Music is the food of love. But, truth be told, my own musical endeavours have been responsible for some pretty severe cases of food poisoning over the years. I’m sure some people play a few notes or hum a few bars and cause the world at large to swoon. That’s never been my experience. Most people play music for an audience. Not me. I’m lucky if even one person turns up. That’s not so much an audience as an audient. Nevertheless, I would play my heart out to the audient until that person would inevitably duck out to the toilets and never return.
Music is the food of love. But, truth be told, my own musical endeavours have been responsible for some pretty severe cases of food poisoning over the years. I’m sure some people play a few notes or hum a few bars and cause the world at large to swoon. That’s never been my experience. Most people play music for an audience. Not me. I’m lucky if even one person turns up. That’s not so much an audience as an audient. Nevertheless, I would play my heart out to the audient until that person would inevitably duck out to the toilets and never return.
In first year Uni, I knew a guy called Bruce. He was extremely talented and had his heart set on being admitted to a course at the Victorian College of the Arts, specialising in musical improvisation. I’ve never been much for improvising, seemingly unable to let myself go and surrender myself ‘the Force’. It was always the writing part about music that I liked the most and the idea of playing without a net violated every instinct and fibre in my being. For those reasons, as well a chronic lack of talent, I was an odd choice to accompany Bruce for his audition.
Bruce played saxophone and seemed to be able to channel a great sense of feeling at will. My piano playing efforts are best described as ‘meat-handed’ and somewhat devoid of subtlety. Perhaps he wanted to create a contrast. Or, alternatively, to generate a thought in the minds of those from the College along the lines of: things could be worse – we could have been stuck with the guy on the piano. Or just elicit the sympathy vote.
With so much at stake, it was appropriate that we rehearse. But given that the work was meant to be improvised, it was hard to know exactly how far to take our preparations and how much should be left to dumb luck. Invariably, I would start with a few open chords and allow Bruce to find his way in. Where it went after that was pretty much anyone’s guess. Sometimes it seemed to follow a logical path, but on other occasions our instruments were engaged in some kind of musical tug of war. That said, there were moments when the results seemed – at least to us – kind of wonderful.
When the big day came, we headed down to the Victorian College of the Arts. I had seen several episodes of the TV show ‘Fame’ and fully expected students to be pirouetting down the hallways and breaking into song. For that reason, as well as comfort, I wore my best legwarmers and leotard. Upon arriving, we were asked to sign in at reception. Taking my cue, I jumped back, span around, leapt on a chair and began to sing. As I surveyed the horrified faces around me, it began to dawn on me that – once again – I may be been misled by television.
We had to wait our turn and were both nervous. When Bruce’s name was called we were ushered into a small white room. Behind a trestle table sat three members of the faculty who, by the looks on their faces, had all eaten prunes for breakfast. It was as if we’d stolen their parking spot and had run over the faculty cat in the process. We were unwelcome. It’s said that music soothes the savage beast. Having said that, I don’t recall the Crocodile Hunter ever singing a few bars of, ‘Moonlight Becomes You So’ before throwing himself astride a one tonne reptile.
In retrospect, I would have been better off going the full Steve Irwin. Instead of trying to placate them with music, I should have leapt from atop the upright piano and tackled them to the floor, tying them up before safely relocating them to a remote location where they could have been released into the wild. In all honesty, Bruce’s chances of being accepted would have been vastly improved if I had.
I took a deep breath and began to play. As was my custom, I began with a few open chords and Bruce honked out a few notes. In terms of our improvisation, we tended to use ‘the volcano model’. This involves various tremors before a full-blown eruption and a quiet dissolution. Today, however, something was wrong. I’d head in one direction and Bruce would head in the other. It was as though the piano and saxophone were engaged in some kind of hand-to-hand combat. In a last ditch attempt to save the moment, I abandoned myself completely to the music. The music, however, rewarded this sign of faith with a complete cacophony that would make Van Gogh want to chop off the other ear just for some peace and quiet. Suddenly, I was like Jimi Hendrix, moments away from upending the piano and setting it on fire. My hands were nothing but a blur as I played, played and played…
In an instant, it was over. As I looked up, the remaining teacher looked horrified. Two had already left, leaving only an audient behind. Even Bruce looked a little shocked. My experimental jazz odyssey had gone seriously off the rails, travelling to a point of no return. Traditionally, auditions end with words like ‘we’ll be in touch’ or even ‘thank you’. On this occasion, we were told simply to, ‘get out’. I felt bad for Bruce, but I’m sure he’s gone onto something better. Or, if nothing else, learned to be more particular in who he asked to accompany him.