Oh, I can play the piano, piano, piano. Yes, I can play the piano, pia-piano!
You may or may not recall my piano diploma distress back in December (located here and here) but apparently I have much higher standards than either of the examiner chaps because I PASSED! Reading the exam report reminds me of one of my favourite children's books (about an old lady who saw the world through rose-tinted spectacles) and I could kiss both examiners right now for putting such a positive spin on my shambolic performance.
So many notes unexpectedly didn't sound in the first piece that my fingers immediately turned to jelly and I found myself scrambling through all the quick passages: graceful shaping here
I lost all sense of beat in the Bach prelude, and again missed lots of notes out in my panic: stylish in intention
All the loudest and biggest chords of the Rachmaninoff got lost due to my shaking hands: a little timid
I invented four bars in my final piece, due to a sudden attack of amnesia brought on by nerves: accurately played.
So from now on you can address me as "piapiapiano DipABRSM", thank you very much.
There's a well-known (well-known on my rock, anyway) comic poem called "Old Bobby Bob" but I haven't been able to track down a copy in print. Dad was thinking of reciting it at the Braaid Eisteddfod next month, so I spent a few minutes tonight transcribing it from Lawrence Kermode's recitation, recorded at the Colby Glen Hotel in 1977. ETA: It's been annoying me that I couldn't fathom some of the words from the recording, and Mr Kermode clearly had some kind of memory lapse because one of my lines was missing a rhyme. So I asked Annie Kissack for a proper copy of the words, and have now changed the version under the cut so that it's the real thing. For the sake of any other random soul who might want to know the words:
Owl' Bobby-Bob by John Cleator
Avar heard tell of owl' Bobby-Bob,
An' his woman, Margat Ann?
She used to call him an awkward big slob,
If the buthar'd slip urrov his han'.
An' bless me sowl the fuss she'd make
When he'd slaa it (with his thumb) on the soda cake!
"Bobby-Bob, thou slob," she'd bawl,
"Where-avar was thou brought up at all?"
But Bobby would seldom answer her back,
But aet away till his lips would smack.
"Don't noise like the muckyn when thou aet,
An' put thy skedthan down on thy plate!"
An' Bobby would say, that quiet an' slow --
"Am purrin' it down where it's meant to go."
Now, Bobby wa'n a bad surt at all,
But mighty fon' of a drop, for all.
But they're sayin' her constant naggin' an' frown
Sent Bobby to town, his troubles to drown.
An' then herself would be on his track
To give him cur-da when he'd come back;
But that's where Margat vogh was stuck --
Like warther on the wing of a duck!
At las' she thought, "A'll cure him thaw --
A'll give me bowl Bobby-Bob 'what-for'."
So, the nex' time Bobby went to town,
Herself, with a friggan prowled aroun',
An' worked herself all into a fidge,
Then off she goes to the Dollagh Bridge;
An' waited there for Bobby to come,
Sayin', "A'll cure th'owl rascal of rum!"
Now Margat hadn't to wait that long
For yanda was Bobby "comin' strong" --
For the narra bridge, tackin' his way,
Jus' like a ship in a heavy sae.
"I'll friken him urrov his skin," she said,
Then flung a sheet right over her head,
An' rushed to meet him with a scream,
Before he was half-way over the stream.
"A've come to claim thee, Bobby Cowle.
Come thou with me, for I'm the Jouyll!"
"Aw, 'deed, thaw," says Bobbby; and blinks an' leers.
"Aw, give's te han', baw -- Friken? -- no fears;
A've lived with thy sister for forty years!"
So many notes unexpectedly didn't sound in the first piece that my fingers immediately turned to jelly and I found myself scrambling through all the quick passages: graceful shaping here
I lost all sense of beat in the Bach prelude, and again missed lots of notes out in my panic: stylish in intention
All the loudest and biggest chords of the Rachmaninoff got lost due to my shaking hands: a little timid
I invented four bars in my final piece, due to a sudden attack of amnesia brought on by nerves: accurately played.
So from now on you can address me as "piapiapiano DipABRSM", thank you very much.
There's a well-known (well-known on my rock, anyway) comic poem called "Old Bobby Bob" but I haven't been able to track down a copy in print. Dad was thinking of reciting it at the Braaid Eisteddfod next month, so I spent a few minutes tonight transcribing it from Lawrence Kermode's recitation, recorded at the Colby Glen Hotel in 1977. ETA: It's been annoying me that I couldn't fathom some of the words from the recording, and Mr Kermode clearly had some kind of memory lapse because one of my lines was missing a rhyme. So I asked Annie Kissack for a proper copy of the words, and have now changed the version under the cut so that it's the real thing. For the sake of any other random soul who might want to know the words:
Owl' Bobby-Bob by John Cleator
Avar heard tell of owl' Bobby-Bob,
An' his woman, Margat Ann?
She used to call him an awkward big slob,
If the buthar'd slip urrov his han'.
An' bless me sowl the fuss she'd make
When he'd slaa it (with his thumb) on the soda cake!
"Bobby-Bob, thou slob," she'd bawl,
"Where-avar was thou brought up at all?"
But Bobby would seldom answer her back,
But aet away till his lips would smack.
"Don't noise like the muckyn when thou aet,
An' put thy skedthan down on thy plate!"
An' Bobby would say, that quiet an' slow --
"Am purrin' it down where it's meant to go."
Now, Bobby wa'n a bad surt at all,
But mighty fon' of a drop, for all.
But they're sayin' her constant naggin' an' frown
Sent Bobby to town, his troubles to drown.
An' then herself would be on his track
To give him cur-da when he'd come back;
But that's where Margat vogh was stuck --
Like warther on the wing of a duck!
At las' she thought, "A'll cure him thaw --
A'll give me bowl Bobby-Bob 'what-for'."
So, the nex' time Bobby went to town,
Herself, with a friggan prowled aroun',
An' worked herself all into a fidge,
Then off she goes to the Dollagh Bridge;
An' waited there for Bobby to come,
Sayin', "A'll cure th'owl rascal of rum!"
Now Margat hadn't to wait that long
For yanda was Bobby "comin' strong" --
For the narra bridge, tackin' his way,
Jus' like a ship in a heavy sae.
"I'll friken him urrov his skin," she said,
Then flung a sheet right over her head,
An' rushed to meet him with a scream,
Before he was half-way over the stream.
"A've come to claim thee, Bobby Cowle.
Come thou with me, for I'm the Jouyll!"
"Aw, 'deed, thaw," says Bobbby; and blinks an' leers.
"Aw, give's te han', baw -- Friken? -- no fears;
A've lived with thy sister for forty years!"