The following day, our drive back to London was halted by a large walnut tree which had fallen across the road. Three or four men holding axes and chainsaws were standing on the horizontal trunk. A few yards away another group of men were shouting. I thought at first they were discussing how best to remove the tree from the road. But their lack of yellow and orange hi-viz jackets alerted me that all was not as it should be. It was only when I approached that I gleaned that co-operation could not have been further from their thoughts.
'You can piss off and call the police for all we care!' shouted one lank-haired, spotty youf. 'We were here first and we'll have this bugger cleared away and planked up before they or your mum get here.'
A chainsaw burst into life and branches began to fall from the trunk. 'You're not even from round 'ere', retorted the beardy from the other group who bore a startling resemblance to the last Archbishop of Canterbury.
'We've had our eyes on that tree for years and no bunch of ***** like you lot is going to nick it.'
My mind raced. Had I stumbled upon a timber-smuggling operation in the English home counties to rival that of Brazil or South East Asia? Obviously not as the army was nowhere to be seen. The truth was much more terrifying. I had chanced upon a confrontation between a group of chairmakers from nearby High Wycombe and those pit-bulls of the artisan musical instrument world; harpsichord makers!
I beat a hasty retreat back to the safety of the car just in time. Coming up the road behind us was a lone lute-maker from Amersham. Things had already turned ugly but it was only when the lute-maker started up his chain saw that the first punch was thrown. In the passenger seat Mrs Vapor was still 'in Mexico' . Through the tequila-flavoured mist on the windscreen I watched in horror as a scene of medieval violence unfolded. I hadn't seen so many angry men with beards throwing punches since my Christmas visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem two years previously when Armenian Orthodox and Coptic monks celebrated the birth of Christ by jostling and then punching and kicking each other. To this day, I don't know what their 'beef' was about.
At least with the artisans it was clear that the punch-up was over wood.In times of austerity, many musical instrument makers must find business tough especially the really specialist makers of niche authentic instruments. It's difficult to imagine that bankers might suddenly find playing a fruitwood-cased hurdy-gurdy or a copy of Haydn's forte piano more relaxing than swigging from bottles of Crystal whilst stuffing fifty pound notes into the g-strings (not cat gut) of the gyrating, oiled dancers at Spearmint Rhino. Unless George Osborne harbours secret desires regarding a facsimile of a french pedal harpsichord circa 1740, instrument makers are unlikely to be in line for major tax breaks. I was saying to Mrs Vapor that George Osborne would actually look quite good in a periwig circa 1740. Mrs Vapor retorted that he should opt for a later instrument circa 1789 as his head would look equally good stuck on the end of a pike. But that's just her way.
God help us but the plague of digitisation might also be visited upon the historical instrument makers. Just as the retail side of the music industry has just been declared HMV positive, artisans may soon be robbed of their living by increasingly sophisticated digital sampling software packages. Why go to all the hassle of building one of these archaic instruments when you can just digitally sample and sell the sound. As clean and simple as this solution appears for those having difficulty in stumping up the funds to buy a baroque harpsichord or set of English renaissance virginals, it would diminish the experience the audience experience somewhat. If the stage contains just a couple of moon-faced recorder players, a viola da gamba-ist with a hernia and a bloke with an electronic keyboard it's all a bit of a let-down, isn't it.
Mercifully, the fashion for historically accurate performances in period dress is now past but audiences still turn up to see the weird and wonderful array bygone or even new musical instruments being coaxed into sound. Leon Theremin's eponymous electronic instrument still packs them in. Whilst the player looks like he's suffering from Ergotism/St Vitus's Dance, the ethereal sound is instantly recognisable to insomniacs around the world as being that of the BBC World Services's title theme, 'Sailing By'. By why restrict ourselves to the concert hall. Recently, subways and public conveniences lobbies across Europe have been brightened by the sound of the Hang, a metal percussion instrument favoured by the dread-locked, crusty, busker classes although the splash-back cannot be good for the instrument and must tarnish it badly. I also have to admit that I have difficulty maintaining a stream whilst being played at at such close quarters. Mrs Vapor tells me that it's my age or that perhaps I should spend the twenty pence and relieve myself inside the toilet facility for a change. Radical thoughts for testing times!
