Pints, Pianos, and Welsh Consonants: Joining the Gwalia Male Choir

Back up North in Warrington, the only time you catch a mob of blokes roaring a chant in unison is freezing on the terraces watching The Wire. I never pictured myself spending a Wednesday night standing in a room full of Welshmen in London. I am not exactly from the Valleys. My only real connections to Wales are my friendships with two absolute legends. The first was the late, great drug smuggler Howard Marks. The second is Rob Spragg, the gravel-voiced frontman of Alabama 3. Both are proper, unapologetic Welshmen. Now, thanks to my mate Rod and his wife, I can add a third Welsh connection to that list. They dragged me down to the London Welsh Centre on Gray's Inn Road to check out the Gwalia Male Choir, and I actually said yes.

I did a bit of digging before hopping on the Tube to King's Cross. The Gwalia formed in 1967 and they carry serious pedigree. They have belted it out at the Royal Albert Hall and even performed at the closing ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics. Cerys Matthews from Catatonia acts as their official President. Reading that list made me sweat right through my shirt before I even pushed those heavy wooden doors open.

I have not sung a single note since doing three years of hard labour in the General Penitentiary in Jamaica. Back then, I provided backing vocals for the prison band, the Bloom of Light, alongside some of the most hardened men in Kingston. This London choir scene operates on a completely different frequency. I expected stiff collars, strict rules, and blokes reading complex musical scores under the baton of a terrifying maestro.

Instead, I met Wyn Hyland. Wyn is our Musical Director, and he ran me through a few quick scales to see exactly where my deep, untrained voice fit. I found a battered piano, the sharp smell of floor polish, and a welcoming group of ordinary men who just bloody love to sing.

They took one listen and shoved me straight into the Bass section. We provide the low, rumbling foundation at the back of the room. Someone handed me a sheet of music absolutely smothered in Welsh consonants. The fella next to me just laughed. He told me to mime the quiet parts until I matched the actual sounds. You listen, you blend in, and you figure it out as you go.

Here is the brilliant truth. You do not have to be born in Wales to join. You do not even need to know how to read sheet music. You just need a bit of bottle. The Gwalia lads are actively hunting for new members to bolster their ranks, and joining up is completely painless. You simply turn up on a Wednesday evening between 7pm and 9pm at 157-163 Gray's Inn Road. You do a quick vocal check with Wyn, grab some sheet music, and start singing.

Every Wednesday night now, I slam laptop shut, abandon my creative writing essays, and head into central London. It feels massively daunting but brilliantly normal. We sing for two hours, make plenty of mistakes, and march straight to the upstairs bar for a well-earned pint. Northern grit and a deep register work perfectly well here.

Realistically, it could take me months to learn the repertoire properly and actually get involved in the live gigs. I am taking it one week at a time. I spent decades putting on wild nights at the Mau Mau Bar in Notting Hill and managing acts like Pink Cigar and Steve Dior. I know exactly how the live music business works. Perhaps I will step up and become the choir's promoter in the future. Who knows. Right now, I am just a bloke trying to learn his lines.

The choir has a few massive gigs lined up very soon. They are gearing up for major St David's Day performances across London next month, including a service at the House of Commons. It will be a fair while before I stand up there with them. Once I actually learn the Welsh words and stop miming the difficult bits, I will post the exact dates and venues right here on the blog. Come down, buy a pint, and watch me try to remember the lyrics.

About the Author

Tommy Kennedy IV is a Warrington-born writer, former band manager, and survivor of the Jamaican penal system. After years of running wild nights at Notting Hill’s Mau Mau Bar and managing punk and rock acts across London, he traded the backstage chaos for a university degree in creative writing. He writes with raw honesty about working-class pride, resilience, and the humour found in hard times. You can usually find him hunting for a decent pint or trying to decipher Welsh sheet music in King's Cross.