Obituary: Michael Tumelty, classical music critic extraordinaire

Michael Tumelty, music critic and teacher. Born: 31 May 1946 in Jarrow, Tyne and Wear (then County Durham). Died: 20 May, 2020, aged 73

Michael Tumelty (Picture: James Galloway/Newsquest)

In 1983, when Michael Tumelty bit the bullet and swapped a trailblazing career as a school music teacher to become staff music critic of the then Glasgow Herald, classical music in Scotland was about to find itself variously championed, chastised and held to account as never before in the news pages of an influential broadsheet.

The paper’s editor at the time, Arnold Kemp, had spelt out a fresh agenda for his new critic’s role, which was to turn the vibrant, post-concert tittle-tattle he often witnessed in the concert hall bars into must-read stories in the following week’s editions. Tumelty responded with the dogged precision, fearless honesty, no-nonsense concision and fastidious forensic scrutiny that was to become, over 23 years with the Herald, his signature style.

Succeeding the more elusive Malcolm Rayment, the ceremonial wheeling-in of a music critic’s desk to the old Albion Street HQ on Day One of his new job was symbolic of the fact Tumelty’s predecessor rarely set foot in the office, whereas he was eager to be a more visible presence at the heart of the media machine.

So began a golden era of classical music scoops, including on-the-ground reporting of an RSNO players’ revolt while on tour in Japan with the orchestra in 1987 which led to the ultimate departure of its young chief executive, who was advocating an unpopular restructuring of the traditional concert scheduling; and his campaigning disclosure of the ill-considered proposal in 1992 to merge the BBC SSO and Orchestra of Scottish Opera. Reaction to these spilled onto the letters pages. Then there were the weekly features, anything from agenda-setting debate to sharply focused interviews with the great and the good of the music world.

Tumelty’s disarming personality cut the ice with even the prickliest prima donna. He hated pretentious waffle. He revelled in the company of interesting people. For one memorable feature he visited the home of eccentric astronomer (and xylophonist) Sir Patrick Moore. Plied with ample wine, he was treated to a surreal outdoor lesson on the mysteries of the universe from Moore’s moonlit West Sussex garden.

For Tumelty, though, it was always about the music. If his reviews bore the same earthy vernacular and single-minded conviction as the man himself, they were also an unmissable and memorable read. He eschewed pomposity – there were certain seasoned Southern critics he regarded as effete – but had a knack for communicating intellectual insight through common or garden prose.

A review might typically hyperbolise, one recurring favourite being “the band played their socks off”. It might be startlingly honest, as when he slammed Luciano Pavarotti’s feted 1990 Glasgow City Of Culture showcase as “sloppy amateurism”. Of that he was unapologetic and his readers loved (or hated) him for it.

But beneath the rough and tumble was a mind that was obsessively sharp, decisive and sophisticated. He had a habit of homing right in on a vital, singular issue, every encircling judgement designed to amplify it. Regulars to the Perth Piano Series, which he charismatically presented for several years, will have recognised such pithy exactitude from his short, thought-provoking stage introductions.

As will BBC Radio Scotland audiences recalling his regular What’s On slot on the Sunday afternoon Grace Notes programme. Or Orcadians, who rose early to catch his quickfire crack-of-dawn appearances on BBC Radio Orkney which he undertook – no matter how late a “shift” he put in at the nightly post-concert Festival Club – as part of his longstanding support of the annual St Magnus Festival.

He was a relentless advocate of all Scotland’s musical life, its personalities, practitioners and institutions, pointedly critical where necessary, but always fair, always informed, always contextualised. An early spotter of prodigious talent, he vigorously championed the likes of a young Sir James MacMillan and a very young Nicola Benedetti.

Tumelty was born in Jarrow, County Durham, in 1946. His father, James, was an academic whose appointment in 1950 as senior lecturer in history at Glasgow University precipitated the family’s move to Glasgow. He attended St Aloysuis College, though his aversion to its Jesuit tradition encouraged more his famous rebellious streak than academic prowess. A spell training for the merchant navy at James Watt College proved inconclusive, a more fruitful change of direction taking him to Aberdeen University to read music. Initially he had intended to continue with a PhD, but he instead opted to train as a teacher. As head of department at St Columba’s High School in Clydebank in the early 1980s, he famously augmented his passion for the traditional classics by introducing pupils to such esoteric modernism as electronic pop group Kraftwerk.

In 1976, Tumelty married Frances, known affectionately as Frankie, with whom he had three children: Paul, Catherine and Anthony. The couple separated and he later had twin sons, Adam and Andrew, during a lengthy relationship with journalist Alison Kerr.

Before joining the Herald, he honed his reviewing skills in the pages of the Glasgow-based Jewish Echo, and as Scottish music critic for the Daily Telegraph. His departure from the latter in 1983 led to my own entry into music journalism to replace him, and the start of a long professional and personal friendship.

After diagnosis in 2004 of a brain tumour that was to bar him from driving and trigger his ultimate decline in health, we shared many late-night homeward drives across the M8, putting the musical world to rights, but never discussing that evening’s concert. As critics of rival papers we had made a pact on that in the 1980s.

After retirement from his full-time post at The Herald in 2011, Tumelty continued to write a regular column and reviews, before a serious stroke in 2016 made it impossible for him to continue. Speaking to him a week before he died, I asked if he was listening to any music. He said: “Yes, I’ve got all the music I want to hear in my head.”

KEN WALTON