Puff Daddy: a man, a clarinet and a midlife crisis
Isuppose that as midlife crises go, a sudden desire to learn the clarinet is not too terrible, except perhaps for those who have to hear it.
In the listings of a life unlived, the unlearnt woodwind stands rather low. And yet as my birthday hove into view, it was thoughts of this unfulfilled ambition that filtered through.
It could be worse. I could, for example, have gone for a sax, which would not only be a rather more tragic effort to recapture a lost youth, but also decidedly more unpleasant for my captive audience.
The saxophone has a demonstrable element of cool. Think sax and you think shades, languor, John Coltrane. Think clarinet and you think Acker Bilk, waistcoats and bowler hats. (Admittedly, I think Sidney Bechet or Artie Shaw but
I have to recognise that in the cool Olympics, clarinettists rarely make it past the qualifying rounds.)
The clarinet is not like the guitar, an instrument you casually bring along to social gatherings, barbecues or picnics, in the event that we have any of those again. No-one looks at a man with a clarinet and thinks “oh good, that ’ s the entertainment settled”. There are no famous images of people chilling out round a campfire while someone sits, like a snake charmer, playing Begin the Beguine.
To make matters worse for my family, they have been forced to buy the desired instrument as my birthday present, so they cannot complain during those early days when my performances may be less than virtuoso.
The precise length of this designated grace period is yet to be settled, but if my schoolboy efforts with the recorder are any indication, the early days may last some years. The dog fled at my first few notes, shortly followed by my wife who, apparently, needed to comfort her.
I do at least approach this blatant midlife moment with a sense of realism. Whatever my dreams, there is no day when I turn into Sidney Bechet. I cannot read music, am far from dexterous, have never shown signs of any latent musical talent. The idea of extemporising works only if I am trying to scare off mice. On the other hand, I’ve been watching YouTube and am confident I could master Stranger on the Shore within a fortnight.
Aware of my own limitations and the corner spot where the disused instrument might soon be gathering dust, I spared the African blackwood tree and opted for a plastic resin. Wood offers a superior sound but I decided to wait until I can be sure the tree will not have died in vain.
My first instinct was to teach myself. I always hated music lessons at school but I can’t help noticing a lot of silver bits whose functions are not immediately obvious, so if I don t want to spend the entire time playing Three Blind Mice, some instruction may prove useful. The decision here will define this midlife crisis. Is it a devil-may-care, seat-of-thepants version, or is it the sheet music, online lessons and howthe-hell-do-I-stop-my-thumbaching type of crisis?
The bigger unanswered question is whether this represents a one-off step or if it is a harbinger of bolder thrusts down life’s unsampled pathways? The failure to learn a musical instrument has long been one of my biggest reparable regrets, but could this be just the start? Is it a matter of time before I am diving into the mosh pit at Glastonbury, getting my navel pierced or searching out the lost tribes of the Amazon? Perhaps not. But I may trade in the now unneeded family saloon for something a bit snappier, though, admittedly, I was thinking more of a zippy hatchback than a Ferrari. Even here, it seems, we are talking clarinets rather than saxophones.
But at some point you must decide whether to live off your hump and slowly decline or to seek out new challenges. The clarinet, an instrument I loved since I first heard Bechet, is my foray into the new.
For now, however, I must content myself with the look of joy on the faces of my family as I tootle through the scales in search of a melody.
Stranger on the Shore, they’ll
soon wish I was.