Following the comments from Metro Chica on my last Something Different post, I realise that a heading like this could contain lots and lots of sexual innuendo. This shall not deter me. The Something Different series will go on.
I spent my weekend in Galway with my French friend, Maryline. We had a ball.
A friend of Frenchie’s showed us the sights of Galway. We strolled to Salthill, walked around the NUI campus and pretty much experienced (and ate) everything on offer. Galway is like a big Temple Bar, but less tacky; in the pubs there is a local for every tourist. Hen parties are in abundance, but for some reason don’t stand out. The atmosphere in the city on Saturday night was electric. I loved it.
During the evening, we met a guy who happened to be a bassist. I thought he meant he played bass-guitar in a band mainly due to the reason he frequently spoke of his band. I was unimpressed. I went to school with dozens of guys who played guitars of every type. Later that evening, Frenchie and I ended up back in the Bassist’s house for tea at 03.00. During a tour of his house, I learned he played the kind of oversized-cello-bass.
I walked into his dark living room, feeling my way around, so as not to trip over anything. The light switch flicked on.
“Wow – look at the basses!” I exclaimed in surprised tone. Three large, sombre looking instruments lined the wall .
Frenchie laughed aloud. She was sober; I was not. “Look behind you,” she said mid giggle.
“Wow! Look at all the basses”
Along the wall stood sixteen basses, contained in a specially crafted type of stand. They stood sentinel like; back to back in regal poise. Their polished ebony gleamed in the light. These instruments were truly loved. Their stature, from end pin to scroll, drew my breath. I stood in the living room wide-eyed.
John, the bassist, gently removed one from the stand.
“Hold it,” he said. He leaned the bass against my shoulder. “Put your finger here and there. This is the famous cord in the intro for Fever.”
I played the same cord over and over for a minute or so until I realised my timing was completely off. John played Fever for us. I tried to sing. My voice was hoarse from the long night. I squawked the few words I knew, gladly letting him take charge of the vocals. He continued undeterred. John then played a classical piece, which left me speechless. He abruptly cut the performance short and offered us tea, clearly having no idea how mesmerised we were of his talent
We stayed for an hour or so before making our way to the B&B conveniently located twenty minutes down the road. It’s not every drunken night that ends with a performance of classical music.
I got the fever …