Continuing the Crook County News Since 1884

This Side of the Pond

Notes from an Uprooted Englishwoman

My high school has its fair share of famous alumni, from politicians and scientists to a professional tennis player who is still the only British woman to have won all four Grand Slams. In my own time there, I shared classroom space with two future actresses; a well known lyric soprano; and virtuoso cellist Natalie Clein.

My school has particular success when it comes to music because of its strong all-round program, but it was never going to be the road to riches for me. While my talented classmates were mastering Chopin, I was still hooting out a stilted version of “Oh When the Saints Go Marching In” on my recorder after an invigorating half hour of going round the room to check everyone could produce a “C”.

They could, because it’s almost impossible not to be able to produce a “C” on a recorder as you’ve only got to remember where to put one finger. What none of us plebs in the ordinary music classes could do, however, was create the kind of music anyone would be interested to listen to.

As our local kids go back to school, I must resign myself to another year of feeling jealous of Crook County’s own excellent music programs, which, from all I’ve witnessed, are also a good deal more fun than my own experience.

There were no parade marches for me, no saving up for exciting trips abroad, nor the joy of singing recognizable modern songs and creating entire sets with which to thrill audiences that are not just made up of dutiful parents with glue-on smiles.

That’s not to say I didn’t try. I very much enjoyed music, but I didn’t have the kind of innate talent that was going to make the instructors sit up and take notice.

First I tried out the flute, seduced by its romantic nature, but it was not to be. It appeared to me at the tender age of 11 that the role of flautists is to float delicately around the stage resembling shimmering fairies, but I soon found out that it takes a surprising amount of breath to force any sound out.

When it came time for my first (and only) lesson, I took a deep breath, blew as hard as I could and promptly fainted. My teacher suggested it was perhaps not the right fit for my lung power.

My second idea was the piano, which really should have been my first idea. When I managed to stick with it for longer than a week, my parents agreed to purchase an old piano.

It was never meant to be a concert-ready instrument, largely because it was unlikely I’d stick with the daily practice for long enough to put on a concert, and indeed it wasn’t. Though it was tuned when it first arrived, that piano had an unusual habit of wandering off key within six minutes of being played.

Looking back, I admire the resilience of my parents, who insisted I must practice for 20 minutes each day. That meant they had to listen to 20 minutes of music-making that was not palatable for several reasons.

Not only did they have to put up with the same few notes of the same song for days in a row until I mastered it, I was still stuck with “Oh When the Saints Go Marching In”. Things had not improved for me as far as creating music anyone would want to listen to.

Not only that, they were listening to labored versions of terrible songs on a piano that was always just slightly off key. The kind of off key that you can ignore for a few minutes, but will then grate on your nerves until you can’t think about anything other than slamming the piano lid on your child’s fingers.

They did not do this, not even once, for which I think they each deserve a medal. Not even when I discovered the pedals, which my childish ear felt made everything sound fancier, and so were used at all times and for all notes, no matter the intent of the composer.

I vividly recall the one time my parents thought they might be able to get some mileage out of all that torture. My aunt and uncle were extremely proud of my cousin’s progress in learning to play the violin and, like every good parental unit, were keen to boast of his prowess to anyone who cared to listen.

My own mum and dad, also like any good parental unit, weren’t having it. When we stayed with them for Christmas, it wasn’t long before the competitive comments began.

All of which culminated in the suggestion that my cousin and I should pick a Christmas carol and duet for the family. I can’t remember which carol was decided upon, only that I didn’t know any carols yet and I wasn’t good at sight reading.

What followed was akin to the worst noise you’ve ever heard in your life. The slow plinking as I poked out notes, one by excruciating one, pressing down on the pedals in case it made things any better, was accompanied by the elongated screech of a violin when it’s held by a reluctant seven-year-old who didn’t want to do this in the first place.

There our parents sat, trapped by their own folly. None of them could let their smiles slip for fear their rivals would see the pain in their eyes. The first to ask us to please, for the love of all things holy, stop making that awful racket, would also be the first to admit that their offspring was not the next Mozart after all.

I kept playing my piano for several more years than expected, but I never did find any fame. I resigned myself to taking pride in the accomplishments of my schoolmates, who really were musical prodigies.

And so, as school begins again, I look forward to continuing my personal tradition. Next time the band marches by, look for me on the sidewalk, grinning from ear to ear, enjoying the reflected glory as well as the lovely sound. On the other hand, if you ever catch me gazing at a piano, you might want to pull out some earplugs.