Musical musings
Like some kids, I was badgered into learning a musical instrument. I was also made to listen to stories of how good my late maternal grandfather was at music, playing the harmonica and the maracas.
When it became fashionable for public elementary schools to form bandurria bands, my mother had me enrolled. My band-mates were sons and daughters of other teachers or government employees—just about the only parents who could afford to buy instruments for their children in our patently rural village. Membership in the troupe was therefore no indication of our musical abilities.
Most members of the band played the onion-shaped bandurria. I played the octavina, the Lorna Tolentino-shaped 18-stringer that produced lower notes compared to the former. It meant that, as bandurria bands were invariably arranged, I was the fat boy seated on the edge of the row. It didn’t help that our uniform was a checkered red and white vest on white shirts or blouses. Think “round tabletop”.
There were things I was good at, like arrange the teachers’ flower vase every morning and sell ice candies during summer breaks. Playing a musical instrument was definitely not one of them. It came to the point that our mentor told me before one district competition to just fake it in case I forgot which keys to press. It happened a lot.
Like all public school programs in this country, the bandurria craze died a natural death before it did something good to the kids. Just as well. I knew I couldn’t learn how to play the darned instrument even if looking good to some of my crushes depended on it.
Mama’s next brilliant idea was to convert my octavina to a guitar by taking twelve other strings off. He hired Marlon Balisi to give me and my sister Jing some lessons but I just didn’t catch on.
A few years later, while making candles, I cut my left index finger deeply and severed the cartilage that made it curl or clench. It resulted in my finger’s inability to fold at the third joint, important if I was to learn to play any stringed instrument. The only good thing that candle gave me was a stiffer finger with which to pick my nose.
In college, I desperately tried to learn the guitar. A Jingle Beatles songbook helped me learn the basic guitar keys. I am just about the only Bassig male grandkid who does not play the guitar well. (And since I sucked at playing basketball too, I had the least success at impressing girls. What a chump I was!)
Why the sudden recollection of my sad musical memories?
For some time now I keep thinking of buying a guitar. For what, I don’t know.
