Pure pleasure
Charles Spencer
Iwas packing for our holidays on the Ile de Ré in France, when my son Edward, 12, turned an inquiring eye on the CDs I was taking. Three of these were extraordinarily naff-looking compilations called the Best Air Guitar Album in the World ... Ever!, The Best Air Guitar Album in the World! II and, just in case you haven’t guessed already, The Best Air Guitar Album in the World! III.
‘What’s an air guitar?’ my son asked, and frankly I found the question far more embarrassing than anything along the lines of how babies are made. In fact, that was a doddle in comparison. When I steeled myself to explain the facts of life to him a few years ago, he told me, very firmly and before I had stammered out more than half a dozen words, that he knew them already and I was not to trouble him further on the topic. Much relief all round.
He was far more merciless on the blushmaking topic of the air guitar. I explained that the albums, which have been compiled by Brian May of Queen, contain great rock songs featuring rip-snorting lead guitar breaks. The range is admirably catholic, zipping from the Shadows to heavy metal, from Clapton to Hendrix and Chuck Berry to ZZ Top. Even dear old Status Quo are represented with admirable generosity.
Yes, said Edward, assuming an expression of puzzled innocence. But what exactly is an ‘air’ guitar. Was it a special make or model? Well, no, I said, the thing about air guitars is that they don’t actually exist. The music chosen by May is the kind of stuff middle-aged chaps like me pretend to play when we have turned the volume on our record players up to the max, and imagine that we are actually playing in the band. I put on that air-guitar favourite, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s mighty ‘Free Bird’, assumed the required lead guitarist’s expression of ecstasy tinged with agony, moved my fingers along the non-existent neck of the guitar and plucked away with an invisible plectrum, shaking my head the while. Edward gazed at me with an expression of infinite pity. ‘How sad is that?’ he inquired at last.
Well, very sad, really. As I’m sure I’ve remarked here before, nothing in life is ever going to offer any real compensation for my failure to become a rock star. How I wish I had learnt to play guitar, drums, piano or saxophone when I was a child rather than wasting so much time and effort on such detested subjects as biology, German and additional maths, none of which has proved the slightest use in later life.
Edward, in contrast, is learning both the piano and the French horn. Shortly before our conversation about air guitars I’d picked him up from Pocklington, Tom Stoppard’s old prep school in York. Ed had spent a week on an IAPS music course there, culminating in a performance by the IAPS National Concert Band, consisting of more than 80 children of 13 and under. I feared it might prove aural torture, but the quality of the music-making was remarkable, the enthusiasm of the children palpable. Listening to these kids move from the Mission Impossible theme to a deeply moving arrangement of ‘Abide With Me’ proved pure pleasure.
Meanwhile, the nephew of my oldest friend, best man and fellow pop music buff, Tony Brown, is already providing the kind of guitar licks that might one day feature on a future Best Air Guitar Album in the World Ever! Charlie Wilkinson is studying music at Leeds University and sent me a demo of his eight-piece jazz-funk band, add9. They sound terrific to me, are already creating a buzz in Leeds and will be playing two dates at the Edinburgh Festival this summer at The Lot, 4 Grassmarket on 17 and 18 August. If you are up for the festival, and fancy a change from unfunny stand-ups, I’d give them a try.
Meanwhile, My Best Air Guitar Album in the World Ever albums didn’t even get an outing in France. I kept threatening to play Motorhead’s ‘Ace of Spades’ at maximum volume on the hire-car stereo, only to be screamed down by my wife and her sister. We reached a compromise with an album purchased from a band that seemed to be busking at harbours and street markets wherever we went on the Ile de Ré.
Consisting of three acoustic guitarists, a double bass player and a violinist, Délit d’Swing have evidently been inspired by Django Reinhardt, Stéphane Grappelli and the Hot Club de France, playing jazz standards with laid-back virtuosity and conjuring up a deliciously warm, summery vibe. I’ve just played the disc yet again, and even in the stuffy squalor of my study, felt as though I was once again sitting outside a café in La Flotte’s picturesque harbour, drinking black coffee, smoking a Gitane sans filtre and feeling the sea breeze on my face. Bliss.
Charles Spencer is theatre critic of the Daily Telegraph.
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