pick-me-up

My older brother, yay-son de la mare, once remarked upon picking up one of my guitars and having a strum,

“god (iva)! this is the quietest guitar I’ve EVER played!”

I came over all mutton-ish – I’d been playing his majesty for 14 years but had rarely picked him up in all that time. Quiet guitar. Yes, sir. Silent, if you will…

My brother is a guitar psychic.

He gets vibes off every wood there is and can tell who has been honking on it.

Once he went into a music shop, had a good go on one, then put it down immediately in shock and disdain.

“this is the SADDEST guitar I’ve ever played!” he quipped. Good at phrases, my brother.

Turns out the owner had just tried to top himself…..

Years after the first ‘quiet guitar’ moment, I proudly presented yay-son with my new guitar - my dear Petula – a lovely cheeky ginger little thing.

Unfortunately her predecessor – Derek – had died a terrible death when a deformed housemate of mine wanged him round the head with his gammy elbow and smashed the bastard right up. The neanderthal fixed him, then the guitar, but things between me and Derek became even more estranged…..hence my need for the ginger beauty.

On presenting my new instrument of my affection to my brother, seeking his psychic approval, he had a good old strum on her.

Then he said:

“Gorrrrrrrrrrrrd” (how does one write that without writing ‘good’ I wonder?)

“this is the QUIETIST guitar I’ve ever played”……..

Is my brother a frigging goldfish?

Nope - mice were more our thing. Poor old splodge, died of cancer bigger than ‘er head. RIP. (You’d worry about me if I didn’t mention death).

*my ex-boyfriend the axe-murderer once told me, when plump with protection, ‘never eat food bigger than your head, in an encouragement to fuck me up further*

No, I’ve realised that poor old petula and her broken-backed predecessor WERE both quiet little things. Even though I had sat up all night long tinkling with my dear petula, still she be not loud.

They both WERE quiet guitars……

But not because I didn’t play them - because I didn’t play them WITH A PICK.

That’s a plectrum to those who don’t live in the mid-west, and I ain’t talking chipotle sauce.

The boy was the first to try and make me play with a pick. I was off my head on fat lesbian glitter mdma, and he reported back that no sooner had I got the pick in me chipolatas, I’d dropped it and started blithering around on the floor.

An unsuccess I’m sure we can all agree. From a musical perspective.

Quite a feat for someone with dodgy knees waiting for the knacker’s yard.

But Samson has teased me since then, drawn me in, cajoled me, by leaving a few plectrums around my spaceship.

And all these months later, last week no less, for no real reason, I picked one up. A pick. And I had a go.

And I only went and fucking blew my doors off, didn’t it?!

Wahay! Imagine my new-born neighbours’ delight at me jangling out every song I’ve ever faffed about with. Not fingering this time; out-and-out strumming. Full on.

When I asked him, after being late for a meeting in the flat below, bonking my socks off whilst they disdainfully looked into their coffee, whether I made much noise, good old sheils asked me if I had been ‘treading the boards’. I really didn’t know what that meant. I’d been laying on the floor at four in the morning playing the ukulele whilst the room span for my client. And now I was pissed still and cock-handed, at a service charge meeting.

And when I asked my other neighbour whether he could hear me playing dear old petula, he remarked,

“well……maybe a bit of strumming, but HARDLY oasis”.

Erm, is that an insult? Or am I JUST QUIET!!

No More.

With every song a new life, a new realisation – I can do this! I can play annoyingly loud guitar and hound every dog in town till they listen!

A cherry-pop a minute.

Not only my shall the world come to bear my deranged writing and my cack-handed crayolas, but now my shredded vocal chords for the world to hear.

Yes, no longer is my dear petula quiet, she roars day and night in luminous glory.

And I’ve recorded a song to flog; blog about you.

And I’ve played it live in a pub, with a pick, to the boy. Who remarked that he loves the way I write in the grand reveal. Yes, dear readers, I have truly exposed myself, the boy has the blog. And now the boy is among us - do make him feel welcome. Twisted muse.

And the last time my brother picked up my petula, he remarked upon her beautiful bold sound.

And come January 8th I shall be spreading her twanging love upon a wibbly wobbly boat in east london for a rabble of mafiosos, fashion designers and ruffians. And I’ve literally just picked up my beatles book for the first time – and haven’t picked it apart yet.

My first proper gig.

And my new-found lost-virginity.

To a pick……nearly as satisfying, but not as tasty, as prick.

But I still can't play C sharp.  What a cunt.......

http://soundcloud.com/godiva/blog-about
(meant to be ‘shitty’ weather, but y’know….x)