Can I sing ?
I had encountered a Mr. Napier-Bell who had in mind a . . . outlandish scheme. He wanted me to sing. This proposal I simply could not take seriously at all. My speaking voice has been described by the kinder newspapers as 'tarnished silver'. If this is an apt phrase, then my singing is like rusty tin.
All this I explained to Mr. Napier-Bell on the telephone. He insisted on visiting me.
Mr. N-B: 'Everybody can sing - even you.'
Me: 'Tra-la'
Mr. N-B: 'You're quite right; you can't sing but you can speak a lyric.'
Me: 'Like Mr. Harrison?'
Mr. N-B: 'No. Like Miss Dietrich'
For our experiment he had chosen a lyric made famous of Miss Lee, presumably on the principle that we should emulate the best. . . My task master was infinitely patient. He caused the lyric to be typed out like a poem so that I could learn my lines by heart and he left with me a quaint machine no bigger than a matchbox on which he showed me how to play the required tune over and over and over.
In a dim basement in Denmark Street, there is a sinister room divided down the middle by a huge glass wall. . . I went into the other half of the room. There I found a huge microphone. I stood in front of this wearing earphones through which the now horribly familiar tune assaulted my skull . . .I think I did about four renderings of Miss Lee's song.
Nothing ever came of the record that Mr. Napier-Bell was trying to make. In a way I was sorry. He was so indulgent with me that he deserved some reward.
All this I explained to Mr. Napier-Bell on the telephone. He insisted on visiting me.
Mr. N-B: 'Everybody can sing - even you.'
Me: 'Tra-la'
Mr. N-B: 'You're quite right; you can't sing but you can speak a lyric.'
Me: 'Like Mr. Harrison?'
Mr. N-B: 'No. Like Miss Dietrich'
For our experiment he had chosen a lyric made famous of Miss Lee, presumably on the principle that we should emulate the best. . . My task master was infinitely patient. He caused the lyric to be typed out like a poem so that I could learn my lines by heart and he left with me a quaint machine no bigger than a matchbox on which he showed me how to play the required tune over and over and over.
In a dim basement in Denmark Street, there is a sinister room divided down the middle by a huge glass wall. . . I went into the other half of the room. There I found a huge microphone. I stood in front of this wearing earphones through which the now horribly familiar tune assaulted my skull . . .I think I did about four renderings of Miss Lee's song.
Nothing ever came of the record that Mr. Napier-Bell was trying to make. In a way I was sorry. He was so indulgent with me that he deserved some reward.