After the Beatles demise, a school friend tells me that Ringo Starr has taken six months to write his top-ten hit ‘Back off Boogaloo’. “Even I could write a song quicker than that,” I boast one day, under the teenage delusion that I can continue where the Fab Four left off.
“Well, why don’t you then?” he challenges. I pick up the gauntlet, dismissing the little thought that reminds me I can’t play an instrument. But that is about to change.
It’s September, 1973. Given the chance to leave parents, school, old memories and Leicester far behind, I jump at the opportunity. My three A-levels are my ticket to a destination far, far away from home - and the perfect excuse not to return for the weekends: it’s just not possible.
I enrol on a mathematics degree course at Edinburgh University and move into Pollock Halls of Residence. I waste little time in meeting a girl I like very much. She’s not like Deirdre Barker - not in any way. She’s bigger to start with. I learn later that her nickname BB stands for Big Bum. Yes I know, students can be so cruel - but in this case it was her mother.
Anyway, through BB I meet another student in my year who also stays at Pollock Halls. His name is Alasdair Fraser and he’s studying physics and maths. Oh, and he plays the violin - very, very well. He hears a tune and then just plays it. A real musician - unlike me. But I do try.
After collecting my first grant cheque, I waste no time in visiting a small music shop in Edinburgh that is very keen to relieve me of my income. To most students, that money is for books, food and alcohol. But to me, it’s primarily for a guitar - and an entry ticket to the world of music. I learn three chords from my guitar-playing neighbour in Pollock Halls, and prioritise my University schedule: number one, learn to play the guitar and write songs; number two, socialise and meet girls; number three, pass exams.
One day, Alasdair finds out that I play an instrument. I’ve no idea how he knows that. No, wait - I’ve just remembered: I told him. “What songs do you know?” he asks.
“The Streets of London,” I tell him. It’s a song that BB had taught me.
“Nice song. Anything else?”
“The Streets of London very very slowly.” He laughs, thinking it’s a joke. It isn’t. “Actually, I really only play my own songs,” I tell him - missing out the fact that I’m rubbish at playing anyone else’s. But Alasdair is impressed.
“I wish I could do that,” he says picking up his violin and tucking it under his chin, like anyone else would pick up a pencil. And then he plays - beautifully. Fast jigs, slow haunting melodies. He’s a natural, and I wish I’d never mentioned the guitar. But it’s too late. He gets me to play a song I’ve written called “Let Ireland Be,” a semi-political song inspired by Paul McCartney’s ‘Give Ireland Back to the Irish.’ Alasdair plays the tune straightaway, and I’m in raptures. I’ve only ever played my songs to BB and my family, and to hear him accompany me is out of this World. He apologises for missing a note. Like anyone would know.
And then Robert Paterson, Alasdair’s room-mate, comes in, holding something that looks a bit like a flute, but I later learn is a chanter - a part of the bagpipes.
“That sounds good,” he says, referring to our playing. “But you could do with the pipes in it.” He has a twinkle in his eye.
Robert Paterson shares not only a room with Alasdair, but also a great sense of humour, a love of music, and a passion for Scotland. “Have you ever been to Rothesay?” he asks.
“No - where’s that?”
“The Isle of Bute - it’s a grand place. It’s where I grew up.” He digs out a map and points to a small island situated on the west coast of Scotland. It looks a long way from Edinburgh. “You should come across one vacation, Steve, you’ll love it there - it’s so quiet.” I thank him for the invitation. But to be honest, looking at his map, I can’t see the attraction of travelling to a small island in the middle of nowhere. ‘Quiet’, to me, equals boring.
“Well, why don’t you then?” he challenges. I pick up the gauntlet, dismissing the little thought that reminds me I can’t play an instrument. But that is about to change.
It’s September, 1973. Given the chance to leave parents, school, old memories and Leicester far behind, I jump at the opportunity. My three A-levels are my ticket to a destination far, far away from home - and the perfect excuse not to return for the weekends: it’s just not possible.
I enrol on a mathematics degree course at Edinburgh University and move into Pollock Halls of Residence. I waste little time in meeting a girl I like very much. She’s not like Deirdre Barker - not in any way. She’s bigger to start with. I learn later that her nickname BB stands for Big Bum. Yes I know, students can be so cruel - but in this case it was her mother.
Anyway, through BB I meet another student in my year who also stays at Pollock Halls. His name is Alasdair Fraser and he’s studying physics and maths. Oh, and he plays the violin - very, very well. He hears a tune and then just plays it. A real musician - unlike me. But I do try.
After collecting my first grant cheque, I waste no time in visiting a small music shop in Edinburgh that is very keen to relieve me of my income. To most students, that money is for books, food and alcohol. But to me, it’s primarily for a guitar - and an entry ticket to the world of music. I learn three chords from my guitar-playing neighbour in Pollock Halls, and prioritise my University schedule: number one, learn to play the guitar and write songs; number two, socialise and meet girls; number three, pass exams.
One day, Alasdair finds out that I play an instrument. I’ve no idea how he knows that. No, wait - I’ve just remembered: I told him. “What songs do you know?” he asks.
“The Streets of London,” I tell him. It’s a song that BB had taught me.
“Nice song. Anything else?”
“The Streets of London very very slowly.” He laughs, thinking it’s a joke. It isn’t. “Actually, I really only play my own songs,” I tell him - missing out the fact that I’m rubbish at playing anyone else’s. But Alasdair is impressed.
“I wish I could do that,” he says picking up his violin and tucking it under his chin, like anyone else would pick up a pencil. And then he plays - beautifully. Fast jigs, slow haunting melodies. He’s a natural, and I wish I’d never mentioned the guitar. But it’s too late. He gets me to play a song I’ve written called “Let Ireland Be,” a semi-political song inspired by Paul McCartney’s ‘Give Ireland Back to the Irish.’ Alasdair plays the tune straightaway, and I’m in raptures. I’ve only ever played my songs to BB and my family, and to hear him accompany me is out of this World. He apologises for missing a note. Like anyone would know.
And then Robert Paterson, Alasdair’s room-mate, comes in, holding something that looks a bit like a flute, but I later learn is a chanter - a part of the bagpipes.
“That sounds good,” he says, referring to our playing. “But you could do with the pipes in it.” He has a twinkle in his eye.
Robert Paterson shares not only a room with Alasdair, but also a great sense of humour, a love of music, and a passion for Scotland. “Have you ever been to Rothesay?” he asks.
“No - where’s that?”
“The Isle of Bute - it’s a grand place. It’s where I grew up.” He digs out a map and points to a small island situated on the west coast of Scotland. It looks a long way from Edinburgh. “You should come across one vacation, Steve, you’ll love it there - it’s so quiet.” I thank him for the invitation. But to be honest, looking at his map, I can’t see the attraction of travelling to a small island in the middle of nowhere. ‘Quiet’, to me, equals boring.
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