The band has split up. Mr7 has decided to trade me and my guitar in for bright lights and black and whites. He is not a string man anymore. Keys all the way, Baby. He has discovered the piano and he loves it.
No more guitar lessons together.
It’s always the talent that makes the decisions, isn’t it? Everyone else is left to muddle along, trying to work out whether a drummer can write music and whether three years as a rhythm guitarist qualifies you to be a lead singer. I’ve lost the impetus to learn.
My guitar lies idle in the corner. Resentful. Pouting. Fretting.* I must find some lessons of my very own. Even B, our beautiful 17-year-old teacher, has abandoned me. Something about an HSC. Really.
In the meantime, I am reduced to roadie. Driving Mr7 to his lessons at the big, old, once-grand house in town. Waiting out the front, watching the cars drive in and out of the bottle shop driveway opposite, or the trucks reverse precisely into the supermarket loading dock.
The music industry is all glamour. I’m just hoping I’m never called upon to lug the piano to a gig.
*sorry, couldn’t resist