Fatal Attraction Part 2 by Phillip Hopkins

© The Tommy Reilly Family Trust

“Hello. Tommy Reilly speaking.” I gulp. Having heard the bewitching strains of Tommy Reilly’s harmonica floating through my kitchen window

from my neighbour’s flat, I borrowed the recording - Serenade - and played it almost to destruction. Now I’ve

taken it upon myself to phone the great man himself for a lesson.

This is 1989, and prior to this I haven’t heard of Tommy Reilly, I’m ashamed to admit, having been born after the Golden Age of the chromatic harmonica. But anyone who gets to record as soloist with the world-renowned orchestra of the FATAL Academy of St Martin in the Fields, as Reilly has done, is clearly a top musician. To achieve ATTRACTION: this on harmonica is, frankly, astounding. The playing on the cassette is phenomenal, and I’ve MY LIFE IN never heard anything like Reilly’s tone, speed, clarity, and sheer virtuosity. My philosophy is HARMONICA that if I want to do my best, I must learn from the best, so I’ve decided to ask the great man Part 2 for a lesson. This call holds all the terrors of phoning By Phil Hopkins someone for a date - multiplied by ten. It’s been ridiculously simple to get Mr Reilly’s number - I’m a member of the Musicians’ Union, I own the MU directory, and in the harmonica section is the phone number of… yes, you’ve guessed it. “Hello Tommy. Er, Mr Reilly,” I hear myself croak. “Yes?” he says, patiently. I introduce myself. “Can I come to you for a lesson please?” There’s a pause. “You know,” he replies, speaking slowly and kindly, “I don’t teach much these days. But I’ve got a book. You can get it in the Charing Cross Road shops. It’s still in print. Thank you for calling.” Sensing the imminent end of this call I wedge my metaphorical foot firmly in the poor man’s door. “I’m sure I can buy the book,” I gabble, “but…” All the beautiful things I’ve just heard him play flash through my mind. “Does the book show me how to get your smooth legato? The slow vibrato in the lower notes? The staccato effects?” There’s a pause. “You know what,” he says, “I think you’d better come for a lesson.” Between 1989 and the late 1990s I make the trip several times a year to Tommy’s beautiful home in rural Surrey. I realise that Tommy and his wife Ena are a wonderful team. Ena provides coffee and biscuits on arrival at 11 a.m. There’s showbiz chat as Tommy

Photo by Jon Frost

and Ena (who was a successful entertainer) discuss their touring experiences. Then it’s an hour or two with Tommy in the music room, followed by a cooked lunch with starter, mains, and dessert. I know some of the session musicians Tommy used to work with, so there’s a bit of gossiping to be done. We do more playing after lunch. When I finally stumble out of the front door at four o’clock, I have been relieved of the less-than-princely sum of ten pounds. What I have gained is priceless. On these lesson days, I check my ego at the front door, because my technique is going to be ruthlessly examined. It’s painful to be brought down to size, but sometimes it’s the only way. Tommy Reilly has played with the world’s finest musicians, and he knows that the road to excellence is a hard one. Even though I’ve done professional work, Tommy’s not impressed. He gets me playing slow scales, one step up then back, two steps up then back, three steps up then back. “Each note is a jewel,” he says. “Produce something beautiful each time you play.” He also says, “You should be thinking of the next note before you’ve stopped playing the one you’re on.” It’s a Zen-like study in simplicity, and I realise that I’m just not ready for the fast stuff I’m attempting to play. My ambitions at this stage are in the world of jazz, but I realise that this emphasis on technique and tone will pay off in whatever musical sphere one chooses. The lessons are worth it for the moments Tommy demonstrates his musical points on his Polle chromatic. Keeping his head still, his hands cradle the instrument as his arms move effortlessly from side to side like a piece of well-oiled machinery. The phrases he

plays make perfect sense, like well-crafted sentences in a classic novel. One day I arrive for a lesson and Tommy leans against the front door frame. “So,” he says, a kindly twinkle in his eye as he checks out the sheet music in my hand. “What piece are you going to murder today?” We work on all kinds of repertoire, Bach sicilianos, Gordon Jacob’s Suite, some Gershwin. Tommy goes over and over my phrasing until my head reels with the intensity. “That sounds amateurish,” he chides after one of my efforts. “One note must melt into the next.” But after a couple of years of visits his tone changes slightly. One day I play Clair de Lune by Debussy. Just me and Tommy Reilly, alone in his music room. No accompaniment, a dry acoustic. Sounds terrifying? It is. “You know,” he says when I finish. “That wasn’t too bad at all.” Eventually the lessons cease, and in time I realise that the hours spent chatting with Tommy and Ena have been as important as the music lessons. Their kindness has shown me that, while music is important, friendship is what counts in life. Serenade Tommy Reilly https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyUgDoVLdAE Phil Hopkins YouTube channel https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCp2HzSYG7L_KRPC_weZyZCA

© The Tommy Reilly Family Trust