I never was one for football, either as a spectator or player, much to my dear father’s chagrin. At school we were also made to play rugby for which my interest was similarly lacking. Poor father made the logic-defying leap of harbouring dark fears for the young Lectern’s sexuality as a result of the apparent absence of the football gene in his son. As if it mattered.
So instead of knocking a ball around the playground, Lectern junior would spend his break times at school holed up in a practise room with a piano and some mates belting out songs by Madness, The Sex Pistols, Dexy’s Midnight Runners and ... erm, Elton John, which apart from being warmer, was infinitely more fun. At home, we had the problem of the piano being in the lounge – the same room as the TV of course, so weekends involved some compromise, as Grandstand vied for position against proto-Lectonian instant piano concertos. Occasionally, if the planets were aligned the two could happen simultaneously and Grandstand would be soundtracked by my piano excursions.
Father’s doubts lessened for a while as the maturing Lectern showed some sporting prowess as an oarsman, and the relief was palpable when the first girlfriend came round to the house. However the older man’s doubts remained as weight training and the body beautiful took over Crayola’s time more and more. There was no porn in Crayola’s bedroom, only bodybuilding magazines, posters of Barry Sheene, men in make-up like Robert Smith and prints of lithographs by M.C.Escher.
The unfortunate Lectern Senior was often reminded by his wife of his own musical ineptitude and tone-deafness which must have created some kind of an attitude to music in him. As I played the instant composition below I was thinking about him and how he once said to me “Can’t you play something different? It always sounds the same.” He wasn’t entirely wrong on this count as I do recall familiar themes and motifs cropping up quite regularly. Ah well, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose!