About the Song

Matt Monro: The Working-Class Crooner Who Gave Britain Its Voice

When Matt Monro sings “Born Free”, his voice seems to float — pure, effortless, and impossibly smooth. Decades after his death, that same voice still feels like a perfectly focused camera lens: no static, no dust, no flaw. You wait for the imperfection.
It never comes.

Matt Monro is one of the most distinctive singers ever to emerge from the British pop scene of the early 1960s. In an age that would soon be defined by screaming guitars and smashed amplifiers, he stood almost defiantly for melody, clarity and class. By the time of his early death at 54, he had sold more than 23 million records worldwide and become a quiet giant of the “easy listening” world.

Yet his story did not begin in tuxedos and spotlights, but in post-war East London, with a boy called Terry Parsons who could easily have ended up on a factory line or driving a bus — and very nearly did.

From Shadwell to Stardom: A Working-Class Beginning

Matt Monro was born Terry Parsons in Shoreditch, London, on December 1, 1930, the youngest of five children. His childhood was marked by hardship. His father died when he was young, leaving his mother to survive on a small pension and whatever cleaning work she could find. Money was tight; the family’s prospects, modest.

There was little to suggest a showbusiness future. Terry left school at 14 and seemed destined for “mundane jobs,” as a narrator in the documentary put it. He worked as a driver and moved in a tough, working-class world where men were sharply dressed, hair slicked back, and ambition usually meant becoming a footballer, a criminal — or an entertainer.

Encouraged by friends (and a few pints), Terry began singing in local dance halls and pubs. One night, when people in the pub started shouting, “Sing us a song, Terry!”, his sister was so embarrassed she fled to the ladies’ room — only to hear a stunningly beautiful voice drifting through the walls. When she came back out, she realized it really was Terry.

From that moment, those who knew him understood: this wasn’t just a nice voice. This was a gift.

The Soldier Who Became a Radio Star

National Service took Terry Parsons far from London. Posted to Hong Kong with the Royal Engineers, he soon found a lucrative sideline: singing in services clubs and local talent competitions. He kept winning.

A Hong Kong radio station, Rediffusion, eventually gave him his own show, “Terry Parsons Sings.” By his own account, he became one of the highest-paid privates in the British Army, thanks to the extra fees, cigarettes, and prize money his singing brought in.

By the time he returned to Britain, Terry thought he was ready to “take the country by storm.” The country, however, took a little longer to notice.

The Singing Busman: From Polka Dots to a New Name

Back in London, Terry married, had a child, and took up long-distance lorry driving, later working as a bus driver to keep his family afloat. He continued singing with dance bands at night, recording a demo of “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” in Glasgow with a couple of musicians.

That demo changed his life.

It found its way into the hands of Winifred Atwell, one of the biggest stars in 1950s Britain and a major artist on the Decca label. Impressed, she secured him an audition — and a record deal.

She also gave him a new name.

Drawing from Australian journalist Matt White (the first to write about him) and her own father, Monroe Atwell, she blended the two into “Matt Monro.” In an era when working-class entertainers were expected to transform themselves, “Terry Parsons” sounded like a bus conductor from Parsons Green. “Matt Monro” sounded like a star.

Despite this, early releases didn’t make much impact. His smooth, melodic style was soon competing with the explosion of rock ’n’ roll: Elvis Presley, Tommy Steele, Cliff Richard and a new, loud teenage culture. For years, Matt scraped by with odd gigs, backing bands, and session work — even as he and his second wife, Mickie, struggled to support their young family.

To keep the lights on, he turned to a field where his perfect voice became legendary: advertising jingles. From toothpaste to cigarettes, Matt sang it all, earning the nickname “The King of the Jingles.”

Fred Flange and the Breakthrough Hit

Ironically, it was a Frank Sinatra parody that finally brought Matt Monro to the industry’s attention.

Producer George Martin — later of Beatles fame — needed a Sinatra-style vocal for a Peter Sellers comedy album, “Songs for Swingin’ Sellers.” Matt was asked to record a guide track of “You Keep Me Swingin’” in the style of Sinatra. He was furious at first; he wanted to be himself, not an impersonator. But he agreed.

The result was so good that Sellers refused to overdub it. The record was released with Matt’s voice credited under a pseudonym: “Fred Flange.” Critics and insiders buzzed: Who is Fred Flange?

George Martin soon signed Matt properly to Parlophone. This time, Matt would sing as himself.

The song that changed everything was “Portrait of My Love.” Elegant, romantic and beautifully phrased, it made the UK Top 10 and announced Matt Monro as a major new voice.

“No show would ever be complete without it,” he later said. “It was the first hit record I ever had.”

The Golden Voice of the 60s

With “Portrait of My Love”, “My Kind of Girl”, and other lush ballads, Matt Monro became one of Britain’s top male vocalists. His phrasing, diction, and tone drew comparisons to Sinatra — yet he remained distinctly himself. He sang with a cultivated, mid-Atlantic smoothness, but with a warmth and sincerity that never felt forced.

He soon became part of Britain’s new cultural export boom. If The Beatles gave the world British rock, Matt Monro gave it British sophistication.

In 1963, he was chosen to sing the title song for the James Bond film “From Russia with Love,” aligning him with the sleek, stylish image of 1960s Britain. He then became Hollywood’s go-to voice for big movie themes.

In 1966, he recorded what would become one of his signature songs: “Born Free.” Written by John Barry and Don Black for the film about Elsa the lioness, it won the Academy Award for Best Original Song and became one of Matt’s most enduring performances. Don Black remembered admiring Matt’s directness: he sang the song “the way it was written,” keeping it simple, clear and pure — and letting that extraordinary voice do the rest.

This Is the Life: Hollywood, Vegas and Beyond

Matt Monro’s success took him to Los Angeles, where he signed a million-dollar contract with Capitol Records — the same label that had lost Nat King Cole and Sinatra to other ventures. He suddenly found himself living the Hollywood life: recording late-night sessions, playing Vegas, appearing in major clubs, and fronting lush orchestras.

Friends recall him as a consummate professional in the studio — often nailing songs in a single take — and a natural entertainer on stage, mixing jokes and stories between songs. He adored the applause.

Yet, despite the glamour, he never entirely lost the boy from Shoreditch. He remained a working-class Londoner at heart, marveling at how far he’d come.

Changing Times: When Rhythm Took Over from Melody

As the 1960s gave way to the 1970s, popular taste shifted. Rock hardened, singer-songwriters rose, then punk exploded. Suddenly, you didn’t need a perfect voice — sometimes you didn’t need to sing in tune at all.

A man in a tuxedo, singing carefully crafted romantic ballads, began to look old-fashioned.

Matt Monro’s core audience stayed loyal, especially among older listeners and overseas fans, but he stopped accumulating new generations of British fans. Still, he refused to chase trends. Apart from the occasional topical song like “We’re Gonna Change the World”, he remained true to melody, romance and classic songwriting.

In Spanish-speaking countries, however, his popularity soared. He recorded entire albums in Spanish, becoming a cult figure in Latin America and Spain. Even though he barely spoke the language, audiences recognized the respect and emotion in his performances — and embraced him as one of their own.

In places like the Philippines, South America and Spain, he sometimes outsold rock bands and filled stadiums. While Britain occasionally took him for granted, the rest of the world did not.

Final Curtain: Illness and Farewell

By the early 1980s, after years of heavy smoking and drinking, Matt’s health began to fail. In 1984, he returned to London’s Barbican for what would be his final major performance. He was in pain, visibly unwell, but his singing was as magnificent as ever. At the end of the concert, he received a seven-minute standing ovation.

Shortly afterwards, he was diagnosed with liver cancer. A transplant was attempted but had to be abandoned when the cancer was found to be more widespread than expected. Even then, friends recall, he never mentally accepted defeat.

One day, he proudly showed a telegram he’d received in his hospital bed:

“I believe you’re not well. Get well soon.
From one boy singer to another.
Love, Francis Albert Sinatra.”

It thrilled him.

Five days later, on February 7, 1985, Matt Monro died in London. He was just 54.

The Voice That Won’t Fade

Twenty years after his passing — and even more so now — Matt Monro’s reputation has quietly grown. Reissues, documentaries and a renewed fascination with classic crooners have introduced his music to new listeners. His CDs sit alongside modern pop in shops from London to Shanghai. In some countries, his albums are shelved next to Britney Spears and Madonna — a strange, beautiful reminder of how far his voice traveled.

For those who lived through the 1960s, Matt Monro’s voice evokes a lost world of short hair, Italian suits, Lambrettas, and smoky nightclubs. For younger generations discovering him on streaming services and YouTube, he’s simply that astonishing singer whose notes never seem to waver, whose phrasing feels effortless, and whose ballads make time slow down.

In the end, he was always going to be a singer. The boy from Shoreditch who drove buses, sang jingles, and refused to give up became, almost quietly, one of the finest vocalists Britain ever produced.

And as long as songs like “Portrait of My Love,” “From Russia With Love,” “Walk Away,” and “Born Free” are heard,
Matt Monro will never truly leave the stage.

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