​In many people’s minds, the names Tom Powell and Melingriffith Band had been pretty much synonymous for 45 years. A photo taken in 1928 clearly shows my paternal grandfather (another Tom) posing in that ensemble with his tuba, and there’s every reason to believe that he’d been a member for some time already. He was later joined by his brothers Jack and George, followed in 1936 by my father Arthur, and finally – after a high-school music master had thrust a baritone horn into my hands in 1963 – by me! Hardly surprising, then, that during the early years of my life the charisma of TJ Powell had pervaded the consciousness of the family. I’d witness Dad and Grampy disappearing to band practice twice a week, uniform buttons being burnished to perfection for every public appearance, and the name of Powell – the inspiration of it all – being spoken in reverential tones. It was at all times understood that to have such a luminary of the brass band world within our own sphere was an awesome privilege. TJ’s compositions and arrangements, not least his classic marches, commanded equal respect and admiration. For a precious year or so, I sat under his leadership myself, first as a complete novice and later whilst mastering the complexities of the trombone. These were inspirational and heart-warming times, because this celebrity was neither martinet nor prima donna, rather a genial soul with a rich gift for communicating deep ideas to those less blessed with musical awareness. Directions were clear and precise, delivered in a gentle Valleys lilt yet with an authoritative edge that cut through the bandroom like a razor. Players hung on every word.