August 8th – Near misses to the ending of your
life are, in general, wake-up calls for folk to pay attention; for the rich and
famous they are salient reminders that fame does not necessarily make one
indestructible…or does it?
There’s lots of things I wouldn't try my hand at, or at least
only if it meant the saving of my life or someone close to me…that’s as in related someway not as in someone I've never met but is less than five
feet distant from me when disaster strikes you understand... I mean, I think I’d rather
give a miss to wrestling a polar bear naked (that’s me not the bear) and
smeared in butter (me again…although…) in order to win a box of Ferrero Rocher;
that would be no way to die and one of the crap-est bravery medals ever. I
would, however, spend a great deal of time with Aishwariya Rai, you know, if my
arm was twisted or there really was no other way of helping out a friend…I
would…or even just stay in a luxury hotel on the first floor drinking and
chatting. But those are really extreme examples, I mean, where would you find
that much butter in a hurry for a start? Lets look at something nearer the bounds
of possibility; how about Munro bagging?
I’m a keen birdwatcher (settle…seeeeetttttllllle…) not a
twitcher, the kind that drops whatever it is he/she is doing when the call
comes that somewhere in the Trossachs (that’’s a woodland glen in Stirling to
you lot) somewhere in the Trossachs a lesser spotted, underground-burrowing
shitepoke has been seen. I just enjoy the spectacle of bird watching; I enjoy
the surroundings and the season as much as seeing the odd unusual bird. Get the
chance, go out on the foreshore or estuary at daybreak in early autumn or late
spring and watch the ducks, geese or waders as they start their day…nothing
quite like it. I’m also the bane of any companions that go with me because I
walk at a snail’s pace. I inspect and am attracted by all sorts around me;
partridge feather-barking spots or runways through hedgerows where rabbits,
foxes or badgers have trolled; footmarks and feather falls; they all fascinate
me hence very little distance is covered in a normal walking day; why sometime
we’ve even not made the pub in time for lunch…! With that as my modus operandi
you can see why Munro-bagging is well
out of my reach. A Munro, named after the 4th Baron, Sir Hugh Munro,
is any peak over 3,000ft. The idea is to get up to the top and back down again
as fast as you can so’s you can tick it off your list (there’s 282 of them in
the UK) and rush on to the next…some people have done three in a day! Now given
the choice that ranks alongside wrestling a polar bear as possible ways that I
could be forced to save your un-worthy ass.
The same applies to mountain climbing. Don’t give me that because its there crap neither. Gorillas
are there as well, but I’m not about to don a one-piece, leopard-skin leotard
and challenge a silverback to the best of three-falls, two-submissions or a
knock-out…anyway they’ve not invented a fabric with sufficient stretch to go
round this paunch of mine so…no contest.
Hank Williams (remember him? I wrote about him in the very
first music blog I did in this series, way back on January 1st 2013)
well, apart from being a lad who liked a pill or two, and also was not averse
to the demon drink, he really liked doing the American equivalent of Munro-ing,
and his faith was well and truly tested one day in Montana on the Ajax
Mountain. Missing his footing he fell 500 feet…and survived, gaining only some
facial scars which he hid with beard and sunglasses when pressing the flesh of
his fans; so, lucky lad; saved himself for a death by drugs, booze, vitamin B12
and, seemingly, a severe beating, good of him, huh?
Chet Baker was a gifted and troubled jazz trumpet player who
seemed to court trouble throughout his life. Brilliant and highly individual as
a performer, he seemed to do a good line in troubled
musician taking the boring and predictable route of drugs and booze to help
him through the bad times…of which there were plenty. Lots of drugs and lots of
prison, by both Mr. Baker and those around him who formed the basis of his
several jazz bands, he came close to losing his gift altogether when he was
trying to score some h and the dealer
had friends who took a dislike to Chet. In truth, heroin addicts can be
obnoxious little shits sometimes (well, can’t we all, h or no h) so it may well
be Mr. Baker just seriously pissed them off, I mean, let’s face it, when no
less a personage than Roy Acuff says to you;
‘You've got
a million-dollar talent, son, but a ten-cent brain’
you’d kinda take notice wouldn't you? Not our
Chet. Suffice to say the
dealer’s companions drummed out the rhythm section of Harlem Nights on Mr. Baker’s head and, amongst many other injuries,
knocked out his front teeth. Now anyone who knows anything about trumpet
players knows about the importance of the embouchure (the
position and use of the lips, tongue, and teeth in playing a wind instrument).
Without his front teeth Mr. Baker was buggered. No gigs no music, no music no
pay, no pay no drugs ‘n’ booze…and that’s a powerful driver to sort your act
out which, to his credit, he did. Dentures were fitted and he worked on the
readjustment of his embouchure until he was every bit as good as before.
So far so good, or was he just saving himself…?
On a tour of Holland , in the
late evening, Mr. Baker checked into the Hotel
Prins Hendrik in Amsterdam
Moral: If you’re gonna go into the music industry, do Country
and Western, don’t do Jazz; Jazz, it seems, lessens your bounce quotient.
No comments:
Post a Comment