Musings From A Somerset Punk

Hello, I’m Ben and I want to open this book by telling you why I wrote it. As a boy I decided I wanted to become a musician. No one else in my family played an instrument and I had no access to music lessons, but for some reason I answered the call. I saved my wages and treated myself to table top drum pads. Then hounded my Mum for another few years, until one very special teenage birthday when a drum kit appeared, glowing in our front room. My idol then was Sid Vicious, naturally for an aspiring high school punk, which gives you an idea what my Mum was letting herself in for. I have fond memories of that time, of the bands I formed with friends, of the garage we’d rehearse in. What we lacked in skill we made up for with passion, and the unbridled creativity that flows from teenage pores. We were rock stars. Somerset’s finest, perhaps, known only to each other.

Fast-forward to my twenties, to London, where I found myself slogging away in a factory, in a post room and as a chef in a busy cafe. It was the recession and despite having a degree in music it was hard to find work. In one of those roles I led a strike, ever the anarchist. My colleagues and I wanted minimum wage, not an unreasonable request, but it didn’t end well. It’s a bit of a blur but I have it on good record the boss held scissors to my neck. Needless to say, change was in the air. I was desperate to escape the grind, to work for someone I looked up to, or failing that work for myself. I was a drummer, not the greatest, but there was an idea at least. I could get better. I moved in with my sister, commandeered the living room in our one bed flat above The Salisbury pub on Green Lanes. Splitting the rent with her meant I could quit one of my three jobs. No prizes for guessing which one. I used my newly reclaimed time to practice, practice, and practice some more.

It probably looked a bit like obsession, but it was a lifeline. A vehicle for my faith in a bigger, better life. In truth it wasn’t just the crap jobs and sticky finances that had got me down. There’d been trauma in my childhood, somewhere between the gigs and good times, and the shockwaves were still reverberating through me. Releasing those tremors through cymbals and skins was catharsis. My kit, my daily conversation with it, gave voice to experiences that had never before found words. Then a neighbour complained. I could hardly blame them, and I took the kit down.

I decided to buy a keyboard (and a set of headphones). I’d been curious to learn the piano for years but overnight it had become essential. Having already taught myself the drums I knew I could teach myself the piano, and yet navigating the sea of information proved tricky. Books for beginners tended to be aimed at kids, meanwhile books for adults assumed prior knowledge that I didn’t have – so many technical and theoretical terms. The thing that kept me going was curiosity. Not so much curiosity in the concepts themselves, but in how I could apply them. I’m a creative person (I believe we all are) and the act of composing my own music has always been what’s spurred me on to acquire more theoretical know-how. Just as I’d previously played around on the drums, I would now sit and noodle on the piano, allowing interesting patterns and melodies to unfold, and turning them into pieces.

There’s a magic to composing. It’s surprising what’s inside of you, surprising to hear it transmuted into rhythm and song. It can surprise others too. My partner has both laughed and cried at pieces I’ve created, at my riotous basslines and haunting musical reportage. It was essential for me that any book I wrote about learning an instrument emphasised the act of tuning inwards, of experimenting intuitively with what you find there, and channelling it through the keys. I want others to experience the thrill of direct contact with their innate creative nature, to become curious about what they could manifest, whether that’s a ten second riff, a pop song or a symphony. Since writing this book I’ve learned that curiosity is in fact scientifically proven to enhance learning. It sounds like common sense and yet it’s uncommon to find educational programmes that put curiosity front and centre where it belongs. In 2001, researchers Alberti and Witryol found a positive correlation between curiosity and intellectual performance among students completing a laboratory task. They also identified a positive relationship between the students’ intellectual performance and the curiosity of their teacher. Curiosity is infectious it seems, but I digress...

Back at my flat, between shifts at the factory and the cafe, I was gradually getting the hang of the keyboard. With hindsight, this was also the period I learned discipline, how to take responsibility for myself and my prospects. When I listen to how other people talk about their lives I can always tell whether they’ve had that realisation yet or not, the one that goes ‘I’m in charge here’, ‘I decide the quality of my life’. When I sense that someone has that lesson still to come, I can’t help but wax lyrical about the benefits of self-tuition – the act of helping oneself - in any field of study or area of life. I get fanatical imparting pearls of wisdom: the confidence they’ll gain, the empowerment they’ll feel. No one needs to suffer life and when that penny finally drops, you’re free. I tell that to anyone who’ll listen.

Writing this today I’m a drum and piano tutor, teaching all styles from classical and jazz to rock and pop. I’m also an examiner for music boards like RSL and Yamaha, and a composer creating original material across a range of projects. On the performance side, I’ve had the privilege of touring the UK with a number of bands and artists, immersing myself in a wide range of genres including hip-hop, folk and contemporary jazz. I’ve come a long way since my days in the factory, but my reason for writing this book is not to lay the foundations for your satisfying musical career. Indeed many of my readers are adults, already invested in work of a very different nature. Instead I want to persuade you that playing an instrument is a life enhancing gift you give to yourself, and that following your own curiosity and creative impulses is the fastest, most enjoyable way to progress. An instrument is a way to meet people, like the dear friend I got to know through playing together in a band, or my partner who I first met at an audition. It’s a way to relax, a form of meditation to shake off the day and connect more deeply with yourself. It’s also a vehicle for expression, a medium of communication from one heart to another, a dialogue from soul to soul. Music is a metamorphosis of the raw stuff of human experience. Since we’re all human, we can all create something beautiful. If you’re lucky, you could create something sublime.

So there you have it. The benefits of learning an instrument are just too damn good to be bestowed exclusively on the young, and despite what you may think it’s not too late to start now, whatever age you happen to be. So what are you waiting for? Give yourself the gift of learning the piano, starting today. I also urge you not to wait until you’re ‘good’ to start experimenting with your own musical ideas. In fact this book won’t let you, you’ll have your own composition in just fourteen days. Adults are terrible perfectionists, painfully aware when we sound bad and comically prone to comparing ourselves with the greats (even on our first go at making music). ‘An expert...’ says Nobel Prize winner Niels Bohr, ‘...is a man who has made all the mistakes which can be made in a narrow field’. I wholeheartedly agree. Accidents have led to some of the most original and innovative compositions out there, so first and foremost approach this book with the intention to have a good time. Making good music will naturally follow, I’ve no doubt.