He played on a set of drums he called the Ronson Kit, because of the big ashtray screwed to the top of the bass drum. Phil was highly critical of contemporary British drummers, especially of Peter Coleman, who played drums with Vic Lewis. He called Peter Bludgeonfoot on account of his heavy bass drum technique, although when I worked with Peter I didn't find him any heavier in that respect than anyone else.

When he played solo Phil pulled terrifying faces. In the throes of violent motion his head whipped from side to side as he bent low over the snare drum, snarling horribly and hitting everything in sight. With the terrific vibration it was only a matter of minutes before his drums began to fall apart.

There was a band session and the musicians were becoming increasingly peeved at the disorganisation and the fruitless passage of time. The conductor, sensing their mood, addressed a few soothing words.

"All right fellers, we'll get things moving soon."

"I hope so," spoke up Phil from the back. "I turn into a flippin' pumpkin at midnight."

'Dinner is served.' Phil Seamen, drummer, after hitting the gong in West Side Story

'Bring out your dead.' Phil Seamen, playing Stan Kenton's Somnambulism with the Tommy Sampson band

'I don't know about you, Mayor Ponsonby, but I had a ball.' Phil Seamen to Mayor of Manchester after the premier of West Side Story . . .

One Sunday morning, in Newcastle-upon-Tyne with Jack Parnell's band, Phil and I went out to buy newspapers. Just before we reached the shop we passed trombonist Mac Minshull standing outside reading a Sunday paper. He was holding it high up, opened out fully at arms' length, so he didn't see us.

As we passed by Phil took out his lighter and set fire to the paper. We walked on, and looked around as we reached the shop.

Mac was still holding the newspaper, pretending to read it as it slowly disintegrated, only dropping it at the last moment. He came back into the shop, shaking his head slowly. We all kept straight faces.

'Hey! Did you see that?' he said to the shopkeeper. 'My newspaper caught fire.'

After West Side Story had been on for some time Phil Seamen acquired a beautiful Alsatian dog. He and the pup loved each other so dearly that they couldn't bear to be parted even for a couple of hours and Phil brought him in to the pit one night to sit by him behind the drums.

He sat there quietly through the overture and for most of the following dance number. Things were going along nicely as usual and we were building up the usual powerful crescendo as the gangs leapt around on the stage up above. Then we reached the point when the timpani player had to come over and lay into a set of iron pipes that were suspended just by Phil's head.

The timpani player was a very small man, so the dog hadn't seen him before, hidden as he was by all the equipment. Happening to glance around he suddenly saw what looked like a strange man about to hit his dearly beloved over the head with a very wicked looking hammer. I should say his contribution to the following grand ensemble was a good treble-forte, but although it fit in admirably with the desperate din then reigning (indeed, I'm convinced that Bernstein would have written it into the score immediately had he heard it), the dear doggy wasn't watching his part and went on after we had all stopped. Until Phil managed to get both hands around his muzzle, that is.

All we got then was a strangled cursing sound coming out of his nose, but by then they had gone into dialogue on stage and the dog was more audible.

Lawrence Leonard, the conductor, had had the shock of his life and was peering around frantically. Not seeing anything in the gloom, he jotted a note and sent it around the band. It said, "Has anyone got an animal in the pit?" We passed it back to Phil, who took immediate offence and began to write a reply with a very scratchy pen, resting the paper on his snare drum with the snare on. The noise was incredible! Retch-retch-retch! Retcha retcharetch! Retch! "No-one's going to call my dog a bloody animal," he snarled. I could see Lawrence Leonard on his knees before us, hands clasped together as in prayer, his usual position when pleading for a double piano.

But Phil went on to the end of his letter and delivered it to Lawrence personally under the stage a few minutes later. They had a tremendous row there! Later on another note appeared, this time on the band room wall and more diplomatically worded. "In future, no livestock allowed in the pit during performances."