Chapter 38

You’ve either got it or you haven’t.

‘I’m just a singer in a rock n’ roll band’      Moody Blues 1972  (I wish... )

‘Pick up my guitar and play’                       The Who 1971                 (Dream on… )

Here’s my nightmare scenario.  I’m at a little theatre enjoying a show, or standing in a crowd watching a street performer, when the comedian, actor or busker casts their eyes around the audience and declares the need for a volunteer.  I’ll desperately try to avoid eye contact but feel trapped, convinced I’ll be zeroed in on by their radar detector that’s tuned to spot an unwilling, hapless victim in the crowd.

Some people relish being the centre of attention, happy to act the fool, milk the laughs, unconcerned about embarrassment.  Often they can be as quick-witted as the performer and fall immediately into an impromptu double-act.  Not me!  I’d be a blushing, mumbling idiot, ripe for humiliation.

It’s the same if someone mentions Karaoke.  It’s the last thing on earth I’d want to do, even after several drinks.  I know my singing voice is a warbling, croaking, out-of-tune disaster zone even before I acknowledge that, without my specs, I can’t read the words on the screen, or I can only recall the first verse and chorus.

I am 100% not cut out for a life on the stage.  Yet there are plenty of others who have benefited from a different stirring of their genetic soup.  For some, as soon as they can toddle across a room, they know how to entertain.  By the time they’re in juniors they know they can sing and it’s almost guaranteed that by secondary school they’ll be eye-catchingly comfortable on a dance floor.  They’re the ones who seem to be able to sense ‘the rhythm’ and translate it into a coordinated movement of their body to match the music.  It does seem to be something that comes naturally to many people with a Celtic or African heritage; the Irish, for example, always seem up for a song or dance.  At least there are a few of my friends with an English connection who fall into this lucky troupe, Ade, Anna and Naomi spring to mind.  These abilities are with them for life, so much so that they don’t even have to think about them, hardly needing to practise, just knowing they can turn on their talent at a moment’s notice.  Meanwhile, I’ll lurk in the shadows waiting for a rock classic or ceilidh to coincide with a crowded dance floor to guarantee anonymity.  It’s the same with those individuals who can tell jokes, instantly able to find something from their mental archive that matches (usually) the moment and able to deliver the punch line or one-liner with the timing (Boom! Boom!) required.  I can never remember a joke or funny story quickly enough and the moment will invariably have passed.

This ability marks the difference between their natural talent and my attempts to cross the void, most of which have resulted in a frustrated failure, or have occasionally left me stranded in a no-man’s-land of partial success that’s just about competent enough to feel personally satisfied but nowhere near competent enough to share publicly, even amongst friends.  Let’s briefly consider some of my other pet subjects, the ones I know I’ll never master, and yet the ones I know that, amongst our friends, are some who possess natural, Jedi-like abilities.

So let’s recap where I came in with this line of thinking: I wish I could sing.  I’d happily trade off any ambition as an actor just to be able to accompany myself on the guitar (more on this in a moment) and not have Sue need to turn up the radio in the other room.  If I ever made it into rock band, I’d have to be the quiet guy laying down the rhythm from the shadows rather than venturing anywhere near a mic’ at the front, unless of course the music was so screamingly loud or raucous that no-one could distinguish between out-of-tune vocals and poorly executed chords.  But just look at Ade or Mike Radford, the perfect examples of those that ‘have it’.  Quite why they ended up as a solicitors and material planners when they should clearly have found careers on the stage or in a band, is an interesting conundrum.  Drawing from a wealth of songs tucked away in their brains, they can instantly launch into pitch-perfect renditions for any occasion, often accompanied by matching moves, facial gestures and links to another related tune or story.

Staying with a musical theme leads nicely to another great divide.  Why is it that some kids could pick up an instrument and play with seemingly no effort?  From recorder to violin and straight onto piano whilst hardly missing a crochet, they were the ones who, even if they did often get a kick-start from supportive parents, seemed born to be concert performers.  Completely at home with the language of treble clefs, quavers, sharps and flats and able to pronounce ‘arpeggio’ and ‘staccato’ correctly whilst still at junior school, they operated on a different dimension and, just for good measure, they could usually slot into a lead role in the school choir if so inclined.

Their numbers were supplemented, usually from the final years at secondary school or some arty college, as a further bunch of fledgling musicians joined the ranks.  These individuals possessed a talent, hidden to their parents and music teachers, but which had been prised out by inspirational rock bands, guitar gods, folk heroes and singer-songwriters.  Fuelled by a focused determination, they would lock themselves away in a bedroom with a cheap guitar, a tinny drum-kit, or a second-hand sax and practise till their fingers bled or their parents screamed at them to keep the noise down.  A few months later, they would emerge from their cocoon and the next thing you knew they’d be fronting a band at someone’s 18th birthday bash.  Somehow, often without the help of a teacher, they’d absorbed the language and could translate it into tuneful action, even if they were musically illiterate and couldn’t read or write it properly.  These were the characters who, when part of the group sitting around a campfire, or chilling at someone’s house, could pick up an old guitar or slide onto the piano stool and instantly lead an impromptu request-show sing-along.  Jerry and Carol Arnold fall comfortably into this category.  When I first met him back in 1983, he was drumming in a punk band and, as well as being my ‘landlord’ for a year, he was my intro’ ticket to the pub venue scene in Bristol.  Roll on through the decades and he and Carol have morphed effortlessly between rock bands, jazz bands, choirs, blues bands and much else, happily switching between drums, sax, flute and no doubt a stack of other instruments as well.  Malc Woodrow is cut from the same cloth, modestly claiming to be just an average flute player in a folkie-jazz combo but clearly one look into his ‘music lounge’ tells another story.

Meanwhile the other dreamers, myself included, had fallen by the wayside.  The mysterious relationship between keys, chords, notes and beats was unfathomable.  The ability to perform separate actions with either hand became an elusive goal that resulted in an uncoordinated disaster after just a few bars.  Trying to add a voice to the mix just made things worse and eventually, lacking the dedication and sufficient talent, we all gave up and our instruments were sold on to the latest aspiring Clapton or Dylan.  I’ve tried a comeback since my retirement.  With the help of You Tube and downloaded ‘idiot guides’ and using the simplest chord arrangements for songs I actually made a bit of progress during Lockdown.  It’s hardly been a breakthrough; I can just about entertain myself but the Yamaha steel-string sitting forlornly in the corner of the lounge is more ornament than instrument and deserves a better home, another testament to my musical ability residing firmly in the ‘not got it’ camp.

Okay forget music.  Let’s look at another topic.

There were always one or two of them in my classes at school; yours too I expect.  The kids whose margins and exercise books were covered in fantastic drawings of cartoon characters, elaborate, intricate patterns, mythical creatures, and teacher caricatures.  During the frequent spells of boredom as the delights of Keats or Dickens wafted over my head and the option of watching the 4th form girls’ netball lesson was ruled out by a failure to grab a window seat, I’d be forced to revert to a bit of doodling.  Nothing too adventurous for me; a few circles and squiggles, maybe a couple of legs or wings; add a smile and a bit of curly hair: perhaps a spider or rocket if I was feeling particularly distracted.  But a glance across to ‘Huzzy’ Husband’s desk would reveal artwork of gothic proportion spreading across the page, whilst a glimpse of Alison Booth's decorated pencil case gave a clue that she wasn’t just academically gifted.  It was hardly a surprise that these artistically endowed kids dumped domestic science or metalwork at the first chance.

I quite enjoyed art; it was more up my street than woodwork, and not just because Ma and Pa Cox, our teachers, were easy-going liberals who’d quite happily fill their laid-back lessons with a discussion that swung seamlessly from the merits of Van Gogh and Harold Wilson to the shortcomings of Caravaggio and or Ted Heath.  My paintings, however, were never destined to adorn the art room, let alone hang on the walls of the school corridors or entrance foyer.  These were reserved for the kids who could effortlessly create landscapes, portraits and abstracts; somehow they understood palette, perspective and proportion, whilst my creations just never looked quite right.  I managed a pleasing B grade at O-level: my still-life of a bucket and spade was fairly average but the portrait I produced based on a photo of Kiki Dee, torn out the NME, was pretty good.  Until the last minute it was a toss-up between pictures of Kiki, Linda Ronstadt and Stevie Nicks but Kiki won out as Ma Cox advised at a prelim’ stage that there was more ‘contrast’ in the photo that I could ‘bring out’ in my piece.  I’ll declare now, nearly half-a-century later, that I received a tiny bit of help; it was a relatively ‘open’ exam spread across an entire afternoon and Ma couldn’t resist borrowing my paint brush and making a couple of final short swishes that transformed Kiki’s eyes from rather bland dots into something more appealing and sensuous.

That painting marked the peak of my artistic career and I’ve never been tempted since, quite happy to accept that a few adult friends have the DNA for this sort of thing that I’ve missed out on.  For example brother-in-law Nick and friend Chris Williams can produce very decent water colours; Chris once opted to sit by the river one day and knock out a pretty good rendition of the Bridge of Orchy whilst the rest of us were up on a nearby Munro.  Paul Fricker can pick up a fallen branch whilst out walking and a week later, it’s been carved into an elegant, stout walking stick, complete with an exquisite bird of prey handle.  Jo P loves the local art scene and their house is covered in dramatic mountain and seascape oil paintings.  Over the last decade, she’s picked up the brush herself and now has the confidence to exhibit what, in my opinion, are seriously impressive pictures.  And then there’s another star, Nikki Stone, who can effortlessly reproduce fantastic wildlife images using a whole range of different mediums.  And I can’t leave out my niece, Katya, who, in just a couple of years since her graduation, has found a lucrative outlet for her colourful, lively, murals and paintings as councils in the north of England look to brighten up and renovate the old parts of town.

Sadly, it’s not just an artistic gene that I’m missing; I’ve also been short-changed on the technical side.  This manifests itself in my possession of a very limited range of DIY skills and the sure-fire knowledge that if I attempt anything more complicated than an IKEA wardrobe assembly pack, replacing a radiator, or hanging a picture, it will end in a disaster.  I might just get away with replacing a washer on a tap or, before it was frowned upon, adding a spur and associated plug socket to a ring main circuit, but given the choice I’d rather ‘get a man in’.  Luckily Sue’s always been pretty handy at decorating and, in the early days, her dad, John, was able and willing to get stuck in and help with the bigger jobs that involved carpentry, lifting floor boards and so on. I’d just be there to offer encouragement, a spare pair of hands, and keep the tea and biscuits topped up.  Even more luckily, in recent years we’ve been able to afford real trades people, which has come with the benefit of assured quality and safety. 

Hardly surprisingly, this DIY ‘no-go zone’ reads across into more mechanical matters.  Lifting the bonnet of a car is like staring into a black hole.  The garage mechanic has got me all-ends-up and I end up just smiling and nodding wisely as he (still invariably a ‘he’) explains why I need to add a few more hundred quid onto my credit card.  Dad tried to enlighten me on the wonders of the internal combustion engine when I started driving the Maxi but he’d have had much the same luck explaining about the nuclear reactors on the navy subs project he was involved with.  My mates weren’t much help either; as a group we didn’t really go in for hanging around cars, admiring hub caps or comparing horse-powers.  At best we’d wash the family car or pump up the tyres in anticipation of a pound or two to spend on the latest Roxy Music or Deep Purple album or a trip to the flicks.  And you’d think with all cycling I do I might have at least grasped a few fundamentals of bike maintenance.  Sadly not.  I can manage a puncture but anything that requires fiddling with the gears or brakes invariably ends up worse than before I touched it.  Imagine how secretly relieved I am when there’s someone along for the ride who actually ‘gets it’ and knows what they’re doing.  In fact I actually believe these rare individuals, Jerry being a classic example, enjoy nothing better than fixing a broken chain in the pouring rain half-way down some muddy mountainside in the Lake District.

At least I do seem to be able to hold my own in a few areas.  But even in one of my stronger suits, physical activities, there are a few things where I’m left floundering in the wake of those who can do it without apparently trying.  For example, let’s look at some really basic ‘gymnastics’ and follow these through into diving off the spring board.  At school I was fine with rope climbing, balancing on the beam or doing pull-ups and could manage a decent forward roll.  The problems started when a head-stand was required, let alone a hand-stand or cartwheel.  It wasn't about strength, it was the connection between balance and controlling my legs when they were the wrong way up that was the issue.  Whilst most of the girls seemingly had no such handicaps, I was madly frustrated I couldn’t achieve any sort of prowess.  It seems that whenever I’m upside down or off the ground, I lose my sense of spatial awareness.  The springboard at the pool provided the perfect test bed.  A few friends could execute somersaults, perfect pikes and twists and enter the water with barely a splash.  My efforts usually resulted in an embarrassing belly-flop, a stinging back-landing or my splayed legs being anything but vertical.  After a few embarrassing attempts, I’d give up and revert to a more successful formula, ‘the bomb,’ until the pool attendant spoilt the fun with a warning blast of his whistle.

And here’s a final one.  As an outdoorsy sort of person, I’ve spent a little bit of time over the years scrambling up rock faces or crewing on the odd sailing trip.  There’s one thing connects these two activities and rather annoyingly I seem to have a blind spot for it.  I just can’t tie knots.   Even the most basic bowline becomes a dangerous tangle and it’s no good just reciting the little rhymes that are supposed to act as a teaching aid, ’Round the back twice and through the hole’ or whatever because it just doesn’t compute.  If I stick at it for a few minutes, repetition eventually will deliver a short-lived breakthrough, but sadly it won’t last.  By the following day I’m probably back to point zero and the two ends of the rope will slide apart at the first optimistic tug.  Consequently I’ve never really dared trust myself to tie onto a rope and climb up a crag or merrily abseil down a face, or, God forbid, belay a climbing partner without somebody more expert, who, rather like a magician or anti-Houdini, can tie complicated knots blindfolded, doing a double-check.  Even if I’m given a fairly mundane job on a yacht, I’ll be nervously awaiting instructions from the skipper with a sense of dread.  ‘When we tack just wind in that sheet (rope) and tie it off!’ conjures up a vision of me being responsible for the mainsail or spinnaker flying free in the breeze.  And the situation won’t be helped by the high likelihood that I’ve already started to turn a pale shade of seasick-green.

Actually, when I stop and think about all the things in which I’ve been genetically short-changed, I can’t help but feel a little surprised I’ve managed to make it through life at all.  Clearly one attribute I must have discovered along the way is an ability to acquire, persuade or encourage enough friends or colleagues to sympathetically, or perhaps despairingly, step in to help.  Something else I’ve come to recognise: it’s no use feeling resentful of, or discouraged by, those talented individuals who don’t even appear to need to try to reach standards I can only dream of.  Admiration and appreciation trumps jealously and scorn any day.   It’s taken a while but I’ve finally come to accept that all people, me included, ‘have either got it or they haven’t’ and I just need to be grateful for the things I do seem to ‘have got’.

Image removed: A bowline knot – looks simple doesn’t it?