Back to school
- music scotland edinburgh
I am early.
I find my way to the notice board and send some other lost souls theirs. My class assembles. Fiddle 1a. We are the second intake this year.
A dozen people from all walks of life. The youngest, a Canadian community gardener in her twenties. The oldest - hard to tell, there are three candidates in at least their seventies. One of them built his own fiddle. He used to play fiddle tunes on a cello to which he added an additional string. Some hesitant conversation and then the teacher arrives. Irish and ohmygod so hothothot.
Last term, my Uke class rehearsed in the language room. The occasional German writing on the blackboard used to tempt me to add something witty, but I could never think of anything witty. Today we’re in the addiction room. There are colourful charts about cocaine, cannabis, “ecstacy” and other drugs, with beautiful illustrations, drawings and commentary. It smells funny here. Musty.
The class begins with a long round of introductions. There is another German. This fact we both take with the usual slight embarrassment that is common when German emigrants meet.
We learn to hold the fiddle and the bow, with a floppy hand. The teacher asks us to play the A string. I think I know which one is the A string, but what to do with the bow? The part of the bow that touches the strings is made of hair (horse? hamster?) and needs to be tightened before playing. But by how much? I shout stop, too advanced, and the teacher slows down. We take 25 minutes to tune three out of four strings. In the process we lose two strings which is not so bad considering how many fiddles there are in the room.
The difference between a fiddle and a violin is that you shouldn’t spill beer on a violin. I like this relaxed approach to learning music.
I find my way to the notice board and send some other lost souls theirs. My class assembles. Fiddle 1a. We are the second intake this year.
A dozen people from all walks of life. The youngest, a Canadian community gardener in her twenties. The oldest - hard to tell, there are three candidates in at least their seventies. One of them built his own fiddle. He used to play fiddle tunes on a cello to which he added an additional string. Some hesitant conversation and then the teacher arrives. Irish and ohmygod so hothothot.
Last term, my Uke class rehearsed in the language room. The occasional German writing on the blackboard used to tempt me to add something witty, but I could never think of anything witty. Today we’re in the addiction room. There are colourful charts about cocaine, cannabis, “ecstacy” and other drugs, with beautiful illustrations, drawings and commentary. It smells funny here. Musty.
The class begins with a long round of introductions. There is another German. This fact we both take with the usual slight embarrassment that is common when German emigrants meet.
We learn to hold the fiddle and the bow, with a floppy hand. The teacher asks us to play the A string. I think I know which one is the A string, but what to do with the bow? The part of the bow that touches the strings is made of hair (horse? hamster?) and needs to be tightened before playing. But by how much? I shout stop, too advanced, and the teacher slows down. We take 25 minutes to tune three out of four strings. In the process we lose two strings which is not so bad considering how many fiddles there are in the room.
The difference between a fiddle and a violin is that you shouldn’t spill beer on a violin. I like this relaxed approach to learning music.
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