through letters,
I might be all right.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SITTING IN THE MUSIC ROOM. Our music teacher informs we're about to
hear one of our classmates, Nigel Blake, play electric guitar. We assume
he's rich because his parents have bought the guitar, just as I assume being
Maori our race is musical and rarely does a white person have the talent.
In an amphitheatre school classroom Nigel has a full set-up
for us to peer down on his performance, like cruel judges who have already
made up their minds. Nigel Blake is a scruff who pushes the hair length and
style rules to the limit, can somehow make his school uniform look like a
fashion statement, but doesn't say much and he's hardly noticed.
Well, I don't know how long he played for, only that my own ambition
to be a lead guitarist in a band was over. I could never be so good. Never.
So was my attitude about Maori musical superiority changed. Music is just
music.
I suggested to Nigel he and I join forces to form a band, fearing he
might have a better voice than me too. We were inseparable after that
performance. At school and neutral places, though, not our homes. Even
if I was the more self-confident and probably more dominant personality,
his race ruled and my race were the darkies of the country, a minority too.
Their right to issue invite, our privilege to receive.
His father was average, musically, Nigel's talent from his mother's side,
she of a family of gifted musicians, though Nigel said she was more a
frustrated performer and confided he often heard his mother and father
arguing over what they had done with their lives.
Nigel's influence on me was big. As I couldn't afford to buy equipment,
we messed around after school in the music room sharing Nigel's guitar,
and I sometimes got to borrow an acoustic guitar from Toby Taita, who
lived up the road from us and could play anything. We used the school
microphones and so I got to learn when to be close, to move away, which
sounds reverberated, which notes were vulnerable to being easily lost.
We'd go for hours till the caretaker told us time to go home.
We went for long aimless walks, maybe into town, or wherever,
talking music artists, different styles, our own ambitions. Often after being
with Nigel several hours I walked the three miles home as there was no
bus scheduled. Would sing the whole way. First year of high school soon
became the second.
I ran into jealousy from Chud; he accused me of switching sides
and forgetting who his real mate was. Not mates — mate. And why didn't
I invite him to the music sessions? Because knowing someone most of your life
you know if he's musical or not. And Chud wasn't. Just as I couldn't play
rugby. We were in different streams at any rate, so we mainly saw each other
on the bus to and from school; post-Nigel only to school.
Out of the blue I got a late reply letter from my father, but with an
astonishing surprise: money.
Fifty pounds in the form of a money order, a fortune.
Who better than Mrs Mac to arrange a savings account with the post
office? She warned of the dangers of temptation and that I must resist at all
costs or the money would be squandered.
Naturally I wrote back to Jess and sent it with hugest thanks and
hoped it hadn't made him short. Discovered a selfish, greedy side too
when thought of telling my mother was too much in case there came
expectation to share it. Told myself, if my father had meant it to be shared
he would have asked.
This was my fast ticket to becoming a musician. I withdrew ten pounds
and put down a deposit on an electric rhythm guitar. Could have paid in
full and still had money left, but seemed this was rare chance indeed to get
ahead, young though I was at understanding life.
I would make monthly payments of two pounds for eighteen months,
then both instrument and amplification equipment were mine. Now Nigel
and I needed a drummer and a bass guitar player. We were on our way, me
thanks to the man magnificent
I might be all right.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SITTING IN THE MUSIC ROOM. Our music teacher informs we're about to
hear one of our classmates, Nigel Blake, play electric guitar. We assume
he's rich because his parents have bought the guitar, just as I assume being
Maori our race is musical and rarely does a white person have the talent.
In an amphitheatre school classroom Nigel has a full set-up
for us to peer down on his performance, like cruel judges who have already
made up their minds. Nigel Blake is a scruff who pushes the hair length and
style rules to the limit, can somehow make his school uniform look like a
fashion statement, but doesn't say much and he's hardly noticed.
Well, I don't know how long he played for, only that my own ambition
to be a lead guitarist in a band was over. I could never be so good. Never.
So was my attitude about Maori musical superiority changed. Music is just
music.
I suggested to Nigel he and I join forces to form a band, fearing he
might have a better voice than me too. We were inseparable after that
performance. At school and neutral places, though, not our homes. Even
if I was the more self-confident and probably more dominant personality,
his race ruled and my race were the darkies of the country, a minority too.
Their right to issue invite, our privilege to receive.
His father was average, musically, Nigel's talent from his mother's side,
she of a family of gifted musicians, though Nigel said she was more a
frustrated performer and confided he often heard his mother and father
arguing over what they had done with their lives.
Nigel's influence on me was big. As I couldn't afford to buy equipment,
we messed around after school in the music room sharing Nigel's guitar,
and I sometimes got to borrow an acoustic guitar from Toby Taita, who
lived up the road from us and could play anything. We used the school
microphones and so I got to learn when to be close, to move away, which
sounds reverberated, which notes were vulnerable to being easily lost.
We'd go for hours till the caretaker told us time to go home.
We went for long aimless walks, maybe into town, or wherever,
talking music artists, different styles, our own ambitions. Often after being
with Nigel several hours I walked the three miles home as there was no
bus scheduled. Would sing the whole way. First year of high school soon
became the second.
I ran into jealousy from Chud; he accused me of switching sides
and forgetting who his real mate was. Not mates — mate. And why didn't
I invite him to the music sessions? Because knowing someone most of your life
you know if he's musical or not. And Chud wasn't. Just as I couldn't play
rugby. We were in different streams at any rate, so we mainly saw each other
on the bus to and from school; post-Nigel only to school.
Out of the blue I got a late reply letter from my father, but with an
astonishing surprise: money.
Fifty pounds in the form of a money order, a fortune.
Who better than Mrs Mac to arrange a savings account with the post
office? She warned of the dangers of temptation and that I must resist at all
costs or the money would be squandered.
Naturally I wrote back to Jess and sent it with hugest thanks and
hoped it hadn't made him short. Discovered a selfish, greedy side too
when thought of telling my mother was too much in case there came
expectation to share it. Told myself, if my father had meant it to be shared
he would have asked.
This was my fast ticket to becoming a musician. I withdrew ten pounds
and put down a deposit on an electric rhythm guitar. Could have paid in
full and still had money left, but seemed this was rare chance indeed to get
ahead, young though I was at understanding life.
I would make monthly payments of two pounds for eighteen months,
then both instrument and amplification equipment were mine. Now Nigel
and I needed a drummer and a bass guitar player. We were on our way, me
thanks to the man magnificent
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