Virus Diary: Week 16

Of all the tasks added to our to-do list as lockdown took grip, the one in which we fell most short.

Fifteen weeks ago, or however long it was, as lockdown was announced and its grim implications began to dawn on us we made a to-do list and pinned it to the notice board on the kitchen wall. All those niggling little jobs we keep forgetting about, minor ambitions yet unrealised. Take up yoga, build a shed, fix things. Become a master jazz guitarist. Those sorts of things.

So we replaced the loose-hanging light in the six-year-old’s bedroom and no longer does his wee sister’s curtain hang a little lopsided. We cut the hedges, mowed the lawn and bought a new shed. We have a tent ready to put the kids off camping for life.

But sadly – and it rankles somewhat – we have yet to get that invite to play at the Carnegie Hall. Maybe it’s an administrative error?

Learn jazz guitar, it says, top of the list, bold as you like in black Sharpie, underlined twice and with a couple of little crotchets for added jazzy inspiration. We’d always liked the idea of playing slick riffs on a highly polished archtop, probably wearing neat vintage Ivy League gear and maybe even some form of a hat. The smart crowd in the smoky bar would, of course, nod sagely at our handiwork and maybe even click along enthusiastically. Nice. Except there are two major, or is it diminished 6th?, problems with learning to play jazz guitar. One is it’s really flickin’ difficult and another is that you have to listen to a lot of jazz to figure out what’s going on. And a lot of jazz is basically unlistenable. Sorry but it’s true. The only people who really enjoy the self-indulgent avant-garde stuff are the people playing it.

So we stuck to more traditional fare, strumming along vainly to Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis and John Coltrane. We tried to pick out Blue Bossa and and mimic Sidney Bechet’s clarinet.

We tried out some on the six-year-old, gamely keeping rhythm with Django Reinhardt’s gypsy jazz classic Minor Swing, to see what he thought.

“Um, I like it a bit,” he said politely. “But I don’t want to hear it.”

Much like our guitar playing. Much like a lot of jazz, we fear.