I'm a frustrated musician. Aged 9 I spent 7 years trying to play the violin.
I had many violin teachers, they frequently washed their hands of me. One was called Mr Burns. He played lead in the Bristol Orchestra. I spent our lessons making him talk about himself and getting him to perform little tricks for me so as to avoid having to play "Row your boat" AGAIN out of tune.
It's not that I didn't practise. I would trudge to the music schools three times a week. I'd spend about 3 or 4 minutes struggling with "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and then forty more "improvising" FMP style. Hours would pass with me stuck in one of those cubicle-styled rooms busking in G. I wonder if the free crew would find value in my untamed exploits, whether I too might have carved a career like Derek Bailey. I'm kidding.
I was also, and this was after 5 or 6 years, completely confused by the printed score. I would mimic and guess. The notes looked faintly like chinese icons to me. On this principle I once wrote a song called "The Dancing Penguin" which I gave to my godfather. My parents, suddenly and unaccountably displaying an interest in me, their prodigy, asked him to perform it on the piano. Jesus Christ it was sheer goggledey-gook! Why put him on the spot? My godfather looked at it, took his specs off, ummed and aahed offered everyone a cup of tea, lead us into the garden....
I was such a persistent boil on the bum of the music school that they asked me to be in the Third Violins. I was quite nervous. Under no real impression of actually being able to play. I went to all the practises. Even at the concert we performed I was doing nothing but sawing backwards and forwards. Guessing the orchestra's general mood and tone. Crucially, and this was the key, making my bow go up and down in time with everyone else's. Drowned out in the din. Keeping it quiet. Turning my pages occasionally. Looking comitted.
After 7 years (and I'm not exagerating) I scraped my Grade One by three points and decided to call it a day. My violin, wrapped in half a red satin sahree which a Maharajah had rent in two and dramatically given to my Grandmother, sits in a drawer at home patiently. One day I've sworn to myself I'll persist. As soon as I've sound-proofed the basement.
Posted by Woebot at June 13, 2003 12:23 PM