‘I have never told him,’ Shirley said, ‘it would hurt too many people.’
Back then, on the Hippodrome tour, however, Shirley followed Michael Sullivan’s strictures, and the very existence of Sharon was a closely guarded secret. Her task was to nurture and develop what her new friend, Sylvia, agreed was a great talent. She used to watch her performance from the wings, and later said that, ‘Unless you’ve watched Shirley close up, like in cabaret, you don’t get the full impact of her performance and her magic.’Happily, audiences worldwide who have been to Bassey concerts in vast auditoriums, have been bowled over by that magic and power.
Looking back on those early days, Sylvia recalls with amusement how she loved show business but never expected to be a star, while Shirley, much of the time, hated the business but, sure as hell, she was going to be a star! She remembered saying to Shirley, ‘You’ve done it all so quickly. Just four or five months ago you were holding the curtain in Jersey.’
‘You’ve got it wrong, Syl,’ Shirley replied. ‘I’ve been singing for fourteen years, ever since I was four. Real hard stuff, singing to rough audiences who were often paying for the privilege.’
Shirley Bassey might have imagined that her early experiences in the pubs and clubs of Tiger Bay had hardened her, but Glasgow proved to be her baptism of fire. She has since admitted that she was almost paralysed with fright as she stood in the wings waiting to go on for the kind of audience she’d never expected to encounter on a respectable Hippodrome tour.
Glasgow in the mid-Fifties was a city rife with roaring drunks. In the Gorbals, the slum district of Glasgow, fights to the death were a regular occurrence; bottles were smashed and throats were slit with the jagged edges. The place had a sinister reputation. On opening night, Shirley first realised this was going to be no ordinary performance when she heard a rumpus from the back of the stalls. Then the acrobats, who were on just before, came running off the stage giving her the thumbs-down signal.
There was nothing she could do but go on, of course, but she made her entrance shaking with nervous apprehension. Bob Wardlaw was at the piano as usual, but he wasn’t giving her any signals. As soon as she appeared on the stage, the barracking started. The drunks in the stalls took one look at Shirley’s figure in her tight black velvet dress and called for a striptease. ‘Shake your chassis, Bassey! Ger ’em off!’
She was astounded by the crudity. The worst nights in Tiger Bay had been a picnic compared to this. What should she do? If
she
couldn’t hear the music – and she couldn’t – for sure nobody was going to hear her. Should she leave the stage? Anger and pride took over. ‘Shurrup!’, she yelled, at the top of her lungs, not bothering to censor her language. ‘Lissen ta me. Whadda they call ya, behaving like this?’ She had reverted to pure dockland Cardiff such as she’d heard in the docks of Butetown, but they hadn’t thrown anything at her yet, and her knees had stopped knocking together.
Shirley held up a hand and yelled, ‘All right. If you don’t want to listen, I’m off.’ A voice from the stalls piped up, ‘Gie the lassie a chance’ and, gradually, in the face of Shirley’s verbal onslaught, the crowd quietened down, and she could hear the orchestra playing ‘When You’re Smiling’.
Bob Wardlaw gave Shirley the signal to begin, and begin she did, unleashing that powerful voice of hers at full throttle, ‘working’ that unruly Glasgow mob, section by section as Michael had taught her, until she held them in the palm of her hand. By the end of the opening number, she was worn out from the effort, but was given renewed energy by the unexpectedly deafening applause. The crowdwho, moments before, had nearly driven her away, were hooting and whistling and clapping and stamping their feet, calling for more.
Shirley’s
Back then, on the Hippodrome tour, however, Shirley followed Michael Sullivan’s strictures, and the very existence of Sharon was a closely guarded secret. Her task was to nurture and develop what her new friend, Sylvia, agreed was a great talent. She used to watch her performance from the wings, and later said that, ‘Unless you’ve watched Shirley close up, like in cabaret, you don’t get the full impact of her performance and her magic.’Happily, audiences worldwide who have been to Bassey concerts in vast auditoriums, have been bowled over by that magic and power.
Looking back on those early days, Sylvia recalls with amusement how she loved show business but never expected to be a star, while Shirley, much of the time, hated the business but, sure as hell, she was going to be a star! She remembered saying to Shirley, ‘You’ve done it all so quickly. Just four or five months ago you were holding the curtain in Jersey.’
‘You’ve got it wrong, Syl,’ Shirley replied. ‘I’ve been singing for fourteen years, ever since I was four. Real hard stuff, singing to rough audiences who were often paying for the privilege.’
Shirley Bassey might have imagined that her early experiences in the pubs and clubs of Tiger Bay had hardened her, but Glasgow proved to be her baptism of fire. She has since admitted that she was almost paralysed with fright as she stood in the wings waiting to go on for the kind of audience she’d never expected to encounter on a respectable Hippodrome tour.
Glasgow in the mid-Fifties was a city rife with roaring drunks. In the Gorbals, the slum district of Glasgow, fights to the death were a regular occurrence; bottles were smashed and throats were slit with the jagged edges. The place had a sinister reputation. On opening night, Shirley first realised this was going to be no ordinary performance when she heard a rumpus from the back of the stalls. Then the acrobats, who were on just before, came running off the stage giving her the thumbs-down signal.
There was nothing she could do but go on, of course, but she made her entrance shaking with nervous apprehension. Bob Wardlaw was at the piano as usual, but he wasn’t giving her any signals. As soon as she appeared on the stage, the barracking started. The drunks in the stalls took one look at Shirley’s figure in her tight black velvet dress and called for a striptease. ‘Shake your chassis, Bassey! Ger ’em off!’
She was astounded by the crudity. The worst nights in Tiger Bay had been a picnic compared to this. What should she do? If
she
couldn’t hear the music – and she couldn’t – for sure nobody was going to hear her. Should she leave the stage? Anger and pride took over. ‘Shurrup!’, she yelled, at the top of her lungs, not bothering to censor her language. ‘Lissen ta me. Whadda they call ya, behaving like this?’ She had reverted to pure dockland Cardiff such as she’d heard in the docks of Butetown, but they hadn’t thrown anything at her yet, and her knees had stopped knocking together.
Shirley held up a hand and yelled, ‘All right. If you don’t want to listen, I’m off.’ A voice from the stalls piped up, ‘Gie the lassie a chance’ and, gradually, in the face of Shirley’s verbal onslaught, the crowd quietened down, and she could hear the orchestra playing ‘When You’re Smiling’.
Bob Wardlaw gave Shirley the signal to begin, and begin she did, unleashing that powerful voice of hers at full throttle, ‘working’ that unruly Glasgow mob, section by section as Michael had taught her, until she held them in the palm of her hand. By the end of the opening number, she was worn out from the effort, but was given renewed energy by the unexpectedly deafening applause. The crowdwho, moments before, had nearly driven her away, were hooting and whistling and clapping and stamping their feet, calling for more.
Shirley’s
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