Born in Blackpool in 1973, Alfie Boe is the UK’s most popular tenor. He was raised in Fleetwood, Lancashire, and his voice was discovered when he was overheard singing while he was working in a car factory and encouraged to audition for an opera company. Since then, the Royal College of Music alumnus has led the cast of Les Misérables, won a Tony for his performance in Puccini’s La Bohème on Broadway, and achieved crossover success with his longtime collaborator Michael Ball. His new solo album, Open Arms – The Symphonic Songbook, is released on 27 October.
I remember the day this photo was taken vividly. I was three years old and doing my favourite thing – pretending to be my dad in that little red car. I’d spend hours parking, reversing and driving around. I even used to get out of the car like Dad, impersonating him as I locked the door and walked away.
As the youngest of nine, I was mostly left to my own devices, so I would get creative with my adventures. I’d pretend to ride a horse on a wall that looked like a cowboy saddle. I’d climb trees, build dens and tightrope the fences around the garden as if I was in the circus. I didn’t have video games, there was none of that. I made my own entertainment out of the natural world. My mother was a little bit older when she had me, so my sisters took care of me. They still do.
Having three brothers and five sisters shaped me massively. The house wasn’t big, but it felt huge. We had bunk beds and just one bathroom – one toilet! We didn’t even have a shower – just a head that plugged into the tap. It was simple living, but it gave me a lot of confidence. I was always around different characters and having to adapt to diverse social worlds. My parents’ friends would come over for dinner and we’d have to make polite conversation, but I’d also try to entertain them by doing funny walks or dances and pulling faces. It was a happy space. Lots of food, laughter and fun. I was exposed to so much eclectic music too: country, skiffle and big band. There was a swing record called Moonlight Serenade, and whenever that was put on we all knew the party was about to start.
I was never in any trouble as a boy. There was no goal to be controversial or go against my parents. Even as a teenager I never liked to cross my mother. She disciplined us well and told us what was right and wrong. I’d been known to pinch chocolate out of the chocolate box, but I tried to keep on the straight and narrow if I could.
That being said, I never got on with school. I wasn’t the popular kid in the class, or the guy everyone thought was cool. Singing was something that I enjoyed, but I didn’t know how good I was. My voice was very high as a boy, a soprano. It broke when I was 14, and I realised I had a quality to my voice that was unique. Before that point, I’d privately sung along to my dad’s Elvis and Pavarotti records. When I realised I had my own style, my passion grew.
I daydreamed about being a performer constantly. I would imagine playing the drums in an arena, with a band around me ripping it up. I got a pair of sticks and used my pillows as drums. One afternoon, my dad shouted up: “Alf, you’re making a lot of noise up there. Come down and have your dinner. But before that, go and shift your stuff from the living room.” I assumed I’d left my school bag out, so shouted “no worries” and ran downstairs to tidy it away. When I got there, in the middle of the front room was a drum kit that Dad had got me. It was an amazing feeling.
I knew I needed to find a trade, and couldn’t become a rock star without having a backup plan, so I decided to go into the motoring industry. I was terrible at it, and skived off as much as possible. One day, one of the customers heard me singing in the car factory and said: “You’ve got a good voice, you should go down to London and sing.” He told me about this company that was auditioning called D’Oyly Carte. That night I went for a singing lesson and my teacher told me they’d seen an ad for the same audition in a stage newspaper. I ran down to the newsagent to try to find it, but there wasn’t a copy anywhere. I kept trying, all over Fleetwood, until one tiny newsagent had a copy. I bought it for 25p and the newsagent said: “Nobody asks for this paper – we were going to discontinue it – so you’re in luck.” The newspaper opened perfectly on the advert and I considered it a sign. I took a day off work and came down to London to sing for them. I got a second audition – which didn’t go down well with my foreman – but I was accepted and they gave me a position in the company. That was 30 years ago and I haven’t stopped singing since.
When I started in the operatic world, I was surprised at how many people from regular walks of life were in the industry. There were police officers and teachers. Everyone had a regular upbringing so I didn’t feel out of place, and mostly I just felt such gratitude that I was doing the thing I wanted to do. It wasn’t about the wages, it was about getting up on stage and singing to a crowd. Making my little moment in the show the best I could make it. I wanted it to be perfect, to make sure the musical director was proud of me for fulfilling their instructions. I took it very seriously.
Since then, I’ve had some wonderful opportunities, such as singing on the balcony at Buckingham Palace for the Queen at her Diamond Jubilee. There have been more highs than lows, and while I’ve had successes, there have been failures – some albums haven’t done as well as others. But you learn from it and carry on. I don’t even regard my career as successful – I suppose I am worried about getting complacent. The main goal is to sing into my 80s, to continue entertaining crowds with whatever screechy sound I’m making when I’m old.
Dad only saw me in the D’Oyly Carte and the Royal College of Music. He passed away when I was 23, but he was there at my graduation. I remember looking into the audience while I was getting my certificate, and he had fallen fast asleep. We didn’t know, but it was because his brain tumour was affecting him. He didn’t last much longer. My mother is now 91 and heading towards the finishing line. She has dementia, so I’m not sure she knows who I am at the moment. But that is life. My parents were married for 47 years, and at some point they will be back together again.
When I look at this photo I see a boy who looked up to his dad and never wanted for anything. I am eternally grateful for my childhood, and still feel Dad with me every day. There are times where it’s as if he’s gone, like he’s disappeared. I worry, am I walking alone? But I know those are the times where he is closer than ever.
