Wyn Drabble.
So there I was, helping my son set up his gear for a private gig northwest of Auckland. This procedure involves lugging a considerable number of separate heavy items then joining them together with cables and pedals so they reproduce pleasing sounds.
It's the worst part of being a musician. Well, except for packing it all up again after the performance. I have a regular gig myself and I cherish the three hours I spend singing and playing to people. I don't feel the same about the hour at the end, packing it all up meticulously then squeezing it methodically into the car.
Every cable - and there are many - must be individually wound up and put in a separate bag. Without this care, the whole operation would become a spaghetti tangle requiring hours of work to remedy.
Then there's the regular problem of something not working. You start at the beginning of the system and check every lead, every connection, every amp, every speaker. It's generally something very simple (you're meant to turn it on) but it's a time of enormous frustration.
So there we were, plugging this into that, that into this, checking this, checking that, testing this, testing that and tripping over cables. Holding a cable in my hand, ready to insert it into a suitable orifice, I stopped and turned to my son, saying, "Don't you wish you were a medieval musician wandering the streets with nothing more than a lute?"
At this point, the column goes murky and starts to ripple from side to side, indicating that we are going back in time (I know this works better in the movies but I like a bit of a challenge).
A solitary musician comes into view. He is plucking his lute and, in a sweet voice, singing, "Hey nonny, hey nonny, hey nonny nonny no" ("na na na na na" hadn't been invented yet). He also sings songs of chivalry, courtly love and faraway places but he considers Nonny no to be his strongest work yet.
He is sporting tights which itch in the groin region and he is wearing footwear with pointed, curling toes, already sullied by animal droppings and street dust. At the sullied pointed tips, tiny bells tinkle to suggest merriment.
He receives no payment from the council but, if he is lucky, he might be offered items of food or clothing by appreciative members of the public. On a good day, he could be thrown a florin, which would enable him to enjoy a "draughte of moyste and corny ale" after work.
But, what's this? A shopper at a nearby stall objects to the excessive repetition of Nonny no so grabs a tomato from the stall and hurls it at the minstrel. The tomato juice mingles with the droppings and the dust and, in time, will form a curling crust.
The minstrel wanders away but unfortunately forgets that sophisticated sanitation systems are not yet commonplace so he cops a bucketful of slops from an upstairs window. The shock causes him to fall at the foot of the marketplace guillotine. He narrowly avoids landing on a severed head.
He'll need a new lute, new tights and a new codpiece.
He has no choice but to call it a day.
At this point, the column ripples again, indicating that we are coming back to the present, with its amps and cables and electronic pedals.
My son considers the question - remember the question? It was way back before the column first went all ripply - then plugs in a cable and turns to me.
"Perhaps not," he opines.
As the credits roll, we hear the lusty vocals of Fred Dagg singing: "We don't know how lucky we are, mate. We don't know how lucky we are."
- Wyn Drabble is a teacher of English, a writer, musician and public speaker.