I wish I had a talent for music. A proper talent, not just
the piano grades that my father’s expense and my reluctance to learn got me.
That piano teacher was a horrid man. I spent years trying to wriggle out of
going to his gloomy, unwelcoming house. I feigned illness on Saturday mornings,
or stayed quiet and hoped my twelve o’clock lesson would be forgotten about but
my ploys never worked and I would have to endure a miserable hour with the
creep. And for all that, I still can’t play Fur Elise at the correct speed or
Chopin’s lovely waltzes without constantly checking my finger positions. No
confidence and certainly no natural talent, unlike some others in the family.
My son plays by ear. I was trying to get to grips with a
Mozart piece on the piano in my usual slow, clumpy way. He just comes along and
plays it, as easily as you like, because he knows the tune. I used to love
hearing his electric guitar or bass coming down from his attic room. One day,
he was belting out the intro to the Moody Blues ‘Story in Your Eyes’ and I
nearly burst into tears at how perfect it was. His college was doing an
entertainments evening and we, his parents, were invited to attend. We knew he
was taking part, but didn’t know what he would be doing. I was unwell, full of
a cold and full of appropriate medication to get me through the evening. I was
not going to miss this event. He took to the stage. He was on bass, playing
with a band. I recognised something he’d been practising at home. They were excellent, well-rehearsed and ‘gelled’
together. I was relaxed into ‘Proud Mum’ mode when the scene changed and the
spotlight was now on my son. The voice, I realised, was his, rocking 'Johnny B
Goode' like a professional and making the stage his own. He was amazing. I don’t
think I’d heard him sing since he was about seven. Here was a twenty-ish year
old rock star making me tear-up like his first nativity. The things you miss
when they grow up leave home and have kids. I think he’s still musical.
Our daughter is or was blessed with a wonderful, powerful
singing voice. She reduced me to tears with a soulful rendition of Katie Melua’s
‘Closest Thing to Crazy’ in the car one day, just out of the blue. She had the
same effect on her music teacher. She sang at home, so I heard her all the time
and helped her to choose songs suited to the strength of her voice. Seeing and
hearing her on stage held no surprises for me. I was ‘Proud Mum’ always, with
lots of support. I’m sure I glowed with pride when others told me how her
performance had blown them away. My response was always to say thank you and
that everyone taking part was brilliant. She went on to do performing arts at
college. These days, that fabulous voice is used for calling her children in
from the garden or shouting for them to wait when they run ahead of her. I must
ask her if she does much singing these days. What I’d give for her voice and a
band to accompany me!
My wish came true, except it was my voice and I wouldn’t
describe myself as a singer. I had a posh party for my sixtieth birthday a few
years ago. As it was the ‘party to end all parties’ it was held at one of
Blackpool’s finest hotels, I had live music from a local band and a nephew who
is a professional musician. I wasn’t expecting to join the band on stage, but
with some gentle persuasion (dragged up, no choice) and a compulsory funny hat,
I found myself making a guest appearance. I think I was trying to sing ‘Rock
the Casbah’ with the help of The Rattlers. I hope they were playing the same
song. Someone somewhere has a video that I’ve never seen. Destroy it, please.
My own poem,
The Ballad of a Lady Jazz Singer
Jazz tempo piano and a bluesy
guitar
It’s two a.m. in the Ritzy Bar.
Lorna sips gin through a long,
curly straw
As she sits and waits, one eye on
the door.
He said he’d be along to see her
set
But he’d promised before – never
made it yet.
Perched on a bar stool, cigarette
in hand,
Minutes away from her spot with
the band,
She leans a bit further back in
her seat
And her red stiletto taps out the
beat.
She’s laughing and swaying, about
to begin,
Adrenaline rush, or too much pink
gin.
She’s out of her mind, but not
really crazy.
Her vision is soft-focus, smoky
and hazy.
Tight black dress, short,
strapless and low,
Only put on for this kind of
show.
She clutches the mic stand,
there’s a hint of a smile
Then she bangs out a song in her
Joplin-esque style.
Heat and smoke hit hard on her
throat
But she stays on key and keeps
the right note.
Much clapping and cheering, the
Ritzy’s alive
Lorna kept singing ‘til quarter
to five
Then staggered out happy in the
dawning new day
With her new bass playing lover
leading the way.
