I had visions of me sitting outside by an old pine, chirping out melodies on a carved wooden flute the way Bill does on the porch of the little chapel, before the massacre. Peaceful, calm and serene. An easy instrument to pick out a little improvised melody. Or so I thought. Then the opportunity to get one came. I’d never seen a shop like it, and maybe I never will again. In Camden, top end, past the market and lock, there was a flute shop. I recall it being wooden instruments only, but I could be wrong about that.
These were beautiful, and I chose what I considered to be the most beautiful, but also the humblest looking one. I wanted no airs or graces about this instrument; it was to be as simple as the idea I had envisaged for it. To be carried, to be used, to be enjoyed while sitting cross legged in nature, the way an electric guitar is not. The shop owner warned me, this was a difficult instrument to play, and I should’ve listened. My vanity took over and my mum paid £40 for this wooden flute for my birthday. It remains beautiful and humble. I actually love it, and I still look at it and hold it regularly. But it also sadly remains un-played being truly one of the hardest flute based instruments in the world to play!