My Early Musical Career

So I’ve always wanted to be a singer – since I was a wee 4 year old lass, when I would totter around with and obsessively listen to John Lennon’s “Woman”. Not sure if that can be filed under “musical genius” or “psychotic kid” (cue psycho shower scene music: wee wee wee).  But with being a bit of an anxious performer and being gently shoved down the classical music route by some well meaning parents … I lost my way a bit.  I played classical piano throughout most of my childhood and was wheeled out twice a year. One to get that all important Grade X with distinction (anything less was worthless) and second the annual spring festival.  

Eugh! The Spring Festival.  Even now those words fill me with dread.   I hated festivals: and I don’t think I was ever able to verbalise why.  After all, I wanted to be a singer, so performing should set me alight right?  Wrong.  It would all start in Autumn when my la-di-da London Royal Academy music teacher would start filling out my Spring Festival applications. I would do my very best to say no, squirming away on my little piano stool – palpitations and anxiety setting my palms into a sweaty mess. But I somehow was never allowed to say no to them.  Ever. 

I could never really enjoy Autumn and Winter because this dark festival cloud was looming in the distant future.  The FESTIVAL (*shudder*).  And it was something I never understood: I want to be a singer, but I hate performing at festivals.  So after months of fear-based frantic practicing, the day would actually arrive.

The festival would showcase the county’s finest young pianists with their renditions of Bach or Beethoven, played in front of friends, family and a panel of judges. But I never saw it as an exciting talent competition.  I would just see a set of very nervous and anxious children, dressed up like dolls, desperate to win their parents approval, whilst the parents looked on beaming with pride, watching their child fulfill what was essentially their own ambition.  The judges would then talk through each performance and crtique it, eventually awarding first prize and a tacky cup to some poor unfortunate little soul.  And for those other poor unfortunate little souls who lost, it was probably just another dent, another blow, another negative reinforcement to their musicality.

As for me, I just never understood what was so clever about being able to perfectly recite some archaic piece of music.  To me there was no creativity, no individualsim and nothing at all remotely musical about music festivals.  In fact, it seemed to rest entirely in the teacher’s ability to interpret music in accordance with the judge’s opinions and pass this on to their pupils.  It was no surprise that the winners were often coached by the same teacher.  I was so crippled by nerves and anxiety, I’d usually forget the notes – my worst fears being realised.  I rarely won anything.   To add insult to injury, my elder sister was quite adept at doing no practicing until the very last minute and walzing in winning sometimes several cups in one bout of Spring festivals – often with the same piece of music.  So, not only did I  fail several times each Spring to bring home the goods, I’d also have to endure 12 months of an altar of worship located in our dining room to my sisters festival achievements and I’d have to accompany my parents and sister to the “Winner’s Concert”and watch her showcase her genius, yet again.  That’s right, as if the ordeal of the actual competition wasn’t bad enough – if you managed to win it, you’d have to re-perform the piece again, with even more pressure not to screw it up!

I’d usually go along to the awards presentation, accompanied by my parents and award-winning sister – who was/is a definitely talented classical pianist.   I remember one year sticking my fingers up to the proverbial festival establishment by rocking up to the awards dinner in a short denim skirt with trainers (political activist in the making or fashion-challenged?).   I was busy picking my nose or some such habit, whilst various girls and boys tickled the ivories with their award-winning fingers when my name was called out by the judges.  Turns out, I had won an award: “for the most promising musician who didn’t win any cups”. It was a moment I think I’ll always remember, as I squeaked across the festival floor with my groovy trainers to collect my special prize, much to the embarassment of my parents at my ill-chosen attire.  As the judges commended me on being “very good, but not quite good enough to win cups” (ta very much), they handed me this oversized trophy.  It was essentially a mini-keyboard made out of wood and silver and to put it kindly: it had seen better days.  As I was handed this monstrosity, the silver banding slipped off the award and clanked loudly on the floor.  I then gave the classical community what for as I bent over, flashing my knicks in my short denim skirt to pick it up.  A proud moment for my folks.

I won this award it turns out 2 or 3 times in a row and every year I’d reluctantly send it in to get in engraved.  At the time it seemed like the “not quite good enough” consolation prize and it was ugly and big compared to the collection of beautiful polished cups that it was juxtaposed to.  But now I look back, I’m proud of that trophy as it kind of mirrored who I was as a musician: unusual, odd, a bit rough around the edges and a bit out of place in the classical community.  The truth was, that I was never really a classical musician – I appreciated it and did a darn good impression of being a classical pianist; but it never moved me like pop, rock, soul, jazz and blues.  I just didn’t fit the classical box.  And the word “promise” carries so much more weight than winner, who’s only a winner until next year’s starlet eclipses the title.  But promise signifies so much more: glimmering potential, the best is yet to come … and I thank the music festivals for not reinforcing a musical career that essentially wasn’t me.