Fantasies of Stardom

          At this week’s University of the Third Age discussion group, we chewed over the topic of mortality, a wide-ranging subject that, at times, drifted into the realm of immortality, when some expressed their hope for a life hereafter. At risk of being labelled a cynic, I call this ‘wishful thinking’, even though it would suit me to believe otherwise. I mean, who wouldn’t want a second chance to get it right? One of the cruelties of life is that by the time you’re old enough to have learned some of its lessons, your time is up, you’re facing check-out and it’s too late to fulfil those youthful ambitions.

           This was just a few days after our return from Santander to Plymouth, when the Bay of Biscay had been as calm as a millpond (a simile that persists long after the demise of its namesake) which meant that I was able to enjoy the journey, stride the deck, eat, drink and take in some live entertainment, all without a scintilla of sickness. Allowing for the fact that live acts on board have the tricky remit of pleasing a disparate audience, I was keen to hear how the advertised musical duo would tackle the gig, so I filled my glass and took a front seat. Sure enough, their repertoire comprised a predictable playlist of familiar popular songs, but the skill with which the singer dispatched them was marvellous. To my (admittedly slightly sozzled) ear, her timing, timbre and calibration hit the mark in every number, whatever the genre – and there were several. Such skill comes not only from talent but also experience. Practice makes perfect, which is just one of the reasons I never made it as a musician.

          It's not widely known that I was in a folk-music group at the age of nineteen, singing and strumming a guitar, on stage, at our college folk club. (Photographic evidence exists.) But before long, my interest in traditional songs such as Whiskey in the Jar waned and was ousted by Bob Dylan’s repertoire. Then came the Beatles, the blues, psychedelia, rock and, eventually, jazz. My abilities as a performer did not keep up with this progression: lack of a driving ambition, along with a disinclination to practise and a tendency to be distracted by other interests, saw to it that the limits of my talent were never tested. Which brings me back to the wistful notion of reincarnation. Another chance to make it as a rock star would be nice.

          It's not going to happen but, this week, I did experience a return to those folk-singing days when a friend invited me to go along to a pub where she and a motley crew of amateur folk afficionados continue the tradition of making music, not on stage, but in situ around the tables. They were a dozen in number, taking turns to sing and play, sometimes harmonising ad-hoc, sometimes joining in choruses. I use the pronoun ‘they’ because I refrained from singing, partly due to a lack of familiarity with many of the songs, but mostly because of inhibition. The audience was a bit thin – just me and another bloke at the bar – but that may have had something to do with the England vs Italy football match running concurrently. In any case, they were not performing for an audience, they were playing for pleasure and to keep alive the tradition of live and sometimes spontaneous music as part of socialising with others.

          When I got home that evening, I felt inspired to pick up my guitar and try once more to get my stiff old fingers around a few chords, hoping to revive the remnants of my modest abilities. The result was not encouraging but it did get me thinking about something that has been on my mind for a while – joining a choir. It could be a second chance of sorts, though I suppose that would involve having to practise.