Ian Powrie
(1923 - 2011)
I was born in 1923 – the year my father went up to Whitehouse, a farm at Strathardle, Bridge of Cally. There he was a sort of grieve/gaffer lad. Then we moved to Maryfield, at Blairgowrie, where my sister Mary was born. We moved on again to Henry Thomson’s estate at Coupar. That was when I started school at Bendochy. I often think about old Dominie Gibson, and my infant mistress Miss Irvine. My two brothers, Jim and Bill, were born at Bendochy. Soon we shifted once more, this time to Essendy, between Blairgowrie and Meikleour. My youngest brother, Alan, was born there.
Through all our moves, my father gradually improved his status. By the time we reached Essendy he was in full charge of the farm. He was a great old boy – whose name was well known in Scottish music circles long before I came along. With his wee melodeon, he used to play away in the bothy in a style recreated these days on television. He became known as “The Angus Ploughman” and made records at the same time as Jim Cameron and the Cameron Fiddlers. Dad was a great band enthusiast. He kept his band together until the war started. In those days I played piano accordion, although I had started out to learn the fiddle when I was five. While staying at Bendochy, I was tutored in fiddle playing by Adam Rennie – the newsagent in Coupar Angus. After a quarter there, I went along to Jim Ogilvie in Blairgowrie. In those days I delved into the classics and never attempted Scottish music on the fiddle. Like most youngsters of that age, tuition was forced on me although I never had to be asked to play the instruments. In the mid-thirties few ploughmen had wireless sets. All the entertainment was “kinda hand-knitted.” But, although it wasn’t difficult to get me to play, it was a problem to get me to lessons.
So I was plugging away at the classics while my father and other fiddle players were concentrating on traditional music. I had been forbidden to play Scottish stuff for so long that, eventually, my interest waned. When I did manage to try my hand at Scottish music it was like a release. It was usually at bothy nichts that I got a chance to really enjoy my music. A night would usually start with someone coming along for a cup of tea or a chat. Before long the melodeon would come out for a tune. Then someone passing, hearing the music, would come and join in. Next minute they would dash off home for their instrument. Before you could say “Jock Robinson” there was a big pot o’ tatties peeled, the stovies were on the fire, and we were in business. It was incredible. Bothy nichts were popular in the late summer months when the weather was still mild. Ploughman lads would sit outside on the dyke and play away on their melodeons. Before long their efforts would attract others.
Ceilidh
I’ve done this myself. One night I was biking home from a music lesson in Blairgowrie, with my fiddle on my back. As I passed the Lunan Bridge, I heard the Watsons at Aikenhead playing away on the fiddle. Without any ado, I went up and gave them a tune on my fiddle. This was round about tea time. Before long a ceilidh was in full swing! Not so long ago I received a letter from the Watsons. The father, Jimmy Watson, composed a lot of grand tunes which I put into a collection and published. They wrote to say they had lost all the original manuscripts. At the moment I’m trying to supply them with all this material.
Moving on from the musical side, I volunteered for the R.A.F. in 1942 and was given my pilot’s training in this country. I was placed on deferred service before being drafted to Canada to complete my training. I’ll never forget the atmosphere in those days. Most young lads were straining to get going. I remember during our spell with Tiger Moths at Derby we had 12 hours in which to attain a certain standard. Then, on the strength of our performance, we were told whether we would be allowed to continue.
Canada
Eventually I was sent to Canada to complete the course. I trained there on various models until 1946. During this time I didn’t play the violin once. I felt the atmosphere was wrong for that sort of thing. In the N.A.A.F.I. there was more preference for someone jangling “Roll Out the Barrel” on the piano. We were kept hanging about in Canada until V.J. Day. While we waited three or four alternatives were offered to us. The first was to sign on for forest-ranger service. This offered plenty opportunity for flying. Only snag was the minimum term of service – eight years. The R.A.F. was also open to us as a career. But again the term was lengthy. If I’d gone for this I would probably be flying Lightnings today. Another alternative was to opt for ground staff.
Decision
Finally, for those with reserved occupations, such as agriculture, there was the chance of a Class B release. By this time my father was Manager at Bankhead, Dupplin for Lord Forteviot. What was I to do? Become a bush pilot, an R.A.F. pilot, a member of ground staff, or come home to the farm? Eventually I plumped for a Class B release.
Those Old Jalopies Gave Us Nightmares
When I came out of the R.A.F. I worked away with my father at Bankhead, driving tractors and generally making myself useful. At this time Jimmy Shand was beginning to make an impact in the Scottish Country Dance Music field. I think it’s fair to say this was the start of an era. Other names like Cameron, Hannah, MacLeod, Fitchet and the Hawthorne Band began to make their presence felt as well. My father was still playing in a small way with his band at wee local functions. But things were beginning to happen in Scottish Dance Band circles. Eventually I took over my father’s band and gradually reformed it.
Broadcast
In April 1949 we made our first broadcast. In those days the band consisted of Pam Brough on piano (the band’s present pianist), Bill, my brother, on accordion, Bert Smith on bass, Hugh MacIntrye on drums and myself. It really was an exciting time for bands. Scottish Dance Music was the trend, and new bands and sounds were springing up all over the country. In the early days, when we couldn’t afford good transport, we used old cars, which at times caused me nightmares. Shooting brakes and band-wagons had not been thought of. Every band depended on huge old cars to ship equipment and members. First car we had was an old 25 h.p. model. I don’t think there was ever a greater monstrosity on the roads of central Perthshire. It had a twisted chassis, brass discs behind two of the wheels to make it run true, the ‘con-rod’ had come out through the engine just before I bought it, it wouldn’t stay in any gear, and it had a big copper patch screwed on the side.
Wireless
I simply couldn’t afford anything grander. Everywhere we went the tyres blew out and, just to make things worse it only averaged 10 m.p.g. We struggled away with the brute for a time. Finally I was forced to go to my father and borrow about £600 for equipment and, thankfully, a better motor car. I think this was the turning point for me. I bought a magnificent Morris 16 with a wireless….and in those days this was really something. This car did over 100,000 miles and never let us down once. When it was done I moved on to an ex-army vehicle with huge balloon tyres. It turned out to be the coldest, noisiest thing I’d ever been in.
Loaded
I remember one night we rolled along to a dance in Strathdon. We were loaded to the roof with instruments, mikes etc and, as we turned a corner in sight of the hall, a half shaft went. We unloaded everything and carried it to the hall. Once the shaft had gone it was impossible to shift the vehicle. Neighbouring farmers lent a hand, and finally we got some lads to work on the truck. As they worked away in the dark, I was playing at the dance, wondering if we were going to make it home. In addition I was sweating about the cost of repairs. Happily, we did get home…… but that dance put me about £12 out of pocket.
Towed Home
Driving home that morning I vowed I would never use, or even sit in, the army truck again. So into Perth I went and ended up buying a big American car. I had the springs strengthened and fitted heavy duty tyres. One night, travelling back from a dance in Kippen, the car started to boil up furiously. I crawled along very slowly until we reached Dunblane, where we had to call a halt. I phoned my brother at Bankhead and explained our predicament. My father came along and towed us home. The funny this was…. he towed my mighty vehicle with his tiny 10 h.p. van!
Robert Wilson gave us our Big Break
Between 1949 and 1952 there were several changes in the band, hastened by my brother Bill being called into the Army. At that time, Pam Brough, my pianist decided to leave and spend more time with her growing family.
The line up then read – Jimmy Blue on accordion, Sandy MacArthur on supporting accordion, George Grant on drums, Bert Smith on bass, Gordon Clark on piano and myself on violin.
This was a very good band, and we all worked hard to make it so. Jimmy Blue’s arrival reminds me of one engagement in the North during a blizzard. We loaded our big Packard with our gear. Underneath everything was the spare wheel.
Cup of Tea
As we drove north, conditions deteriorated. To cheer ourselves up we stopped at Grantown for a cup of tea. When we came back to the car it had developed a list. A tyre was flat. There was nothing for it but to unload everything and put on the spare. By the time we changed wheels and repacked we were well behind schedule. On the coast road, near Forres, we were surprised to find spring-like conditions. The roads were clear of snow and the fields were green. When we reached the Elgin Hall two hours late, we found a large crowd getting very impatient. The rest of us were experienced enough to know that we would be greeted with some harsh words. So we sent our new recruit, Jimmy Blue, in first to explain. Naturally the comments directed at him were none too complimentary. However the dance turned out a great success. To compensate the dancers for their wait we played for an extra half-hour. Another memory came during the “On Tour” programme in 1961.
Dog-Tired
We had been playing at a dance in Aberdeen. From there we had to drive through the night to Renfrew Airport for a morning flight to Stornoway. Our rehersal call for the show was scheduled for mid morning. We drove all through the night, still in our band uniforms, stopped for a quick cup of tea at Mickie Ainsworth’s house in Scone, then dashed to Renfrew. Within hours we were hard at it, rehearsing in Stornoway. After rehearsals several members of the band were near to tears. One actually broke down. We were dog-tired and the extra-special effort put into the important rehearsal drained everyone mentally and physically.
The following year brought a funny experience – which also taught us a lesson. While in Glasgow, I took to opportunity to buy two big tins of paint. I put them in the back of the band bus and we set off for home. On the way the conversation started to get heated. To emphasise a point I crashed my foot down. Unfortunately it landed on the break pedal. The paint shot forward from the back of the bus. The lid came off one tin. And white gloss paint almost smothered Arthur Easson, my drummer. Back at my farm we had to strip down the whole bus and wash it out with paraffin. Not an ideal chore for three in the morning. Our chats in the bus were much more restrained after that.
Snowdrift
In the winter of 1962 after playing a “White Heather Club” we were forced to abandon the bus in a blizzard. With traffic piling up on the main road I decided to try back roads, which I heard had been cleared by snowplough. On the Glendevon road conditions worsened. We ended in a drift which virtually covered the bus. We struggled to my farm, about 5 miles away, on foot. Early next day I returned to dig out the bus. The road home was still impassable. Eventually I had to drive over 80 miles to reach the farm – a point to point distance of only 5 miles. A Christmas I remember with some feeling is that of 1963. We had been booked, along with Andy Stewart, for a special programme to be inserted into a marathon TV Show for Christmas Day. Accompanied by a camera team we boarded an R.A.F. Transport plane at Turnhouse bound for Shetland. On arrival we were bundled into a bus and driven through the island. Then we boarded a boat and sailed to the island of Yell, where another bus was waiting. Through Yell we went and onto another boat to take us to Unst. Eventually we reached our destination and after a lengthy rehearsal taped a wonderful show. Of course, we had to travel back in exactly the same fashion. After all that our Show yielded only two minutes of film for the “spectacular”.
People often ask when my band broke through into the big time. And I always find difficulty in pinning this down. I think a lot of our success could be attributed to our connection with Robert Wilson on the “Personal Appearance” radio series. During the show’s run it built up a tremendous audience, mainly thanks to Robert’s popularity. He really was a first-class person. I have him to thanks for our breakthrough into records. After a programme in Inverness I was having a wee blether with Robert when he said, “you know Ian, it’s a wonder you haven’t tried recordings”.
Best Seller
I told him we had tried, but finished results had been none too successful. I felt our lack of success had been due to inexperience. “Well man” he said “you’re making the type of sound I like to hear. I think I’ll drop my recording manager a line.” He was as good as his word, and I was asked to make a test-recording by Robert’s recording manager – none other than George Martin, the man who looks after The Beatles disc interests today. That test turned out to be the most successful recording the band has ever made. It was also one of our best sellers. It was called “Bothy Ballads for the Gay Gordons”. In 1960 I was faced with a big decision. Things were going well for the band and I had to make up my mind whether I was to be a fiddle player or a farmer. The White Heather Club was getting under way, and we had formed a bond with Andy Stewart who occasionally took over as host from Robert Wilson. Things looked bright for us so the whole band tuned professional. Leila and I moved from Bankhead to a house in Perth to settle down in my new life as a full time musician.
Spare Time
I enjoyed life in the Fair city, but quickly found I was having a lot of time on my hands. After dashing about on a farm during the day then flying off to engagements, life in Perth was foreign to me. After 14 months in the new bungalow I got the chance to buy West Kirkton Farm, near Auchterarder. I jumped at it. But later, I must confess, I was worried about the move. With the passing years my worries were dispelled as property prices increased. My busiest year was 1962. The band had been booked for a 23 week season in the Glasgow Empire with Andy Stewart, and during the day I was hard at it on the farm. At harvest time I was driving tractors and organising everything before dashing off to Glasgow at tea-time. After I’d left Leila kept on working. Occasionally she phoned me at the Theatre to keep me in the picture. One night she phoned to say she’s managed to get the last 40 bales under cover. You’ve no idea how pleased and happy I was with her effort, especially when rain poured down the following morning. Only the farming fraternity will appreciate fully how much her achievement meant to me.
Between Shows at Liverpool I drove back to Auchterarder to work on Farm
My wedding in 1952 was a big occasion for me in more ways than one. The band at the reception was like a Scottish Dance Music “Who’s Who.” Providing the music were Jimmy Shand, Bobby MacLeod, Angus Fitchet, Jack Ewan, Bill Wilkie, my brother Bill and my father. When Leila and I were able to have a belated honeymoon we were invited to Tobermory by my good friend Bobby MacLeod. We had just arrived when Bobby called in to say “Right, Ian, I’ve got a dance fixed up for tonight so you’ll be bringing along your fiddle?” Great Man
My father maintained a keen interest in the band activities right up until his death in March last year. He was a great man for Burns Nichts, Hogmanays and such like. I’ll never forget the Hogmanay of 1964 when we played at the New Year celebrations in City Hall, Perth. My father was none too well at the time and unable to get in to see this show. I remember with particular affection the band going along to visit him after the show to wish him a “Happy New Year.” They gave him a wee tune and he managed to take a small sherry, which was foreign to his character, as he was more at home wi’ a dram. That New Year is a wonderful memory to me. A few months later when we were in the North touring, we had to surmount tremendous obstacles to get back for a TV engagement. We had called at Balintore, which was quite dear to us as Jimmy Blue wrote a polka called “The Balintore Fishermen.” Behind schedule we set off on the long run to Glasgow.
Dreadful
But at Inverness road conditions were dreadful. I attempted to fit chains to the wheels, but, unfortunately they wouldn’t stay on. We back-tracked and tried the coast road. After a terrible struggle we reached Grantown, where we got stuck again. I tried the chains once more. We fixed them with wire from fences at the roadside. But they were so loose they knocked holes through each mudguard. At Aviemore we encountered even more snow. As one of the chains had dropped off we just couldn’t move at all. We pushed and shoved for a time but one of the tyres burst. Completely disheartened I phoned Leila and asked her to phone Andy Stewart at the studio to tell him we were trapped in the frozen wastes and unlikely to make the show. By this time it was 10am. We were supposed to be in Glasgow at 12! In over a foot of snow we managed to change wheels, then we slithered our way to high ground where, by good luck the roads were a bit better. We dived out while the lads whipped off the chains. I ran to a phone box to let Leila know we had a chance of making it after all. Incredibly we were rehearsing in the studio at 3pm. I was pleased we made it because the show was STVs tribute to Andy Stewart in “The Man Behind the Star” series.
Long Way
We had come a long way with Andy since the early “White Heather Club” days. It was quite a thrill when we were asked to accompany him to Australia and New Zealand in 1963. In addition we played many theatres and TV shows together. One memorable tour was that of Shetland. You know, it’s a most incredible place.
1966
Scotland to Australia
As a Scot through and through, my decision to go to Australia has been a difficult one to make. Taking everything into consideration – and that’s a great deal – I’ve decided to emigrate to Perth, Western Australia, because my wife, my two children and I want a closer family life. The business I am taking over will provide us with our livelihood. It is really this which is behind our move.
It all started when I was touring in Australia this year with the Andy Stewart Show. During our stop in Perth, Western Australia, Max Kay, Andy’s Manager, met a friend of his who owned a company called “Brick Clad Home Conversations.” He explained he was giving up the business because he wanted to retire.
Interesting
Max told me about it, and the set-up seemed interesting. Through the summer of this year the project simmered with us. We took into consideration that we indulged in marathon tours from time to time. As a result our family lives were suffering. After the Australian tour we definitely felt frayed at the edges. Max and I sat down and gave the whole thing a lot of thought. I knew immediately I would have to sacrifice a tremendous amount to step into this business. It meant giving up music, the camaraderie associated with it and all that my band and I had worked hard for, as well as the farm my wife and I had built up to our liking. On the other hand, I was constantly away from my family, a family that’s growing up – Ailsa is 14 and Finlay 12 – and my wife Leila was on her own too often. Decisions have to be made. Decisions that only the man of the house can make.
Not Easy
It’s easy to taper down farm business. All you do is nothing! But it’s not so easy with the band when you’re in to the extent I am. It’s all right when you’re nipping out after tea to do wee dances here and there. That way you’re free to say “I’m no’ goin’”. My life revolves round the signing of Contracts for everything – television, theatre, commitments etc. It means that unless you die you have to honour these dates. I’m not preening myself when I say it was impossible for me to taper away the band business. If I limited my appearances with the band, then suddenly appeared at Gask to play at a wee dance, other people would get to hear of it and say “You played at Gask, so you can come along and play at Auchterarder tae.” And so it would start all over again! Fortunately everything will turn out all right for the boys. Jimmy Blue, my accordionist, is taking over the band in his own name.
Kinder
When I sit down and think about my departure in a few weeks I say to myself “Other than consideration for my family, there really is no reason for taking this step.” As the day nears, it’s harder to get up and go, because people are getting kinder and kinder all the time. I have to be in Australia by December 19. I have high hopes Max will be able to travel with us. He is out in America at the moment, finalising arrangements for Andy Stewart’s tour. Another extra wee quirk to my “Jekyll-and-Hyde” existence is the fact that I couldn’t stand pushing aside my love of flying. Not so long ago, when I went along to buy a caravan from a great friend of mine, Bert Ogston, of Kirriemuir, I noticed flying pictures around his office walls. He told me he belonged to a flying club and persuaded me to go along. I hadn’t been at the controls since my R.A.F. days in 1945 and had jogged along perfectly happy. “Ach no” I said, knowing full well that flying is something like smoking. Once you try it again, you’re away twice as bad. But I went along just the same. Sure enough after a flip, I caught the bug again.
Licence
I sent my log book off to London and was given a licence. I was tested on the ground, then flew from Perth to Aberdeen, and everything was okayed. I feel flying is only in it’s infancy in Australia. The idea of getting my hand back in appeals to me very much. I would like to stress we intend to come back to Scotland some day. At this stage we have no set plans for staying in Australia for good. It’s ludicrous to make forecasts before we even arrive there. I’ve no plans for my fiddle or farming – yet. I’ve always been known as someone who goes off at a tangent. I was settled in Perth as a fully-professional musician, with a lovely Jaguar and I chucked it all for “auld claes and parritch.” Fiddle-playing maybe disnae mix with that kind of life to others. But to me it’s a good combination. After playing at a theatre in the early hours you’re tired all night. But after a few hours in bed, getting up and about early on the tractor is as exhilarating to me as a round of golf. If you’re the right age it works out very well.
Through all our moves, my father gradually improved his status. By the time we reached Essendy he was in full charge of the farm. He was a great old boy – whose name was well known in Scottish music circles long before I came along. With his wee melodeon, he used to play away in the bothy in a style recreated these days on television. He became known as “The Angus Ploughman” and made records at the same time as Jim Cameron and the Cameron Fiddlers. Dad was a great band enthusiast. He kept his band together until the war started. In those days I played piano accordion, although I had started out to learn the fiddle when I was five. While staying at Bendochy, I was tutored in fiddle playing by Adam Rennie – the newsagent in Coupar Angus. After a quarter there, I went along to Jim Ogilvie in Blairgowrie. In those days I delved into the classics and never attempted Scottish music on the fiddle. Like most youngsters of that age, tuition was forced on me although I never had to be asked to play the instruments. In the mid-thirties few ploughmen had wireless sets. All the entertainment was “kinda hand-knitted.” But, although it wasn’t difficult to get me to play, it was a problem to get me to lessons.
So I was plugging away at the classics while my father and other fiddle players were concentrating on traditional music. I had been forbidden to play Scottish stuff for so long that, eventually, my interest waned. When I did manage to try my hand at Scottish music it was like a release. It was usually at bothy nichts that I got a chance to really enjoy my music. A night would usually start with someone coming along for a cup of tea or a chat. Before long the melodeon would come out for a tune. Then someone passing, hearing the music, would come and join in. Next minute they would dash off home for their instrument. Before you could say “Jock Robinson” there was a big pot o’ tatties peeled, the stovies were on the fire, and we were in business. It was incredible. Bothy nichts were popular in the late summer months when the weather was still mild. Ploughman lads would sit outside on the dyke and play away on their melodeons. Before long their efforts would attract others.
Ceilidh
I’ve done this myself. One night I was biking home from a music lesson in Blairgowrie, with my fiddle on my back. As I passed the Lunan Bridge, I heard the Watsons at Aikenhead playing away on the fiddle. Without any ado, I went up and gave them a tune on my fiddle. This was round about tea time. Before long a ceilidh was in full swing! Not so long ago I received a letter from the Watsons. The father, Jimmy Watson, composed a lot of grand tunes which I put into a collection and published. They wrote to say they had lost all the original manuscripts. At the moment I’m trying to supply them with all this material.
Moving on from the musical side, I volunteered for the R.A.F. in 1942 and was given my pilot’s training in this country. I was placed on deferred service before being drafted to Canada to complete my training. I’ll never forget the atmosphere in those days. Most young lads were straining to get going. I remember during our spell with Tiger Moths at Derby we had 12 hours in which to attain a certain standard. Then, on the strength of our performance, we were told whether we would be allowed to continue.
Canada
Eventually I was sent to Canada to complete the course. I trained there on various models until 1946. During this time I didn’t play the violin once. I felt the atmosphere was wrong for that sort of thing. In the N.A.A.F.I. there was more preference for someone jangling “Roll Out the Barrel” on the piano. We were kept hanging about in Canada until V.J. Day. While we waited three or four alternatives were offered to us. The first was to sign on for forest-ranger service. This offered plenty opportunity for flying. Only snag was the minimum term of service – eight years. The R.A.F. was also open to us as a career. But again the term was lengthy. If I’d gone for this I would probably be flying Lightnings today. Another alternative was to opt for ground staff.
Decision
Finally, for those with reserved occupations, such as agriculture, there was the chance of a Class B release. By this time my father was Manager at Bankhead, Dupplin for Lord Forteviot. What was I to do? Become a bush pilot, an R.A.F. pilot, a member of ground staff, or come home to the farm? Eventually I plumped for a Class B release.
Those Old Jalopies Gave Us Nightmares
When I came out of the R.A.F. I worked away with my father at Bankhead, driving tractors and generally making myself useful. At this time Jimmy Shand was beginning to make an impact in the Scottish Country Dance Music field. I think it’s fair to say this was the start of an era. Other names like Cameron, Hannah, MacLeod, Fitchet and the Hawthorne Band began to make their presence felt as well. My father was still playing in a small way with his band at wee local functions. But things were beginning to happen in Scottish Dance Band circles. Eventually I took over my father’s band and gradually reformed it.
Broadcast
In April 1949 we made our first broadcast. In those days the band consisted of Pam Brough on piano (the band’s present pianist), Bill, my brother, on accordion, Bert Smith on bass, Hugh MacIntrye on drums and myself. It really was an exciting time for bands. Scottish Dance Music was the trend, and new bands and sounds were springing up all over the country. In the early days, when we couldn’t afford good transport, we used old cars, which at times caused me nightmares. Shooting brakes and band-wagons had not been thought of. Every band depended on huge old cars to ship equipment and members. First car we had was an old 25 h.p. model. I don’t think there was ever a greater monstrosity on the roads of central Perthshire. It had a twisted chassis, brass discs behind two of the wheels to make it run true, the ‘con-rod’ had come out through the engine just before I bought it, it wouldn’t stay in any gear, and it had a big copper patch screwed on the side.
Wireless
I simply couldn’t afford anything grander. Everywhere we went the tyres blew out and, just to make things worse it only averaged 10 m.p.g. We struggled away with the brute for a time. Finally I was forced to go to my father and borrow about £600 for equipment and, thankfully, a better motor car. I think this was the turning point for me. I bought a magnificent Morris 16 with a wireless….and in those days this was really something. This car did over 100,000 miles and never let us down once. When it was done I moved on to an ex-army vehicle with huge balloon tyres. It turned out to be the coldest, noisiest thing I’d ever been in.
Loaded
I remember one night we rolled along to a dance in Strathdon. We were loaded to the roof with instruments, mikes etc and, as we turned a corner in sight of the hall, a half shaft went. We unloaded everything and carried it to the hall. Once the shaft had gone it was impossible to shift the vehicle. Neighbouring farmers lent a hand, and finally we got some lads to work on the truck. As they worked away in the dark, I was playing at the dance, wondering if we were going to make it home. In addition I was sweating about the cost of repairs. Happily, we did get home…… but that dance put me about £12 out of pocket.
Towed Home
Driving home that morning I vowed I would never use, or even sit in, the army truck again. So into Perth I went and ended up buying a big American car. I had the springs strengthened and fitted heavy duty tyres. One night, travelling back from a dance in Kippen, the car started to boil up furiously. I crawled along very slowly until we reached Dunblane, where we had to call a halt. I phoned my brother at Bankhead and explained our predicament. My father came along and towed us home. The funny this was…. he towed my mighty vehicle with his tiny 10 h.p. van!
Robert Wilson gave us our Big Break
Between 1949 and 1952 there were several changes in the band, hastened by my brother Bill being called into the Army. At that time, Pam Brough, my pianist decided to leave and spend more time with her growing family.
The line up then read – Jimmy Blue on accordion, Sandy MacArthur on supporting accordion, George Grant on drums, Bert Smith on bass, Gordon Clark on piano and myself on violin.
This was a very good band, and we all worked hard to make it so. Jimmy Blue’s arrival reminds me of one engagement in the North during a blizzard. We loaded our big Packard with our gear. Underneath everything was the spare wheel.
Cup of Tea
As we drove north, conditions deteriorated. To cheer ourselves up we stopped at Grantown for a cup of tea. When we came back to the car it had developed a list. A tyre was flat. There was nothing for it but to unload everything and put on the spare. By the time we changed wheels and repacked we were well behind schedule. On the coast road, near Forres, we were surprised to find spring-like conditions. The roads were clear of snow and the fields were green. When we reached the Elgin Hall two hours late, we found a large crowd getting very impatient. The rest of us were experienced enough to know that we would be greeted with some harsh words. So we sent our new recruit, Jimmy Blue, in first to explain. Naturally the comments directed at him were none too complimentary. However the dance turned out a great success. To compensate the dancers for their wait we played for an extra half-hour. Another memory came during the “On Tour” programme in 1961.
Dog-Tired
We had been playing at a dance in Aberdeen. From there we had to drive through the night to Renfrew Airport for a morning flight to Stornoway. Our rehersal call for the show was scheduled for mid morning. We drove all through the night, still in our band uniforms, stopped for a quick cup of tea at Mickie Ainsworth’s house in Scone, then dashed to Renfrew. Within hours we were hard at it, rehearsing in Stornoway. After rehearsals several members of the band were near to tears. One actually broke down. We were dog-tired and the extra-special effort put into the important rehearsal drained everyone mentally and physically.
The following year brought a funny experience – which also taught us a lesson. While in Glasgow, I took to opportunity to buy two big tins of paint. I put them in the back of the band bus and we set off for home. On the way the conversation started to get heated. To emphasise a point I crashed my foot down. Unfortunately it landed on the break pedal. The paint shot forward from the back of the bus. The lid came off one tin. And white gloss paint almost smothered Arthur Easson, my drummer. Back at my farm we had to strip down the whole bus and wash it out with paraffin. Not an ideal chore for three in the morning. Our chats in the bus were much more restrained after that.
Snowdrift
In the winter of 1962 after playing a “White Heather Club” we were forced to abandon the bus in a blizzard. With traffic piling up on the main road I decided to try back roads, which I heard had been cleared by snowplough. On the Glendevon road conditions worsened. We ended in a drift which virtually covered the bus. We struggled to my farm, about 5 miles away, on foot. Early next day I returned to dig out the bus. The road home was still impassable. Eventually I had to drive over 80 miles to reach the farm – a point to point distance of only 5 miles. A Christmas I remember with some feeling is that of 1963. We had been booked, along with Andy Stewart, for a special programme to be inserted into a marathon TV Show for Christmas Day. Accompanied by a camera team we boarded an R.A.F. Transport plane at Turnhouse bound for Shetland. On arrival we were bundled into a bus and driven through the island. Then we boarded a boat and sailed to the island of Yell, where another bus was waiting. Through Yell we went and onto another boat to take us to Unst. Eventually we reached our destination and after a lengthy rehearsal taped a wonderful show. Of course, we had to travel back in exactly the same fashion. After all that our Show yielded only two minutes of film for the “spectacular”.
People often ask when my band broke through into the big time. And I always find difficulty in pinning this down. I think a lot of our success could be attributed to our connection with Robert Wilson on the “Personal Appearance” radio series. During the show’s run it built up a tremendous audience, mainly thanks to Robert’s popularity. He really was a first-class person. I have him to thanks for our breakthrough into records. After a programme in Inverness I was having a wee blether with Robert when he said, “you know Ian, it’s a wonder you haven’t tried recordings”.
Best Seller
I told him we had tried, but finished results had been none too successful. I felt our lack of success had been due to inexperience. “Well man” he said “you’re making the type of sound I like to hear. I think I’ll drop my recording manager a line.” He was as good as his word, and I was asked to make a test-recording by Robert’s recording manager – none other than George Martin, the man who looks after The Beatles disc interests today. That test turned out to be the most successful recording the band has ever made. It was also one of our best sellers. It was called “Bothy Ballads for the Gay Gordons”. In 1960 I was faced with a big decision. Things were going well for the band and I had to make up my mind whether I was to be a fiddle player or a farmer. The White Heather Club was getting under way, and we had formed a bond with Andy Stewart who occasionally took over as host from Robert Wilson. Things looked bright for us so the whole band tuned professional. Leila and I moved from Bankhead to a house in Perth to settle down in my new life as a full time musician.
Spare Time
I enjoyed life in the Fair city, but quickly found I was having a lot of time on my hands. After dashing about on a farm during the day then flying off to engagements, life in Perth was foreign to me. After 14 months in the new bungalow I got the chance to buy West Kirkton Farm, near Auchterarder. I jumped at it. But later, I must confess, I was worried about the move. With the passing years my worries were dispelled as property prices increased. My busiest year was 1962. The band had been booked for a 23 week season in the Glasgow Empire with Andy Stewart, and during the day I was hard at it on the farm. At harvest time I was driving tractors and organising everything before dashing off to Glasgow at tea-time. After I’d left Leila kept on working. Occasionally she phoned me at the Theatre to keep me in the picture. One night she phoned to say she’s managed to get the last 40 bales under cover. You’ve no idea how pleased and happy I was with her effort, especially when rain poured down the following morning. Only the farming fraternity will appreciate fully how much her achievement meant to me.
Between Shows at Liverpool I drove back to Auchterarder to work on Farm
My wedding in 1952 was a big occasion for me in more ways than one. The band at the reception was like a Scottish Dance Music “Who’s Who.” Providing the music were Jimmy Shand, Bobby MacLeod, Angus Fitchet, Jack Ewan, Bill Wilkie, my brother Bill and my father. When Leila and I were able to have a belated honeymoon we were invited to Tobermory by my good friend Bobby MacLeod. We had just arrived when Bobby called in to say “Right, Ian, I’ve got a dance fixed up for tonight so you’ll be bringing along your fiddle?” Great Man
My father maintained a keen interest in the band activities right up until his death in March last year. He was a great man for Burns Nichts, Hogmanays and such like. I’ll never forget the Hogmanay of 1964 when we played at the New Year celebrations in City Hall, Perth. My father was none too well at the time and unable to get in to see this show. I remember with particular affection the band going along to visit him after the show to wish him a “Happy New Year.” They gave him a wee tune and he managed to take a small sherry, which was foreign to his character, as he was more at home wi’ a dram. That New Year is a wonderful memory to me. A few months later when we were in the North touring, we had to surmount tremendous obstacles to get back for a TV engagement. We had called at Balintore, which was quite dear to us as Jimmy Blue wrote a polka called “The Balintore Fishermen.” Behind schedule we set off on the long run to Glasgow.
Dreadful
But at Inverness road conditions were dreadful. I attempted to fit chains to the wheels, but, unfortunately they wouldn’t stay on. We back-tracked and tried the coast road. After a terrible struggle we reached Grantown, where we got stuck again. I tried the chains once more. We fixed them with wire from fences at the roadside. But they were so loose they knocked holes through each mudguard. At Aviemore we encountered even more snow. As one of the chains had dropped off we just couldn’t move at all. We pushed and shoved for a time but one of the tyres burst. Completely disheartened I phoned Leila and asked her to phone Andy Stewart at the studio to tell him we were trapped in the frozen wastes and unlikely to make the show. By this time it was 10am. We were supposed to be in Glasgow at 12! In over a foot of snow we managed to change wheels, then we slithered our way to high ground where, by good luck the roads were a bit better. We dived out while the lads whipped off the chains. I ran to a phone box to let Leila know we had a chance of making it after all. Incredibly we were rehearsing in the studio at 3pm. I was pleased we made it because the show was STVs tribute to Andy Stewart in “The Man Behind the Star” series.
Long Way
We had come a long way with Andy since the early “White Heather Club” days. It was quite a thrill when we were asked to accompany him to Australia and New Zealand in 1963. In addition we played many theatres and TV shows together. One memorable tour was that of Shetland. You know, it’s a most incredible place.
1966
Scotland to Australia
As a Scot through and through, my decision to go to Australia has been a difficult one to make. Taking everything into consideration – and that’s a great deal – I’ve decided to emigrate to Perth, Western Australia, because my wife, my two children and I want a closer family life. The business I am taking over will provide us with our livelihood. It is really this which is behind our move.
It all started when I was touring in Australia this year with the Andy Stewart Show. During our stop in Perth, Western Australia, Max Kay, Andy’s Manager, met a friend of his who owned a company called “Brick Clad Home Conversations.” He explained he was giving up the business because he wanted to retire.
Interesting
Max told me about it, and the set-up seemed interesting. Through the summer of this year the project simmered with us. We took into consideration that we indulged in marathon tours from time to time. As a result our family lives were suffering. After the Australian tour we definitely felt frayed at the edges. Max and I sat down and gave the whole thing a lot of thought. I knew immediately I would have to sacrifice a tremendous amount to step into this business. It meant giving up music, the camaraderie associated with it and all that my band and I had worked hard for, as well as the farm my wife and I had built up to our liking. On the other hand, I was constantly away from my family, a family that’s growing up – Ailsa is 14 and Finlay 12 – and my wife Leila was on her own too often. Decisions have to be made. Decisions that only the man of the house can make.
Not Easy
It’s easy to taper down farm business. All you do is nothing! But it’s not so easy with the band when you’re in to the extent I am. It’s all right when you’re nipping out after tea to do wee dances here and there. That way you’re free to say “I’m no’ goin’”. My life revolves round the signing of Contracts for everything – television, theatre, commitments etc. It means that unless you die you have to honour these dates. I’m not preening myself when I say it was impossible for me to taper away the band business. If I limited my appearances with the band, then suddenly appeared at Gask to play at a wee dance, other people would get to hear of it and say “You played at Gask, so you can come along and play at Auchterarder tae.” And so it would start all over again! Fortunately everything will turn out all right for the boys. Jimmy Blue, my accordionist, is taking over the band in his own name.
Kinder
When I sit down and think about my departure in a few weeks I say to myself “Other than consideration for my family, there really is no reason for taking this step.” As the day nears, it’s harder to get up and go, because people are getting kinder and kinder all the time. I have to be in Australia by December 19. I have high hopes Max will be able to travel with us. He is out in America at the moment, finalising arrangements for Andy Stewart’s tour. Another extra wee quirk to my “Jekyll-and-Hyde” existence is the fact that I couldn’t stand pushing aside my love of flying. Not so long ago, when I went along to buy a caravan from a great friend of mine, Bert Ogston, of Kirriemuir, I noticed flying pictures around his office walls. He told me he belonged to a flying club and persuaded me to go along. I hadn’t been at the controls since my R.A.F. days in 1945 and had jogged along perfectly happy. “Ach no” I said, knowing full well that flying is something like smoking. Once you try it again, you’re away twice as bad. But I went along just the same. Sure enough after a flip, I caught the bug again.
Licence
I sent my log book off to London and was given a licence. I was tested on the ground, then flew from Perth to Aberdeen, and everything was okayed. I feel flying is only in it’s infancy in Australia. The idea of getting my hand back in appeals to me very much. I would like to stress we intend to come back to Scotland some day. At this stage we have no set plans for staying in Australia for good. It’s ludicrous to make forecasts before we even arrive there. I’ve no plans for my fiddle or farming – yet. I’ve always been known as someone who goes off at a tangent. I was settled in Perth as a fully-professional musician, with a lovely Jaguar and I chucked it all for “auld claes and parritch.” Fiddle-playing maybe disnae mix with that kind of life to others. But to me it’s a good combination. After playing at a theatre in the early hours you’re tired all night. But after a few hours in bed, getting up and about early on the tractor is as exhilarating to me as a round of golf. If you’re the right age it works out very well.