gigdiary

In my long and journeyman-like music career I have on occasion had to resort to teaching rather than playing or writing. Once back in ’79 it was five days a week. When that was no longer necessary, I was euphoric. Although teaching is one of the highest callings in the professional world, it isn’t for everyone. It certainly wasn’t for me. Ten years ago I took on a position at a private school, forgetting completely the stultifying emotions such a job evokes. Day one was enough to remind me.

Over the course of that year I met many interesting, intelligent and vibrant young people. I didn’t meet any interesting and vibrant young guitar players. It’s the nature of the instrument. Violin students, classical players, flautists expect to follow a regimen to learn to play their instrument. Guitar players are there for the grandeur. It’s the one class that they don’t expect any homework, much less instruction. Pure entertainment is the name of the game. ‘Show me something fun’, was a common rejoinder.

At the end of the first year, and although it sounds dour, I was brain-dead, living in dread of the teaching days and seriously considering work-induced depression as a Workers Comp claim. I began the second year with trepidation, albeit confidence, after all I had taught some students the intro to ‘Stairway to Heaven’, others a basic rock solo; yet always the plaintive cry was ‘show me something good’, ie ‘something fun’.

That all changed when a melancholy little girl, fourteen if a day, turned up for her first lesson. We ran through the various chords and a bit of strumming. I didn’t introduce notation the first lesson, as that would send a nascent student running for the hills. Crossing her off as yet another kid who wanted to avoid Maths or Science by doing music, I was surprised when she turned up the following week. I was more surprised when she played the six basic chords from memory, and even more surprised when she said, ‘listen to this’. She played C, Ami, Dmi, G7, while singing ‘always look on the bright side of life’. Of course the chords fitted perfectly.

I took that as an omen. Together we launched into the guitar as more than an escape from Maths, in fact Talia began using it as an escape from as many classes as she could. The older boys who had played for a year or more began deferring to her. Her status in the school rose considerably. The sight of the little girl with a Fender Strat slung over her shoulder was galvanising; I was inundated with new students.

Given that Talia hung out in the guitar studio as much as possible, come lunch times she found other things to do. She’d sit in on bands practising, but never on guitar; she’d take the drums usually, she somehow worked out the kick, snare and hi-hat. I can’t take any credit for that. I joined in occasionally, ramping up the cheap school guitar to play ‘Smoke On the Water’. While her pals looked on in amazement, Talia was always unimpressed, more intent on learning how the drum kit worked.

In her second year of guitar, the conductor of the school orchestra required a competent jazz guitarist to play in the Big Band. Talia was the only possible candidate. Having refused to learn music theory and complex harmony, she now had a reason, and bit into it with a vengeance. She got the Big Band gig.

I left the school that year, as did Talia. She moved to the USA. Eschewing guitar, she took up bass. It was a good choice, because next we heard from her was that she was in Chick Corea’s band for his Australian tour. While still gasping at that incredible news we then found out that she had been hired by the legendary Jeff Beck. She has been touring and recording with his band ever since. Not bad for a career spanning ten years, of which the first two were spent in a guitar class at a private school in Sydney, Australia.

Tal Wilkenfeld, buy her album.