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When I was a kid, playing the violin was a one-way ticket to the bicycle racks. I got my ass kicked more than once, the most memorable occasion being the consequence of my mother’s sending a note to my Phys. Ed. teacher, instructing him that I was to be excused from the volleyball unit because “I had an important recital coming up.” Thanks.
By the time I hit my 20s, however, evidence had started to accumulate that my fiddle had some sort of totemic sexual power. Maybe the evidence was there all along: the throbbing vibration of its lowest notes; the sighing, reedy tone of its higher strings; the phallic smoothness of its neck; and certainly the inner glow of its hourglass-shaped body. And for God’s sake, it even has a G-string.
I have a couple of favourite sexual memories pertaining to my violin. One is unpleasant, and the other is… well… you know...
We were playing a St. Patrick’s Day Show in a very-crowded bar. The assembled revelers were having a great time, and were by and large shit-faced drunk. I haven’t been to New Orleans during Mardi Gras, but on my mother’s yet-to-be-dug grave, I swear that I haven’t had so many sets of tits flashed in my face as on that night. Clearly, this is not the unpleasant part of the story.
Given that the pub had no stage, the crush of dancers was a real problem: people were continually pressing in towards the corner where we were set up, bumping the microphone stands, murmuring indecipherable requests, and passing us drinks (as if our blood needed any further thinning). Still, everyone was having a famously good time, and the occasional spilled drink and microphone in the teeth seemed a poor excuse for being a spoil sport.
One of our standard set-closers was a Celtic medley on overdrive. The tune opened with a slow and somber fiddle solo (a great anticipation-builder), and I was at the front of the non-existent stage, eyes closed, really hamming it up. As I approached the end of my solo, where the band would burst its chains and erupt into the mix, I sensed that my fiddle was stuck against something ‒ a displaced microphone stand, I thought. I opened my eyes to discover a half-clad, brush-cutted military lad, eyes rolled back and tongue out, tenderly fellating the scroll of my violin (the curly part that extends past where the fingering hand goes). “What in the Fenian fuck?”
No number of Guinness nor flashed bosoms could supplant that image. Neither then, nor since. Perhaps I need a pretty filly to lick my scroll… that would probably help.
My next post: the pleasant memory. (yippee)
3/30/2006 2:49 pm
Cant wait to read the pleasant memory |