guitar solo ·
16 July 04

I was probably about 7 years old. I don’t remember why I wanted to play guitar. Actually I tell a lie, I remember why. I wanted to play heavy metal, I wanted to practice so that I could one day be in Megadeth.

During these years, I listened to a wide range of music, from metal to dance, to trance to silly music. It was during these years I was listening to a wide palette of sounds.

The school wanted to have a musical production. It would be for Xmas, instead of having a typical play. It was an interesting idea, but they wanted the children to play instruments. There was a short, stumpy woman with large ginger curls who was leading the production. As I don’t remember her name, I’ll call her Ginger.

Ginger took us all to the hall, and had already laid out the instruments for us. These were your typical school instruments. You had the triangle, the cymbals, the flute, clarinet, small drums (tombas I think), the fish with grooves that you run a stick across and it makes that weird high to low, low to high sound. Someone always got the Xylophone, but no one could really play it. It was a case of bashing it with the two sticks, which had spongy, yet hard testicles at the end of each stick which you would use to hit the xylophone with.

There was a time when they would bring in “musicians” from Middle School, or High School to show us how instruments were played. I remember this one girl, I think she was pretty, who brought in a violin. I wasn’t sexually active at the time, hell I was only 7, even if I was horny, I couldn’t do anything about it. I was curious as hell though. In any case I liked what she was doing with her hand on the stick, thrusting it up and down; horse vibrating against horse hair to ring out the sound of hollow melancholy. I think everyone was impressed, because we hadn’t see a violin played in front of our eyes before, and we didn’t quite understand how they worked. Add to which, when we were told they used horse hair, I think everyone, like myself, imagined a load of bold horses, naked of any hair, crying their eyes out. Or perhaps they had wrenched out the hair. You see, I always looked for the blood, and I was told they cleaned anything from the hair, but there was never blood. Yes, I was moderately disappointed.

It was when Ginger took us to class that day, that she had brought her own guitar in. We hadn’t played with a guitar during music lesson, and we weren’t about to now. The plan was to play a tune to one of the hymns she would sing, while strumming her guitar. No one wanted the fucking triangle, everyone wanted something to smash. Cymbals, Xylophone, whatever. The kids that didn’t get an instrument would pity the guy or girl who got the triangle was easily forgotten in the whole chaos. When you’re 7, being in tune, and in sync is the least of your concerns.

I made my way to the Headmaster, and told him I didn’t know why I was here. I visited the Headmaster a lot

After the class, Ginger asked who was interested in learning the guitar. A lot of hands went up, including mine. Ginger said she could only take six at at time, as there weren’t enough guitars for everyone. We didn’t even know we had guitars, and were even more keen to learn now. Fortunately I was one of the initial six that got selected. The triumph beamed over my face, blinding the unsuccessful.

The selected few were taken to Class 7, the class I was in at the time, and Ginger opened the store room, which no one was allowed to go into, unless it was a teacher. There they were, the guitars. Acoustic guitars, in leather cases. She said we could pick whichever one we wanted. It was a stupid thing to say as they were all the bloody same anyway. Still, that didn’t stop the others fighting over who got which one. Hell they even wanted to swap with me, but I told them to get lost.

Ginger made us agree to practice playing guitar with her during our breaks and our lunch hour. We did, and we continued to do so. Then she told us after a few weeks in, this was all part of the Xmas thing for the school. The nerves shivered and quaked, and we all became concious of whether we would be good enough. I say we, but I mean them. I was the outsider, the trouble maker, the bad egg. Always and forever. Amen.

During the initial weeks, we learnt stuff like Greensleeves on guitar. It was pretty dull, but it was getting us there. We were also given hymns to practice. We would pick one or two and we would all practice those. But, the bad egg didn’t want to play ball. The bad egg would get up on the tables and strum like a lunatic. Sometimes I would straddle the guitar between my legs, and imagine myself on a cliff playing electric guitar. I got into trouble for it more than once.

Carrying that guitar was incredibly hard work. I was 7, pretty much pint sized in height. It was like carrying myself in a leather case. I would slug my way home, up the hills and along the flat plains, and then up the hill again, reaching the halfway point and getting home. We moved a few times during my time up North. In the North, a lot of housing was created on hills, covered in concrete, tarmac and so on. I would then have to take this bastard back to school in the mornings. It was a hellish walk. But I was sort of chuffed, as it became a status symbol of sorts. It made people think I was practicing at home. Which I was sometimes, but I really wanted it to so my friends would come over and say, “Cool. You got a guitar!”.
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They were also full sized guitars, which sort of concerned me, as we didn’t have straps, so the bloody thing would slide off our thigh when we posed to play. Everyone dropped their guitar at least once. One person was removed for dropping it in front of everyone. Another person got kicked out because I made up some story about she did with the guitar, and I got everyone else in on the lie. I was bored, so I had to do something. We were down to four people, and I was aware the other three did not trust me in the slightest. They were alway cautious about talking to me, in case I would twist things and get into trouble. It was amusing.

Then one day, one of the girls told on me. She told Ginger instead of playing hymns, I was playing rock noises, and going “wahhhhhh” and jumping on the tables with the guitar, and then jumping off them, dropping the guitar in the process. The teacher asked me to confirm this, and I denied it. I got away with it.

That was until she caught me. During one break, I didn’t bother to check if she was really gone. I always peered past the partition to see if she was in the area, and whether she would see me. This time I didn’t as I was over confident, and seriously cocky. I did my little routine. I was going for a while, until I jumped on to the ground, dropped the guitar, and heard, the often spoken words during school,

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

In retrospect, I think Ginger should not have used some an angry tone, and not used the word hell in a Catholic School. Actually, it was probably apt; I mean what the hell was I doing?

“Young man, you will no longer be allowed to play the guitar in this group. Go see the Headmaster at once!” announced Ginger, in front of the others.

I say we, but I mean them. I was the outsider, the trouble maker, the bad egg. Always and forever. Amen.

“Didn’t want to be your rubbish group anyway. ‘OOOOOOOO Kumbaya! My Lord’, yeah that’s really cool. Meh meh meh meh h.me” was my sympathetic reply.

“Miss will tell you him! He’s saying we’re rubbish!” cried one of the girls, almost in tears at my remarks.

“Right, straight to the Headmaster, NOW!“ Ginger reiterated to me.

I made my way to the Headmaster, and told him I didn’t know why I was here. I visited the Headmaster a lot. So much so, I think my mother was called in at least once every week. My work was always to the best standard, but my behaviour was that of a lunatic, and disruptive pupil. The only thing that bothered me was having the shit kicked out of me by mother. Eventually I knuckled down, and got on, and became one of the star pupils at that school. The price of success is having no fun.

When the remaining guitarists played their little performance, they were so out of sync and out of tune it was unbearable. I told them after, they were crap with out me, and the girl ran off to cry.

I didn’t watch the entire performance, however, as I told the teacher I didn’t feel well, so I was allowed to sit in the classroom, with my head on the table, eyes closed, thinking about touching the stars and drifting in space, with nothing to hold me.

I would drift and die in space I thought, and I would be happy.