second hand guitar. He gave me his old one and said “Here you go Andy, learn how to play it before you leave uni”. At last I had my own guitar, and the only person that could force me to practise was my self. I never progressed beyond a dozen chords and struggled greatly with tuning as the guitar, a battered old Tanglewood, had a twisted neck. I learnt to play out of tune and had to live with it. I’d mess about for ages and get a G chord bang on in tune, only to find that when I played a C or D it’d sound bloody awful. No matter, I was usually so pissed and singing so loudly it was all academic anyhow. Being a student and having a drinking problem, I was generally flat broke. I discovered I could make a reasonable hourly rate busking – certainly a lot more than getting a part time job. What’s more I could pick and choose my working hours, my venue, my songs, and take a break for a pint or two whenever I felt like it. What a Winner! I was still rank amateur on the guitar but liked to think my enthusiasm made up for it - 5% talent and 95% bravado.


By the time I left uni I really wasn’t in the mood for settling down into a 9 till 5, paying off my student loans, and getting saddled with a mortgage. I decided to put my degree in environmental management to good use and moved into a tree house at a road protest camp. My trusty Tangle- wood of course came with me, and many a drunken evening was spent round the fire singing protest songs in and amongst outlandish plans for foiling the authorities, fouling developers’ plans, and of course drinking too much cheap cider.


My twenties unfolded in a drunken haze, living in different places, Scotland, France, Corsica, on a boat, in a squat, whatever. My guitar playing improved both slightly and slowly over the years. This wasn’t as a result of dedicated practise or learning scales or anything. It was just a result of being a noisy bastard with an unbridled ego and a broken volume control, addled by too much cider. Busking became an increasingly regular event and I found I could hitchhike all over the country without a penny in my pocket and then earn enough to get by. Music was starting to define who I was and what I was about. I began to write my own stuff, both songs and poems, and was getting good feed- back. I knew I’d never make it big time, but that had never nor ever will be my aim. Simply to be known as “a muso” no matter how good or bad was enough. I knew that no matter where I went in the world and no matter what my situation, if I could knock out a few songs and make people think, laugh, cry, tap their feet or just listen, then I’d always have friends around me. Music had become a way of life. Approaching my thirties I knew I’d have to grow up at least a little bit and make amends with my family. My Dad and I found it difficult to have a normal conversation at first and so we’d trade songs and let the guitar act as mediator.


He made a memorial gesture on my 30th birthday and gave me a Yamaha acoustic he had owned for about 25 years. He got it second hand for £20 all those years ago but knew it was worth a damn sight more. The guy that sold it didn’t have a clue as to its real value. My Dad’s words will remain with me till I die… “Son, you’ve been playing guitar long enough now to warrant a decent one, but have been too bloody irresponsible to actually own one. Now that you’ve got a part time job and are renting a proper house you can have my old Yammy.” I was totally made up. At last I owned a decent guitar. My playing improved almost over night. It’s amazing how much difference it makes having a good instrument to work with. More importantly the gesture paved the way for me and my folks to become a proper family again, and of course that is beyond measure.


Roll on a few years and I now have a loving wife, a mortgage, a responsible and meaningful job, and some, but not all, of the usual trappings that go with it. I’ve owned about 10 guitars, and have just bought a superb Taylor having saved up for a year. My wife plays banjo and we regularly have jam sessions. The house will fill up with musicians and their various instruments, beers will flow and so will the songs. Running the folk nights at the two locals is always a great pleasure, and we regularly attend other sessions. Weekend festivals and the op- portunity to play and listen elsewhere is always welcome, and things just seem to go from strength to strength. All that said and done though, its being a muso that’s best. Not great, not bad, just a muso.


Cheers Dad!


Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40  |  Page 41  |  Page 42  |  Page 43  |  Page 44  |  Page 45  |  Page 46  |  Page 47  |  Page 48  |  Page 49  |  Page 50  |  Page 51  |  Page 52  |  Page 53  |  Page 54  |  Page 55  |  Page 56  |  Page 57  |  Page 58  |  Page 59  |  Page 60  |  Page 61  |  Page 62  |  Page 63  |  Page 64  |  Page 65  |  Page 66