What a Waste

Music played a massive role in his upbringing. Some of his earliest memories revolved around the tapes played during interminable car journeys on family holidays, parents and siblings all joining in with gusto. They weren’t all good vocalists, of course, but they enjoyed a sing-song as much as anyone. His mother sang in a choir, and every Christmas he would be brought to the concert hall to watch her belt out Handel’s Messiah. Thus the desire to recite music was inculcated in him.

For much of his teenage years, he desperately longed for a guitar with which to complement his singing. Something to give his thin and reedy voice a certain support, a musical instrument to at once distract from and augment his warblings. Eventually, at the age of twenty, he got his wish; an acoustic six-string was given to him as a present. He was giddy with excitement: Finally, he could accompany himself! Finally, he could actually write a song! Finally, he had an alternative to a capella!

woodys-guitar_final

Trouble was, he couldn’t learn how to play. So lacking in any self-discipline was he that after only a short time plucking at the hard fibres he simply gave up. The instrument was discarded, its ungrateful owner quickly admitting defeat. Laziness, impatience, ineptitude… Whatever the reason, his first guitar now gathers dust.

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…

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About Seba Roux

Gooner, Socialist, Historian, Slacker. That's pretty much all you need to know.
This entry was posted in Autobiographical, Short Stories and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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