If you trod the streets of central Cardiff between the late 1990s and around 2007, you’ll have seen him. Slight of frame but big of voice, he was known simply by his distinctive moniker: Toy Mic Trev.

One minute he was there - belting out easy listening hits via his instantly recognisable plastic toy echo microphone from a passageway between Boots and JD Sports on Queen Street - the next he was gone.

All anyone knew was that Trev had disappeared, that much was obvious since he’d busked the same spot for years. Some said he’d retired, but many believed he had passed away, another character to add to local folklore as Cardiff moved on.

So, what happened to Toy Mic Trev?

The search for Toy Mic Trev

If he had gone for good, shuffling off to that great busking spot in the sky, where were the many stories of his passing? Surely he wouldn’t have left us without a mention? Where were the column inches? I could find none, though you could see his passing was considered fact among those who still discussed him on social media, years after he was last seen in the city.

A search for “Toy Mic Trev” on Google and its auto-predict gave me the following options: “toy mic trev cardiff”, “toy mic trev dead”, “cardiff toy mike trevor”.

Being one of the many fascinated by the legend of the little man who used to belt out the hits of Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and Tom Jones, I sporadically looked online for any clues on Trev’s whereabouts but, frustratingly, always came up blank.

(Image: Andrew Parry)

(Image: Andrew Parry)

Until last month, when everything changed. Looking through Facebook, I ended up in the Rhondda Our Valley group – a group with 30,000 members for all things happening in the valleys fawr and fach.

And in there was someone who believed they’d spotted Toy Mic Trev in Pontypridd. They were met with the oft-repeated belief that Trev was long gone. But I was stopped in my tracks by just a couple of replies from people saying that Trev was, in fact, very much alive and living in Pentre, near Treorchy.

Could this be it, the evidence that Toy Mic Trev was, in fact, still among us, hidden in plain sight in a small village towards the top of the Rhondda?

Things then started to move quickly.

I contacted those who said Trev was still around and had several exchanges of messages with a lovely lady called Anita. Trev was living in Pentre and I had an address. He’d been in the Valleys the entire time and was happy for me to go and visit.

I was delighted, but also a bit wary. Toy Mic Trev had been out of sight (if not out of mind) for so long, I was worried how he’d react. I was guessing he was now in his 70s - would he want to be disturbed? Maybe something life-changing and tragic had happened, maybe he was in ill health.

I spoke on the phone with a neighbour and friend, Ray, and I needn’t have worried. Not only was he expecting my call but both he and Trev were thrilled to hear from me.

The close-knit little community in Pentre knew all about the legend of Toy Mic Trev, and it transpired his neighbours in the sheltered housing complex, who looked out for each other, were also his biggest fans. Ray told me: “Forget Elvis, we’ve got Trev.”

A time and date was set, I put the phone down and punched the air with a delighted “Yes!” A few days later and I was heading up to Pentre, a village with one main road on which shops and takeaways are dotted among the rows of carefully ordered terraced houses.

I was with my video producer colleague, Andrew Parry, who, in a beautiful twist of fate, had interviewed Trev for a film called The Man with the Microphone when he was a student in 2005.

A knock on a door, a cheery “hello” from the other side, and there he was. Older, a little more wizened, but unmistakably Toy Mic Trev.

(Image: Andrew Parry)

Not having a mobile phone or even a landline, let alone access to the internet, Trevor Rees had no idea of the mythology that surrounded him, nor the cult following that had built up during the years he’d been absent from Cardiff city centre.

So I start off by showing him the endless threads on social media, where people described their memories. He breaks into a big grin and says: “Cor, I can hardly believe it. That’s amazing. All that’s about me? I’m astounded by the comments. I love that they’re saying those things. It’s amazing they have such fond memories.”

He seems genuinely taken aback. He knew that he was popular when he was busking - students would invite him to perform at uni parties, and he’d do it. But since hanging up that distinctive toy mic he had led a quiet life surrounded by his immediate circle of close friends.

He hasn’t even ventured back to Cardiff since his last performance on Queen Street, by his reckoning “more than 10 years ago.”

So why did he stop?

“It all got a little too much for me,” he says. “I loved doing it, but I had done it for a long time and it was starting to get a bit much. I was getting a bit worn out, a bit tired. I wasn’t ill or anything, but some days I would be stood there for eight hours. I was going back and fore, and it took its toll. I was getting a bit stressed.”

(Image: Andrew Parry)

(Image: Andrew Parry)

(Image: Andrew Parry)

I ask him if he missed those days.

“I do but I can’t do it any more,” he says. “It’s a lot of hustle and bustle every day. I still love singing and still got my voice but I’ve retired from that.

“I used to come down to Cardiff on the train. In the week it would be quite quiet but Friday and Saturday it was very busy, especially on a Saturday.

“One time I remember it was a rugby international day, and it was absolutely packed, the police had to move me for my protection, I earned a blooming fortune that day. I think I earned about £500. One fella even gave me £50 - I couldn’t believe it.”

A big grin breaks across his face when I first mention “Toy Mic Trev”, the man who was as identifiable on Queen Street as fellow Cardiff characters like Ninjah.

“Toy Mic Trev – that’s it, that was the nickname they used to call me. When you said Toy Mic Trev the memories came flooding back. I didn’t mind the name at all. I thought it was funny,” he says.

“I got interviewed quite a lot back then. Lots of people would stop to have a chat and I had my photo taken all the time. I used to enjoy it.”

So where did the mic come from – was it a ruse or a ploy on his part to perform with the toy mic that became his trademark?

“No not at all, I just needed a microphone, I saw it and as it had an echo I thought it would be perfect to amplify my voice,” he says. “The same with where I stood. It was lucky really. That spot had a brilliant echo, it was a good place to sing.”

My heart drops a little when he tells us that he no longer has the toy mic he used to perform with.

“I don’t have the original mic. I do have one but it’s not the one I used to sing with,” he says, reaching for a blue and yellow toy mic, slightly smaller than the one he used to use. Taking the mic in his hand he asks us if we would like a song and promptly bursts into a heartfelt rendition of Too Young by one of his heroes, Nat King Cole.

As the last note of the song hangs in the air, he looks at us, laughs and says “give us a few bob then!” cupping his hands like an upturned hat.

(Image: Andrew Parry)

(Image: Andrew Parry)

Such was the enigma of Toy Mic Trev back in the day he once featured in an exhibition of Cardiff greats, was a special guest on the Dick and Dom show and in 2001 opened up Radio 1’s One Big Weekend concerts in the city.

As well as students, he was also hugely popular with children. “Especially at Christmas time, when I would put my Santa hat on and sing Christmas songs,” he recalls. “The children loved that.”

Trevor Rees is originally from London - he grew up in Paddington, though all his relatives are Welsh. Music was always in the family.

“I’ve been singing since I was a boy,” he says. “When I was small I was in the church choir. I always loved singing. It’s in the blood.

“My mother could sing, my father was in the choir, my mother’s father used to compose music, when I was small I used to go to Saturday morning pictures and you’d have an organist that would pop up on stage and we’d all sing songs together.”

As he was older he graduated to performing in clubs around London.

“When I got to my late teens I had a lot of bookings in London in the clubs. That’s where it all started.

“I used to sing cabaret and social clubs. There used to be a Welsh club called the Gwalia Club where I used to sing.

“It was different days back then, you’d sing in the clubs, then it was cash in hand, no questions asked.”

Working by day as a kitchen fitter and handyman, music would take up his evenings and weekends. He had already been married and divorced when he arrived in Wales with his second wife, Mo, in the 1990s.

“I grew up in Paddington but all my family were Welsh and I’ve always felt Welsh,” he says. “Because I had relatives here and had been told there would be great opportunities to sing and busk, that’s how we came to Wales.”

Trev’s life, however, hasn’t been without its share of setbacks and sadness.

His twin brother passed away from dementia and his younger brother committed suicide. Losing Mo, the woman who was his rock and who would often accompany him on his busking trips to Cardiff, to cancer in 2011 hit him hard.

“I knew Mo before I got married the first time,” he says, showing me a picture of the love of his life. “After I was divorced from my first marriage, it was fate that brought us back together.

“I knew her as a friend in London then years later we met up again by chance and that was it.

“She would often come with me when I would busk and look after the money, so nobody tried to pinch it,” he smiles.

“She was a marvellous woman. She was Irish, from Dublin. I was with her 21 years. She’s been gone seven years now but I still miss her every day.

“When you’re young you think the next day will never come but now the days whizz by. When you’re getting older time flashes by.”

Showing us his many CDs, he tells us about the song that meant the most to him and his late wife.

“The Last Waltz – I love that song,” he beams. “It brings back so many memories.”

He breaks into song again, and you can’t help but fight back the tears.

(Image: Andrew Parry)

A committed Christian who still attends church once a week, Trev’s faith is evidently important to him. He didn’t have children, but with his close knit group of friends and a sister-in-law in nearby Tynewydd, he’s still very active and gets out and about every day.

As our conversation nears a close, he breaks off and confides: “I’m really enjoying this, you know.”

I tell him we didn’t know how he would react. “No, I’m loving it,” he grins.

For somebody who brought so much joy to so many people, it’s only right and proper that this lovely, humble man whose greatest pleasure in life was to sing for those who wanted to listen, gets the recognition he deserves.

He’s 80 this week, on Wednesday, March 14 – and there’s only one question I have to ask before we leave.

Would he ever contemplate a one-off, farewell appearance back on familiar ground in Cardiff?

“I love singing, don’t get me wrong, but busking can get a bit hectic,” he answers. “I’ve been in hospital and I had pneumonia. Otherwise I’m okay, but Cardiff is now such a busy place I would find it a bit difficult.”

I’d love to see the little man with the big voice once again grace the street where he made his name. Ten years after lots of people assumed he’d simply passed away, what a comeback that would be.

Email your memories of Toy Mic Trev to David Owens at david.owens@walesonline.co.uk