In 1970 I abandoned a career in orchestral playing to become a teacher of music in schools. Although I am glad that I had the chance to play professionally, I am even more pleased that I pursued the profession for which I had been trained because interesting things were occurring in school music. As it happens, 1970 was also the year in which Sound and Silence by Paynter and Aston was published.

The 1970s might be described as the sparkling decade of music in schools but also the decade of turmoil. So many shibboleths were being cast aside: music appreciation, national songs, the theory of music, the history of music. And why were they being cast aside? They didn't work. They didn't engage pupils. At times, teachers of music wondered why they bothered. On the other hand, extracurricular music was flourishing, with county and national youth orchestras nurturing the musically brightest and best. This was reflected at local levels in burgeoning school orchestras, stemming from the free instrumental tuition provided by local education authorities. As a working music teacher, I tried to inject the excitement of extracurricular playing into classroom teaching, developing the so-called classroom orchestra, eventually publishing a range of compositions for use in timetabled lessons by the often neglected ‘non-specialist’ pupils.

With similar pupils in mind, John Paynter promoted composition, self-directed group work and personal expression in favour of the theoretical study of music. His powerful advocacy in Sound and Silence and in the Schools Council Project: Music in the Secondary School Curriculum that he led, filled me with admiration and despair. Was my work wasted because it relied to some extent on notation and traditional harmony and pulse? I was unsure, so I invited JP to visit my school (Ferndown Upper School in Dorset) to witness my pupils' achievements. Alas, the visit, though willingly agreed to by him, was cancelled because of ill health, but the link had been established, and over the years we became close friends.

As we got to know each other better, we visited each other's houses, relished trips to National Trust properties and sampled good food and drink. Conversation seemed often to revert to schools, to music and to broader aspects of education. We occasionally differed over the basics: John valued experiment, uncertainty and daring while I tended to be more cautious. Despite some success, a lot of success in JP's case, we both felt that our messages were not reaching fully those for whom it was intended, that our common aim for music in schools to be expressive, above all else, was met too seldom.

The friendship between us strengthened. John shared with me his profound grief at the death of his first wife, Elizabeth. We explored the philosophy that informed his compositions, his continued work in musical education and his religious beliefs that sometimes seemed to lie awkwardly alongside his detached, analytical thinking in other spheres. I was privileged to get to know his second wife, Joan, and to witness the happiness they shared in his final years.

Those in the music education business admired JP for his writing, his erudition and his musical integrity. I did too, but I also valued his reticence, his anxiety, his fear of rejection, his intellectual bravery and his warmth. Despite his innate tact, he did let rip with some frankness on occasion. I won't release the bombshell yet, but I think he hit the bull's-eye of the problem of music in schools through a remarkably simple observation – rather like the little child in the dénouement of The Emperor's New Clothes. Now, what could he possibly have said?