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Becks
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Becks (#ulink_382a6118-c43d-5b46-9213-24d6bd673563)
YOU CAN BE SURE that an adventure plan is good if the idea makes you simultaneously excited and scared, and you are unsure whether it is brilliant or stupid. One flippant email had set something in motion. A dream became a decision. I was going to follow Laurie into Spain, and do it properly: with a violin and without money.
The morning after I heard from Becks I walked into a musical instrument shop for the first time in my life. I was not in the mood for borrowing a violin to try or searching for bargains on eBay. I needed to move swiftly and decisively before my unrealistic fit of enthusiasm faded. I glanced at gleaming saxophones and trumpets, then walked past the pianos and drums towards a rack of stringed instruments.
‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’
‘I’d like to buy a violin, please.’
‘Certainly, sir. We have a range of sizes and styles made from several different …’
I interrupted the shop assistant.
‘Which one’s the cheapest?’
He reached for a violin and presented it to me. It was the first time I had ever held one. I turned the instrument over in my hands a couple of times, feeling its weight and balance as though it was a cricket bat. It was lighter than I had imagined a violin would be. The assistant looked puzzled.
‘Perfect. I’ll take it.’
I had no idea what to do with my shiny new instrument. The thought of playing it for money was ludicrous. Nonetheless, I presumed it was a reasonable goal to learn a handful of songs before the summer. What should I choose? I allowed my mind to wander. ‘Thunder Road’, for sure. A Dylan song to appear bohemian, perhaps a jaunty flamenco tune or two. I’d learn them by rote and then turn up in Spain, ready to go. It would be tedious performing the same pieces over and over, but they should be enough to rouse a crowd and get them dancing in the streets. I pictured myself among spinning, smiling families and dark-eyed beautiful women or reclining in a mountain meadow with a feast spread before me – empanadas and jamón serrano and manchego cheese – and a bottle of Albariño wine chilling in the stream.
My first lesson changed everything.
I drove to my new teacher’s house, chewing my nails, frowning at the satnav, slowing for speed bumps on the housing estate, peering through the windscreen wipers. I parked the car and dodged puddles on the pavement, the violin dangling awkwardly at my side. I felt daft pretending to be a musician and glanced around in case anyone was watching. My tendency to worry what people think was a significant obstacle ahead of me. I found Becks’ house. It was an ordinary semi, the bins were full and the lawn needed mowing. I rang the bell.
When I had googled for violin teachers, it surprised me how many there were. Dozens of profile photos gazed out at me. How could I choose? There were plenty with glasses and neat hair: proper teachers, sensible and competent. Some were old and stern, others looked young, bright and earnest. Classical musicians, probably, teaching a bit on the side to get by. And then there was Becks.
Her photo showed a woman with waves of shoulder-length blonde hair standing ankle-deep in the ocean in a short black dress, clutching an electric violin. She had tattoos all down one arm and wore a skull ring. She glowered at the camera. Intrigued, I clicked her profile.
Background: world travels and touring with metal bands and rockers.
Musical influences: Iron Maiden, Slash, Prodigy, Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich.
I picked Becks.
She opened the door with a smile.
‘G’day, Alastair. Come in!’
I took off my shoes and Becks closed the door behind me. I couldn’t get out of this now. I followed her into the living room. A wizard’s shield and sword hung on the wall. Large models of orcs and goblins stood to attention around the room. I tried not to stare. I suspected our lives were very different. But that suited me. I like people who walk an unusual path and have a different perspective. I wanted a teacher who would laugh at my incompetence, not frown. I needed someone who thought my plan was worth a try even if it was likely to fail. Someone who understood the restlessness.
‘Sit down,’ said Becks, offering the sofa. She had tattoos on her feet, and black nail polish.
I sat, grinned and set about explaining my idea. I told Becks about myself, about Laurie, those dusty white tracks, and how I needed to scare myself again, one last time.
‘So, basically, like, erm,’ I concluded, eloquently, ‘I want to spend a month hiking through Spain next summer, without any money. I’m going to busk, like Laurie. But it is only going to work if you can teach me in time. We’ve got seven months. What do you reckon? Are you up for it?’
Becks laughed, an excellent Australian cackle.
And then we began.
I knew that a violin sounds famously terrible in the hands of a beginner. I had not realised the screech actually sends shivers down your spine.
I was going to fucking starve in Spain.
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Music Lesson (#ulink_bf96e625-8cba-51b9-a068-8833d32fef5b)
BECKS GOT STARTED STRAIGHT away: pick up the violin, stick it under your chin and clamp it there. That’s the ridiculous way you have to hold it, like a balloon in a party game. Don’t worry; it’s not a Stradivarius. Relax! You won’t break it. Lightly balance the violin’s neck with your left thumb, keeping your fingers free to position on the strings.
Where should you put your fingers, you ask, for you’ve noticed the violin has no frets to guide you like a guitar? Well, that’s up to you: you must gauge the position, listen to the note and adjust your fingers accordingly. Hopefully, by the way, you tuned the strings: that’s your job, too.
Now, grasp the end of the bow, loosely, with the fingertips of your right hand. You use this awkward horsehair bow (correctly tensioned and lubricated) to produce the note. Draw the bow across the strings, neither too gently nor too hard. Perfectly straight. Not too fast, not too slow. You’ll get through these screeches, I promise. I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for this lesson. See you next week …
Oh, Laurie, why did you inflict the violin upon me? In the hands of someone who has dedicated decades of effort there are few more beautiful sounds. Listen to Yehudi Menuhin playing Elgar’s Violin Concerto or Bach’s Double Violin Concerto. How can such divinity flow from the same instrument with which I just made those first awful screeches? My spine shivers even writing these words! I did not have decades to learn. I had seven months.
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Progress (#ulink_65b9d53d-4ffd-5e92-9235-449fd88978b1)
I HAVE SPENT MY adult life cajoling myself to work hard and make the most of my potential and my opportunities. I have coached myself to behave more boldly and be more optimistic than my natural disposition. Adventure entails taking on things that scare you, risking failure and pain in pursuit of fulfilment. One reason I gravitated towards physical challenges in remote environments was to make me uncomfortable and fill me with doubt. You put a little grit into the oyster if you want a pearl.
But the more expeditions I went on (what Wilfred Thesiger described as ‘meaningless penances in the wilderness’), the more competent I became. My life of calculated risk began to lose the jolt of surprise that adventures were supposed to provide. This is the timeless addict’s problem, the slippery slope towards bigger doses and greater risks. I could keep doing the same stuff, but higher, further, faster – pushing my limits, pushing my luck – or else something needed to change.
Centuries ago, the word ‘adventure’ meant ‘to risk the loss of something’, ‘perilous undertakings’ and ‘a trial of one’s chances’. An adventurer was ‘one who plays at games of chance’. If I wanted to keep living adventurously, I had to veer from what I was good at and search again for uncertainty. Could something as gentle as learning a musical instrument count as adventure? I was beginning to think it might. The idea of busking terrified me. It was filled with risk, vulnerability, fear of failure and excitement. That was precisely what I wanted from adventure!
I quickly learned that the violin cannot be quickly learned. It is an idiotic instrument to use for enticing children to love music. It sounds hideous for a very long time. But Laurie crossed Spain with a violin, not something more beginner-friendly, so I was stuck with it.
I knuckled down to make the best of the time I had available, with a weekly lesson and an hour’s practice every evening. Laurie also practised daily, though without the luxury I enjoy of a shed beyond earshot of the family. He sometimes overheard complaints from downstairs of, ‘Oh Mum, does ’e ’ave to, ’e’s been on all night’. I briefly suspected foul play from my own family when my violin got stolen. Someone broke into my shed one night, ripping the door from its hinges. But while I never saw my electronics again, I did stumble upon the violin a few days later, propped up carefully at the foot of a tree behind my house. I pictured the burglar’s wife grimacing at his initial attempts, and him being sent back – in his mask and stripy jumper – to return the frightful instrument.
I was atrocious at the violin and needed to improve quickly if the plan was to become even vaguely viable. But I also discovered that repetitive rehearsal and incremental improvement had an allure of its own. Learning the violin demands deep concentration. As a compulsive multi-tasker, I found this forced focus calming. Late at night in my shed, my worries faded away for a while. I enjoyed the enforced humility of being a beginner and the mindful rhythm of committing to improvement.
I also glimpsed how enjoyable it must be to play music properly. Growing up, Laurie often played at dances in the village hall. He earned five shillings a night, plus lemonade and as many buns as he could scoff.
As adults, we rarely learn fresh skills or dare ourselves to change direction. We urge our children to be bold risk-takers, to show grit and open themselves to new experiences. We encourage them to try things like learning musical instruments. But us grown-ups? We hide behind the way we’ve always done things. We become so boring!
Adults are ashamed to be novices, and so we shy away from it. We draw comfort from being competent, even in narrow and unchanging niches. So we plateau and settle for the identity we have. We don’t stretch ourselves because that risks failure and pain. In fact, it guarantees it, for the pain of being stretched is how we grow. You are vulnerable when you begin something new because you are exposing your weaknesses. I had not been so incompetent for decades. I was surprised to realise that it delighted me.
My lessons with Becks moved from her home to a local school. I waited my turn outside her classroom, listening to the accomplished scales and arpeggios of the pupil before me. I browsed the noticeboards and wished I even knew what an arpeggio was. My nerves began when his lesson ended and the corridor fell quiet. The classroom door opened. I could not believe how young the boy was. His school uniform was far too large for him, and I had to resist the urge to accidentally cuff him round the ear as we crossed paths.
However, I savoured both the intrinsic difficulty of the skill and my faltering but undeniable progress from note to scale to ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’. My favourite part of the lessons was when Becks took my violin and demonstrated a piece of music. I loved the magic that burst out of my very own violin, to hear what it was capable of. I was improving, but I was also running out of time. There was too much to learn. Every time I felt I was progressing, the next skill reduced me to a shrieking wreck again. Plucking the strings, playing a smooth note, moving from one string to the next, playing long notes, playing short notes, reading music, double stops, trills, vibrato … each week’s homework was a dispiriting catastrophe!
My hopes for an eclectic playlist faded as Becks and I laboured through the tedious pages of A New Tune A Day for Violin (Book 1). There was not a jaunty flamenco in sight. My debut gig would be the Grade 1 Music Syllabus that thousands of kids across the land were also hacking their way through. Becks even invited me to take part in her pupils’ end-of-term concert at the local primary school. The thought of being twice the height of the rest of the ensemble – knees round my chin on a tiny school chair – and the audience of proud parents was beyond even my levels of voluntary humiliation. I mumbled excuses, and Becks did not ask again.
Becks did a passable job of pretending she enjoyed my playing, fixing her face in to a pleasant expression of encouragement. Violin teachers must be a stoical, masochistic species. When you’re going through hell, keep smiling. Only occasionally did she wince or let her mask slip. One lesson Becks set a metronome to accompany me. I sawed away at the strings, nodding to the beat. It was working! I was playing in time!
In my excitement, I fished for a compliment, ‘Is this right?’
‘Erm …’
Despite my dedication through winter and spring, as the days lengthened I could still play only a handful of tunes. Dylan was out of the question. In fact, busking was out of the question. Only Becks had ever listened to me play, and I had paid her for the privilege. There was no chance I could earn a living from busking.
As my planned departure day approached, I acknowledged, reluctantly, that trying to survive in Spain with no money was unrealistic. Everyone had been telling me this for months. The only sensible option was to postpone the trip for a year until I became competent, or at least travel with my own money and just do a bit of busking for a lark.
But fortunately in life, the only sensible option is not the only option.
I booked my ticket to Spain, and I began.
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Into Spain (#ulink_502b8ac2-f6ac-544b-b0c8-8ed12edd9c51)
I SAT ON THE harbour wall, gritty and warm, with my face tilted to the sun. Sea salt and engine diesel in the air. Halyards clanking and gulls circling. Back in 1935, Laurie’s ship docked in Vigo, a quiet corner of northwest Spain. Now I was here, too, at last. It was the first meeting of our paths since I had drunk in Laurie’s old village pub, the Woolpack, while dreaming of this trip. I envied how vivid this arrival must have been for Laurie, setting eyes on abroad for the very first time. ‘I landed in a town submerged by wet green sunlight and smelling of the waste of the sea. People lay sleeping in doorways, or sprawled on the ground, like bodies washed up by the tide.’
Here we go again, I thought: the start of an adventure. It had been far too long since the last one. I remembered the familiar belly-mix of nerves, melancholy and anticipation. After all the turmoil I had been through, I was jubilant that this was actually happening. I had thought these days were over. Laurie exclaimed, almost in disbelief, ‘I was in Spain, and the new life beginning. I had a few shillings in my pocket and no return ticket; I had a knapsack, blanket, spare shirt, and a fiddle, and enough words to ask for a glass of water.’ I had less money than Laurie, but more Spanish.
I picked up my rucksack and set off to explore Vigo. Graceful buildings flanked broad shopping streets, wrought-iron balconies on every storey. Meandering narrow alleys were hewn from rougher blocks of stone. A pail of water sloshed like mercury across the cobbles from a café opening for business, and I breathed the scent of geraniums. The waiter placed ashtrays on the wine barrels used as tables. Even after 20 years of travelling, I still cherish first mornings in a new place when every detail is fresh. Laurie described it as the ‘most vivid time of my life, the most free, sunlit. I remember thinking, I can go where I wish, I’m so packed with time and freedom.’
It was mid-morning, but Spain still slept. The streets were so quiet that I said ‘Buenos días’ to each person I passed. I climbed up to Vigo’s old fortress and peered down from its mossy walls. Terracotta rooftops jumbled higgle-piggle down to the harbour. Wooded hills curved green embracing arms around the blue bay, sprinkled with islands. Earlier, boatloads of carefree beach-goers had departed for those islands, laden with picnic baskets. I had watched Africans trying to flog them sun hats, their wares spread on tarpaulins for ease of fleeing should the police appear. I sympathised with the urgency of their hustle, the immigrant’s need to be enterprising. Like them, I had no money. I had been hard up before, but I’d never had nothing until today. Unlike the hat sellers, however, I was voluntarily penniless, so any comparison was absurd. I had a passport and permission to be here. At sunrise I had piled the last of my money into a small pyramid of coins on a park bench and walked away. I wished that I had bought a sun hat instead.
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First Play (#ulink_78bdd24f-d4b5-58ce-aaa7-aecc2044b951)
IT WAS TIME TO busk for the very first time. Throughout the morning I had hatched escape plans, justified delaying tactics and concocted excuses for compromise. But such self-destruction was not necessary. Not yet. For I had not failed. I merely had not begun. How our minds magnify that little step which separates where we are from where we wish to be! Leaping from a high rock into an enticing river; telling the boss you quit; speaking to the attractive stranger who keeps catching your eye: just one scary step gets us where we most want to be. But too often we flinch and build our own barriers instead.
The sun was high as I stooped to drink and splash my face in the fountain. The bleary drunks prodded each other and watched with bloodshot eyes. The fountain commemorated the Reconquista of 1809 when Vigo became the first town in Spain to expel Napoleon’s army. Trees lined the square and on three sides there were stately nineteenth-century buildings. The fourth side lay open, leading towards a shopping street. The pensioners on the bench shuffled expectantly and the man in the Panama hat mopped his brow. I mumbled an apology for the disappointment that awaited them. I flicked through my music sheets to find the tune I was most comfortable with, a nostalgic old folk tune called ‘Long, Long Ago’.I pegged it to the stand and took a deep breath. Then I began to play.
The ghoulish screech ripped the silence and my daydreams apart. Nails clawing down a blackboard. Shivers up the spine. I had hoped, somehow, that I might have become miraculously skilful since the last time I had practised. In fact, I was even worse than usual. My finger positions were all wrong and the bow trembled across the strings. Everyone turned in surprise. Screech, screech, screech! A sweat of shame and self-ridicule trickled down my face. Each note sounded jagged and raw. I lost my place in the music and had to begin again.
I threw my head back, screwed up my face and growled angrily. There was such a gulf between my ambition and my ability. The plan was doomed before it even began. I was an idiot. I had been too flippant, too idealistic. What a mess! I dearly wished I was not here.
It consoled me in my cowardice knowing that Laurie had felt much the same way before his initial attempt at busking. He was a proficient violinist, but he was young and beginning his first adventure. So perhaps we were about equal in our nerves. ‘It was now or never. I must face it now, or pack up and go back home,’ wrote Laurie. ‘The first notes I played were loud and raw, like a hoarse declaration of protest … To my surprise, I was neither arrested nor told to shut up. Indeed, nobody took any notice at all.’
I stood in the middle of the Praza da Princesa playing ‘Long, Long Ago’ over and over. Beads of sweat ran down my flank and into my trousers. There was no crowd of fawning fans. No cascade of coins. Not even a round of applause. Just indifferent Spaniards accelerating past. I had known this would happen. But I had not known how it would feel.
The timid averted their gaze and lengthened their stride. The stoical reacted by not reacting. A businessman glanced up from his phone but didn’t flatter me with a second look. A young woman in a leather jacket wrinkled her nose as though I stank. I was a visitor in her town behaving like a tedious fool.
I faced two options. Both were simple but neither was easy. I could stop playing, melt back into the streets and regain my blissful anonymity. It was so tempting. Or I could stick it out here in the plaza, daring myself to keep failing. If I quit now, the whole journey was over before I had walked a single step. I did not know how to catch rabbits, and I am more accomplished at foraging in supermarkets than forests. I had to earn money. I could not hide behind any excuses. I had no Plan B.
But what I did have was clarity. I had only one job to do. And I must do it with all my might. It was not easy, but it was simple. My legs shook. Half my head begged me to stop. But the rest of me, fists clenched, knuckles white, said no. Just finish this song. You can always ride one more mile, row one more minute, walk one more step, play one more song.
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Hope (#ulink_0b886fc8-3ee9-5bae-a0e9-2a07a384008d)
AN EMBARRASSED LAUGH BURST from my mouth after yet another tune fizzled out. But this time a man on the bench responded with a small smile. A smile! My busking had earned something at last. This was progress. But it was only a matter of time before people tired of me and the police ushered me away, so I turned to my best song. ‘Guantanamera’ was my jolliest piece and – being Cuban – vaguely close to Spanish music.
‘Guantanamera,’ I explained, hesitantly, to the bench, after stuttering through the closing notes.
‘Más o menos, more or less,’ said my ally, kindly. He was a mild-looking gentleman of about 60, resting a pile of heavy supermarket bags at his feet.
The men next to him continued to ignore me, stony-faced. In their situation, I would have done the same. Make eye contact with a crap foreign busker and he’s certainly not going to leave you in peace. Better to keep your head down and your money in your pocket.
Back in England, Becks used to dish out musical advice above and beyond trying to coax me into playing some of the right notes in approximately the right order. One afternoon she described what to do ‘once you’ve got a crowd gathered’. I raised an eyebrow at her sassy optimism.
‘They will all be clapping along to this,’ she proclaimed as I lumbered through a ponderous nursery rhyme. ‘Spaniards are very rhythmical.’
I resisted asking whether she had ever been to Spain, and sighed. ‘I honestly don’t think a crowd is going to gather to listen to this.’
There was no solace in proving myself right.
My stomach rumbled but I had not earned a crust. It was time for what is always a good plan when you are vulnerable. Be humble, look people in the eye, acknowledge your faults, trust yourself, trust the world, smile, then try your best. I wiped my eyes on my shirt, tidied my music sheets and started again. Song after song, I failed to snare my first coin. Every tune was strewn with errors. But I was enthusiastic now, a less timid person than when I woke that morning. I had to persevere, be patient, keep hoping, and trust the people of Vigo.
After what felt like a lifetime sawing away, one elderly gentleman rose from the bench. He walked towards me, stooped and leaning on his stick. He looked smart in his dark glasses and tweed jacket, with neatly combed hair. I anticipated his words:
‘Señor. Enough! Spare us. It is time to move on. Por favor. Give us back our peace, I beg you.’
But he did not say that. Instead, he put his hand into his pocket.
Surely not!
The old man pulled out a coin and handed it to me with a small smile. And I thought I was going to burst with exhilaration and amusement and relief. I had done it!
Nor was it just a copper coin. He gave me a whole euro! In the weeks of doubt before departure, my mantra to prevent me from wimping out of the trip had been, ‘If I can just get one euro, somehow, I can buy a bag of rice. With a bag of rice, I can walk for a week. Walk for a week and after that anything becomes possible. Just one euro. That’s all I need. One euro. Somehow …’
That gentleman gave me much more than a euro. He gave more even than a bag of rice. For he gave me hope.
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Encouragement (#ulink_783c33ef-ff0f-5d35-aff8-9ea2c809326f)
NOW: A COIN IN my case and hope in my heart! I had earned my first busking money. A euro! A bag of rice. A beginning. I held the coin up in the sunlight and kissed it. I was rich!
Laurie had a similar delighted epiphany that something as intangible as a mere song could be converted into cash. This alchemy revealed a world of possibility. ‘I felt that wherever I went from here this was a trick I could always live by.’
Shorn of fear, I dived back into my repertoire, looping through my five little songs again and again, but this time playing with joy and confidence. It is probably no coincidence that more success followed. Two elderly ladies laughed at me, fumbled in their handbags, and gave 50 cents each. I had predicted that I would earn nothing in Vigo and that it might take days before I got my act together. I saw myself picking ears of wheat and pilfering crusts from café tables. But instead, I was rich on the very first day! And, like most wealthy people, I now wanted even more.
I sawed away, panning for gold, giddy and greedy with the rushing release of nerves and the thrill of exhibitionism. And the money: so much money! I gazed in awe at the three gleaming coins in my violin case.
A lady strode through the plaza – jeans, blouse, smiling – aged about 50. She looked both prosperous and friendly: promising. She paused and peered into her handbag as though preparing to give me something. Then she changed her mind and walked on, flipping her hand at me. I presumed that she had noticed how bad I was. Oh well … nearly … At least someone had considered me.
Later, as I was packing to leave, the same woman returned, and this time she gave me a euro. She explained that earlier she had no change in her handbag. This was becoming decadent!
