A sight for saw eyes

At the age of not quite 50, why would anyone start playing the musical saw?

If that person was developing programmes for a double bass and piano duo entitled Slap (that bass) and Tickle (those ivories), then it might seem a possible route to go.

Attempts to create crossover programming within Classical music recital circuits brought pianist Maurice Horhut and myself to devise different ways of offering what we hoped was high level musical expertise combined with less formal ways of presentation. Implicit within that, a more relaxed approach allowing touches of humour to reduce formality in what are traditionally rather earnest events.

Early on, faced with challenging stage entrances (the bass is an extraordinarily difficult instrument to transport elegantly) and inspired by Morcambe and Wise’s classic ‘The Stripper’ breakfast routine, I hit upon the idea of undressing the bass on stage whilst Maurice belted out that instantly recognisable refrain. I utilised all the suggestive gestures and innuendos I could muster and it became an instant hit.

In those early over-enthusiastic days, instead of sticking firmly to a tried and tested programme, honing and perfecting it over hundreds of performances, we were altogether too keen to develop new ideas.

Thus we found ourselves considering alternative opening numbers to replace The Strip. We discussed a mock conjuring item where I would pull a dead chicken out instead of a bow, or a long string of silk scarves. Then Maurice said, with a laugh, ‘Then you can saw the bass in half’. In the same breath, he continued ‘Can you play the saw?’

In those days, long before the cornucopia of knowledge that is the internet had come to pass, all I knew about the musical saw was what my mother told me of a girl in her class at school who played one. I knew you held the handle between your knees and played it with a bow. Maurice’s idea intrigued me as I fancied playing very high notes as well as the chocolate tones of the bass.

Finding a musical saw was a challenge. I phoned every music shop I could think of. One of which, in Liverpool, told me there had been one in the window, but it had disappeared. In the end, frustrated, I decided to see what I could do with an ordinary saw. Visiting my daughter in South London, I sallied forth to B&Q armed with a cello bow. Fortunately, there were few people about. I found a box to sit on where I tried each one of the saws on display, to the amused interest of odd passing customers. Luckily best results came from the cheapest, most bendy one costing £2.99.

Maurice arranged a medley of Strauss Waltzes which we tried out in Skegness. It went down a storm. However, that small saw could only manage one octave, too few notes to develop repertoire. The makers, PMS of Doncaster agreed to make me a one off pair of saws twice as long and the one with the plastic handle has been my staunch partner ever since.

Can you believe what you saw….?

You are what you wear?

Being a woman in a man’s world has always been tricky. Even today, according to some recent research, 95% of professional double bassists are male as are the majority of brass and percussion players. As someone remarked ‘Our society does not want women to be loud ’. One might add ‘nor big’.

As a soloist upon one of those ‘unfeminine’ instruments, what to wear is a significant question and one which I approached with relish. Given that the miniskirt arrived with a vengeance just as I was emerging onto the concert platform, I could have come in for some pretty severe criticism for the length of leg displayed on either side of the bass. But in those 60s heady days of women’s lib and flower power, all that happened was I got noticed by the press.

The previous decade had been characterised by huge skirts supported by rustling paper-nylon petticoats, tiny waists, .tight fitting tops and a little scarf tied around the neck. With my big frame, this combination did not suit me and when legs became fashionable, I breathed a sigh of relief. Trousers arrived in a big way. I can still hardly believe that in all of my childhood, I never wore trousers of any kind. (Tweed skirt, a liberty bodice, a little blouse and cardigan, bare legs and white woollen socks did not stop me from being the ultimate tomboy.)

Evening wear for performance demands its own discipline. Never wear strapless to play bass or cello or, distractingly from some angles, it can appear that you are in the nude. Never wear a wraparound because at an inappropriate moment it can unwrap itself and leave you significantly over exposed. Always make sure any bottles of shampoo, perfume and the like are securely fastened lest they leak in your bag onto your frock and you arrive with half your dress much darker than the rest. (Solution…wet the whole dress and go for the clingy wet look)

As my career progressed, I made up for the lack of trousers in my childhood and found smart comfort in any and every style possible. That was until I discovered ‘vintage’.

For sheer uncluttered style, comfort, reliability and uniqueness, nothing can beat a 1920s simple black georgette evening frock, with beautifully proportioned square neckline, exquisite stitching emphasising shapely contours, elbow length sleeves and finishing off with a magnificently surprising fish tail skirt so that every movement is echoed in sweep and swirl. This I paid £12 for in an Edinburgh vintage wear shop during one of my Fringe Festival stints. It became my Slap and Tickle de rigeur. With a scarlet rose pinned to my right shoulder I was queen of all I surveyed- anything and everything was possible….

It still fits me and when I wear it, I feel like a million dollars. You are indeed what you wear.