Fuddland
Walking home from teaching last night, it was already dark but a nice warm evening, and as I strolled along the road I heard faint music coming from the canalside. Looking over, I could see a lone elderly man sitting cross-legged under an illuminated tree, playing an (二胡). I stood and watched him for a minute or two, but I was too close to the road to hear him properly so, after almost carrying on my way, I decided to wander over to have a better listen.
I made sure my footfalls were loud enough so that he knew I was approaching through the trees, so he stopped as I got closer and we had a nice little chat in Chinese, except for the part when I forgot how to say the verb to smoke so had to refuse his offer of a cigarette with a mime. He kept saying he was no good at the as he’d only been playing for five years, but I said I’d like to have a listen all the same.
He was right: he was dreadful. I could have made a better sound by taking the instrument from him and smashing it against the tree [which took all of my strength to not do].
To make matters worse he kept stopping and saying how bad he was, forcing me to be all polite and tell him it was very good, all the time pondering the cultural dilemma of precisely how long I should stay and listen before making my excuses and leaving. Was two minutes long enough? An hour and a half? I hadn’t come across this piece of essential cultural know-how in my Rough Guide book, so had to go with my instincts and managed to head off after about five minutes of aural torture, telling him I was going to have something to eat — something no Chinese man would ever begrudge me.
As proof that an (二胡) can make a beautiful noise in the right hands, I’ll leave you with a video I made last year of a professional busker.
