# "Today we'll listen to the 1812..." (then three years later) "...and now, the 1812".



## mirepoix (Feb 1, 2014)

That was the content of my music class at school for three years.

The school I attended was once a fee paying school. It produced many fine and upstanding chaps, some of whom have gone on to touch our little humdrum lives. By the time I was enrolled there it was known as an establishment that catered to teachers and educators who had various 'issues' in their previous posts, along with pupils (including me) from the _wrong side of the tracks._

I don't blame everyone involved. I mean, yes, some of the teachers were bullies and sadists who enjoyed belting pupils to tears. And some of those pupils were indeed, violent and abusive little sh*ts. However we were all stuck there until we were able to escape via retirement/entering the workplace. In my case that meant walking out one June day at the age of 15 and never looking back. But what does this have to do with Tchaikovsky?

Every week our last class on a Friday afternoon was 'Music'. When you think of it, that could mean just about anything. For us it meant the 1812. For three years our teacher would remove the LP from its sleeve, drop the needle at the beginning, and then say a few words which always ended with "...and if you listen you can hear *class joins in parrot style* the sound of real cannon fire!" Then she'd leave the room and not return until the bell rang for the end of the lesson. I'm not going to be too hard on her though, because she had a drinking problem. But she was also good to me.

I'd had enough of the 1812. So one week I brought in an LP of Scarlatti being performed on the classical guitar (an aside: I would dearly love to find that recording now or even the title of the pieces) and she played that instead, commenting that she was surprised to find someone interested in such music. A few weeks later I brought Rhapsody in Blue. The last one I offered up was Time Out by Brubeck, but the head of the music department heard it and came in and without a word removed it from the turntable. Boo, hiss etc.

At the end of one lesson the music teacher asked me why I hadn't taken an interest in the school orchestra. There was an orchestra? Apparently so. But it consisted of those pupils who were older, a little more staid, and didn't eat with their fingers. Still, she asked me further questions about what music and which instruments I liked.

From the age of about four I'd wanted to play the piano. I didn't care what I would play on it, I just wanted to play it. But frankly we were too poor to afford one. And even if we weren't, there was no room for one in the house. But also, I liked the drums, and I'd an uncle who while waiting for his first choice career to take off used to moonlight in jazz clubs playing the drums. Incidentally, his first choice career? - photographer. A few weeks later my form teacher handed me a note that stated I was to attend percussion lessons on a twice weekly basis. They were taught by an old man who smoked Woodbines and helped me develop a smooth single stroke roll from the outset.

Quite recently my old school was demolished. Where it once stood there will soon be a new educational establishment filled with knowledge and young minds and hope. I mentioned that a few weeks ago when my companion and I passed the building site in a taxi. She asked me about my schooldays. I told her "That's where I used to listen to the 1812".


----------

