My daughter has just got married and a beautiful and lively event it was, moving from her local church in St James’s Gardens to the Dorchester via Routemaster buses. I took the opportunity in my speech to thank many for their efforts to be present but reserved my principal praise not for those who had journeyed from Australia, America and South Africa, but for those who had travelled just a few miles from other parts of London. When you have flogged through hideous traffic at the end of another ghastly working day to attend a wedding in your home town it is always extremely annoying to sit through praise showered upon those from foreign parts who are having a terrific holiday, away from everyday pressures, with a lavish wedding and numerous other social freebies thrown in. I hope my words redressed the balance on behalf of all those who endured the hell of a journey from one postal district to another rather than the thrill of flying from one continent to another.
I was determined not to give guests the opportunity to reject the food on offer, at least before they got there. It is quite extraordinary how hosts now seem to be required to cater for every dietary whim of those they are generously entertaining. If you are not prepared to take a chance on the nosh offending your health, environmental or religious quirks, then don’t come, or at least be quite happy to push the obnoxious items to the side of your plate and chew bread or your napkin. Whenever I get a form asking for my dietary requirements I always put ‘large helpings’, which request is unfortunately (but quite correctly) rarely acted upon.
It was quite something for me to sing with Eva and her beau Pete at the party. A new band was created — Pete and the Sugar Pops, featuring ace Razorlight drummer Andy Burroughs. It was not my idea to join the band, honest, but when Pete’s band revealed that their repertoire would include ‘That’ll Be The Day’ and ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ it was hard to resist sharing a microphone with the bride, the former lead singer of the Replicant Saints. Besides, Eva could hit the high notes. As I let rip with my Buddy Holly impression, finely honed over half a century, it crossed my mind that Holly, one of the most important creative artists of the 20th century, was in the charts for the first time exactly 50 years ago and here were young musicians faithfully and excellently recreating his great work. And he perished aged 22.
The news of Buddy’s demise was broken to me by a house prefect, who would normally never instigate a conversation with a junior tick, one chilly morning in February 1959: ‘Rice, I see one of your heroes has died.’ A brutal revelation, especially as he refused for several minutes to reveal which one. Denis Compton? Terry-Thomas? Ronald Searle? Holly’s death was only reported in the Daily Mirror. Today the magnificent Amy Winehouse’s every star-crossed move is in every paper.
I was actually offered a Led Zeppelin ticket, but I declined. I was tempted, but I had just been to the impressive O2 stadium to see the even more impressive Take That, so there was no architectural lure. More important, I had promised to see another four-piece band, the exquisite vocal quartet Cantabile, in Paris on the same night. While it is clear that Led Zep are hugely important, influential, seminal etc., I think I was just too old (by about five months) to become a serious worshipper. I met their bass man John Paul Jones when he was orchestrating Cliff Richard Eurovision entries for my then boss the late Norrie Paramor, in 1968, and was mildly surprised to see him featuring in that wild and hedonistic line-up 12 months later. I met Cantabile when they were monks in my flop musical Blondel back in 1983, and since then have kept close tabs on their flourishing international career. Cantabile (pronounced Can-TAH-bih-lay, Italian for ‘in singing style’) move from Bizet to Barbershop via Beatles and Baroque with charm and humour — and great musicianship. Furthermore they do their act in the language of wherever they happen to be. In Paris they knocked the locals dead. I wish I could go to Alba Julia in Transylvania next week to see them crack gags in Romanian.
I am genuinely delighted, and perhaps a little amazed, by the emergence of Andrew Lloyd Webber as a bona fide television star. The success of his reality casting shows has been extraordinary and, despite the predictable moans of the allegedly intellectual and upmarket end of the theatrical business, shows such as Any Dream Will Do have done wonders for musical theatre, one of the few remaining forms of entertainment that cannot be easily downloaded for free (although I bet someone’s working on that). Andrew has succeeded by being himself and his combination of genuine shyness and love of the spotlight has been a welcome contrast to the more typical television performer who only possesses the second of these attributes. Mind you, I’m not sure how he copes with being so recognisable. The only places I ever get recognised without fail are Lord’s and Cliff Richard concerts, which is enough visual appreciation for me. I still have a fighting chance of not being identified in a Belgian lap-dancing club.
Stop Press: Pete and the Sugar Pops have broken up, citing ‘musical differences’.