Intro
EMILE HOLBA
P
eripatetic: ‘Travelling from place to place, in particular for working; or based in various places for relatively short periods.’ 1. Synonyms – nomadic, itinerant, wandering, travelling, unsettled, vagabond and vagrant (to name just a few). 2. Also: ‘An Aristotelian philosopher.’ 3. A self-employed guitarist. (One of these definitions is fictitious but, in a weird twist of fate, startlingly accurate – you choose.) There are times when the numbing routine of so-called regular employment seems an appealing prospect, even if it’s illusory. Bank clerk, anyone? Where do I sign? And rarely have I felt more ‘unsettled’ and ‘wandering’ than this last week. In a perfect world, I would have devoted my time and effort exclusively to writing, copying and woodshedding the material for Mitch Dalton & The Studio Kings in the days leading up to our gig at The Pizza Express Jazz Club, Soho. But no-ho. That would be way too straightforward. Our modest entertainment is scheduled for a Wednesday night. And, as sure as Cumberbatch follows Benedict, 10 days before the great event, I am invited to participate in an evening of music and drama (some of it with actors) entitled Shakespeare On Film at London’s deeply fashionable Royal Festival Hall. The Radio 3 broadcast is on the Monday, two days before. However, I am also required to present myself at St Luke’s Church, Clerkenwell on the preceding Thursday and BBC Maida Vale Studio One on Saturday. So far, so peripatetic. Meanwhile, English National Ballet discover that they need a deputy to cover one three-hour session during a week of rehearsals for a new work. It’s on the Thursday morning after our Dean Street gig. “You’re only in one piece and we’ll send the music in advance. With luck you’ll be on last and won’t be required until midday. Plenty of time to recover from your gig the night before. Charge us your usual fee…” Needless to say, I acquiesce and dive headlong into the trap. Had they erected a 30-foot high neon sign at Piccadilly Circus with the word TRAP flashing at five
Mitch Dalton’s
Session Shenanigans
The studio guitarist’s guide to happiness and personal fulfilment. Part 15 – P is for Peripatetic second intervals it couldn’t have been more obvious. But a fool and his sanity are soon parted, as we shall see. Back in Bardland, I discover that I am participating in but two pieces. One of them is Nino Rota’s overture to The Taming Of The Shrew, which has an evocative section for solo Spanish guitar. I employ the battered old Takemine classical with the AER amplifier I use for just such occasions. The music is straightforward enough, making
I awaken on Tuesday morning to the realisation that I have but one remaining day to get it together for the Mitch & The Studio Kings show. I practise and panic all day, not necessarily in that order. And in so doing, I forget that I have not yet taken a peek at that English National Ballet music. Hmm. Interesting. The…. “only one piece…” turns out to be around 25 minutes long, is in 13 movements and impossible to read at sight. And, while digesting this
no one says any nice things about my playing. i leave. no one appears to notice. or care allowances for the usual tension of waiting around and then playing in front of The BBC Concert Orchestra on cue. But I know how to produce an authentic lightly amplified sound from the gear, which helps no end. Consequently, a number of kind people say nice things about my playing. Some of them are musicians. And, of course, I refrain from telling them that, in the grand scheme of life, it’s relatively easy. The profession of showbiz has taught me to accept praise when it’s forthcoming...
entirely predictable information, I am informed that we will begin the rehearsal at 10.30am. I do what any conscientious professional musician would do at this point. I give up. Fast forward to the early hours of Thursday morning. I say hello to the duvet at around 2am, one joyous gig to the good and one missing iPhone to the infuriatingly bad. There are but a limited number of possibilities now available to me and, after careless consideration, I select option one – leave home at
6am. I drive to Henry Wood Hall feeling refreshed and radiant after a full three-hour nap. The cleaner lets me in with a quizzical expression but decides wisely to say nowt. I find my chair, a feat in itself. I then spend two-and-a-half hours in fuzzy-headed practising in an empty rehearsal space until the orchestral early birds begin to drift in. The rehearsal commences. I force myself into a state of concentration that would befit a chess Grand Master. It goes very well. No one shouts at me. Or sends me home in disgrace. We are done within an hour. I am both pleased and relieved. The sacrifice was clearly worth it. Maybe I can finally play a bit after all these years? I am thanked politely. No kind people say any nice things about my playing. They move on. They have other ballets to routine. I leave. No one appears to notice. Or care. “Aristotle, Aristotle – wherefore art thou, Aristotle?” If you see what I mean. Mitch Dalton & The Studio Kings are at The Pheasantry, Kings Road, Chelsea on May 21st. For more info go to: www. mitchdalton.co.uk June 2016
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