In the 1970s a group of students from the Portsmouth School of Art decided to start a rather unconventional orchestra named the Portsmouth Sinfonia. Their foundational concept was refreshingly inclusive: the Sinfonia welcomed virtually anyone who wished to participate regardless of talent or experience. Inevitably, it drew individuals with minimal musical background and, intriguingly, musicians that chose to embrace instruments completely foreign to them. As one might imagine, this eclectic blend of members resulted in an ensemble with a distinctly idiosyncratic character. Initially conceived as a one-time, tongue-in-cheek performance art project, the orchestra remarkably evolved into a cultural sensation over the subsequent decade, including memorable concerts, the release of LPs, the creation of a film and even a chart-topping single. Eventually their public performances came to an end in 1979, marking the conclusion of an era for this remarkable musical phenomenon.
In 1974, I was introduced to the album titled The Portsmouth Sinfonia Plays the Popular Classics. This particular album held a special place in my music collection, as it was produced by none other than Brian Eno, who also happened to be one of the clarinet players within the ensemble. It remains one of the most comically entertaining albums I've ever had the pleasure of listening to. Surprisingly, this album proved to be incredibly versatile and valuable in certain social situations. It had the remarkable ability to elicit laughter when shared with friends, serving as a delightful source of amusement. Additionally, it came in handy for discreetly encouraging guests who had overstayed their welcome to make their exit gracefully. Furthermore, for those times when you felt a need to test the patience of your neighbours or perhaps engage in a bit of playful provocation, The Portsmouth Sinfonia Plays the Popular Classics unquestionably emerged as the perfect auditory choice.
In the late 70s I was in the studio booking office at Wembley, when I overheard the secretary Miriam on the phone, she was taking a booking for a jingle on behalf of a maker of a famous box of chocolates. By now I had a real dislike for working on jingles, I was about to beat a hasty retreat from the office, when I heard Miriam confirm to the client the details of the session. “... so, Studio One 7 ‘til 10. Artist, The Portsmouth Sinfonia.” I turned around before she had finished the word Sinfonia and much to Miriam’s surprise, who knew how much I disliked these mini-TV nightmares, told her, “I’ll do that one please, please.” A few days later, with the studio set and ready, about 50 members of the orchestra arrived. Once seated, they started to run through the music they intended to record. I was desperately trying not to laugh too loud as I set about getting a recording level. The music we were tasked with recording was astonishingly brief, lasting only a minute. Achieving the right balance took a few run-throughs. By the time we reached the third attempt, the director turned to me with a hint of impatience and inquired, “How long is this going to take?”
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