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Everything, But …

       12 JCS Meets RSO

       13 Jesus Goes to Broadway

       14 A Bad Case of the Edward Woodwards

       15 Suddenly There’s a Valet

       16 Syd

       17 Driverless Juggernauts Hurtling Down a Hill

       18 Eva and Juan

       19 The Long Hot Summer and the Sound of a Paraguayan Harp

       20 The Song that Cleared the Dance Floors

       21 Imogen and Niccolò

       22 Variations

       23 Really Useful

       24 Tell Me on a Sunday

       25 “This Artfully Produced Monument to Human Indecency”

       26 Shaddap and Take That Look Off Your Face

       27 Mr Mackintosh

       28 “All the Characters Must Be Cats”

       29 Growltiger’s Last Stand

       30 Body Stockings, Leg Warmers and Meat Cleavers

       31 Song and Dance, and Sleep

       32 “The Most Obnoxious Form of ‘Music’ Ever Invented”

       33 Miss Sarah Brightman

       34 “Brrrohahaha!!!”

       35 Requiem

       36 Epiphany

       37 “Big Change from Book”

       38 Year of the Phantom

       39 In Another Part of the West End Forest …

       40 Mr Crawford

       41 “Let Your Soul Take You Where You Want to Be!”

       Playout Music

       Epilogue

       Photo Section

       Appendix

       Footnotes

       Index

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

      I have long resisted writing an autobiography. Autobiographies are by definition self-serving and mine is no exception. It is the result of my nearest and dearest, aided and abetted by the late great literary agent Ed Victor, moaning at me “to tell your story your way.” I meekly agreed, primarily to shut them up. Consequently this tome is not my fault.

      I intended to write my memoirs in one volume and I have failed spectacularly. Even as things are you’ll find very little about my love of art which, along with architecture and musical theatre, is one of my great passions. I decided the saga of how I built my rather unfashionable Pre-Raphaelite and Victorian art collection belongs elsewhere. The dodgy art dealers who tried to screw me can sleep peacefully – at least for the moment.

      This medium sized doorstop judders to a halt at the first night of The Phantom of the Opera. Quite how I have been able to be so verbose about the most boring person I have ever written about eludes me. At one point I had a stab at shoehorning my career highlights into a taut tight chapter, rather like Wagner brilliantly packs his top tunes into his operas’ overtures. This was a dismal failure. The only thing I have in common with Wagner is length.

      So here is part one of my saga. If you are a glutton for this sort of thing, dive in, at least for a bit. If you aren’t, I leave you with this thought. You are lucky if you know what you want to do in life. You are incredibly lucky if you are able to have a career in it. You have the luck of Croesus on stilts (as my Auntie Vi would have said) if you’ve had the sort of career, ups and downs, warts and all that I have in that wondrous little corner of show business called musical theatre.

       Andrew Lloyd Webber

      Before me there was Mimi.

      Mimi was a monkey. She was given to my mother Jean by a Gibraltan tenor with a limp that Mum had taken a shine to in the summer of 1946. Mimi and Mother must have seemed a really odd couple as they meandered through the grey bomb damaged streets of ration-gripped London’s South Kensington.

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