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
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
