I rock up at my new piano tutors door on a rainy Harlow night. I am quite nervous but hopefully she will be impressed with the fact that I can already play a bit of 'Night swimming' by R.E.M & have learned some scales and notes.
I am not a fan of Harlow.
It certainly has it's strong points. There is no better place in the country to purchase cheap gold sovereign rings or pawn recently stolen goods. But I try to avoid it these days in case I am mistaken for a cream horn by one of the amply cushioned residents & accidently consumed in the high street.
I used to work for drug and alcohol services in Harlow and the office was cited directly above Wetherspoons (no lie), which tells you everything you need to know about the place.
My piano teacher is a nice lady with a difficult to place accent (perhaps Russian, I am too embarrassed to ask). She shows me to her piano (which appears to be around a thousand years old and is junky as hell). My teacher is apparently a classically trained harpist who studied in a conservatory for many years. This seems very cruel to me. My parents have a conservatory and it is always too hot in the summer and too cold in winter. My dad insists on keeping a cover on the wooden dining table therein, in case it becomes sun bleached.
I find myself feeling sorry for my teacher and imagine her wearing fingerless gloves as she trys to practice the harp surrounded by cat litter trays and old local newspapers.
My teacher says that learning to read music is important and is happy that I have learned to identify notes on the stave. She is however, anxious to impress upon me the vital importance of counting. 'You have to also count Ian, this is so so important for music'.
This is great news as I am already pretty proficient at counting. I once counted to one thousand and seventeen (which took ages but it was a really boring meeting at work and my boss was sitting too close for me to be able to doodle). I can count to almost any number you can imagine. I know she is going to be impressed with this.
She is not impressed.
Instead she feels that there are significant gaps in my musical knowledge (this will happen if you are a self taught guitarist) and wants me to start with some basic stuff before we move forward into my beloved and beloathed Bach prelude. She introduces me to the above book which is the most hilarious thing ever! I am a forty one year old man now straining in total concentration over playing 'Old Macdonald had a Farm'.
Overall my first lesson was very discouraging. The teacher offered me a sweet at the end which is apparently 'de rigour' for her younger pupils. I suggested that she buy some scotch for our next lesson.
As I am leaving I pass a mother and young daughter in the hall who look at me a little strangely. I try to give the impression that I am not there for a lesson but for some much more grown up reason like conducting an affair or something. I clutch my lollipop tightly in case the little sod tries to nick it off me as I brush past. Back to Bach I suppose.
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