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Learning The Piano!
Learning The Piano!
In 1982, the band In Vogue was formed.
Sort of.
My best friend, Mick Karn Singhy, had decided that it was something he had to do. So he got Mr. Singh to buy him a fretless bass. Then he convinced me to join. He thought Kevin Phillipson, a rather good guitarist, would join. That left me the choice of becoming the drummer or keyboard player.
My mum would have killed me if I’d have brought drums into the house. So synth player it was.
The only snag was that I didn’t know how to play the piano.
Synths were quite expensive at the time, and, unlike Singhy, I would have to buy my own. A basic polyphonic synth would cost 90 nights out at the pub. So I settled for a monophonic that cost about 20 nights:
I learned riffs by hauling my synth and my stereo (I never did buy speakers) into the living room and copying monophonic riffs from music videos I had recorded on our VHS. There were wires, empty tea cups, equipment, and handwritten notes everywhere. It looked like how I imagined Brian Eno’s spare bedroom.
Sans the talented musician.
And I’m also quite sure Brian’s mum never came barging in, threatening to throw everything in the rubbish if he didn’t immediately clean up this “pig stye.”
I learned riffs from Gary Numan (Cars), Depeche Mode (Just Can’t Get Enough), The Eurythmics (Love Is A Stranger), and Joy Division (Love Will Tear Us Apart).
But my favourite riff that I nicked was from China Crisis’ Christian:
In addition to music videos, my on-again-off-again girlfriend Kate knew how to play the piano. She would often come over to the house, and we’d hang out in my bedroom.
On those days when my mum was home, lurking and listening, Kate and I would simply play records and have music lessons. We were horny but not stupid. And I loved the idea of my mum only being able to catch two spiky-haired teenagers playing The Entertainer on a synth.
If my mum had been home more, I would have become a better musician. Thanks, mum.
The thing is that In Vogue never even practiced together. I was tickling the ivories monophonically, at my house, Singhy was finding out that a fretless bass was even harder to learn than a fretted one at his, and Kevin Phillipson was probably in his room paying Jimmy Hendrix guitar riffs with his teeth.
And we didn’t even have a drummer.
Things came to a head when Andy Meigher told us that he had arranged a concert for us at the Bicester Town Hall.
And that was the sound of dreams crashing into reality.
However, three days into my bout of dysentery, Andy told me that he made it all up to panic Singhy.
Not long after, the band broke up.
