Niles - Backtrack: the Voice Behind Musics Greatest Stars

For Eduardo, who has seen the best and worst
of me and chooses both.

BACKTRACK

The voice behind musics greatest stars

First published in 2015 by

Panoma Press Ltd

48 St Vincent Drive, St Albans, Herts, AL1 5SJ UK

www.panomapress.com

Cover design by Michael Inns

Artwork by Karen Gladwell

ISBN 978-1-784521-79-0

The rights of Tessa Niles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright holder except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Applications for the copyright holders written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publishers.

This book is available online and in all good bookstores.

Copyright 2015 Tessa Niles

For their love and unshakable belief in me: my partner
Eduardo Mondlane Jr; my parents Leonard and Molly and
siblings Amanda and Ian Webb; Kate Ancketill, Janet and
Nyeleti Mondlane, Kristofer, Alessia, Mikaela and
Fallon Mondlane, Stella Webb and Pepi and Paul Knight.

Sincere thanks to Mindy Gibbins-Klein for getting me here
and to Michael Jackson for introducing us.
To my South African editor Hilary Phillips for her
invaluable work.

To Fiona Sanders-Reece for taking care of me all these years.

Heartfelt thanks also to Christien van Yzendoorn,
David Gemmel, Vicky Moore, Mart-Mari Lesch,
Sherilyn Jutronich, Natasha Goodall, Eftyhia Peroulis,
Christine Mouton, Anne Turner, Henrique Pinheiro, Rex and
Goodi Bloomstein, Gabrielle Vickery and Danielle Shirtcliff.

And to David Enthoven, Angelica Bergese, Brian Aris,
Marcus Vere, Anthony Critchlow, Valentine Johnson,
Jillie Bushell and Kemble Elliott.

As the full force of the spotlights hit the stage, tiny beads of perspiration curled the stray hairs at the back of her neck. Stepping forward she tugged nervously at her dress, the net underskirt scratching at her bare legs. As his voice crackled over the tannoy, the compre dabbed at his glistening face. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a lovely warm Butlins welcome to Whats yer name, lass? he hissed, staring blankly at the scribbles smudged on the napkin.

The girl bit sharply into her lip, certain that her heart was going to burst through her dress and splat on to the wooden floor beneath her feet. Shed practised the routine in her bedroom a thousand times over and over again and yet now couldnt even remember her own name.

Grabbing the young performers trembling hand, the compre walked her forward to the centre of the stage and winked in a Go get em kid! kind of way. Behind her, the musicians in the backing band dazzled in their gold lam. Blinded by the glare of the footlights she could just make out the blurred edge of the stage and, beyond that, only the thickest blackness.

Breathe girlie, she whispered as the final bars of the introduction seemed to guide her with a magical force towards the microphone.

Dont forget to e-nun-ci-ate darling, and dont forget to smile.

Mollys words came to her as she reached out for the microphone stand. Grappling to adjust the height to her ten-year-old frame, she felt sick. With a final smoothing of her dress and one enormous breath the girl looked up, opened her mouth and sang

Just sing this, Ian barked as he repeatedly placed the needle on the Neil Sedaka record.

Remember this part while I put a different one over the top of yours. Oi, Flossie, concentrate! Dadll be home any minute, hell kill us for playing around with his stuff.

But why cant I just do the tune? I protested.

Because its too easy, anyone can sing the melody but not everyone can sing a harmony.

And so it was, the harmonies and background vocals on records became way more fascinating than the lead singers parts. I needed to understand the sound that was made as each individual voice sang a different melody and the incredible result when the different parts were sung together.

From as early as I can remember Id worshipped the great singers: Stevie Wonder, The Carpenters, Ella Fitzgerald, The Jackson Five and other giants from my elder sisters and parents record collections. Their voices just grabbed me: The Carpenters with their lush, smooth arrangements and seemingly effortless harmonies; Stevie and his deeply soulful genius. Id listen for hours to the records, dissecting each part of their complex vocals.

I began to hear the unique way singers built up layer upon layer with their voices, creating a silky smooth sound. My older brother Ian, who shared my passion, would constantly compete with me to find an extra harmony on a record, one that he and I felt the artist had somehow missed. It was nearly always a harmony that had been left out for good reason as the effect invariably sounded like a car horn by the time wed finished.

Ian, Amanda, Tessa, Len and Molly Webb at Southend beach, 1964.

In 1966 my family moved from the town of Ilford to a four-bedroomed semi in the small suburb of Maidstone in Kent. The modest house overlooked an area of open land called Penenden Heath. In medieval times the heath had been a place of execution, where felons and suspected witches were hanged. In the 60s the only things found hanging were on my mothers washing line, and the gallows had been replaced by the local pub.

IM NOT GOING! I spat.

With gritted teeth the five-year-old me wailed and clung like a demented monkey to my fathers legs.

Youll be fine, sweetheart, St Pauls is a lovely school and youll soon make friends.

My father winced as he tried with no success to prise my small but determined fingers from his thighs.

Nooooo, Daddy, pleeeasse dont leave me here.

Accustomed to the first-day reactions of young children, the kindergarten teacher crouched down beside me and whispered, Would you like to try on my shoes, theyre brand new?

With eyes wide I stared at Ruth Hughes. Her eyebrows were painted on in thin lines like two liquorish laces and she wore her jet black hair swept up at the back as if someone had hidden a bread roll underneath. Her lips and shoes were fire engine red and I was certain that she was the most beautiful person Id ever seen.

After loosening the vice-like grip on my father I stared down at the shoes that Mrs Hughes had slipped off and pushed towards me. I was utterly smitten with this fabulous new person in my life and when, as a bonus, her red shoes made a satisfying clacking noise, I teetered off in them happily, without so much as a backwards glance at my relieved father.