Interesting question in one of the papers today; if harps are heavenly instruments what could possibly be the most devilish instrument in hell?
No question in my mind. A violin in the sweaty, ignorant grasp of a beginner. I mean, after about twenty minutes of “practice” the arrhythmic sawing gnaws into your brain with it’s sharp orange teeth far more effectively than my nightmare moth larva.
You either have to flee, holding your ears and screaming, shut the door and burrow under a mattress or gently remove the violin from the dear sweet innocent beginner’s stubby little digits and smash it repeatedly against the nearest hard object.
I know. I used to be that beginner. Having mastered the recorder to the point of chewing the mouthpiece of my first wooden one so badly it had to be replaced by a plastic Dometsch with a nicer tone and more robust mouthpiece, I wanted to learn the flute.
Sadly, the flute was an instrument not available on hire for lessons at school and there was no way on earth ma and pa could afford to buy one.
But violin lessons were available and money was found to hire a violin for me. I didn’t like it on sight. It wasn’t glossy and richly rufous-brown boxwood. It was kind of light grey. Weird really. I thought it might be made of some cheaper wood like ash but never dared to criticise. It looked as though it might be from Ikea.
My violin teacher was a short, Spanish chap with a figure like a weeble, thick dark hair, black-framed bottle-bottom spectacles. Perfectly pleasant, I’d imagine but his jacket was stiff with body odour. All my music teachers (apart from my Spanish flute teacher much, much later) were slightly repellent in one way or another. If anyone remembers my piano lesson blogs, they might recalls the young chap with such purulent pustules all over his face that every time I sat on that piano stool with him, I was terrified that something might explode and spread the virus to me like a very bad horror film. Nightmare During Moonlight Sonata.
The violin teacher Senor Something had clear skin but I could barely understand him because his accent was so thick. He took my arm and moved it to demonstrate the way I should have been bowing. He always did it with sufficient force to disturb my chin from its resting place on a nice new yellow duster. It wasn’t a great teaching method, particularly since when let go, my tone would revert from “reasonably mellow” to “screechy horsehair.”
It wasn’t so much the torture I was inflicting on my parents and little brother, it was the fact that I couldn’t tolerate the terrible noise myself. My dad’s sawings in his workshop were far preferable and they came complete with a really lovely smell of fresh timber. My playing was an abomination that bore no resemblance to my favourite classical music of the time, Holst’s The Planets. I could scarcely believe it was the same instrument.
The tunes in the book were appallingly simple. There was no excuse. I scraped and bowed, bowed and scraped but gave up before I even got on to Book Two for Beginners. It was an abject failure. Funnily enough, neither mum nor dad ever said “Now J you really need to persevere because you could be good.” The minute I announced my intention to abandon my violin, mater was on the phone asking how soon she could get her deposit back.
I have a friend who is first violin in a Gloucestershire orchestra. She was taught properly at her nice Wimbledon girls’ school and picked it up again when her own kids were at school.
It was only when I went to a performance and watched her and her fellow violinists really going for it during Tchaikovsky’s 1812 that I remembered my own pathetic violin attempts and felt a pang of jealousy.
They were having such a good time and there was such enthusiasm – besides the ancient church windows nearly being shattered by the crow-scarer “cannons” – that I felt a little pang and thought what might have been if only I’d put in more effort.
Then I thought “Nah. I was much better off with the flute.”
So yes. Beginner violin at number one and for the runner-up hellish instrument, the sound of a whole band of kazoo players takes some beating.
Unless you can think of anything worse…………?
Boadicea's Chariot 
My youngest daughter wanted to learn the violin – I told her that it was an extremely ‘lonely instrument’. When she asked why, I explained that it was because one had to practise no nearer than the end of the garden – preferably much farther away. She decided against learning.
I’ll second your ‘Screeching Violins’ as the music from hell.
Hi, Janh1.
Wonderful blog but you know full well that I really, really can’t help myself and, as it happens, I’m still smarting from your support of JW in his ‘winshing’ nonsense.
You’re usually reasonably sound, apostrophically-speaking, in my experience, so I was surprised to see you blowing it twice in the first two paragraphs. Surely ‘Hell’s’ and ‘its’?
Pedantically, a lovely word ‘rufous’ but I think that you’ll find that it means red-brown. It follows that ‘rufous-brown’ is tautological.
Who cares? Another one of your great blogs which always make my day.
And, since you are asking, my idea of hellish music would be my own native instrument. The Great Highland Bagpipe is a fine thing when it’s being played outdoors on a reasonably non-adjacent Munro or Corbett or Murdo. It’s also incredibly powerful in military or funerary situations but it can get right up my kilt when it’s up close and personal indoors.
Morning folks. JM first. Well it seems my attention was rather lacking but I bashed it out for some recreation and it was late, I seem to remember. Your point re rufous-brown is a tad nit-picky imho. I always think of rufous as “reddish.” But as is customary, I’m pleased to have provided you with some meat to pick at. After all, what would you do without me? 🙂
I did wonder about the bagpipes but I’ve never had any experience of the pipes “up close and personal” only on splendid public occasions. I’m partial to a lament as long as it’s short.
Hi Boa! Glad you concur. Such a shame isn’t it? Once mastered, the violin can be sublime.
Jan, as a piece on the horrors of children learning violin, you have absolutely nailed it. I love “sharp orange teeth”. At school, my brother’s friend played violin. This was a greasy long haired youth with foul temper and spotty complexion. (More of that in a moment.) Did you know that the “f” shaped cut out slits on the front of the violin, enabling the sound to come out, are called the “f holes”. I should imagine for your sweaty-fingered beginners the openings could easily be called the “arseholes” – two of them being in stereo! And altering the length of the “f holes” would cause the sound to change. Yes, splintering the casing of the violin with an axe would also affect the sound quality. But back to my brother’s greasy haired friend. One day at school I was able to open up this boy’s violin case without his knowledge and I took out this violin and with a cheap Bic Biro wrote through one of the “f” holes, “f-cking bastard” with all letters in tact. It tickled me no end to think of him screeching away on the violin with this foul indictment scored inside the back. But very soon after, perhaps whilst playing, his eye did catch the foul words; a ray of sunlight illuminating the inside? But he was a greasy yob and the inscription amused him! We are still friends.
A rival to the violin? I would propose a whistle, shrill and piercing.
Gosh, PapaG, I never even thought of looking inside a violin. Goodness knows what might have been written in mine!! Something v similar, mebbe! 🙂
I have difficulties imagining a greasy yob playing the violin. Didn’t turn into our Nige, did he? I retract that immediately as I like Nigel Kennedy’s passion for the violin and for music.
My maternal grandfather made violins as a hobby, and their mahogany cases – 13 of them – one for each of his children. (No, he wasn’t a Catholic – Grandma apparently loved having children and there wasn’t much else to do between 1870 and 1901)
The one which I inherited is inscribed inside with his name and the date 1890. I have lent it to a very talented young violinist, and it is sheer joy to hear her playing it properly. In the hands of a beginner the noise is like nails screeching across a blackboard…
Jan – the greasy yob ended up being a very proficient church organist but still having a foul temper, an irreverent attitude to the church, a liking for real ale and a lusty appetite for women. He was an ugly bastard – still is! Whenever we meet, we argue for the hell of it. Nonetheless, good company, a real appreciation of music and a shared love of schoolboy capers!
I nominate the accordion.
And my Grandson wants to play the violin – he is only being put off by his music teacher, whom he worships, who won’t let him start violin until he is proficient on the piano.
Bagpipes. As I wrote earlier this week, how do you know when they need tuning?
OZ
OZ, as I think I’ve said before, to a squaddie there’s no sweeter or more welcome sound, if you’re deep in it, than the wail of the pipes heard faintly on the wind. It means that either the Jocks or the Gurkhas are on the way…
That, Bravo, is a wonderful reply. I can picture Mr Mackie now, striding through the heather swinging his mashie niblick. Or should that be broadsword?
Completely agree, OZ, how does anyone know? Do they ever need tuning or is it just about how much breath you have on the day?
But Bravo, the accordion is the sound of France! Knowing how dodgy I am with the squeezebox, I can imagine a beginner on the accordion could be painful.
How lovely, cwj, that your heirloom violin is being played as it should be played! Your maternal grandfather sounds exceptionally talented.
Hi again PapaG. He sounds like a hell of a character. No wonder you’ve stayed in touch 🙂