Lost Tapes: One

I freely admit that I haven't researched this meticulously but it seems to me that, more and more, any new TV documentaries revisiting the familiar tale of some much-loved comedian or double act seek to entice viewers by incorporating the words "The Lost Tapes" or "The Unseen Tapes" into the programme title. 

More often than not this turns out to be misleading, to put it politely: maybe the tapes for some old show have not been seen for a while on telly, though easily findable online, or we are presented with a few slivers of fresh material heavily padded out with the usual anecdotes info so the makers can get an hour out of it, frustrating as such superfatted displays may be for aficiandos.

Having got the above off my chest, rest assured I will not be talking in this post about batons left in Chicago or any reheated dishes like that. This is the first of a series about genuinely lost tapes which have some personal significance for me.

The first is a cassette of poor quality; the brand name was Crescendo. At some point, maybe in 1972, I put together a sketch and music show of sorts on tape, with almost no effort on my part, in order to entertain a friend. I had the Bonzos' Doughnut in Granny's Greenhouse, which I owned, and a Davy Graham LP borrowed from the library, among other materials; I read random bits of literature, accompanied by Graham, and I improvised a dialogue introducing Neil Innes' song Beautiful Zelda.

I can make no claim about the intrinsic worth of this sound collage - Carnival of Light it ain't. Earlier I had presented that same friend with a tape of what was, in effect, a Donovan jukebox musical, fashioning such Dono-songs as I had access to into the framework of a relationship. That had involved a modicum of craft, at least, but I blush to think of the doggerel I wrote to link the story - and although I remember a couple of chunks I sure ain't going to rehearse it here. 

The Donovan tape, entitled David and Geraldine, is most definitely lost beyond recall: my friend took rather better care of his things than I did but handed back the cassette when I wanted to listen to it again ... and I never returned it, nor do I recall what I did with it. Had it been my intention to create a more polished narrative? I dunno. He was certainly annoyed about this.

But because that remains fairly vivid in my memory, both songs and would-be poetry, I'm not too worried about it. It's that other tape, with snippets of Davy Graham and the Bonzos, which haunts me. As I say, there was next to no effort involved in putting it together and the results would undoubtedly embarrass me. But there are a couple of minutes which I dearly wish I could reclaim. 

My mother learnt piano at the convent where she was taught and for many years our family had a grand piano on which she would practise on from time to time. This was purely for fun; as far as I am aware there was never any thought of performance. Her repertoire consisted of a handful of classical pieces, mostly utilised for the odd game of musical chairs, though she would play more reflectively by herself - heard by us in the evening, though we were not invited to be an audience.

But there was one work which stood out: a piano arrangement of In the Mood which, I later found out, was not unlike the version by The Hawk, AKA Jerry Lee Lewis. And trust me, this really did rock. There was nothing else like it which she played, or maybe there was just no other sheet music surviving from her girlhood.

I don't recall, at this distance, whether I had asked her to play it for the benefit of my Philips cassette deck, or whether she happened to be in the lounge where the music equipment was and decided to play off her own bat, prompting me to stir it into the simmering comical-musical stew; either way, record it I did. 

And while doing so I did something which I now regret. 

Keeping with the lighthearted mood of the tape I made ironically appreciative noises throughout the two minutes - whooping and hollering and in effect ruining the performance. And as far as I know her rendition of In the Mood was never recorded again by any family member. 

It's possible that that cassette, given to my friend, might still survive. But our close friendship, during and for some years after our schooldays, eventually fizzled out. And the probability is that the tape was junked at some point. I am unable to check - which is sad, because AI technology would presumably now make it possible to subdue my annoying clapping and restore something of the excitement of her playing without that puerile gloss.

At some point, in later years, my father sold the piano. Did my mother try to protest? I don't know, but pretty the space in the lounge filled up with books. His books.

I don't feel proud of having mocked my mother's playing on tape but I can counterbalance that story with the tale of a small secondhand electric keyboard bought by my father from the local equivalent of Brick Lane. I'm not sure how long this was after the piano had gone the way of all instruments but I recorded some of the tunes she played on it and I think there was an element of bonding while I was doing so. Now, however, I wonder about the frustration she might have felt about the resonance of the piano no longer being there. 

Towards the end of her life my father told me of how, when a musical Guinness advert came on the TV, she would be unable to resist flinging herself about the room, though I didn't see this for myself; I'm guessing it evoked happier childhood or teenage memories. 

I wish I been able to present her with a restored version of that tape.