Musical notes in October.

I am not a musician, not in the broadest, or slightest sense of the word. 'We Three Kings' played hestitantly with one finger on the piano and a few fumbled tunes on the recorder are about as musical as I can boast. I failed miserably the audition to join the school choir in Y7 and have hidden my screechy off- key voice from the public ever since. My lovely Liverpudlian gran, however, could belt out a tune-Roll out the Barrel, Any Old Iron, My Old Man Said Follow the Van, Silent Night, Little Donkey and Abide with Me-on her old piano that stood proudly in the corner of her cramped and cosy sitting room, where I spent many hours of my childhood; no music sheets, just ancient work-worn fingers that flew over the yellowing keys. My Auntie Edith even cut a record when she was a young soprano in the late 40's, singing 'Ave Maria' on an old 78 rpm, which we played incessently on an old gramaphone player, long since sold and forgotten about.

And yet, I grew up with music all around me; carols round the piano with family friends on Christmas Eve; Glen Miller, Bing Crosby, Alma Cogan, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Music filled the house and the radiogram took pride of place, polished and revered in the family dining room. At the age of eleven, I bought my first single record for six shillings and eleven pennies; Little White Bull by Tommy Steel and I can still sing, well warble, unmusically, every sentimental word. Once I had a huge Phillips reel to reel tape recorder for my fifteenth birthday, I spent hours of time, when I should have been revising for 'O' levels, listening to endless tracks of the Beatles, Amen Corner, Small Faces, Billy J Kramer and the Monkeys- my heart still does a little flutter when I hear Davy Jones singing, 'I'm a Believer.......I couldn't leave her, if I tried'........aaaah, sigh, swoon!

I even dipped my adolescent pink-painted toes into the classical world, attending the local boys' school at lunchtimes to listen to an emergent ensemble. I'm not convinced it was just the music that tempted me to join this musical appreciation group, or whether the opportunity to see my heart-throb of the moment, Stephen Worthington that maybe had something to do with it. Whatever happened to Stephen Worthington, I wonder......?
My relationship with music continued into university with a trip to listen to the Halle Orchestra at the Library Theatre, Manchester, Friday night discos, an encounter with the Moody Blues and the ability to sing, badly, the entire score of 'Jesus Christ Superstar', much to the annoyance of my long-suffering room mate. It was during those years that I met the boys' father, Paul, who, co-incidentally, majored in music and drama. I think I lost my heart completely when he sang the opening verse of 'Once in Royal David's City, at the annual Christmas Ball. I can hear it still, and the same shiver runs down my spine.
Music, theatre, plays and concerts were a huge part of our early courtship and marriage. Paul taught a 'Music Appreciation' class at the local technical college and we spent the money he earned on wonderful evenings, lost in stage sets, beautiful ballets, full orchestra concerts, and string quartets. The irony was that Paul couldn't play an instrument for toffee; his mellow baritone voice was his instrument, and we were both determined that any children we might have would learn to play something, anything.
When Mark was six, we bought a pre-loved, seen-better-days intrument from The Piano Workshop at Newborough and found a piano teacher in Lichfield. Mark hated it, loathed it with all of his being, but he went, bribed with beans on toast at the Tudor Cafe before his lesson. He also practised every day, sitting ramrod straight on the wobbly piano stool, his long, slim fingers dancing out melodies with increasing confidence and competance.We had hoped that he would grow to love the intrument, want to play for pleasure and would delight others with his skills, just like his great- gran, but, alas, no way. He hated it with the same passion on the day he gave up, at the end of grade 5, as he had when he started. Oh, Mark, you were so good too!
Matt, of course, was different kettle of fish, his genes inherited from his father, and the love of music an intrinsic part of who he was. He loved the piano, playing by perfect pitch and pretending to read the music, fooling us completely! He learned flute, piano and violin and was equally good on all three. Even now he spends hours composing, remixing and over-laying piece after piece, but this time using a computer, a keyboard linked up, Dr Dre headphones and software too complicated to explain, mostly because I don't understand any of it! But it is good, very good and I listen to what he posts on Sound Cloud and shares on his Facebook page with pride, amazement and a wry smile.
It was Matt's suggestion that we went to a concert at the Symphony Hall in Birmingham for October's 21st of the month event. The theme was 'StarWars' and nothing could be more appropriate. Star Wars had featured in our lives almost as much as music, Matchbox cars and Lego, well, no-where near as much as Lego, to be honest, but up there, very much up there. We were the proud possessors of a Millenium Falcon, Starfighters, an X-Wing and figures by the hundreds; Storm Troopers, cp3o, Boba Fett, Princess Leia, Hans Solo, Luke Skywalker, Jabba the Hutt and a multitude of Ewoks. Oh and several-sized versions of Darth Vader and an impressive light sabre, or three! How I wish we had kept them, boxed them up and not sold them at a car-boot sale for peanuts. How foolish and naive we were!

As the auditorium filled, there was an air of anticipation and a rippling murmur of excitement; people took their seats, (some actually dressed in splendid Star Wars costumes), sending messages and photos to friends on Facebook, updating their status until the lights dimmed and the commanding conductor strode purposefully across the stage to warm applause. We settled back, and let the opening theme tune transport us to a distant galaxy, far, far away. Good music, when really listened too, without distractions, courses through one's senses, and, like a heartbeat, pulsates the notes, the cadenses, the consonances on their primative, fervant journey to the deepest soul.
The first violinist was an absolute delight to watch as she and bow became as one; the bow strokes, one second soaring, the other dipping deep down to the floor, producing the purest of sounds; her movements hypnotising in their lightness and precision. Other instruments; French Horns, sombre double bases, jaunty trumpets, drums and a haunting harp, and their respective owners, spoke their own individual language, as John Williams' music described, in magnificent detail, the intergalctic battle between good and evil, from 'The Imperial March to Leia's Theme, the jazzed up 'Cantana Band', 'The Forest Battle and the brilliant 'Battle of the Heroes'.

All overlain with a hazy mirage of a little boy practising his scales at a battered old piano, an X-Wing being flown through the air on its way to do battle, and an army of Storm Troopers marching from the doorway of the Millenium Falcon. My boy was his own Luke Skywalker, a force for good, his own maker of beautiful theme music in his own amazing story. And in a distant galaxy far, far away, his story plays on, just out of sight, just out of hearing, but always in tune with the rhythmic beating of my own heart. May the force be with you, Mark!