If music be the food of love, brace yourself for the worst meal of your life. I have taken up the violin. To just under my chin, as it happens. I had seen other people play the instrument and, to be honest, it looked pretty simple. It only has four strings. How hard could it be? Nero was useless as Emperor of Rome but even he could knock out a decent tune on the fiddle. I should have been up and running within minutes. As I prised the instrument from its case and lifted the bow, I readied myself to unleash a flood of beautiful music on an expectant world…
If music be the food of love, brace yourself for the worst meal of your life. I have taken up the violin. To just under my chin, as it happens. I had seen other people play the instrument and, to be honest, it looked pretty simple. It only has four strings. How hard could it be? Nero was useless as Emperor of Rome but even he could knock out a decent tune on the fiddle. I should have been up and running within minutes. As I prised the instrument from its case and lifted the bow, I readied myself to unleash a flood of beautiful music on an expectant world…
As it turns out, I can’t play the violin. I don’t know why I thought I could. For some reason or other it just seemed like something I ought to be able to do. But I am wrong. Not just a little bit wrong, but so deeply and profoundly mistaken that there’s really no word for it. In fact, the only way to properly express just how wrong I am is through music. Should you strain your ears and detect something that sounds a little like a mosquito on steroids, that’s me playing my violin. It sounds ugly. If Vincent van Gogh was still with us, it’s the kind of sound that would doubtless provoke him into lopping off the other ear.
This is not the first time it’s happened. For some reason, I assume I possess a range of skills that fate, genetics and severe laziness have sought to deny me. I used to think that I could execute the perfect cartwheel at will but, when put to the test, it turns out that I’m really only capable of something that looks like a crab attempting to avoid a puddle. Nor can I perform a handstand. As soon as my body weight is placed on my arms, they collapse like a house of particularly flimsy cards. The sizeable bruise on my forehead serves as a warning to others of the perils of ad hoc gymnastics.
For years, I thought I could speak fluent French. All the signs were there. I’d seen several Inspector Clouseau movies and once owned a beret. Plus, I really like croissants. For years, I wouldn’t think once, let alone twice, before deploying the Gallic tongue when dining at French restaurants and refused to so much as glance at the subtitles when watching French movies. I even listened to Carla Bruni’s solo album and was convinced I understood it. Only when I arrived in Paris did I discover what I believed to be French was, in fact, gibberish. Suddenly, a lifetime’s worth of very poor meals at French restaurants made a whole lot of sense. To say nothing of the fact that there’s a bunch of French movies I need to re-watch.
I had asked for a violin for my birthday. Upon receiving it, I had assumed I’d be playing it like a pro within fifteen minutes or a half hour, tops. Before I had even opened the case, I‘d sent an email to the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, just to let them know I was coming. I dismissed suggestions that I should engage a tutor. Frankly, getting violin lessons would only hold me back. The constraints of formal tutelage would slow me down and, worse still, might stifle my creativity. But as I tucked the instrument underneath my chin and ran the bow across the strings, I succeeded not in summoning up the melodies of the angels so much as I did open the gates to hell. It sounded absolutely dreadful. It’s a wonder that the next-door neighbours didn’t resort to plugging their ears with candle wax.
Finally, I feel as though I understand the song ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ by the Charlie Daniels Band. In that song, Beelzebub’s instrument of choice is the violin rather than a more obvious selection such as the kazoo or piano accordion. I have often heard the term ‘an instrument of evil’ but, until now, never realized this was actually a violin.
According to the song, the Devil has way too much time on his hands and is prone to wandering around the American south, challenging hillbillies to a kind of musical duel. As you do. There’s a rich tradition within music of people selling their souls to become better musicians – from bluesman Robert Johnson to Celine Dion’s soundtrack to Titanic. However, the protagonist in ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ doesn’t need the Devil to make him a good violin player. Rather, ‘Johnny’ agrees to put his soul at stake in the hope of winning a golden fiddle. Perhaps inevitably, Satan is bested by young Johnny and has to surrender his precious instrument. Something of a bad sport, Johnny brags that he is the best there’s ever been. Meanwhile Satan, deprived of his violin, is then forced to take up break-dancing instead.
If I were challenged to a violin duel right now, I’d be no chance at all of winning. I’m not willing to sell my soul to become a better player, either. I guess I’m kind of stuck. Either I give up altogether or start practicing. Those living next door should invest in some high quality earmuffs. With my bow raised and violin clamped beneath my chin, I feel there is no time to lose. Indeed, I’m reminded of an old French saying: Yoplait pencilmoustache renault stinkycheese baguette. Fitting words. I intend to live by them.