An Acker Bilk birthday

My birthday is in January and I always dread it. It’s cold, miserable and people are either detoxing or hibernating and don’t want to go out. Being at the beginning of the year also inevitably means it’s a time of refection. What am I doing with my life and ‘Oh balls, how did I leave my tax return until now, again!’ Chuck in another year to my time on this planet too and crikey, I don’t enjoy the thought of celebrating.

This January birthday was different. Since my 2019 was pretty much dominated by swimming outside, I also accumulated a generous heap of new friends who enjoy splashing about in cold water too. I now proudly know a lot of people who are keen for a swim no matter the weather, all year round. Hurrah!

Acker Bilk

“Acker Bilk grew up around here and swam in the Chew River when he grew up. We should all go for a swim in Publow one day. ” Stephen said a few months ago after a dip in Clevedon.

“I can play Stranger on the Shore on the clarinet. I’ll play it as you all swim.” I sort of joked. Time passed and we never got round to arranging it. Until, that is, I thought what a wonderful way it would be to celebrate my birthday.

I’m a terrible musician. I just don’t have that musical gene. Even after learning the ukulele every day and playing live on the radio every night as I ran to Manchester a few years ago, I’d struggle to play you a song today. When I was younger, I dreaded piano lessons after school and would stamp my feet and turn red in the face like a brat whenever Mum tried to encourage me to practice. But there was something about Stranger on the Shore and the clarinet.

My dad played the piano. He was a total amateur, but I have fond memories of him playing. Sometimes I’d sit on his shoulders demanding requests and sing my little lungs out as his fingers would dance up and down the ivories. Mum would sometimes accompany him on the clarinet. I remember one night, after they tucked me up in bed, listening in awe as the sound of Acker Bilk’s Stranger on the Shore drifted up the stairs and into my room. There’s something magical about hearing your parents play music together, especially to such a beautiful song. Stranger on the Shore was the UK’s biggest selling single of 1962. It was also the first number one single in the United States by a British artist in the era of the modern Billboard 100 pop chart. I like that stat.

I used to stare at the clarinet case that sat beside the piano like it was a box of magic, longing to play it myself. So one day, I asked Mum to help me. All I wanted to do was play Stranger on the Shore, like she did with Dad. Then there I was, sitting beside him on the piano stool, swinging my legs and grinning with utter pride as we were about to play it for the first time.  When I squeaked on the high notes I’d say, “one more time,” and play it again and again until I managed to hit them. I wasn’t interested in learning scales or having clarinet lessons; I just wanted to play Stranger on the Shore.

The clarinet case remained closed after I left for university. I reopened it when I returned home from backpacking in Australia several years later, when Dad suddenly died from a heart attack. Unable to sleep, with a combination of jet lag and grief, I reassembled the clarinet and played Stranger on the Shore until I fell asleep, not caring who heard me. It was played at his funeral too as we walked out of the crematorium and I hummed it to calm myself as everyone wanted to say their condolences to me after the service.

2020

‘How long have you been playing for?” Tom at Headwind asked, when I returned the clarinet I had hired from them, thinking something was wrong with it.

“Years.” I replied. “I watched a Youtube video. They mentioned if your clarinet squeaks on the high notes that it could be a problem with the reed.”

“Yes, Youtube can tell you all sorts of things. Do you mean you’ve been playing for years, or years ago?” He intonated, suggesting it was the latter. I didn’t tell him that it had been more than a decade, but admitted it had been a little while. He scrunched up his face and softly said apologetically, “I think you might need to get a lesson.”

With only two days to go until my birthday, I managed to find a local tutor and explained the reason for my short notice.

“This is a really lovely thing you’re doing.” Sophie said, when she arrived at my flat the next day. “I didn’t know Acker Bilk grew up near here and I’ve lived here for 10 years.” I suddenly felt a sense of pride. “Right, so how can I help you so you get the most out of this lesson?”

I played Stranger on the Shore to Sophie, as well as I knew it, and once again, when I got to the top note no sound came out, it just blew air and my face turned red, whilst saliva sprouted from the corners of my mouth.

“Try not to pucker your lips.” I had no idea what she was talking about. “Stand in front of the mirror, bite the mouthpiece with your top teeth and let the rest of your lips, mouth and cheeks relax.” Relax my cheeks! My cheeks were burning from blowing so hard. I tried again, and again, and then I finally hit the high note. Sophie applauded in delight. The 30-minute lesson whizzed by far too quickly, but I’d made a major accomplishment- I’d learned how to actually blow through the mouthpiece properly.

January 11th

I arrived at Publow to an empty carpark outside the church. It dawned on me that everyone else may not even know who Acker Bilk is? This song had meant so much to me, but will it appear totally random to everyone else coming? Is it narcissistic to ask everyone to come and listen to me play an instrument that I can barely play? Whilst I waited for everyone to arrive I found Acker Bilk’s gravestone in the churchyard right beside the river, with an accompanying poem that he had written. Then I smiled. The person who had composed a song that had weaved through my childhood, connecting me to my dad, saw magic in rivers just like I do. I felt connected to him, to Acker Bilk, and proud that I was going to thank him for his wonderful song by playing it in his ‘magical place, the old River Chew.’

I’m now inspired to get my clarinet from my Mum’s and continue to play.

A poem by Acker Bilk-

“Although not a big river, ‘twas endless to me.

We dived in it, swam in it, fished it with glee.

We floated log rafts on it, watched all the while

by herons and kingfishers, ducks, single file.

Martins dipping and diving, the swifts flying free,

Water rats dunking like biscuits in tea.

Reeds full of moorhens and a bit further out,

where the current flowed swifter those gold bellied trout.

The tree on the banks were there just to be climbed.

Elbows and knees skinned but we didn’t mind.

A thousand and one things to see and to do, a magical place was the old River Chew

The Days of my youth not numbered or planned.

I go back to the river whenever I can.”