When my parents moved, a few years ago, the trumpet was passed on to me and it was housed in the loft, where it sits to this day - patiently waiting for somebody brave enough to play it. Come to think of it, that trumpet has spent most of it's life in lofts, occasionally seeing the light of day as a curio for us kids, where, with puffing cheeks and sprays of spittle we would gamely attempt to coax some sounds from it.
The trumpet's story goes back to the late 1950s. Dad and his mates were keen bikers, but rather than listening to the latest Rock and Roll tunes they preferred the bygone sounds of the Jazz Age. Dad's mates had formed their own jazz group and he often volunteered his services as a sort of roadie. Indeed, this group had even reached the dizzy heights of regional television, appearing on a daytime show called Lunchbox presented by the esteemed Noel Gordon of future Crossroads fame.
Not content with being merely a helping hand, Dad wished to emulate his Jazz heroes such as Louie Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie - so the next step was to buy a trumpet to practice with.
The details have been lost in the fog of history, but I gather that Dad, who was still living at home then, was persuaded by my Grandma to put the practice sessions on hold - permanently. Apparently, the neighbours weren't too sympathetic to the needs of a fledgling jazz trumpeter. The sessions stopped and the trumpet was returned to its case.
When my parents moved into their new home, the trumpet, together with numerous model planes, was consigned into the dark tomb of the loft. Forty four years later, it's still waiting in a (albeit different) loft. Maybe one day my son or daughter will get the urge to play - and it's golden hour will finally arrive.
No comments:
Post a Comment