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ale from behind a curtain, before continuing in the same vein, standing defiantly in centre stage, legs braced as if he were pulling a cart. Gradually, however, freed from the restrictions of playing his guitar, he began to move about and engage with the audience, who responded by starting to dance. Tom found his rhythm, and Vernon recalls, ‘He was like a man possessed.’ He was helped in that regard by polishing off four light ales while he performed.

      Tommy Pitman was a good singer, particularly effective with ballads, but Vernon realised that night that the other Tommy, Tom Woodward, was the future for the band. Keith Davies agreed, ‘He had a much stronger voice than Tommy Pitman. He was just more aggressive all over. They were just two different types of singer.’ Tom wasn’t concerned about that – he just wanted to grab his couple of pounds and make it back to the White Hart before they called last orders.

      Tom went round to Vernon’s house a few days later for a run-through and sang an old-fashioned Edwardian ballad called ‘Thora’ in his best gospel style. ‘I’m not having no bugger in this band who sings hymns,’ said young Keith, who would ultimately be persuaded by the obvious quality of Tom’s voice.

      Tom began rehearsing regularly with the band on a Wednesday at Vernon’s house in Glyndwr Avenue, Rhydyfelin. Five young men were crammed into the front room, with amplifiers on every chair, and a piano and drum kit wedged in as well. Vernon recalls fondly, ‘You wouldn’t believe the size of it. We rehearsed many of the numbers that he later made famous in that room.’

      Five became six the day that Tommy Pitman came down to find out if he was still in the band. Vernon was nervous about so many blokes in a confined space, worried that the two Tommys would come to blows as they competed to be The Senators’ vocalist. He even persuaded his sisters to lay on tea and sandwiches in an attempt to keep everything civilised. In the end, the two Toms behaved impeccably.

      Vernon knew he wanted to keep his new singer, but they put it to the vote. Keith supported Vernon’s view that Tom Woodward should stay. Tommy Pitman pointed out that he owned part of the equipment. The next suggestion was that they should have two vocalists. Tom wasn’t having that and told them, ‘It’s either me or Tommy.’

      Vernon tried to make the decision painless: ‘The thing is, Tommy, you left us in the lurch and we have been getting on all right with Tom, so I’m going to say we stay as we are now.’ Tommy accepted the decision and the two singers left together, as they lived in neighbouring streets in Treforest.

      Tommy Pitman recalls, ‘We weren’t going to fight about a thing like that. We walked back together and chatted about different things. I said, “I paid for half of this sound system and you are coming in for nout.” He said, “OK, I’ll sort you out.” Ha! I never got nothing. When we parted, I said, “I’ll see you. All the best.”’

      In fact, Pitman wasn’t too dejected. He had already had an offer to join a group called The Strollers, which Jeff and Colin from The Senators had formed. They were a smarter-looking band, more Shadows than Jerry Lee, and Tommy, who liked to wear an Italian suit on stage, thought they were a better match for him. He recalls with a glint of good humour, ‘It wasn’t too long before I was in Butlins for a season with them. So I thought then I had the best of the deal, obviously.’

      The Senators were Vernon’s group. He made the key decisions and was the driving force. Tom was just the singer, but Vernon was in no doubt about his ability. Although they would later have their differences, Vernon acknowledges, ‘Right from when he joined, he was as good a singer as I have ever performed with. His voice was so pure.’

      The first thing Vernon had to do was find their new frontman a suitable name. Tommy or Tom Woodward didn’t sound rock ’n’ roll enough in the days of Billy Fury, Adam Faith and Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. They decided to go to the Upper Boat Inn on the Taff River in Pontypridd for a few pints to try to come up with some ideas – they had none, despite the brain-lubricating beer.

      Vernon then thought of looking in the telephone book for a name, and nipped across to a nearby phone box to have a quick search for inspiration. The problem with a Welsh phone book was that it contained page after page of people named Jones. Tommy Jones? That would never do, but his finger stopped at S when he reached Scott. Tommy Scott had definite possibilities.

      Tom was enthusiastic when he returned to the table, as were the rest of the band, so Vernon went ahead and had some cards printed that read ‘The Senators with Twisting Tommy Scott’. It didn’t take them long to drop the ‘Twisting’ part, although Tom was a master of that popular dance.

      Keith Davies remembers helping Tom with his Tommy Scott signature, so he would be ready to sign autographs should he be asked. Originally, Tom wrote his name in a very small and spindly fashion. Keith told him, ‘“You can’t write it like that. It looks like you’re signing the dole, like.” And I showed him, “Do a big S like this, and then put two big lines across the ts.” He tried it and said, “Like that?” and I said, “Yeah, like that.”’

      A new name was the first step in smoothing out Tom’s rough edges to make him more acceptable to a paying audience. The next meant binning the beloved Teddy boy suit. It was the end of a long era, but Tom was persuaded to move on to black leather and a stage outfit that Elvis or Gene Vincent might wear.

      One of Tom’s notable characteristics throughout his career is that he is amenable to change and suggestion. He doesn’t let ego get in the way of what he considers good sense. He accepts things and gets on with it. He wanted to look good, but what mattered most to him was the music he was going to sing. The biggest influence he had within the group was on their repertoire.

      First and foremost, he wanted Jerry Lee Lewis. As Keith Davies remembers, the rest of the band would be mischievous about that: ‘He was just Jerry Lee Lewis orientated all the time. He would introduce a song by saying, “We would like to sing a song now by Mister Jerry Lee Lewis,” and we would all look surprised and go, “Jerry Lee Lewis???”’

      Tom took the gentle ribbing in good spirit and was never less than dedicated. At their weekly rehearsals, they used to take it in turns to suggest a number to perform during their week-long round of gigs.

      Keith recalls, ‘He would say something like, “I want to do a song called ‘Bama Lama Bama Loo’” and I would say, “Christ, what’s that?” It was usually something I had never heard of. Then it would be my turn and I would say I wanted to do “The Young Ones” by Cliff Richard, and Tom hated his music – he just didn’t like it. Every time I used to do the intro, you could see his face going. It was a soppy tune for him to sing!’

      Tom had to grit his teeth and learn some of the more anaemic chart songs, because that was what their audience wanted. ‘He used to feel a prat doing it, but they were in the charts and people used to sing them.’

      Tom was doing his homework though. Most Saturday afternoons, Vernon would go around to the house in Cliff Terrace, say hello to Linda and young Mark and then join Tom upstairs in his mother-in-law’s lounge and listen to records on his old portable record player. Tom and Vernon weren’t interested in rugby or football or social injustice – just music. They would spend hours talking about it.

      Jerry Lee Lewis, of course, featured a lot in Tom’s expanding record collection. ‘Listen to the drums on this,’ he would say enthusiastically, as he put yet another of The Killer’s tracks on the turntable.

      By a quirk of fate, soon after he joined The Senators, Tom noticed that his hero was performing a concert at the Sophia Gardens in Cardiff as part of his comeback. Tom had been disappointed four years earlier, when Jerry Lee, then twenty-two, cancelled his concert in Cardiff after revelations about his marriage hit the front pages. He had arrived in Britain for a six-week tour in May 1958, when journalists spotted a young girl in his entourage called Myra, who he said was fifteen and his third wife. That was bad enough, but she turned out to be his first cousin once removed and was only thirteen. Their union was a product of the hillbilly mentality prevalent in the Deep South. His management pulled Jerry Lee out of that tour after only three concerts. Tom recalled, ‘When the public found out about it, there was uproar and he got sent out of the country.’

      Tom

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