'He's the coolest man on the planet and he calls me sir'

Name

Job English and drama teacher, formerly of Stocksbridge high school, Sheffield

Pupil, 1997-2002 Alex Turner, singer, Arctic Monkeys

I remember a parents' evening Mrs Turner came to. She sat down and said: "Oh, Mr Baker, I've had nothing but criticism all night, and everyone's told me to come and see you." And I said: "Mrs Turner, don't worry, he's going to be all right."

There are teachers who look at pupils, check their book to see how often they've handed homework in, and make judgments on that. With Alex, I knew this was someone unconventional, a little bit different, with a brightness and a cleverness that would serve him well. He had a very original sense of humour, as you'd expect, but he was always quite reserved. I remember giving a class a bollocking once, and he was sitting there like Gromit from Wallace and Gromit – mute, but with these incredibly expressive raised eyebrows, as if he was saying sarcastically: "Ooooh – we've really cocked it up now."

Alex was never particularly vocal, but you could sense when some pieces of poetry moved him. One day, I read out a John Cooper Clarke poem, I Wanna Be Yours. I thought I'd risk doing it in John Cooper Clarke's drawling style, and if the class thought I was a prat, sod it. Some years later, Alex interviewed John Cooper Clarke for Mojo, and he said he'd sat there in class that day, thinking: "Wow!" It's always nice when people remember you fondly, but to think you might have helped someone by passing on a love of language – that means a hell of a lot.

I can't point to any one piece of Alex's work and say that's where his talent was, mainly because he was incredibly laid-back, which is why poor Mrs Turner was tearing her hair out. But he was very good at drama – at projects requiring him to pretend he was in the Amazon jungle, or a shop steward in a town threatened by a bypass, daft stuff like that. I've got a video of the last day of term, with him in the role of a teacher who gets killed. He's standing there in a blue Stocksbridge polo shirt, drinking tea with poison in it. I'd make thousands from that, but it's staying firmly locked away.

I played in a staff band at an end-of-term gig. You can imagine what the kids thought: a 45-year-old geography teacher on guitar, a 35-year-old music teacher on drums, and me out front on vocals. When school started back after summer, there were all these kids who had formed new bands. I reckon they thought they couldn't look as idiotic as Mr Baker.

Later, when someone told me Alex had a band, I found their website and sent a message saying: "Well done lads, I always thought you'd do something creative." I got an email back that began: "Hello sir." Six weeks later, Alex got voted Coolest Man on the Planet by the NME, so ever since, I've started all my training sessions with the words: "The coolest man on the planet calls me sir."

They sent me two tickets to a gig at the Leadmill. I'll never forget that night; my 12-year-old son bouncing off to the front on a sea of bodies and me, a man in his early 40s, standing at the back with my pint shaking, and thinking: "God, that's Alex Turner."

'I told Leona's parents: She's bright – but she's only eight'

Name Janet Edwards

Job Vocal coach, London

Pupil, 1993-2003 Leona Lewis

In the 1990s, I was working as a vocal coach with the Royal Opera House and ENO, but also doing a massive amount of work with lead singers in West End musicals. I'm a bit of a rogue one, really – my work has always crossed the barriers into areas we're all meant to hate. Somehow, Leona's parents heard about me, and decided I was the person to coach their daughter. So I met them and said: "Well, Leona is obviously bright and enthusiastic, but she's only eight. She has to have fun with music first." So I recorded some little backing tracks for her on piano and said: "You go off, have fun with these, and maybe I'll see you in six months."

That's how it all started. Eventually, I saw her each term, at my place, and our work escalated. We did Schubert and Schumann, early Purcell and Haydn, moving on to pop, soul and R&B when she was a bit older; songs in those genres often have sexual lyrics, so you can't work on those with children. But by 13, 14, it was evident she would be a professional. Whatever genre I gave her, she applied herself. She was then what she remains now: a hard worker, not a pushy little girl.

I was aware she was going to try for The X Factor. Some parts of the industry already knew who she was. Her parents thought I'd hate the idea, but this was 2006 – the record industry was starting to suffer from the effects of the internet, so I said: "God, go for it." It was an extraordinary experience for her, but what the viewers were actually seeing was a proper musician, someone who knew how to deal with everything.

There are a lot of people out there who think they can achieve the same thing with no work at all, but they can't, which is why I've been working on training programmes to show young people what they need to do. Leona shows how good you can be with proper practice.

'The xx were proof that success can come through hard work'

Name Nicola Pocock

Job Music teacher, formerly of Elliott school, London

Pupils, 2000-2005 Romy Madley Croft, Oliver Sim, Jamie Smith, of the xx

I knew the xx were doing well, but I didn't know how well until recently. They're lovely people, but not the students I'd have expected to go so far so quickly, because they were so understated and modest at school. You'd have to drag out the fact that they were even playing gigs. They hadn't had the luxury of private lessons, like some other music pupils, but you could see they were good at putting ideas together and making a sound for themselves – possibly because they didn't have that conventional background.

For their GCSE, they all liked the 20th-century module, which included experimental and electronic music. I read Romy saying somewhere that she'd been inspired by minimalism. I remember her getting into that for her GCSE coursework. She was always inspired by pieces used as examples of a style, and liked taking them to new places.

I don't remember Oliver and Romy singing at all. They just didn't do it. As for Jamie, I remember thinking: "Oh gosh, he's not doing anything." Then he'd suddenly produce CDs of stuff he'd been doing at home, tracks on a sequencer, rather than the exercises in ternary form he was meant to do. I remember being quite relieved. He was obviously prolific.

They were clearly such good friends, too – Olly and Romy, Jamie and Baria (Qureshi, who left the band in November). There was a lovely atmosphere around them, which was another great thing about the school. You didn't have to fit into a group. You could form your own and be happy.

Having said that, Elliott was quite a challenging place to be in some ways: very diverse, a true comprehensive. We could introduce students to topics, and let them take them on in their own way. The xx are a good example of how those schools work. They show that success can be achieved through hard graft and encouragement, rather than masses of financial opportunity.

'Joanna would play harp among the redwood trees as the sun went down'

Name Diana Stork

Job Harp teacher, Lark in the Morning Folk Camp, Mendocino, California

Pupil, 1997 Joanna Newsom

Joanna stood out. Firstly, she was so beautiful. Then, when I asked her and her group about their backgrounds, and asked them to perform, she wanted to play something of her own. There followed a gorgeous, sophisticated piece on the harp, which made me realise that we didn't just have a performer here – we had a composer. I spent a lot of time during that camp one-to-one with her. That first meeting was very powerful.

I'd been interested in the harp music of Argentina and Venezuela since my 20s, music I came across quite by chance. It involves fiery, flying fingerwork and playing different rhythms with different hands – very different from the Celtic harp music that Joanna had learned. She became obsessed with it, just as I had. When we lined up for dinner every night, on the edge of this beautiful redwood forest, she'd still be up in the trees, tooling and tooling, the sun going down, trying to master it. I could tell this was an important shift for her playing. When she finally got it, she was delighted.

Her mother sent me a copy of her first CD, The Milk-Eyed Mender, saying Joanna wants you to have it, but please be warned about the vocals. I started listening properly and yes, her voice was jarring, but I was amazed at how beautiful her poetry was, and her playing, too – you can hear all those rhythms from the camp running through her work. She gave me a credit, which was very sweet of her.

I met her again a few years ago, backstage after a concert, when she was touring with a band, playing her second album, Ys. There were lots of hugs. I was delighted that there were people from camp still playing with her, too. I respect her so much. She's doing such incredible things: not selling out, just following her muse.

'Muse? I knew them when they were called Gothic Plague'



Name Jill Bird

Job Music teacher, formerly of Teignmouth community college, Devon

Pupils, 1990-1994 Matt Bellamy, Dom Howard, Chris Wolstenholme, of Muse

When I started at Teignmouth in the summer of 1990, Matt and Dom had been there six months. I remember hearing Matt playing guitar at an end-of-term concert, and thinking: "Bloody hell, he's only 12!" He played like a grown-up. By year nine, Chris had joined Matt and Dom in their band. At one point they were called Gothic Plague. Other kids would be having a laugh with their guitars, but they were so committed, so determined, so ready.

We had no money in the school, either. It was awful, really: one bass guitar working if we were lucky, a shoebox cassette player, a crappy drumkit, no decent rooms. But they didn't care. They'd just say: "Miss, can we rehearse, can we rehearse?" Luckily, the music department was in an old building 200 metres from the main school, so they could make as much noise as they wanted. That was one of those strange quirks of fate that changed things for them.

Matt and Dom were in an incredibly creative class. They all fed off each other. You only get that kind of thing once or twice in a lifetime. With a normal class, if I'd put something on that wasn't heavy metal, they'd moan. With them, I'd put on Chopin or Steve Reich, and they'd get into it. There was a classical oboist in the class, too; it all made for a really receptive atmosphere. I hear that openness in Muse's music still. I often think how different things could have been if they'd come along in a different year. The fact they had to go all the way to Exeter to see gigs was important, too: there was nothing on locally, so they had to make their own entertainment.

The boys were never satisfied with their compositions, though. Most kids at 14 or 15 get them in and think: "Thank God for that." Not with them; they always wanted to keep improving them, Chris particularly. What he was doing with his bass 16 years ago was genuinely pushing boundaries. I'd give him top marks and say: "Chris, this is already brilliant. I can't give you a better mark." He'd be: "But it's not right." To have such drive at that age was extraordinary.

I saved up for a multitrack tape recorder. It was for the school – but really it was for them, because I knew the equipment we had was limiting. I know I shouldn't have, but I let them take it home at weekends, too. I didn't know how it worked either, so we were learning together. That encouragement is so important for young people, and I still see that now at the Saturday Music School in Totnes where I work. It gives them such joy, something to strive for.

To see the boys become a huge band was really moving, especially when they came back for their homecoming gig in Teignmouth last autumn. I was one of the first people to buy tickets, but the boys got in touch, and said they had put some aside for me. In the town that night, I saw loads of kids I'd taught but hadn't seen for 10 years. They were saying: "Isn't it great, Miss, isn't it great?" It was and it still is.