‘My insecurity quickly turned into full-blown rock-lord megalomania’
Learning the congas late in life is a lesson in humility – and thumping good fun.
By Tim Elliott
When I was a teenager, some of my mates played guitar. Come school holidays, we’d be at a party on the beach, sitting around a fire at night, and one of them would inevitably say: “I’ve got my guitar with me. Anyone mind if I play?” All the girls would go, “Ooooh, yes please!” But my first reaction was: “Is that really necessary? Like, do you absolutely have to?” I was jealous, and with good reason.
Studies have shown that a guy sitting on a beach with a guitar in his lap and the light of a fire playing upon his face is approximately 400 times more attractive than a guy sitting in a similar setting without a guitar. You can’t compete with a guy with a guitar. It’s simple. So I’d just make some lame excuse and leave the beach.
Credit: Illustration by Simon Letch
I always thought that as I got older, this source of inadequacy would lessen but, as with my many other sources of inadequacy, it has, if anything, got worse. Playing music was like a language some people can speak, while I just sat there, deaf and dumb. I’d pretty much given up on the idea of playing anything when, out of the blue, a friend asked me last year if I wanted to join his band. They needed a percussionist. Could I play, maybe, the congas? He had a set of them in his garage, ready to go. All the other guys in the band were my friends, so I thought I’d give it a shot. Besides, I’m now 55, which is too old to say no to anything.
Congas are a great instrument for someone with no musical talent because you don’t need to know any chords or actual notes. You just need two hands. Which I have. I set up the congas in my study and Googled “congas for beginners”. There were lots of videos by people named Manny, Papi or Chico. Worryingly, there weren’t any by people called Tim. (Although there was one guy called Kevin.) But it didn’t matter, because I had determination. And the videos were interesting. Before each tutorial, Manny/Papi/Chico/Kevin would dispense a little history lesson about the congas, which are thought to have originated in the Congo region, in west Africa, before being brought to Cuba by slaves in the 1600s.
Interestingly, the conga drum was looked down on by wealthy Cubans because it was an instrument of the lascivious lower classes. But, over time, it became increasingly popular, influencing everything from rumba and salsa to Motown, funk and jazz. (Lots of people think congas and bongos are the same, but they’re not. Bongos are smaller and more ridiculous-looking, and should not be touched by a white guy with any shred of dignity.)
Congas are a great instrument for someone with no musical talent. You just need two hands. Which I have.
The online tutorials recommended some basic drum patterns, including the tumbao, which took me a month to get my head around. I also started taking lessons with Lauren, a super-talented woman who actually gets paid to play in proper bands. The first thing Lauren asked me to do was play the drums a little bit, “something really simple” so she could “get a feel” for where I was at. I began playing, but after a moment her mouth made what I can only describe as a sad shape, as if something inside her had died but she was trying to hide it. After she recovered, she said that the best thing I could do was to set a metronome – just a simple 1-2-3-4 – at 130 beats per minute and try to keep time.
I did this for about 10 minutes a day, which was incredibly boring, but did produce some minimal improvement. A more persistent problem was my technique: Papi and Chico had velvety hands that skipped across the drums like flying fish. My hands were like wooden blocks. They also felt hesitant and scared, like the congas might explode if I hit a crappy note. Still, from time to time I would make a sound that was OK, and that kept me going.
The guys in the band are all well into their 50s and are all good musicians. In my first session with them, I mainly sat in the corner, watching and listening and trying not to bump into them, musically speaking. But after a while, I felt more confident to jump in, here and there. Before long I was actually keeping time with them, and occasionally venturing a little solo of sorts.
The really interesting thing was how quickly this insecurity turned into full-blown rock-lord megalomania.
We had been jamming informally for about six months when my wife, Margot, said she wanted us to play on her birthday in our backyard. “It’d be fun,” she said. (Or maybe she said, “It’d be funny”?) Anyway, we began practising in earnest. I was surprised to find that the other guys were almost as intimidated as I was by the idea of playing in front of people. What right did we have to inflict ourselves, aurally speaking, on other people? But the really interesting thing was how quickly this insecurity turned into full-blown rock-lord megalomania, whereby we began dreaming of playing for several hours to an adoring crowd of mainly hot women who would pelt us in a blizzard of undergarments. “They’ll be baying for more!” our lead singer, Will, said, his eyes rolling around in his head like Charles Manson.
We began jamming regularly, and put together a set of songs by such little-known artists as the Rolling Stones and the Velvet Underground, plus some other songs from this century. As we got closer to the big night, we thought maybe we should wear outfits, like Twisted Sister, or stuff a cucumber down our pants. I tried the cucumber thing, but it snapped when I sat down and I got green goo all down my thigh. (As David St. Hubbins put it in Spinal Tap, “It’s such a fine line between stupid and clever.”) In the end, we assured ourselves that our raw musical talent and incandescent late-middle-aged-white-suburban-male sex appeal would speak for itself, and the crowd would be duly impressed.
On the night, we promised each other we wouldn’t get wasted before we played, but I secretly put away three negronis, just for my nerves. The other guys seemed composed, in a rabbit-in-the-headlights kind of way, except for Will, who was pacing about muttering, “Are we going to do this? Are we going to do this?” over and over, until I had to tell him to stop because it was scaring the guests.
When we took the stage, there was much hooting and whistling. I felt self-conscious, but the minute we started playing – Sympathy for the Devil – something strange happened: I felt … to a degree … that I kind of almost … belonged there, sitting at the congas – my congas – actually playing music. I could hear the sound I was making, and it wasn’t entirely repugnant. Moreover, it fit in with the sounds the other guys were making. We were actually a band!
I was so in the moment that I didn’t even flinch when some guy – I think my old neighbour, Mick, whose mower I’d borrowed and never returned – threw a pair of his Y-fronts at my head. I realised: Who cares if we aren’t perfect? (Is the Berlin Philharmonic “perfect”?) Besides, when I looked out at the crowd – admittedly, all our friends – everyone was having fun, which was the whole point, right?
We played for about 45 minutes, and came off feeling elated. The band hugged and jumped up and down like we’d scored an upset win in some sport we couldn’t name. (Perhaps not how the Stones finish, but there it is.) We’ve since played a few times at parties and have named our band Mild Panic, because that’s how we always feel in the lead-up. Being in the band has been a revelation: if life is like a house, then Mild Panic has added a whole new room. I’ve also learnt that it’s honestly never too late to do something you’ve always wanted to do, especially if you don’t care how well you do it. And yes, I know that sounds vomitously cheesy, but fortunately for me – and maybe even for you – it’s absolutely true.
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