widely known as the ‘Bucket of Blood’.
The history of that era reveals that there were some massive fights between rival gangs of Teds. But Keith Davies, who later played guitar alongside Tom, observes: ‘Sometimes I think the whole Ted thing is overcooked. It was just a way of life for everyone. Everybody was a Teddy boy. I wouldn’t say Tom was a tough Ted. He was aggressive on stage though.’
Tom, meanwhile, was promoted at work to a job as a machinist. As a result, he was earning more money, but alternate weeks he had to work a night shift from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. Even that small advancement was threatened by an overzealous trade unionist, who complained that he was too young to receive a man’s wage. Tom had to hold his tongue – and his fists – when some of the other staff tried to sabotage his machine so he would be out of favour with management. He began to hate his job.
Letting off steam with his mates was poor compensation for his general unhappiness at the way things had turned out for him. He was linked to some petty crime in the area, which gave Freda some sleepless nights, worried that the next knock on the door might be someone ready to arrest Tom. Mostly, though, it involved sneaking into the cinema without paying or nicking the occasional 45 from the record store.
He laughed the troubles off: ‘When the officials came to see my mother with the brasses nicely polished in the front room and a picture of granddad with his medals on, they went away saying, “No ruffian could live here!”’
Perhaps most alarmingly, he temporarily lost his appetite for singing, weighed down by his responsibilities. Linda, whose contribution to Tom’s career should never be underestimated, had to prod and cajole him into singing again, starting off while shaving in the mirror before work. She was delighted when he came home one afternoon in early 1957 with a new single in his hand.
Tom had been walking through the centre of Pontypridd, when he heard ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On’ by Jerry Lee Lewis for the first time. It was blasting out from the speakers at Freddie Feys’ record shop. He was immediately stopped in his tracks: ‘Good God. To me that was it! I loved that record and it was a white man singing boogie-woogie that he had heard black men play.’
Tom would never forget the effect Jerry Lee’s music had on him. He admired Elvis and would spend afternoons listening to Brian’s elder brother John’s collection of The King’s records. But he loved the man from Louisiana, who was known as ‘The Killer’. Tom liked his aggression and the way Lewis would chew his audience up and spit them out. He was a white man who sounded like he was black, and that was the effect Tom had always wanted.
At least money wasn’t as tight and he could buy a new Hawk guitar. He was earning £18 a week and they weren’t paying any rent. Until now, Tom had sung at school and family get-togethers. It was time for him to start singing in public.
Urged on by Linda, he approached his uncle, Albert Jones, to ask if he could perform at the Wood Road. ‘Could you put us on, Uncle Albert – you know, do a gig down there?’
Albert, who was quite a stern chap, replied, ‘It will never go down well here – rock ’n’ roll.’
Tom persevered, however, and eventually he had a lucky break, when an act they had booked failed to show one Sunday evening. Tom stepped up and sang three numbers, including the classic Elvis hit ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ and ‘Sixteen Tons’, a number one for Tennessee Ernie Ford in 1956. The reaction was much more favourable than Albert had expected, so Tom came back after an interval and sang three more. Afterwards, the club’s entertainment secretary, Charlie Ashman, was so pleased, he put his hand in the till and handed Tom a £1 note. In those days of pre-decimal money, he could buy thirty pints in the club for a quid. The only problem was that everyone knew how old he was and he could never get served there.
Tom was encouraged to think he could sing for money, or at least beer money, in the pubs and clubs around Treforest and Pontypridd. His mates supported him, especially when he started singing at one of their favourite pubs, the Wheatsheaf, at the bottom of Rickards Street. They would have a few beers in the downstairs bar before adjourning to the room upstairs, where Tom would belt out his mix of Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis and Ray Charles numbers, accompanying himself as best as he could on his guitar.
The audience loved him at the Wheatsheaf, but it was practically his local and didn’t really count. The landlady, Joan Lister, recalled that the audience wouldn’t get up for a pint when Tom was on, which may or may not be true. He needed more than that generous appreciation, however, and for a while joined a local beat group called the De Avalons. He was the drummer, not the singer, but soon tired of that arrangement, much preferring to be the centre of attention.
He joined a concert party called The Misfits. These variety ensembles, which often included a comedian and a group, were very popular. They were like a mini evening of Britain’s Got Talent. Tom liked the set-up, because the money was good – anything from £2 to £5 for a night’s work – and he found he could earn almost as much at a weekend as the rest of the week in the paper factory. Tom was one of three acts, which included a singer who specialised in Frankie Laine numbers.
Linda had no objection when Tom decided to quit his job at the paper factory and sign on the dole. Tom was reassured by a workmate, who told him, ‘If you fail, you can always return. It doesn’t take a genius to work in a paper mill.’ He needed to be free from shift work so he could accept evening bookings. From time to time, he would take a job selling vacuum cleaners or working on a building site, carting bricks, but his heart wasn’t in it and these jobs rarely lasted more than a few weeks. His only ticket out of the Valleys was with ‘singer’ stamped on his passport, so he was much happier concentrating on that ambition than grafting for a few pounds a week. The reality was that he had started to drift.
The most significant member of a Tommy Woodward audience during this time was a young guitarist from Rhydyfelin called Vernon Hopkins. He had heard about a rough and ready lad with a big voice doing his time on the pub and club circuit around Pontypridd, so he turned up at the Wheatsheaf one night to watch Tom perform. Vernon was unimpressed with his act, but admired his voice.
‘His voice was great, but he would just stand there and sing. He wouldn’t even introduce a song. It was like he didn’t want to be there at all, but he had to do it, because he wanted the money. It wasn’t a good picture. He looked intimidating.’
5
The Girl with the Red Dress On
Not everyone found Tom scary. One of his long-standing drinking pals, Alan Barratt, wasn’t overawed, even though he was the smaller man. According to local legend, he once gave Tom a fearful pasting in an argument over a girl. Tom literally had to drag himself home on his hands and knees. The pair remained good friends and Tom was later rumoured to have helped Alan buy the newsagent’s in Church Village, where he settled, just a few miles from Pontypridd.
They were together one evening eating a takeaway outside a curry house, when Tom met a curvaceous fifteen-year-old called Gill Beazer. When he came across a girl he liked, Tommy Woodward was no longer one of the lads. He acted in a completely different manner. He had been impressed when, as a boy, he walked with his father around the terraced streets where they lived. The local housewives would come to the front door just to smile and say to his dad, ‘Good morning, Thomas.’ The friendly greetings brightened his day. He learned from his father and the other men in his family that women were to be treated with respect, consideration and as equals. He didn’t swear or act the macho man in front of them, and it made no difference how pretty they were.
Gill was most definitely attractive, though. The tabloid papers of today would describe her as a stunner. Tommy’s relationship with the shy teenager was a million miles away from his later image as Tom Jones, sex-obsessed superstar.
In the early summer of 1960, the curry house had just opened in Central Square, Trallwn, on the other side of Pontypridd. It was a general store as well, and Gill was browsing there when Tom, then aged twenty, showed up with Alan Barratt. They were there for two reasons: Tom loved curry and, to this