The Game of Players
To hell with expensive sequencers...I must learn an instrument. I need a musical outlet that does not involve the tiresome glare of the computer monitor; Sherlock Holmes had his violin, Nero had his fiddle, Jonathan King had his singers...which is why he’s now in prison.
And so the question remains. Which musical instrument shall I learn to play?
Guitar: This is unlikely. I cannot afford this and I haven’t got nearly enough delusions; in 2005, a guitarist is legally bound to spunk fifty pounds at Toni & Guy every fortnight to look like a member of the Strokes...only you, of course, are completely different... Your band has a manifesto, going it alone to smash the state with a brand new take on music...spiky, angular garage rock. Because nobody else is doing that at the moment.
You have one of two attitudes...you are here to save rock and roll, or here to destroy it. Both methods involve playing spiky, angular garage rock. Incidentally, it is worth remembering that you are not the first person ever to have bought a Stooges CD.
Anyway, I am not sure how well I could get on with a guitar. If someone at an otherwise convivial gathering suddenly brings out a guitar, I will happily garrotte them with a spare string. And Wonderwall? Cack wall, more like.
Drums: I’m not nearly sweaty enough for this.
Keyboard: The keyboard is a strange presence in the average guitar band, always tucked away to the side of the stage with bad promises of tinny Bossa Nova rhythms. Think John Shuttleworth and tremble.
Many bands merely shoehorn in a keyboard to satisfy the clingy little brother of the drummer. This spotty herbert has never played an instrument and only got in because he held onto the singer’s leg with both arms screaming “oh, pur-lease let me be in your band!”. There is no material need for the instrument in this case. And the resulting keyboard part amounts to the occasional electronic choir that plays whenever the singer is flailing about and emoting that his latest shag marathon is more transcendent than Romeo and Juliet. The part consists of a lengthy note every eight bars and ends up so far down in the mix it can only be heard by putting an ear to a glass on the speakers.
However, if a band requires a lot of keyboard -- and we’re talking parts so twiddly even Dr T would struggle -- then the band normally also requires furry animals skating around a lunar landscape on stage, and album covers that depict a bunch of unicorns leaping over Peter Gabriel in a tutu. These people can be safely dismissed as rubbish.
The middle ground, then, is the hallowed turf. But even this is problematic because the keyboard is not a good look. Even when the part is an immeasurable contribution to some haunting piano-led ballad, you are still limited to standing there awkwardly, unable to express emotion beyond pushing down the keys, like,really hard, screwing up your eyes with your head pointing to the heavens and thus giving the crowd an intimate view of your sweaty Adam’s Apple. This move does not reek of romance and looks to the crowd like you’ve just realised you forgot to get your tax return in on time.
Ah, but what of the piano player? Sad little men who have been playing smoky clubs for so long that their handshake leaves a gloopy residue of tar on your fingers? Or fat, tantrum-prone bald men whose dress sense has long since shrivelled like a salted snail? Hmm...but at least if you buy a grand piano it comes with a free dolly bird in a red dress who will lie languidly all over it and sing like she’s popped a tub of testosterone pills. Please note...she is out of your league and she IS wearing underwear.
Singing: Good lord. There is no chance in hell I would do this. If I was forced in front of the microphone, even Mark E Smith would call my performance surly and uncommunicative. Bollocks to singing. Think Jeremy Hardy on I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue...or William Shatner duetting with Lee Marvin whilst being kicked in the teeth.
Bass: Bass players are seven foot tall and spend their days plucking at strings the size of baby’s arms. The instrument does not seem to be a very satisfying prospect on its own, and I doubt I would have much fun composing on the thing.
But a killer bass line is a thing of beauty and a joy forever, and in a band your guitar is bigger and weightier than the cocky lead guitarist’s. This is worth remembering when the inevitable band “dynamics” begin to take shape and you keep getting the heavy lifting jobs. However, you will soon become unhappy with the direction of the band, generally because those ten minute bass solos are beginning to feature less and less frequently. You will leave and set up a new band where you will of course be the star, only for nobody to join unless they can play guitar, relegating you to bass and starting the whole cycle over again.
So on reflection, perhaps not.
Twiddly Knob Guy: With sub-genres blossoming all over the place, there is frequently room, even in a guitar band, for a speccy kook to stand in front of a bank of equipment and twiddle things to little obvious effect. This guy never breaks a sweat and is the only member who is not pretending to dress for a gig with such little thought.
If he attempts to dance or engage with the audience, you may falsely believe there is a gas leak in the room. In fact, the sound you hear is merely the sound of hundreds of people simultaneously sucking in air through their teeth.
Myself, I do not wear glasses nor need to. But I can believe I can learn to twiddle knobs... I’d start turning them clockwise, and perhaps with a little practice and intensive training I would learn anticlockwise too.
And if I get jealous of the singer strutting about the stage, stripped to the waist and dripping sweat into the open-mouths of a bunch of screaming female fans, I could always turn his mike down, yank a compressor unit from the rack and bring it down on the scumbag’s head. Hah!
Conclusion: I’m a bad man.
And so the question remains. Which musical instrument shall I learn to play?
Guitar: This is unlikely. I cannot afford this and I haven’t got nearly enough delusions; in 2005, a guitarist is legally bound to spunk fifty pounds at Toni & Guy every fortnight to look like a member of the Strokes...only you, of course, are completely different... Your band has a manifesto, going it alone to smash the state with a brand new take on music...spiky, angular garage rock. Because nobody else is doing that at the moment.
You have one of two attitudes...you are here to save rock and roll, or here to destroy it. Both methods involve playing spiky, angular garage rock. Incidentally, it is worth remembering that you are not the first person ever to have bought a Stooges CD.
Anyway, I am not sure how well I could get on with a guitar. If someone at an otherwise convivial gathering suddenly brings out a guitar, I will happily garrotte them with a spare string. And Wonderwall? Cack wall, more like.
Drums: I’m not nearly sweaty enough for this.
Keyboard: The keyboard is a strange presence in the average guitar band, always tucked away to the side of the stage with bad promises of tinny Bossa Nova rhythms. Think John Shuttleworth and tremble.
Many bands merely shoehorn in a keyboard to satisfy the clingy little brother of the drummer. This spotty herbert has never played an instrument and only got in because he held onto the singer’s leg with both arms screaming “oh, pur-lease let me be in your band!”. There is no material need for the instrument in this case. And the resulting keyboard part amounts to the occasional electronic choir that plays whenever the singer is flailing about and emoting that his latest shag marathon is more transcendent than Romeo and Juliet. The part consists of a lengthy note every eight bars and ends up so far down in the mix it can only be heard by putting an ear to a glass on the speakers.
However, if a band requires a lot of keyboard -- and we’re talking parts so twiddly even Dr T would struggle -- then the band normally also requires furry animals skating around a lunar landscape on stage, and album covers that depict a bunch of unicorns leaping over Peter Gabriel in a tutu. These people can be safely dismissed as rubbish.
The middle ground, then, is the hallowed turf. But even this is problematic because the keyboard is not a good look. Even when the part is an immeasurable contribution to some haunting piano-led ballad, you are still limited to standing there awkwardly, unable to express emotion beyond pushing down the keys, like,really hard, screwing up your eyes with your head pointing to the heavens and thus giving the crowd an intimate view of your sweaty Adam’s Apple. This move does not reek of romance and looks to the crowd like you’ve just realised you forgot to get your tax return in on time.
Ah, but what of the piano player? Sad little men who have been playing smoky clubs for so long that their handshake leaves a gloopy residue of tar on your fingers? Or fat, tantrum-prone bald men whose dress sense has long since shrivelled like a salted snail? Hmm...but at least if you buy a grand piano it comes with a free dolly bird in a red dress who will lie languidly all over it and sing like she’s popped a tub of testosterone pills. Please note...she is out of your league and she IS wearing underwear.
Singing: Good lord. There is no chance in hell I would do this. If I was forced in front of the microphone, even Mark E Smith would call my performance surly and uncommunicative. Bollocks to singing. Think Jeremy Hardy on I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue...or William Shatner duetting with Lee Marvin whilst being kicked in the teeth.
Bass: Bass players are seven foot tall and spend their days plucking at strings the size of baby’s arms. The instrument does not seem to be a very satisfying prospect on its own, and I doubt I would have much fun composing on the thing.
But a killer bass line is a thing of beauty and a joy forever, and in a band your guitar is bigger and weightier than the cocky lead guitarist’s. This is worth remembering when the inevitable band “dynamics” begin to take shape and you keep getting the heavy lifting jobs. However, you will soon become unhappy with the direction of the band, generally because those ten minute bass solos are beginning to feature less and less frequently. You will leave and set up a new band where you will of course be the star, only for nobody to join unless they can play guitar, relegating you to bass and starting the whole cycle over again.
So on reflection, perhaps not.
Twiddly Knob Guy: With sub-genres blossoming all over the place, there is frequently room, even in a guitar band, for a speccy kook to stand in front of a bank of equipment and twiddle things to little obvious effect. This guy never breaks a sweat and is the only member who is not pretending to dress for a gig with such little thought.
If he attempts to dance or engage with the audience, you may falsely believe there is a gas leak in the room. In fact, the sound you hear is merely the sound of hundreds of people simultaneously sucking in air through their teeth.
Myself, I do not wear glasses nor need to. But I can believe I can learn to twiddle knobs... I’d start turning them clockwise, and perhaps with a little practice and intensive training I would learn anticlockwise too.
And if I get jealous of the singer strutting about the stage, stripped to the waist and dripping sweat into the open-mouths of a bunch of screaming female fans, I could always turn his mike down, yank a compressor unit from the rack and bring it down on the scumbag’s head. Hah!
Conclusion: I’m a bad man.
posted by Jamie at 7:04 PM
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