Piano man
A tuneless Dougal Paver speculates as to whether or not his family's musical gene has skipped a generation.
If she was disappointed she never showed it. Far too supportive for that. And in any event, I wasn't too troubled by it. But on reflection, I suspect my mum wanted me to have her musical gene.
Teenage fettling with chords like A, C and H gave me enough to play guitar in class Mass*. You'd be amazed how many hymns rely on them.
For a short while, therefore, my ma thought she'd cracked two great totems in one: music and God. Getting caught with John-Paul O'Callaghan supping an illicity-acquired bottle of altar wine by Father Flynn put the latter hope to bed. It wasn't long afterwards that the guitar bit the dust, too.
By contrast my two year old, Rory, suggests an early affiliation with his grandma. Harmonica, guitar, drums and piano: all thrashed, bashed and pummelled with gusto. Thing is, he actually looks - and occasionally sounds - like he knows what he's doing.
The usual wishful thinking of an eager parent, of course, but we're still buying him a piano on ebay. And boy, are they cheap. A hundred nicker for one of Rushworth's finest. Remarkable.
* I went to the same convent school as Cherie Blair. God stalked the corridors (or so they told us). It makes me laugh that it's called Sacred Heart Catholic College, like it could be any other denomination. Sacred Heart Methodist Institute? I hardly think so.
COMMENTS
No comments added for this entry.
POST A COMMENT
