my way (maybe I should have said I was not a lah-di-dah lady and my husband was a communist.)
As this was my first teaching job, my position would be part-time in the school, with part-time training. I was to have an audition at the music centre in Pimlico and later an inspection whilst teaching the children at Carlton. So Eric was right to steer me this way. It worked out even better than I imagined because it offered plenty of training.
I had already heard along the grapevine that the new head of music for the ILEA, John Stevens (later Sir John Stevens) was a very enlightened man. When hiring music teachers, he was less interested in people with long strings of letters after their names but keen on those with an interest in child development (excellent news for me). It seemed clear he had a vision to lift music in schools out of the Stone Age. He wanted to expand the music curriculum for all children in all his schools and I was eager to learn this new class music – a method that encouraged teaching in a group outside the classroom, in a space where children could move and form a large circle. It focused on learning through musical games, movement, imagination and variations of sound through listening, and also handling instruments. Stevens had certainly picked incredible teachers for our training, they were brilliant, all of them – Leonora Davies, Diana Thompson, Wendy Bird and Stephen Maw spring to mind. It was not just their extensive knowledge of material, but the way they handled the instruments with care and poise was contagious; a bongo would not be banged on but cradled like a newborn and then gently tapped with fingers. Oliver James was the recorder specialist for the ILEA. While I can’t recall the exact pieces I played at my audition in Pimlico, I remember it going well. Oliver’s inspection at Carlton School took nearly half a term to materialise and so I had time for preparation. Looking around the music shops, I found the recorder section invariably on the lowest possible shelf next to the floor. Tutor books for all other instruments seemed dignified, with a one-to-one tutorial appeal. Although the recorder is often taught in large groups, I could not see why books for beginners had to reflect a classroom cacophony with jokey faces and silly characters. So I made up my own sheets for teaching at Carlton. Later on, I wrote two tutor books for beginners, Me and My Recorder, which Faber Music published in 1989. They were well received (and also translated into Greek) and I am happy to say they are all in print today and am still getting respectable royalties. My daydream now is for a Chinese edition.
In the class inspection, Oliver James had really come mainly to see my interaction with the children, and the ambience I created with and around them. The eight- to nine-year-olds were especially drawn to songs with stories in them, like spirituals once sung by slaves in America. The ten- to eleven-year-olds played a samba, which Oliver noticed I had renamed ‘Please Miss, Can We Play the Samba?’. I was certainly learning the importance of repertoire.
I loved my time at Carlton, teaching three mornings a week. Slowly over the years, recorder playing blossomed. A natural progression of trebles and tenors were introduced and Terry the head teacher even bought a bass recorder. Performances, alas, were frequent, but still made me anxious. It took me a while to learn to stay cool. There were many concerts and we appeared in the local newspaper as the Carlton Academy. Eric often made an appearance and got used to sitting on the infant chairs. Some days I wondered if I didn’t learn more from those children than they learned from me. Their spontaneity, honesty and inquisitiveness were a constant reminder of life’s essentials.
After my ten years there, the junior school was forced to merge with the infant school, creating chaos and tension for children and teachers alike. Sensing this, Terry asked, ‘What can I do to entice you to stay, Marlene?’ To which, with astonishing confidence, I replied, ‘I need an accompanist. I’d like you to hire my friend Don Randall.’ I’d met Don in a recorder group. He had retired from a tough boys’ secondary school where he had been doing all the music for forty years. A musician through and through, he was the perfect person for the job. He was hired – thank you, Terry. Don was so helpful and useful: it was bliss for me. The children liked him very much, and they respected this small, wrinkly man because they knew quality without realising it. Don was also my ‘top and tail’ teacher (helping a pupil who was either struggling to keep up or was way above average). So I carried on, and my job at Carlton School lasted another four years – fourteen years in all.
During this time, I was becoming more in demand, as was the status of the recorder. For instance, Angela Mendis, head of music at Fleet School, was helping to run the Saturday-morning ‘Young Music Makers’ and she asked me to take a group of children and adults. It was good fun because the children outshone the adults so easily and loved being taught alongside them. I had also been teaching one day a week for ten years at a private boys’ school, Hereward House. This was a completely different experience. The principal, Leonie Sampson, was so supportive and generous; it definitely raised the level of my work.
I became more ambitious. The recorder players were learning an arrangement of Papageno’s song from the opera The Magic Flute and I discovered a boy with an overwhelmingly marvellous voice. I started teaching him Papageno’s words and although he was a shy child, lacking in confidence, he surprised himself and agreed to sing it at the concert. I rearranged the recorder part as an accompaniment with piano. His parents were delighted and bought him a costume covered in feathers of such splendour that not even the Royal Opera House could beat it. On the night, Papageno acted and sang his heart out. It was a complete and total triumph – I bless him, Mrs Samson and Mozart.
When I finally decided to leave Carlton, I got my last job at Beckford School in West Hampstead. I was in my late fifties now and decided it was time for a change. I taught there once a week for six years. Musically it was a lively school, with many different instrumental teachers coming and going (strings especially, Suzuki violin and cello). I picked up tips from the Suzuki teacher Jane O’Connor, whose pupils presented themselves so finely. Jane Hills, who became the head, was a recorder player herself. She even played in assembly with the children. This was a huge boost for the recorder’s standing and reputation with the children and the parents.
I remember a very talented pupil there, nine-year-old Felicity Squire, who wanted to be a music teacher (her mother was a teacher and also a pianist). I recommended to her parents that Felicity attend a Saturday-morning recorder class run by Angela Rodriguez in Muswell Hill. Angela recognised her talent too and from there she moved on to CYM (Centre for Young Musicians) in Pimlico, where she had the excellent teacher Sue Klein. Finally she made it to Trinity College of Music with Philip Thorby, professor and director of Early Music, where she took her degree. She became a recorder player and music teacher herself. She was also a flautist. Bravo, Felicity.
All this music and all this time and I have not yet mentioned my friend Diane Jamieson, who helped me in my music career more than I can say. She was a natural and also an expert, full of imagination as well as experience. She was a genius on the subject I found the hardest: class music – aka controlling thirty children at one time, with drums and tambourines and more on the loose. Although I had by now substantial class-music material with successful activities, I still sometimes had wobbles on a Sunday night. I would go around to hers, and she would give me a song that would wow the Monday class into obedience and awe.
After my six years were over at Beckford School, I had ideas flowing in and out of my head about making music in another way. I remember it was now or never to embark on a completely new venture of my own: the After-School Recorder Players. I ran it at our home in Nassington Road for both children and parents, and our downstairs furniture was rearranged every Monday. Eric was remarkably flexible – in fact, he now knew how to put up a music stand and fold it back down. There were two groups, beginners, and secondly an ensemble including bass, trebles and tenors. I ran this programme for ten years until our travels abroad became too frequent and our grandchildren would soon be on the way. I roped Don in as pianist and also ‘top and tail’ teacher, enticing him with dinner and a lift home. I hired Felicity, who came straight to us from her lessons at Trinity College, imparting the latest wisdom and techniques from Philip Thorby, the maestro. By this time, Felicity was already a first-class musician – how luxurious is that for the north London parents to see their treasures making such strides under this direction? Felicity’s rapport with the children was a delight to observe. Don was so happy to be involved in this project; he said with frustration, ‘My only problem is that none of my friends believe me that every Monday evening I have dinner with Eric Hobsbawm.’ Those two got on like a house on fire.
For our concerts, I normally hired a church hall or another suitable venue, but a few times the stage was our hall, with the audience sitting on the staircase. The project as a whole was an original and successful enterprise that ran entirely on word of mouth. I can’t deny the pleasure it brought me.