Mrs
Vapor is away. Each and every Spring she travels to Mexico to
attend the AGM of Los Amigos Confundidos del Betty Ford Foundation in
Tijuana (sponsored by Jose Cuervo Gold, a tequila of note). She
and a gaggle of her excited friends need no sedation on this long
haul flight which is more than can be said for the cabin attendants
on their arrival in the land of Mariachi, Mescal & Murder. The
schedule for these 'ladies that lunch' must be hectic as Mrs V often
arrives home with her nerves more of a frazzle than when she left but
such is the plight of charity workers in the 21st Century.
Mrs Vapor's absence allows me to give the house a cursory spring clean making sure that no bottles remain in light shades, washing baskets, lavatory cisterns or bathroom cupboards. Domestic drudgery is interrupted by the arrival of a hand-written note from my publisher, Wesley Stanton. This could be either very good or very bad. However, I am usually forewarned of bad things by curt and ill-mannered emails from Steven, the guitar player who occasionally chips in as MIN editor (Ring me. Ed.) Yes, that's the sort of thing.
The letter from Mr Stanton is obviously part of a charm offensive on his freelance contributors heavily influenced by Prime Minister David Cameron's recent posturings on Europe. The letter confirms that my fee per column will be increased by 150% during the course of 2014 if, and only if, he, Wesley Stanton , is confirmed as leader of the Conservative Party and if he wins a general election. The shaky hand and tear marks on the paper lead me to suspect that mischief and alcohol both played their part in this prank (Mr Stanton's, not Mr Cameron's).
Plans to head up to London and spend several lunchtimes and evenings at the well-known, Mayfair inn and musicians' lair, The Hand & Vibrato, have to be curtailed when news reaches me that Nigel Kennedy - the session playing bassoonist not the fiddler - has been taken ill with gout and is currently unable to approach either work or drink.
Instead, I take up a long-standing invitation to visit a blind piano tuner friend, Ivor Quimm, who now lives near Dunkirk (the delightful hamlet in Gloucestershire not the refugee holding yard in northern France). I drive to the farmhouse with some trepidation remembering our previous meetings. It's unfortunate when a blind person is also clumsy and as a result harms his or her self; when third parties are the victims, it can be downright scary.
We first met years ago when I was working as a humble sleeve-note tamer (Editor, surely. Ed.) at Septum Records. Younger readers probably won't know that recordings on vinyl disc were housed in capacious cardboard sleeves on the back of which academics, down-on-their-luck composers, musically-educated prostitutes and other demi-modaines would vie with one another to display their brilliant musical ignorance. The supplied texts (though rarely worthy of the name) had to be corralled, neutered and branded into a readable form before being committed to print. This ghastly process was carried in the Dark Ages before word-processing using type-writers, tippex and glue of such chemical potency many male sub editors were rarely capable of fathering children after using them. But I digress.
Septum Records had converted an old railway tunnel into a recording studio as the sound of so many of its records accurately reflected. Again, younger readers may not have heard of the term 'tunnel vision' (vision which concentrates on the particular to the detriment of the general) so will be doubly unaware of the term 'tunnel sound' (recordings which concentrate on the general to the detriment of the particular) which many reviewers used to describe so many of Septum's recordings.
Locals maintained that the tunnel was haunted. But there again, the local paper reported locals having sex with livestock so these views were not to be taken seriously. However, some recording artists like Bulgarian pianista and claustrophobic, Eva Dayofova, found recording at Septum Records a particular trial with near-perfect playing ruined by the artist's whimpering throughout and uncontrolled screaming when a blown fuse dropped the whole unit into darkness. Suffice to say that even those without a superstitious bone in their body found the total silence and darkness of this studio slightly unnerving.
Early one morning I went along to the control room to prepare for the morning's takes. Having switched everything on, I was busy sorting out some scores when I heard through the speakers the unmistakable sound of someone breaking wind. I remember think to myself that the locals surely would have mentioned the fact that the tunnel spectre was flatulent. But then, I heard a chair being scraped across a wooden floor followed only seconds later by a low and rhythmic thudding. Then silence. I went to the studio door and rather half-heartedly whispered:
'Is there anyone there?'
Answer came there none so I retreated to the safety of the control room and locked the door. Cranking up the twin Quad amps to their highest rate I strained my ears and stared gazed through the soundproof glass into the dark studio interior beyond for further supernatural occurences. By this time, of course, the ghost or, as as I was subsequently to discover, Ivor, had settled his flatulent golden retriever guide-dog, Cedric, who was now sitting beneath the Bosendorfer grand beating the upright with his wagging tail. Having positioned a chair mid keyboard, Ivor was ready to start the tuning process.
In the studio, he struck middle C. In the control room my head exploded as the twin 500 watt Quad amps turned the single piano note into a wall of pain. With a howl and both ears on the verge of bleeding, I managed to find the control desk and reduce the sound level before Ivor continued his work.
It was on my second visit to his charming farmhouse, that I lost half of my spleen. The fault was mine entirely and I advise anyone who will listen to this day:
'Never address a blind person from behind when they are carving a joint'.
I still bear the scar. The incision was precise but complicated by the presence of roast potato and some rosemary so half of my spleen was forfeit. I shed a good deal of blood but made a good recovery. But friends are still kind enough to say that despite my loss, I still possess enough spleen to go around.
