My Midsummer Morning

Becks

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Becks (#ulink_382a6118-c43d-5b46-9213-24d6bd673563)

YOU CAN BE SURE that an adventure plan is good if the idea makes you simultaneously excited and scared, and you are unsure whether it is brilliant or stupid. One flippant email had set something in motion. A dream became a decision. I was going to follow Laurie into Spain, and do it properly: with a violin and without money.

The morning after I heard from Becks I walked into a musical instrument shop for the first time in my life. I was not in the mood for borrowing a violin to try or searching for bargains on eBay. I needed to move swiftly and decisively before my unrealistic fit of enthusiasm faded. I glanced at gleaming saxophones and trumpets, then walked past the pianos and drums towards a rack of stringed instruments.

‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’

‘I’d like to buy a violin, please.’

‘Certainly, sir. We have a range of sizes and styles made from several different …’

I interrupted the shop assistant.

‘Which one’s the cheapest?’

He reached for a violin and presented it to me. It was the first time I had ever held one. I turned the instrument over in my hands a couple of times, feeling its weight and balance as though it was a cricket bat. It was lighter than I had imagined a violin would be. The assistant looked puzzled.

‘Perfect. I’ll take it.’

I had no idea what to do with my shiny new instrument. The thought of playing it for money was ludicrous. Nonetheless, I presumed it was a reasonable goal to learn a handful of songs before the summer. What should I choose? I allowed my mind to wander. ‘Thunder Road’, for sure. A Dylan song to appear bohemian, perhaps a jaunty flamenco tune or two. I’d learn them by rote and then turn up in Spain, ready to go. It would be tedious performing the same pieces over and over, but they should be enough to rouse a crowd and get them dancing in the streets. I pictured myself among spinning, smiling families and dark-eyed beautiful women or reclining in a mountain meadow with a feast spread before me – empanadas and jamón serrano and manchego cheese – and a bottle of Albariño wine chilling in the stream.

My first lesson changed everything.

I drove to my new teacher’s house, chewing my nails, frowning at the satnav, slowing for speed bumps on the housing estate, peering through the windscreen wipers. I parked the car and dodged puddles on the pavement, the violin dangling awkwardly at my side. I felt daft pretending to be a musician and glanced around in case anyone was watching. My tendency to worry what people think was a significant obstacle ahead of me. I found Becks’ house. It was an ordinary semi, the bins were full and the lawn needed mowing. I rang the bell.

When I had googled for violin teachers, it surprised me how many there were. Dozens of profile photos gazed out at me. How could I choose? There were plenty with glasses and neat hair: proper teachers, sensible and competent. Some were old and stern, others looked young, bright and earnest. Classical musicians, probably, teaching a bit on the side to get by. And then there was Becks.

Her photo showed a woman with waves of shoulder-length blonde hair standing ankle-deep in the ocean in a short black dress, clutching an electric violin. She had tattoos all down one arm and wore a skull ring. She glowered at the camera. Intrigued, I clicked her profile.

Background: world travels and touring with metal bands and rockers.

Musical influences: Iron Maiden, Slash, Prodigy, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich.

I picked Becks.

She opened the door with a smile.

‘G’day, Alastair. Come in!’

I took off my shoes and Becks closed the door behind me. I couldn’t get out of this now. I followed her into the living room. A wizard’s shield and sword hung on the wall. Large models of orcs and goblins stood to attention around the room. I tried not to stare. I suspected our lives were very different. But that suited me. I like people who walk an unusual path and have a different perspective. I wanted a teacher who would laugh at my incompetence, not frown. I needed someone who thought my plan was worth a try even if it was likely to fail. Someone who understood the restlessness.

‘Sit down,’ said Becks, offering the sofa. She had tattoos on her feet, and black nail polish.

I sat, grinned and set about explaining my idea. I told Becks about myself, about Laurie, those dusty white tracks, and how I needed to scare myself again, one last time.

‘So, basically, like, erm,’ I concluded, eloquently, ‘I want to spend a month hiking through Spain next summer, without any money. I’m going to busk, like Laurie. But it is only going to work if you can teach me in time. We’ve got seven months. What do you reckon? Are you up for it?’

Becks laughed, an excellent Australian cackle.

And then we began.

I knew that a violin sounds famously terrible in the hands of a beginner. I had not realised the screech actually sends shivers down your spine.

I was going to fucking starve in Spain.

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Music Lesson (#ulink_bf96e625-8cba-51b9-a068-8833d32fef5b)

BECKS GOT STARTED STRAIGHT away: pick up the violin, stick it under your chin and clamp it there. That’s the ridiculous way you have to hold it, like a balloon in a party game. Don’t worry; it’s not a Stradivarius. Relax! You won’t break it. Lightly balance the violin’s neck with your left thumb, keeping your fingers free to position on the strings.

Where should you put your fingers, you ask, for you’ve noticed the violin has no frets to guide you like a guitar? Well, that’s up to you: you must gauge the position, listen to the note and adjust your fingers accordingly. Hopefully, by the way, you tuned the strings: that’s your job, too.

Now, grasp the end of the bow, loosely, with the fingertips of your right hand. You use this awkward horsehair bow (correctly tensioned and lubricated) to produce the note. Draw the bow across the strings, neither too gently nor too hard. Perfectly straight. Not too fast, not too slow. You’ll get through these screeches, I promise. I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for this lesson. See you next week …

Oh, Laurie, why did you inflict the violin upon me? In the hands of someone who has dedicated decades of effort there are few more beautiful sounds. Listen to Yehudi Menuhin playing Elgar’s Violin Concerto or Bach’s Double Violin Concerto. How can such divinity flow from the same instrument with which I just made those first awful screeches? My spine shivers even writing these words! I did not have decades to learn. I had seven months.

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Progress (#ulink_65b9d53d-4ffd-5e92-9235-449fd88978b1)

I HAVE SPENT MY adult life cajoling myself to work hard and make the most of my potential and my opportunities. I have coached myself to behave more boldly and be more optimistic than my natural disposition. Adventure entails taking on things that scare you, risking failure and pain in pursuit of fulfilment. One reason I gravitated towards physical challenges in remote environments was to make me uncomfortable and fill me with doubt. You put a little grit into the oyster if you want a pearl.

But the more expeditions I went on (what Wilfred Thesiger described as ‘meaningless penances in the wilderness’), the more competent I became. My life of calculated risk began to lose the jolt of surprise that adventures were supposed to provide. This is the timeless addict’s problem, the slippery slope towards bigger doses and greater risks. I could keep doing the same stuff, but higher, further, faster – pushing my limits, pushing my luck – or else something needed to change.

Centuries ago, the word ‘adventure’ meant ‘to risk the loss of something’, ‘perilous undertakings’ and ‘a trial of one’s chances’. An adventurer was ‘one who plays at games of chance’. If I wanted to keep living adventurously, I had to veer from what I was good at and search again for uncertainty. Could something as gentle as learning a musical instrument count as adventure? I was beginning to think it might. The idea of busking terrified me. It was filled with risk, vulnerability, fear of failure and excitement. That was precisely what I wanted from adventure!

I quickly learned that the violin cannot be quickly learned. It is an idiotic instrument to use for enticing children to love music. It sounds hideous for a very long time. But Laurie crossed Spain with a violin, not something more beginner-friendly, so I was stuck with it.

I knuckled down to make the best of the time I had available, with a weekly lesson and an hour’s practice every evening. Laurie also practised daily, though without the luxury I enjoy of a shed beyond earshot of the family. He sometimes overheard complaints from downstairs of, ‘Oh Mum, does ’e ’ave to, ’e’s been on all night’. I briefly suspected foul play from my own family when my violin got stolen. Someone broke into my shed one night, ripping the door from its hinges. But while I never saw my electronics again, I did stumble upon the violin a few days later, propped up carefully at the foot of a tree behind my house. I pictured the burglar’s wife grimacing at his initial attempts, and him being sent back – in his mask and stripy jumper – to return the frightful instrument.

I was atrocious at the violin and needed to improve quickly if the plan was to become even vaguely viable. But I also discovered that repetitive rehearsal and incremental improvement had an allure of its own. Learning the violin demands deep concentration. As a compulsive multi-tasker, I found this forced focus calming. Late at night in my shed, my worries faded away for a while. I enjoyed the enforced humility of being a beginner and the mindful rhythm of committing to improvement.

I also glimpsed how enjoyable it must be to play music properly. Growing up, Laurie often played at dances in the village hall. He earned five shillings a night, plus lemonade and as many buns as he could scoff.

As adults, we rarely learn fresh skills or dare ourselves to change direction. We urge our children to be bold risk-takers, to show grit and open themselves to new experiences. We encourage them to try things like learning musical instruments. But us grown-ups? We hide behind the way we’ve always done things. We become so boring!

Adults are ashamed to be novices, and so we shy away from it. We draw comfort from being competent, even in narrow and unchanging niches. So we plateau and settle for the identity we have. We don’t stretch ourselves because that risks failure and pain. In fact, it guarantees it, for the pain of being stretched is how we grow. You are vulnerable when you begin something new because you are exposing your weaknesses. I had not been so incompetent for decades. I was surprised to realise that it delighted me.

My lessons with Becks moved from her home to a local school. I waited my turn outside her classroom, listening to the accomplished scales and arpeggios of the pupil before me. I browsed the noticeboards and wished I even knew what an arpeggio was. My nerves began when his lesson ended and the corridor fell quiet. The classroom door opened. I could not believe how young the boy was. His school uniform was far too large for him, and I had to resist the urge to accidentally cuff him round the ear as we crossed paths.

However, I savoured both the intrinsic difficulty of the skill and my faltering but undeniable progress from note to scale to ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’. My favourite part of the lessons was when Becks took my violin and demonstrated a piece of music. I loved the magic that burst out of my very own violin, to hear what it was capable of. I was improving, but I was also running out of time. There was too much to learn. Every time I felt I was progressing, the next skill reduced me to a shrieking wreck again. Plucking the strings, playing a smooth note, moving from one string to the next, playing long notes, playing short notes, reading music, double stops, trills, vibrato … each week’s homework was a dispiriting catastrophe!

My hopes for an eclectic playlist faded as Becks and I laboured through the tedious pages of A New Tune A Day for Violin (Book 1). There was not a jaunty flamenco in sight. My debut gig would be the Grade 1 Music Syllabus that thousands of kids across the land were also hacking their way through. Becks even invited me to take part in her pupils’ end-of-term concert at the local primary school. The thought of being twice the height of the rest of the ensemble – knees round my chin on a tiny school chair – and the audience of proud parents was beyond even my levels of voluntary humiliation. I mumbled excuses, and Becks did not ask again.