Pretending to be French at Weddings…

Friends will know me as a guitarist but…

I am also an author. I am fortunate enough to be having my new book Extracting Goats From Jean-Claude’s Kitchen published by California-based publisher Kellan Publishing. It is a humorous memoir of seven years spent in rural France as a guitarist, father, teacher, composer, cattery owner smallholding running Brit. I’d like to invite you to enjoy the following excerpt, taken from Chapter 16 ‘I am the Music Man, I come from Far Away’.

Performing at a wedding in the Dordogne

The biggest enemy of the château wedding though is the lethal combination of high spirits, champagne and hot weather. I must avoid being a moral judge here because I love a wedding and, if I am fortunate enough to be invited as a guest, I’m partial to a glass or two of the bubbly stuff. I will never, ever though, be discourteous to a member of staff or fellow guest. If I make a fool of anyone, it will be myself when I fall off a chair or the like.

Some venues rather invite trouble as they identify the ‘Summer French Wedding in the Sunshine’ market as a potentially-lucrative one which can easily be tapped into. Generally speaking, these events require a serious financial outlay, but there are venues who run more of a budget package – supplying gite accommodation or placing ‘glamping’ facilities amongst the trees in the grounds. They will also strike deals with local wine producers ensuring no-one will go thirsty. Whereas the classier châteaux will advertise rooms which have been slept in by 17th-century French aristocracy and a feast produced by Michelin-starred chefs, others will promise enough Prosecco to sink a ship, and an abundance of barbequed foodstuffs at an affordable price.

Venues which are simply holiday complexes rather than châteaux also get in on the act. The results are stressful and painful for the venue and forgettable for the participants, not because they endure a mediocre weekend but because they suffer memory loss due to the effects of drinking industrial quantities of budget rosé.

As I pull up at a venue to play for a wedding, I can, within minutes, discern what kind of experience the afternoon promises, and react accordingly. Having arrived at one particular engagement, for example, I was ambling across the lawns of a historic château close to Bertric Burée when my eye caught the sight of around fifteen lads wearing only England football shorts, kicking a ball around, using 300-year-old oak trees as goal-posts. They had lagers-in-hands and the air was blue with alcohol-induced expletives.

Bearing in mind this was a couple of hours before the ceremony, I politely said my ‘Hellos’ and found a corner well out of the way to set up. One has to be careful with a choice of repertoire at such events as, if I play anything remotely ‘pop’, it risks generating raucous applause and the dreaded ‘requests’. I’m up for doing a few familiar tunes on the classical guitar as much as the next guy, but when I’m asked to play Jay-Z, well, I know my limits. Problems can arise when the invisible barrier between client and guitarist is broken; this can lead to a scene, despite my efforts to be courteous and light-hearted. I’ve experienced lager-fuelled Brits becoming aggressive because I am unable to perform the latest offering from Little Mix spontaneously for their little girl. Funnily-enough, being a hairy middle-aged white bloke, I tend to learn other material in my spare time.

The footie-wedding described above was particularly farcical and seemed to simmer with aggression all afternoon. Luckily for me, I was due to zip away at 6.00pm as it felt as if the event was going to ‘kick off’ in more ways than one. As mentioned, I communicate at length with my couples before their big day. This particular couple had chosen Pachelbel’s Canon in D for the processional (although the email said ‘Canon’s Pachelbel in D’) – a pleasant if not trailblazing choice – and, two hours prior to their ceremony, were yet to select a piece for the recessional. In the end, I promised a stressed groom I would bash out ‘something good’ for them, leaving him to quaff Stella Artois number seven before making his vows.

The ceremony itself passed off well enough. The congregation talked throughout, seemingly unaware that the weekend’s Strictly results were of lesser importance than a couple vowing to give their lives to one another. During the aperitifs, I found a little corner and settled into playing my repertoire to some pleasant folks sitting on recliners in the shade of the building.

Oh Dear…

The father-of-the-bride was walking in peculiar zig-zag shapes having knocked back enough bubbly to flatten a herd of elephants. He had learned some French for his weekend away in the Dordogne, which was admirable, and was keen to try it on anyone unfortunate enough to be cornered. I was halfway through a bit of Tarrega when he stumbled over, sat next to me and, resembling Officer Crabtree from Allo Allo, attempted a bit of the lingo.

“Bonjourno guitarist. Comment allez vous today?” asked Mr Dad-of-Bride.

“Très bien merci,” I replied unthinkingly, concentrating on my job.

“Comment tu-t’appellez vous your name innit?” he ventured further.

“Dan,” was my ground-breaking reply.

“Je suis English. Anglais-like,” offered Mr Dad-of-Bride.

‘No s**t Sherlock.’ I thought. “D’accord, c’est trés interessant,” I said.

Of course, I was digging myself a very big hole and one which I was going to struggle to climb out of. The good gentleman, beaming all over his face at the marriage of his daughter and perhaps due to the lavish imbibing of cheap bubbly, believed that I was French. To make matters worse I appeared to understand him. Call me stupid (you wouldn’t be the first) but I didn’t have the heart to reveal my Welsh origins, because I felt it would burst his bubble (and his body contained enough champagne bubbles to make quite a pop, I tell you). He seemed so proud of his efforts.

Thus commenced a surreal series of encounters during which he would periodically approach me to try out new phrases, in between mingling amongst guests proudly proclaiming he could communicate with the locals. By divine intervention, he failed to approach anyone who had chatted with me in English beforehand. He sported a little English/French phrase book and, having ‘mastered’ a new phrase, would meander over to try it out on me.

“J’aime le football. Man United. Man City sont les Nancy-Boys,” he offered profoundly.

“Ha ha! C’est trés drole Monsieur,” I said, this being the necessary response.

“He understood me!” he announced to one-and-all with worrying vigour.

I cringed, praying no-one within earshot would reveal my Anglophone identity.

During one particularly arduous exchange, he was trying to tell me how beautiful the Lake District was. He felt a good way to illustrate this would be to introduce mime into the linguistic equation. To illustrate ‘lake’ he repeatedly drew a circular shape in the air with his hands, about six inches from my face. To the uninitiated, this could have been anything from an egg to the solar system.

“Moi – je aime le Lake District,” he said for the eighteenth time.

“D’accord,” I replied, simultaneously fighting with Bach’s Prelude in G major.

Mr Dad-of-Bride then called out to no-one in particular.

“I don’t think he understands me. Hey, Geoff! How do you say ‘lake’ in Froggie Lingo?”

‘It’s ‘etang’ I thought. ‘Please go away before I’m busted’.

He then used the uniquely British multilingual approach:

“Moi – je aime le Lake District!!!” he yelled as if attempting to communicate verbally with someone in the actual Lake District.

At this point, I made the suspiciously quantum leap from ‘understanding nothing’ to ‘all becoming as clear as day’, apparently via the means of volume and circular hand gestures.

“Aha! Ze Lake Deestreect, eet ees very… err… beau n’est-ce-pas?” I offered, unconsciously putting on a French accent.

Dad-of-Bride looked more astonished than anyone at this success and, had he been sober, probably would have had his suspicions aroused, but I seemed to dodge the bullet.

And so it continues…Extracting Goats From Jean-Claude’s Kitchen is available from January 27th in paperback or digital formats.

Do Care Homes Need Music, and Does it Matter Who Provides it?

Yesterday, I performed in a care home – something which I do as a regular part of my work. I have found this an inspiring and deeply meaningful part of my portfolio of activities. To illustrate exactly why, I recorded one piece using my phone on my music stand. Consequently, the sound quality is awful, but that is beside the point as this blog has nothing to do with my guitar playing. Obviously, I ensured there were no residents visible in the film (just me I’m afraid) and I won’t identify the home in question.

The home is a place for residents with varying challenges during their mature years. Some are very capable physically- and mentally-speaking; others are suffering the cruel symptoms of conditions such as dementia. Some are very able, but perhaps have limited options as to where they can spend their later years, and are seeking comfort and quality.

What amazes me about music is its ability to touch deep places within the mind, heart and soul. The recording you’ll see and hear is a section of my arrangement of ‘The Wild Mountain Thyme’. If you listen carefully (best is through headphones), you’ll hear people singing along. It is beautiful. How can it be that someone may be unable to remember their own family, or where they are, yet when information is accompanied by melody, something deep and profound is tapped into? I’ve had to limit the extract to 1 minute in this social-media world of ours, but you’ll get the idea if you listen closely.

We all know the joy of singing a melody from yesteryear. There are countless studies which prove the beneficial health effects of music making, from babies to those approaching the end of their lives.

The staff in such places are incredible. The work can be immensely challenging yet also deeply rewarding. They have to find ways in which to occupy the residents while they also do the cooking, cleaning, bathing and all the rest of it. Consequently, they often require diversion for the residents.

Musicians can play a significant role in the therapeutic and entertainment process. Many people volunteer to go and perform for residents but we must be careful. I am treading on dangerous ground here, but we must ask ourselves difficult and honest questions. I know that some musicians of very limited ability and experience visit care homes. They often volunteer (as I sometimes do) and we can see this as a generous gesture. Having said this, would we accept it if this type of musician went to play at a concert or in a restaurant? I think not. Staff will often joke about the clichéd ‘doddery old bloke with the Hammond organ’ who pops in every Thursday. It’s a good joke but should we accept this? Are we able to put ourselves in the place of the mature listener? I’ve heard staff say that essentially, they allow such performers to come for the performer’s benefit, rather than that of the residents. Even worse is if musicians go to a care home as an outlet for ego. I told you this was dangerous ground. I’ve come to believe that the ego is the biggest pitfall musicians of all qualities will encounter. As soon as the art becomes about the individual, a can of worms is opened: anxiety, arrogance, self-delusion and a host of other disagreeable elements can slip into a performance, but this is a subject for another blog. I know of some musicians who wheel out the usual fare such as ‘We’ll Meet Again’ or quite childish songs in care homes. If someone is 80 years plus, they’ll probably be much more interested in something classical or The Beatles than war time songs. Time moves on (an 80-year-old would have been a baby at the beginning of the war) and we must avoid being condescending. Let me clarify, there are many fine musicians with hearts of gold, but it’s up to the musician to ask him/herself what their motivations are.

Maybe the world of music education should further consider its role. A tour of care homes may be a greater education to a gifted young musician than any concert set up in a glamorous concert hall – perhaps the latter is done for the benefit of the parents (and their ego?) and the school’s reputation.

As always, the issue tends to be budget. There are charities who fund visits to such homes so that musicians can earn a professional and accountable fee, and residents are assured quality and integrity. If governments can direct decades of countless billions towards pharmaceutical giants who, in my view, have a scary amount of control, for treatment, can they maybe find a budget to fund arts in places where they are really needed? Whatever the case, I witness over and over again the joy and well-being music can bring to those in later life, and the touch of precious quality which it offers to people in the darkest of places, who deserve so much more.

Guitarists, the ear, note reading and a free spirit.

Last week I started a new one-day-per-week role as a guitar teacher in a stunning private school here in Scotland where I presently live for much of the year. The working environment is fantastic. I have a designated guitar room with plenty of instruments of many sizes as well as all the instruments of the ukulele family at my disposition. I met my pupils and they are universally charming. As many of them board at the school, they have time put aside for supervised practice of the instrument as well as music theory support in other areas of their education journey. In short, it’s a dream scenario for an instrumental teacher.

I spoke to my predecessor via email a few times in the weeks leading up to me starting the role and it soon became clear that he is a man who loves folk, pop and rock music above classical music. He is a massive character and it is absolutely apparent that he was much loved by all those at the school. Every time I mention his name to a pupil or colleague, their faces light up and there follows a warm chuckle and distant glazed expression suggestive of a recollection of some amusing incident from yesteryear. I soon began to feel rather inadequate.

After day one, I made a number of observations. Firstly, none of my pupils can read notes. Secondly, many have a very casual posture – reminiscent of a guy strumming in a pub. Thirdly, they all love the guitar and can do many things, physically speaking, quite well. I would suggest though that the casual posture will limit further development.

Consequently, I have inherited a group who are making good progress but whose literacy note-wise is poor. I have made the decision that, in this environment, my pupils should be able to read fluently. I already have one pupil who is reticent to adopt this approach, preferring ‘power chords’ or playing rock riffs. My challenge is to continue motivating the pupil but also ensure that he develops as a rounded, cultured musician.

I have no intention or desire to criticise my predecessor. He has developed a sense of love, joy and desire to play in his pupils. That is most admirable and both I and the pupils owe him a great debt.

I often see discussions on guitar forums debating (with varying degrees of intelligence) whether guitarists should be able to read notes or not. Arguments against note reading include ‘Jimi Hendrix couldn’t read’ or ‘readers can’t play by ear’. Both of these arguments are irrelevant. Hendrix was a great rock improviser but his structures are easy to memorise. Writing his works on paper serves no purpose. I often see transcriptions of improvised solos for sale in music shops and I wonder what purpose these serve. No-one will ever use them. There is little point in learning a Hendrix solo note-for-note. The original spirit and intention is completely lost.

It is also unintelligent to make a direct link between being able to read and having a poor ear. That points to teaching which has failed to develop the whole musician. Guitarists are frequently unaware that musicians in the Baroque and Classical periods were great improvisers. When I say ‘great’, I mean truly great. They wouldn’t improvise a pentatonic solo over a simple chord structure but would spontaneously create multi-voiced fugues full of sophisticated counterpoint and modulation. Beethoven’s concerts would usually feature a section when the composer himself would take to the piano and improvise on a theme, perhaps one proposed by a member of the public.

I’d also make the point that I am often approached by adult learners who want to start reading as ‘they never did it when they were a kid’. One adult pupil asks me to transcribe sophisticated pieces from notes into TAB. It is a little bizarre requiring one code to be transferred into another. Why not learn the second code as well?

I think that having a good ear, a free spirit and being a competent reader are all comfortable bedfellows. My challenge as a teacher is to develop my pupil’s reading skills without demotivating them. I think much of the solution lies in ensemble playing so to start things off at my new school, I have created a little quartet which is an arrangement of an Argentinian folk tune. The lower part is chords and it is tailor-made for my rock-lover. There are percussion parts too to help in the reading of rhythm.

If you’d like a copy, it’s available for free at my online shop shop. If you’d like to buy me a virtual beer via PayPal as a thank you, you can but please do not feel obliged in any way. I’d welcome thoughtful and helpful comments below; let’s have a good debate about how we can best serve our pupils and fulfil our roles and weighty responsibilities as teachers.

An Inspiring Young Lady

In around 2007 I was working as a musicianship tutor at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in Cardiff. Part of that employment was working with very musically advanced children on Saturdays (I am privileged to do similar work today at the RCS in Glasgow). One week, I was invited to teach musicianship to a girl who had been blind since birth. I was comfortable with this challenge as I already had some experience in this area, and so I met Rachel. From the first class, I was captivated by her amazing passion and deep love for music. She had an incredible ear and was able to memorise repertoire at a frightening rate. We had a game where I would play a random CD (in any style) as she entered my room with a helper, and she would immediately, grinning from ear-to-ear head to the piano and rattle off what she’d just heard pretty much note-for-note. The helpers usually fell over in disbelief.

As time passed I recognised that Rachel’s musical gifts were utterly extraordinary – at times inexplicable. She was always reliant upon her amazing memory and ear to learn repertoire, so colleagues and I thought it would be wise to teach Rachel to read music. Together, Rachel and I learned the basics of reading Braille sheet music – a process which was pretty torturous for me but which Rachel picked up admirably. There was no doubt though that using her ear and memory would always be her primary technique, and why not? It is an art of the ear after all.

With colleagues, we tried to direct her through A Level music many years early. The content of the course was almost too easy but the accessibility issues created many frustrating barriers. I’m still uncertain as to whether visually-impaired musicians face an even playing field when it comes to assessment today.

So you can imagine my surprise and sense of joy when I saw that Rachel had posted a recording of her final degree recital on Facebook (available here). Kirsty and I watched much of it last night and I confess to being deeply touched by what I heard and saw. I was thrilled to see that Rachel and her teachers had had the courage to allow Rachel to present improvisations in the style of certain composers as part of the concert. This is a practice which was commonplace in the 17th and 18th centuries but is dying today. Please understand that we are talking of multi-voiced, modulatory, structured improvisations here rather than jamming a blues scale over a few chords. Rachel achieved a near-unprecedented mark of 96%. It is richly deserved and I am both unsurprised and thrilled to bursting point for her.

It is important to say that I have played a very tiny part in Rachel’s musical development – the vast majority of the credit belongs to Rachel herself and her piano teachers. Rachel had an incredible energy and joie de vivre which all part of the package of her as a musician. As I consider her story, I feel that I was taught more by her about the art of teaching and the question of developing the inner ear.

When I talk of this experience with fellow musicians, I am often faced with statements such as ‘she was so good because the ear compensates’, suggesting that in the absence of one sense, another develops at an increased rate. The problem with this is assumption that there is no evidence whatsoever to support it. I think that what we are witnessing is something slightly different. I believe that the ear and memory have been required to work harder. The development is not a compensatory gesture put in place by the body but has happened through sheer hard work. The key point here is that such accelerated aural and memory skills are probably available to all, sighted or otherwise, should we choose to train ourselves in a balanced manner.

Whatever the truths of such things, there is one definite. Rachel, you richly deserve what you have achieved and you continue to be an inspiration to many. Now a joyous career of music awaits and I for one look forward to hearing more from you!


Giving Concerts in Rural Areas of France

During my life as a student and concert performer in the UK, I soon learned a clear code of conduct for audience and performer alike. Concerts billed to start at 7.30pm started at 7.35pm; a first half lasted for 45 minutes, the second half a little less; a 15 minute interval lasted for about 20 minutes; an audience did not applaud between movements; an audience applauded whether they enjoyed the performance or not; an audience requested at least one encore, whether they enjoyed the performance or not.

This was an altogether pleasing state of affairs – everyone knew where they stood, meal times, babysitters and restaurant reservations could be made with reassuring predictability and reliability., ushering staff would get home on time,  and the stability gave the performer a sense of routine and confidence.P1000465 Cropped.jpg

Concerts are not like this in rural areas of France. In the summer of 2018, I performed ten concerts in France and one in South Wales. The first thing a Northern European musician must understand is that the starting time will habitually be at least an hour later than that to which they are accustomed. Furthermore, if your concert is billed to commence at 8.30pm, this is actually a cue for the audience to gather at that time for a chat, drinks, nibbles, more drinks and to allow children to climb up trees. In the Dordogne, they talk of the ‘quinze minutes Perigordine’ (the Perigordine fifteen minutes) which is to say that any meeting of people, albeit a concert, a business appointment or a council meeting is susceptible to a certain flexibility of timing. I have frequently started a concert nearly an hour later than the billed time (yes, this means 9.30pm) and have sometimes felt like an unwelcome intrusion in a convivial social gathering.

The reverential silence one experiences in a British concert is notably absent as well. Children will attend concerts and will make, within reason, some noise. They will often gather at your feet and watch your every move from a distance of six inches. As the pre-, mid- and post-concert drinks are key to the mutual enjoyment of the evening, expect to hear a table being dragged into to hall about ten minutes before the close of the first half (just as you approach the fast movement of that tricky sonata). During one concert, a gentleman taking photos for the local paper approached me mid-Bach and took some snaps, complete with noisy shutter, polyphonic beeps and a robust flash, at a distance of sufficient closeness so that he nearly knocked over my music stand mid-snap.

In the UK, some performers choose to speak about the works they are about to play. In the French countryside, this act is almost as important as the music itself. Often, concert organisers will employ a local character to act as a raconteur at strategic moments during the performance. He/She will tend to use a microphone to read information already printed on the programme at the kind of volume that would have made the late Lemmie wince.  If you are a second-language French speaker and you introduce a piece in French with a charming British accent, you’ll be a triumph before you’ve even plucked an open E.

The French are very forgiving regarding repertoire.  Have dropped in the odd musically-challenging piece and it has usually been received with warmth and open hearts. The French adore Celtic repertoire. If you play something familiar (La Paloma, Cielito Lindo, The Water is Wide, Arrangements of songs etc) you can expect to hear your audience singing along. That is something I find truly beautiful and touching.

At one concert in Egurande et Guardedeuil this year, I was invited by Monsieur Le Maire for a pre-concert light meal. We finished the performance well after 11.00pm and was then invited, along with the luthier Daniel Jarvis (who had loaned me a guitar) and his wife for a post-concert get together. We entered the local salle des fetes and were seated at a table. As an aperitif and starter were brought out, I soon recognised that this was to be a full meal. I got home after 2.30am. Were I not driving, I would have been pleasingly plastered given the rich array of wines which were pushed in my direction.

Concert giving in France is refreshing, rewarding and has a certain sincerity which perhaps we’ve lost. If you can be open-minded, flexible and humble, it is a deeply rewarding experience. I can’t recommend it enough.

If you’ve enjoyed this blog, keep your ear to the ground for my book Extracting Goats From Jean-Claude’s Kitchen which will be published in the next few months. It tells of my seven years of musical and family life living in a sleepy French village.