“The Truth About the Vaughan Williams Tuba Concerto”

by Philip Catelinet, ITEA Journal, Volume 14 Number 2

(November 1986).

A prophetic summing up paragraph taken from an article with the

title “Tuba” which appeared in a London magazine called Music in
August, 1952 headed “Composers, Please Note!”:

Maybe the future holds some faint hope for ambitious

players. Some more satisfactory employment of their
talents as expressed through the Bass and Tenor Tubas?
Perhaps composers can be encouraged to make a serious
study of the possibilities of these instruments and to
compose music for them that will be an expression of their
own genius? If this can come to pass then the day of the
tuba player will dawn. Recitals at the Wigmore Hall!
Appearances in the Royal Festival Hall!! The Royal Albert
Hall!!! Carnegie Hall!!!! World tours!!!!! Who knows?????

There is nothing more boring to the reader than the production of

statistical information of what has become, in the eyes of most
tubists, an historical musical event of the 1950s. That the writer
was involved is unavoidably factual, but incidents that led up to his
involvement are necessary, he feels, as well as interesting in
themselves.
The German Third Reich (1933-1945) had some influence in the
matter, yet it was actually at the behest of the B.B.C. (British
Broadcasting Corporation) that the author finally emerged as a
professional tubist. After four years and five months with the
Royal Army Medical Corps (interestingly enough, the same Corps
in which Ralph Vaughan Williams served for some time during
World War I) followed by 56 days release leave, plus an additional
9 days overseas leave, I completed my period of military service.
The military inactive period preceding demobilization gave me
much time for thought on the question of my instrumental future.
Governmental law was that, on demobilization, former employers
were responsible for a soldier's re-employment. Well and good, but
in what capacity? The B.B.C. military band, in which I had been
the one and only euphonium player, had been disbanded during the
war. At my initial interview with the B.B.C. Officials I requested a
position as an accompanist, piano being my principal instrument.
Their response was: “As such positions had been well-served by
non-combatants during hostilities, these people would be kept on.
We understand you can play any brass instrument, so we will
arrange an audition for you on tuba at the conclusion of your
release leave.”
Where was I to get a tuba? I telephoned Charles Brewer, the
instrumentalist I had succeeded in the B.B.C. military band, who
had been transferred, prior to my appointment in his place, to the
B.B.C. Symphony Orchestra. Fortunately, he had just purchased a
new F tuba from Boosey & Hawkes and kindly loaned me his older
model. I later purchased this instrument.
No release leave for me! Some necessary dental treatment and then
practice, practice, and more practice! I purchased some cello and
bassoon studies and worked hard at all registers of my instrument.
The promised audition duly transpired, with Sir Adrian Boult,
Clarence Raybould, Stanford Robinson, and the orchestral
manager of that time as my adjudicators. At the conclusion of my
testing, Sir Adrian asked me if I had any preference as to localities
of domicile. There were two tuba vacancies available, one in
London, the other in Glasgow, Scotland. As my wife and I had
tragic memories of the latter city (we lost our two boys in the first
air raid over Glasgow) I chose London. Consequently, Sir Adrian's
closing statement to Stanford Robinson was, “Robbie, he's yours.”
I found myself tubist to the B.B.C. Theatre Orchestra.
Walter Goehr, one of the Orchestra's popular conductors, made full
use of my abilities, not only on the tuba, but also on the piano,
celeste, and as an arranger. Following the dissolution of the
B.B.C.'s Opera Orchestra it reverted to concert orchestra status
with a reduced personnel, and I was made redundant in 1952.
Fortunately for me, I was offered work with both the London
Symphony and Philharmonia Orchestra. Neither of these were
contractual appointments, but both provided engagements based on
program requirements. Not too satisfactory a situation, but at least
it provided “cash on the nail” and a fairly comfortable standard of
living for myself and my family.
Such was the situation when the news about “The Concerto” came
to hand. I was at home. Maybe I was practicing! I really cannot
recall what I was doing, but undoubtedly waiting on a telephone
call. A job, perhaps? The telephone did ring. It was the secretary of
the London Symphony Orchestra in a somewhat excited mood.
Without preliminaries he stated: “Ralph Vaughan Williams has
written a tuba concerto and wants you to play it at our Jubilee
Concert in June.” I'm not too sure whether the word “want” was
really a personal pronoun or maybe an implied “we” representing
the official orchestral management request. Whichever it was, I
was quite terror stricken! As a musician, I really couldn't
appreciate the the idea of the tuba being the center attraction as
soloist on a concerto at an orchestral concert. The tuba was too
often connected by the public with what was humorous and
ludicrous to be considered seriously a possibility on a concert
platform. But, there was more to follow, making the premise a
stern reality. The voice continued: “Vaughan Williams wants you
to call on him with your tuba at 3 o'clock and our resident pianist
will arrive at the same time to play through the number with you!”
We arrived at the scheduled time at the Vaughan Williams
residence in Regent's Park. I well remember the number: 10
Hanover Terrace. We were shown upstairs to the lounge from
which we could see the park's boating lake. While I took my
instrument out of its case, and a portable music stand from its usual
receptacle, the bell of the instrument, the pianist commenced trying
out several of the difficult sections of the work. When we were
ready, Mrs. Ursula Vaughan Williams and her husband seated
themselves in comfortable range of the two of us. We tuned up
and, after requesting of the composer some idea as to the tempi of
the different movements, set out on a somewhat (so we both felt)
shaky rendition of the whole work. We were rather surprised that
such a performance was so well received by the listeners. Even
Crispen, the kitten, was in no way disturbed.
I don't know how many soloists have suffered similar misgivings
at sight-reading renditions of new works. Both the pianist and
myself were not a little perturbed at having to play a major work
before such a world-renowned composer. After the run-through I
laid my instrument on the floor. Mrs. Vaughan Williams departed
to make us some tea while we talked about things, music in general
and the Concerto in particular. On her return the conversation
resumed but quickly turned to laughter. Crispen had become
interested in the tuba and decided to enter the bell and, being but a
tiny kitten, was soon lost sight of. Vaughan Williams was
particularly amused at this (Mrs. Vaughan Williams quotes this
story in her volume R.W.V., Oxford University Press, 1964.) The
pianist had to depart on another engagement, but I stayed on to
discover more of the composer's requirements insofar as the solo
performance was concerned. Before leaving it was arranged that I
should call again following some very thorough rehearsal on my
part.
During practice sessions I became even more concerned with the
musical effect this performance might produce on both critics and
public. The first and last movements were my main worry.
Separated from the accompaniment I just couldn't make the music
flow in what I considered to be the correct style. So, I decided to
record the piano part. This enabled me to become fully aware of
the music's content.
About this time the press had been informed as to the makeup of
the L.S.O.'s four Jubilee programs. Particularly of the last, the one
featuring the Vaughan Williams Tuba Concerto. There were some
rather caustic comments about the piece. Here is one such
preliminary review:
 Vaughan Williams, now 81, has composed a concerto for
bass tuba. It is the first on record and will be played during
the Jubilee concerts of the L.S.O. at the Festival Hall next
month. His last concert was for mouth organ, and it ran
Larry Adler to the last ounce of his technique. Philip
Catelinet, first tuba player of the L.S.O. has manfully taken
on the solo part. He will need all his breath. Normally the
tuba provides foundation sound for trombone harmony.
Twenty minutes solo work is a tough proposition.

Admittedly comments of this kind – and this was one of the less
spiteful – were of the type expressed in the words of Shakespeare,
“sharp-toothed unkindness.”
Needless to say, this did little to encourage feelings of confidence
in my ability to face up to the task of this “first” performance to
come. My further meeting with Vaughan Williams did reassure me
to the extent that I felt he was confident of my capability to rise to
the occasion, so I continued to working and in better spirit. The
composer did stress that he did not wish me to make suggestions
regarding the notation of the composition. He informed me that he
had suffered too much in this respect at the hands of Mr. Adler and
was not prepared to undergo such an affront on this occasion.
Matters regarding phrasing and fitting slurs, etc., were mutually
agreed upon. However, the composer did allow the deletion of the
two short high range phrases in the first movement cadenza,
consequently, they didn't appear in the first published piano
edition. It was conceded that they were not commercially viable
nor, at this first performance, in the instrumentalist's best interest.
Yet, he too was worried about them! Today's soloists are more
confident in this respect, and the notes have been re-inserted in the
new edition. In the matter of tempo; the steady, rugged rhythm of
the first movement was in the music's best interest. The tempo of
the finale was, and still is, questionable. I certainly didn't “spare
the horses,” but the composer indicated, after the first performance,
that it was a German waltz and at the recording session expressed a
feeling for a more steady tempo. But, at this session, Sir John
Barbirolli, as is often the way with conductors, appeared to ignore
his plea and proceeded to push the tempo and the soloist to the
limit. If one is to take Beethoven's Sonata in G, No. 25, Op. 79, the
first movement of which is marked “Presto alla Tedesca,” one can
quickly see that the Vaughan Williams “Allegro” marking might
have a bearing on the slightly slower tempo he probably preferred.
In any case, from what I have heard of other performers' playing,
the indicated tempo sounds uncomfortably rushed, even when their
technique is equal to its metronome mark.
The day for the preliminary rehearsal of the concerto was rapidly
approaching. I was having trouble with the timing of the first few
bars of the final movement. There is no significant pulse declared
in the first bar, and one is entirely at the mercy of the conductor.
It's difficult to see any kind of a beat when playing this movement
because one is standing or is seated in front of the conductor. A
violinist has a direct sighting, and most other instrumentalists are
similarly blessed, though cellists and vocalists have problems
comparable to those of the tubist. In this instance it is mainly a
case of guesswork in the hope that the conductor doesn't overdo
the tempo and that the triplet figures from the orchestra have a
relation to the pulse beat so that your entries are “spot on.”
My first and only rehearsal came the day prior to the concert. It
was a busy one for the orchestra. Two soloists, Handel-Harty
prologue and the Colour Symphony by Bliss. Dr. Vaughan
Williams was present, and he and Sir John Barbirolli duly had a
discussion – from which I was excluded! Eventually we had a run-
through. Some further discussion was followed by touching up of a
few orchestral problems. This ended my session, and my departure
was a signal for a tapping of stands on the part of my fellow
orchestra members.
I had played with the orchestra in the three previous Jubilee
concerts of that week, and the secretary had asked if I wanted to
participate as a member of the orchestra in the final concert in
addition to soloing. Feeling that I would have enough on my plate,
I requested that he arrange for a substitute tubist.
The day of the concert dawned, and at the morning rehearsal I had
a straight run-through of the concerto. In the evening I arrived
early at the Royal Festival Hall and was shown into one of the
artist's rooms. Here was everything necessary for the comfort of
the performer. Mr. T.H. Bean, the Festival Hall's general manager,
came in to inform me that the order of the program had been
changed, and that I would not be playing until after the
intermission. I accepted the news with the aplomb that is the
reaction of orchestral players in general to bad news. Even I had
thought a tuba concerto following a violin concerto (Elgar) a little
incongruous. But one rarely, if ever, questions the actions of
musical administrators. So I waited, waited and waited!
During the intermission, Mr. Bean once more came in with bad
news. Sir John was having “a bit of a party” in his room and the
break would be considerably longer than usual. It was stated that a
lot of toasting regarding the Jubilee would be taking place, and
there was plenty of the “necessary” available. So I sat, checked the
instrument, tried a few “toots,” walked around a bit, then sat down
and mentally and physically simmered. Eventually, Mr. Bean
arrived to take me into the conductor's room from whence I was
escorted to the stage in company with Sir John. We must have
looked a disparate pair, Sir John short and slight, myself a heavily
built six-footer carrying a well-polished tuba. However, nobody
laughed, though there was a murmur of conversation which I
prayerfully hoped did not signify anything approximating a hint of
ridicule.
Tuning was a problem. It appeared to me, in that hall, that I gave
out a sound similar to that of a sick cow. It seemed to meet the
approval of the conductor, and we were off. The first movement
was not too comfortable. A lack of togetherness on my part,
hopefully, was not noticeable to the audience. The cadenza came
off, though I wasn't too satisfied with my intonation. There is little,
if any, resonance in that hall, so your solo sound seems to stop at
the end of the bell. The beautiful second movement was, to me,
one of my best efforts. I didn't care if the audience, critics or
anyone else, for that matter, disliked the tuba sound or not. I really
enjoyed myself. The last movement rollicked along, musically
sketchy, but somehow held together with the confidence coming
from under-rehearsed orchestral players determined not to admit
musical defeat under any circumstances. The applause seemed
sincere enough; probably happy, along with me, that I had finally
made a tuba concerto sufficiently plausible musically to be
acceptable. Vaughan Williams came to the front of the stage and
linked hands with Sir John Barbirolli and myself, and we took our
bows of the audience.
Though the Colour Symphony by Sir Arthur Bliss (on this occasion
conducted by the composer) is not by any means a work lacking in
depth or length, it didn't seem long before relatives and friends
were in my dressing room. Included in their number was the
L.S.O.'s secretary, John Cruft, who, together with a representative
of His Master's Voice Recording Company, informed me that a
recording session was to be held the next morning, Monday, June
14. John informed me right away, “Don't accept an outright fee,
but request a percentage on sales.” This was, and certainly proved,
advantageous to me and was eventually agreed to by all parties.
It is felt a personal incident that occurred and which resulted in a
headline in our local paper, The Middlesex Gazette, should be
recorded in this account. Like the national dailies, it too had run an
explanatory column about the coming first performance, though
here emphasizing and approving the fact that I was a citizen of the
area. But following on the actual performance, the caption over my
picture on that issue read, “Wife Was 'Banned' From His Night of
Triumph.” In a reporter's presence I was called on to give the
reason for this, what he considered, inconsiderate treatment on my
part to deny my wife's presence on such an occasion. I found it
difficult to explain my reasons to her before the concert, let alone
now to the reporter. My explanation must sound irrational to you
today, but was a stern reality at the time. There was the belittling
image invariably linked to both the tuba and tubists. For example,
the cavalier assessment given by so-called experts: “Everyone puts
us down (musically) because we play the tuba.” Supposedly
humorous asides: “It's handy to throw things into.” Even a press
announcement of the concert referred to it as being: “...the novelty
of the evening...” Consequently, my reply to the reporter was to
this effect: “In the past, the tuba has been treated as a rather comic
instrument, and I did not know how the public would react. If I had
to suffer, I would rather suffer alone.” After all, musicians are
sensitive to the feelings of others, particularly those of their wives.
If she had been present and the reception other than it was, I would
have been that much more embarrassed for her sake.
The recording session planned for the 14th of June was soon over.
The composer and Sir John seemed happy, though I was not
particularly pleased. I had to play the cadenzas after everyone else
(yes, composer and conductor) left. A kind of musical “Amen” that
would be attached to the recording by an engineer seemingly as an
afterthought.
What followed? Well, I can imagine most of you have read some
of the write-ups and criticisms both of the concert and the
recording. As the record included Vaughan Williams' Oboe
Concerto played by Evelyn Rothwell (Lady Barbirolli) (HMV
BLP1078), I have no idea as to how many made up the first batch
or, for that matter, any further issues. However, the EMI company
made a tape to meet the requirements of some later interested
enthusiasts.
In 1979 The Barbirolli Society, by permission of EMI Records,
Limited, issued further recordings of Vaughan Williams' works
conducted by Sir John. One in particular, bearing the lettering and
numbers SJB 102, has the Tuba Concerto on side two. I am not
sure whether or not all of these recordings are available to the
general public, but it possibly is the case, as the one sent to me
bears the price tag of four pounds, fifty (about seven dollars). The
address to write to is Chairman: R. Pauline Pickering, 8 Tunnel
Road, Retford, Notts, DN22 7TA, United Kingdom. The date on
mine shows 26th February, 1980. Presumably such an L.P. record is
still available.At least the recording is of some historical interest,
and might be worth possessing, if for nothing else. All the
recordings are made with the London Symphony Orchestra,
vintage 1953-1955. The remarks on the record sleeve by Michael
Kennedy are worth noting.

Of the four works on this record, only the Tuba Concerto

was conducted by Barbirolli at its first performance. This
was 13th June, 1954 at a concert by the London Symphony
Orchestra to mark its Golden Jubilee, when the soloist was
the orchestra's then principal tuba player, Philip Catelinet,
who plays it on this record, made the next day. There is
nothing patronising or parodistic about this concerto.
Vaughan Williams wanted to give the tuba a rare chance to
take the centre of the stage and went to considerable effort
to study its capabilities. True, its elephantine humour is
exploited in the first movement, but its unsuspected agility
is given rein too; the slow movement, “Romanza,” has a
principal theme of lyrical beauty such as Vaughan Williams
might have awarded to the viola; and in the Finale, the tuba
romps amid the dancing strings, like Falstaff among the
fairies in Windsor Forest. Not a major work, but a major
minor work.

To end this narrative, I would add words that reflect on the

humanity of this great man and composer. The manner in which he
talked with me – not at me – was pleasant; not in that egotistical
manner with which many so-called “great men” often react to
people whom they meet or to whom they are introduced. He had a
gracious yet natural manner about him as you would with your
relatives and friends. When meeting at his home (this in regard to
the concerto) he spoke with me about the music itself, stating that
he had little difficulty in the actual composition of the work.
Fullness of inspiration had resulted in the early, satisfying
completion of the whole concerto. He confided in me one other
matter in that he hoped to add yet another instrument to his
concerto series; a concerto for a four-octave marimba!
There was one other episode that followed on the first
performance. The then editor of Time Magazine telephoned me to
state that an article on Vaughan Williams and the performance was
to appear in the coming issue. He urgently required, if possible, a
picture of the composer together with me and the tuba. He also
informed me that Vaughan Williams was a very difficult person for
press photographers to approach and requested me to ask this favor
of the composer. The outcome was the photograph which
originally accompanied this article. Again, after each radio
performance, including that of the Promenade Concert at the Royal
Albert Hall, I always had a note of appreciation from the old
gentleman. A thoughtful, friendly, great composer, indeed.
A letter I received from Vaughan Williams dated January 18, 1955
bears out his consideration of others on the professional side of
one's career. In connection with his Prelude on Three Welsh
Hymns, for which I had scored a brass band arrangement, he had
received an invitation from the Salvation Army to hear the work
played through the International Staff Band of that organization.
The letter states: “I think you ought to be there... and as you
probably have less free time than me, will you suggest some dates
and times which I will then forward to Colonel Jakeway.” He
further adds: “We (also Mrs. V.W.) saw you at Maida Vale
(B.B.C. Broadcasting studio) the other day, but as we had to leave
before the end of the rehearsal could not have the pleasure of
speaking to you. We listened to the Tuba Concerto and thought it a
fine performance. (The first broadcast of the concerto, B.B.C.
Northern Orchestra, conductor, John Hopkinds, 5th January 1955)
Thank you very much.”
Ralph Vaughan Williams: a thorough gentleman, as well as a
master composer of our time.