PEOPLE . . .GOSSIP . . .MUSIC. . .PARTIES . . .THEATERE . . . OPINION. . . MY WORLD. . . by Beverley Nichols
IF I were telling this story by means of a film, I should start with an aerial shot of the Surrey woodlands, lashed in the winter rains, and 'pan' down to the charming but slightly crazy building known as Fort Belvedere. . . famed for its associations with the Duke of Windsor.
Then I should have a sharp, explosive flourish of trumpets, provided by one of the great leaders of jazz. . . the 'atomic' Mr. Basie and his band.
Cut to the interior of the Fort, with a close-up of a gramophone library containing 2,000 records. Track tothe adjoining room and show a close- up of the Fort's present occupant, the Hon. Gerald Lascelles.
Finally-sorry about this last shot -track to a close-up of myself, not because anybody wants to look at my face, but because of the expression it is wearing. It is an expression of astonished delight - a delight occasioned by the performance of the . aforesaid atomic Mr. Basie.
Jazz? I love it
ALL my life I have loathed jazz. I have been involved in quite a number of free-for-alls about it in the jazz magazines. I have fought battles about it on television with jazz trumpeter 'Humph' Lyttelton, and when people have played it on the radio I have hastily left the room.
And now, in the space of a couple of hours here I was-I won't say completely 'converted' - but excited, astonished, and longing for more.
How had Gerald Lascelles accomplished this miracle? To explain that would take several pages, because before he began to play any records he gave an elementary course on what jazz is and, even more important what it is not.
Certain of his phrases remain in my memory. Thus--"The . trumpet is the instrumental translation of the voice:"
Again. . . "To understand jazz you must know something of its history." We haven't space for all that. All I can do is to sum up the three most important lessons that I learnt.
Firstly, you must completely abandon your 'classical' attitude; you mustn't say: "This isn't Bach" or "this isn't Wagner, and so it can't be any good." Indeed, I would say that you should forget the word 'music' altogether, in its commonly accepted form. What word you should substitute I don't know. The main thing is to have a completely clean and open mind.
Secondly-and the more musical you are the more vital this is--you should begin your education with only the best.
Supposing you had only heard Chopin played by third-rate performers on cracked pianos, you would hardly be in a position to judge him as a composer. Badly-played jazz can only increase the jazz-hater's prejudice.
But if you listen to a record like Duke Ellington’s Shakespearean suite, Such Sweet Thunder, you are in for a great musical experience.
Thirdly, you should cultivate a new 'listening technique.' By which I mean that you should not only listen with your ears and with your brain, but with your body, for jazz is very physical stuff -not that it is any the worse for that.
Which is one of the reasons, I imagine, why elderly people would be very difficult to convert to it.
Thank you, Gerald Lascelles. You have opened for me a door that has been closed for many years--a door through which echoes the voice of the modern world
Ella Fitzgerald and Gerald Lascelles . . . two who introduced me to the exciting world of jazz
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The woman who worked flower magic
THIS was uncanny. I put down the telephone receiver, and stared at the desk in front of me. For I had just heard of the death of a very dear friend. You will have heard of it too, for her name was a household word. Constance Spry . . . the first and the greatest of all those women who have found self-expression in the arrangement of flowers.
And now she was dead. And as I said. . . it was uncanny.
Why? Because the evening before . . . it must have been almost at the moment of her passing. . . I had suddenly had an urge to take down her books from my shelves.
I had not glanced at them for several years, because I knew them by heart. But I had just picked a little bunch of flowers and leaves that refused to submit themselves to any sort of design.
Some Christmas roses, a spray of winter cherry, a twig or two of yellow jasmine, and a small branch of silver holly. . .
"Constance is always working miracles with things like this; I'll see if she can give me any ideas."
So I opened the books, and turned the pages, and the magic worked.
Symphony in blue
SUDDENLY I remembered an occasion when Constance came to a party at my house. I was terribly nervous, for I was doing all the flowers myself, and to do flowers for Constance Spry was like an amateur playing Chopin in front of Rubinstein.
However, I managed well enough till I came to the sweet peas for the hall. What does one do with sweet peas? I'll tell you what I did.
I went into the garden and I picked a huge bunch that started with dead white, and progressed 'downwards' through ivory, off-white, cream, very pale mauve, pale blue, light blue, clear blue, dark blue, and finished with that thrilling blue that is almost black.
And then, keeping them in that order, I set them in a white basket between two silver candlesticks.
I must say that they looked very beautiful, and Constance must have thought so too, for in two of her books she referred to this arrangement as one that had given her special delight.
I could write a book about Constance. . . her gaiety, her kindliness, and her incomparable artistry. But that was not really the point of this little story, which began with three words. . .
'This-was uncanny.'
It was indeed uncanny. I had not seen her for a year. Her books were neglected. But as she lay dying I had this sudden urge to read them.
What do you make of it? Life is full of these strange coincidences.
The sceptic will tell us that they are all a lot of hooey. . . I wonder. '
Constance Spry-she was the first and greatest of all those who have found self-expression in arranging flowers
- MORE PAGES FROM BEVERLEY'S DAY-TO-DAY
DIARY NEXT WEEK
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