ralphnz

1 - a testament to Yamaha's build quality



Thanks Dad for the use of the car.


2 - Curry

I was five minutes late and hoped Jen wouldn’t be too angry. We only had a half-hour window to meet for lunch. I rushed down the escalator and eventually spotted her among the food court’s patrons. When I noticed she’d already grabbed her usual girly sandwich and found a table, I became distracted by a new addition to the food court. After weeks of imposing boards standing there, bearing promises of something spicy developing behind them, there it was in all its glory: The Taj. A curry house, but one like none other. It was quite possibly the only curry house in town a man in his right, sober, mind would approach in daylight. For there were bright lights with all the bulbs working, baskets of clean cutlery, napkins, and real Indians behind the counter - wearing gloves and smiling. I knew what I was having for lunch.

‘Ugh, what’s that?’ she asked as I ceremoniously lowered my tray onto the table.
‘This… is vindaloo, sweetie.’
‘Vindawho?’
‘Vindaloo. Curry.’
‘Curry? Ew, did you have to?’
‘Honestly, if their vindaloo tastes as good as it smells…’ and my predictions were verified as the shred of naan I’d torn off and dipped in the lava-like sauce hit my tongue. I was in love. Again.
‘Just keep it away from me. That’s disgusting.’
‘What do you mean? It’s delicious. Here, try some…’
‘No!’
‘Have you had vindaloo before?’
‘God no.’
‘Then how do you know… wait – have you even had a curry before?’
‘I dunno. No.’
‘Then –’
‘No!’ and she hid in her sandwich. Sensible boyfriend logic told me I should just drop the issue…

… until that evening. I tried to get over it, but couldn’t stop thinking: Jen had never had a curry. Never. Not even a drunken midnight adventure.
‘So,’ I asked to break the silence after dinner, ‘why haven’t you ever had curry?’
‘You’re still thinking about that? I dunno, I just haven’t. And I don’t want to.’
‘Why not? Just sounds a bit prejudiced to me.’
‘It’s not prejudiced. It’s just disgusting.’
‘It is prejudiced – you’re declaring that curry’s disgusting, and now you’re being stubborn. And unadventurous. Boring.’
‘No I’m not, I just… actually, I have had curry before, a few years ago with Kevin.’
‘Oh, so suddenly you remember? What was it?’
‘We went to some cheap place. I had a… buttery… chicken?’
‘You had butter chicken?’
‘Sure.’
‘How was it?’
‘Um… it was average. But I definitely had it.’
‘And Kevin’ll back you up on that?’
‘Well, if he remembers. But it’s probably no use asking him.’
‘Let’s see,’ I plotted, reaching for the phone.
‘Aw, you don’t need to –’ and with a groan she stormed out of the lounge.

It took her older brother a few more rings than was normal to answer. Usually he was on it like a hawk, expecting that elusive call about a job interview.
‘G’day?’
‘Kevin mate, how are ya? Um, wee question for you: do you recall Jen ever eating a curry?’
‘Um… aw… yeah? Yeah, nah she has.’
‘When?’
‘Aw I dunno. A while back.’
‘Months, years…’
‘Sure, years.’
‘And what was it?’
‘It was butter chicken.’
‘How do you know it was butter chicken?’
‘Guess I’ve just got a good memory. Hey what’re you up to tonight? Wanna come round for the rugby?’
(I can’t stand rugby.)
‘Yeah, sounds good. I’ll grab some beers.’
‘Sweet, you get beers, I’ll get chips. 7:30?’
‘7:30. Cool, see you then.’
‘Cheers.’

‘Oh well, he seems to agree with you. And I’m going round for the rugby if that’s cool.’
Jen wandered back in, busy reading a new text message. ‘Yeah, that’s um… that works. That’s just, that’s Sarah. She wants to… go to a movie at 6:30. Don’t you hate rugby?’
‘Meh. I need to make an effort to impress your family as well.’

I drove to Kevin’s a bit earlier than planned, so I could chuck the beers in his fridge (pretending to follow rugby’s one thing – but doing so with warm beer? Really…). As I pulled up outside his flat, I found myself behind Jen’s car – which was clearly not parked near the movies. I grew puzzled, especially when Jen opened the door with her own pair of pink rubber gloves.
‘Oh, hey you… um… you’re early.’
‘And you’re not at the movies.’
‘Sarah cancelled. So I thought I’d pop by and surprise you boys. So… surprise!’
‘Kevin’s not paying you, is he?’
‘No, no. Can’t a sister just be nice? So are you gonna come in?’

Noticing a distinct lack of stumbling, crashing and swearing, I asked where Kevin was.
‘Oh, he’s just gone to get some beers.’ When she heard me dump two six-packs on the newly-cleaned bench, she added, ‘He forgot who was getting them.’
‘God, now he’ll get some nasty chilled cat piss. I bet he forgot the chips too.’
‘Don’t worry, I just whipped up some guacamole. Chips are on the table.’
‘Aw, sweetie you… but aren’t avocadoes out of season?’
Before she could answer, Kevin threw open the door, declaring that was the most he’d ever spent on beer.
‘Really? What country’s it from?’
‘It’s from, um… Europe?’
Surprised, I accepted one and dropped myself on the couch, forgetting about my beers on the bench. Jen brought her expensive guacamole through and gave me a kiss. ‘You enjoy your rugby now.’
‘I’ll try. Thanks. And um… won’t be too late.’
Kevin gave her a smirk as she walked past. ‘Ah, sisters…. Game started?’

After the first innings or whatever they do in rugby, we started working our way through the warm beers and I realised I’d have to fork out for a taxi.
‘Nah mate, just give Jen a call. It’ll be sweet.’
‘I dunno, she’s already been nice enough tonight. Wouldn’t wanna make her angry.’
‘She owes me, it’s the least she could do.’
‘Owes you for what?’
‘Oh. For, um… remembering about the curry thing.’
I wasn’t convinced. ‘Remembering, huh? What was it she had again?’
‘The chicken one. Tikka?’
‘Tikka masala?’
‘Sure.’
‘You said butter chicken before.’
‘Yeah that one.’
‘What’s going on, Kev?’
The beers had affected not only Kevin’s memory, but also his conscience: ‘OK fine, she rang me just before you did and told me to lie about the curry.’
‘So she’s never had curry?’
‘Nope.’
‘That explains so much…’
‘But don’t let her know – she said she’d do anything, and I wanna see how far I can ride it.’
‘C’mon, I know she lied. But I can’t do that to my girlfriend and you can’t – actually, I’m in.’
We finished the beers then I called Jen for a ride. Somebody won the rugby.

So Jen wanted to play dirty, Kevin wanted to use her, and I wanted to see where it all went. I didn’t have to wait long – the phone woke me the next morning.
‘They better have a good reason…’ I groaned rolling towards the phone, more to silence its piercing scream than to talk to whoever it was. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey man, can I talk to Jen? I’ve got a pile of washing she’d just love to do. Oh and maybe it’s time somebody vacuumed round here.’
‘Heh. Yeah sure Kev, here she is…’ and I handed the phone to Jen, who seemed puzzled as to why her brother would call this early.
‘Yes? … Uhuh… Today? … I dunno, it’s not really a good time… I know, but… Look, fine… OK, see you then.’
‘What does he want?’ I asked, knowing the exact answer, but curious to hear her version.
‘Um, he wants to meet for… shopping. It’s Mum’s birthday.’
‘Yeah, in a month.’
‘He said he found a good price, but needs me to uh, help him choose. Anyway, he wants to do it soon so I better get up.’
I took the phone off the hook and went back to sleep to enjoy my Saturday.

I heard Jen return when I was getting up round lunchtime.
‘What did you get her?’ I called through to the kitchen.
‘Huh? Oh, we got… a plant.’
‘Oh yeah, what kind?’
‘Um, big leaves, forgot the name.’
I went through to see her, but to my put-on surprise there was no plant.
‘Oh, where is it?’
‘Kev said he’d look after it.’
‘Kev? I wouldn’t even trust him to look after the mildew on his ceilings.’
Jen knew the ceilings would be her next job and looked suitably disgusted at their mention. This would be a great time to get her to drop the act and give in.
‘So… curry?’
‘What? No.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it. See, I’m still alive.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Just… No!’
Maybe it would happen another time.

A couple of days later I noticed the fridge’s beer supply running low. So I popped into the supermarket to see what was cheap. As I turned the corner into the beer aisle, I saw Jen trying to decipher the writing on a six-pack.
‘I didn’t know you drank beer.’
She almost dropped the pack when she saw me, and struggled to explain herself: ‘Well, no I, I just… they’re for you.’
She didn’t want me to know she was running round for Kevin again, so I scored the beer – the same expensive European beer – which was now in her basket next to the latest copy of FHM.
‘And that?’ I doubt she’d let me look at the girls inside the magazine, let alone encourage it. Definitely Kevin.
‘That’s for, um… me.’
‘You’re buying FHM for yourself?’
‘Yeah, well… there are some nice bikinis in there. I need some ideas, and my magazines don’t have anything good in them.’
I pretended to believe her, realising that she’d now have to buy two of everything to keep her lie going – keeping both Kevin and me happy. Surely this episode had made her uncomfortable, and she’d be willing to give it up soon.
‘You know, the curry’s in the next aisle. Let’s have a look and find a sachet of something that isn’t so scary.’
‘No! I’m not eating curry. It’s disgusting.’
‘You won’t eat curry but you’re fine with some of those photos?’
‘I never said I liked… just… I’m not having curry! I have to go anyway.’
‘OK, see you at home.’
She marched towards the checkout and I figured I wouldn’t have to buy any beer now, and also that she’d have to go and buy the same things again at the next supermarket. As I sifted through the curries, searching for something Jen might tolerate, I wondered if my insistence was having the wrong effect. I had thought Kev’s tasks were so daunting that she’d rather do anything else – even try curry. But no, it seemed my constant pressure reminded her that she needed to keep at it, doing anything to avoid having curry. Meanwhile, Kevin was cashing on both of our losses.

This was very clear when I drove past Kevin’s place on the way home from work the next day. Even though I drove past every day, I always glanced across to his house to see if he was achieving anything. This time, however, I found Jen on the driveway, hosing down Kevin’s car. And she was soaking, which would ordinarily be any boyfriend’s dream, but she obviously wasn’t enjoying it. I could tell she was suffering, while Kevin was right there on the lawn, soaking up the sun in a patio chair. He had a European beer in one hand, and the new FHM in the other. I kept driving, wondering what to do about it.

‘Hey sweetie, I thought you’d be home earlier. What’ve you been up to?’ Despite my concerns, I just had to hear what she could come up with.
‘Oh, coffee with Sarah.’
‘Ooh, coffee? What time was that?’
‘About four.’
‘Four? You sure? I saw Sarah at the bank at four.’ Of course I didn’t, but she had no way to prove me wrong.
‘Um, it was another Sarah. From work.’
‘Should I know Sarah from work?’
‘Well no, she’s new.’
‘Maybe I could meet her someday.’
‘Nah she’s… a bit of a cow. Just felt bad when she asked me to do coffee.’
‘Oh well, I hope she doesn’t ask again.’
After this alibi, I decided it’d gone far enough. I’d extracted about as much fun as I could from the situation, and I couldn’t let Jen suffer anymore. Plus I was worried she’d find out any minute – and I knew that wouldn’t end well. I called Kevin and asked how we could end it, but he was reluctant to agree; all he was interested in was having his housework done.
‘And if she found out I told you straight away…’
‘Well you should’ve though of that before you spilled, mate.’ I laughed, desperate to keep the mood up; I needed Kevin’s cooperation on this.
‘Dude, she’s gonna kill me!’
‘Hey, you’ll just have to deal with that when it happens. But I’m getting out of this clean.’
‘Aw, for…’
‘But we can still have some fun with it. Say…’ then it hit me: ‘You know what, Kev? I’m gonna make Jen eat a curry.’
‘Aye? How are you gonna do that?’
‘She’s working late tomorrow. I’ll go pick up some butter chicken from that place down the road, then chuck it on some plates. By eight o’clock she’ll have eaten curry, and she’ll think I can cook.’
‘But she’s not gonna eat curry. Forget it.’
‘Not if we call it that. I’ll have to think of another name. Something fancy… something she would eat, like…’

‘Moroccan tomato chicken,’ I announced as Jen came through the door.
‘Really? That’s a bit posh. What’s the occasion?’
‘Um, chicken and tomatoes were cheap… and Moroccan stuff.’ If only I knew what Moroccan stuff was.
‘Right. Smells good anyway.’
We made a start on the curry in disguise, everything going smoothly. As it should have – it was only butter chicken after all. Jen appeared to rather like it. Years of ignorance, prejudice and stubbornness, all about to collapse when I would reveal the name of what she had just about finished eating, and that I knew she’d lied to me. I couldn’t wait.

‘So how was it?’
‘It was pretty good. Didn’t taste like any other Moroccan I’ve had though. And if we’re being picky, it should be on couscous, not rice. But otherwise…’
Jen suddenly paused. She gulped and her eyes bulged. As she keeled over I noticed that the colour of her face matched that of the leftover sauce. She pushed her chair back and ran out of the kitchen, and I heard the bathroom door slam. Then the noises began. Moaning, splashing, spitting… I didn’t know exactly where the noises were coming from. I didn’t want to know. I covered my ears and wondered what had caused this sudden, unfortunate turn of events. Could it have been the curry? I’d had far spicier dishes dozens of times, with no problems at all. But on her first try, Jen couldn’t even keep a butter chicken down. She must have been allergic to it. And I’d tricked her into eating it after she’d refused curry countless times. If she found out she’d kill both of us. But especially me.
‘Ugh, I need a drink…’ stumbling back into the kitchen and looking terrible, she grabbed a glass. My nice boyfriend sense kicked in and I grabbed the glass to fill it with water, but also got a whiff of Jen’s smell. It was every bit as bad as the noises.
‘How are you feeling? You must be allergic to something, nothing wrong with mine.’
‘I dunno, I’m just a bit…’ she threw her water in the sink and ran back to the bathroom.
I felt terrible. She’d done all that work for Kevin, all so she wouldn’t have to eat curry, and then I went and gave her… whatever was going on in the bathroom. If I wanted to stay clean, I’d have to appear to drop the curry issue, but not because I knew she was allergic to it. And I’d still need Kevin’s cooperation. That seemed possible, so I started looking up again. Until the phone rang.
‘Hello?’ Jen picked the phone up on her way back from the bathroom. ‘Oh, hi Kev…’
Kevin?
‘Well, I was fine, feel like crap now though… I dunno, something I ate…’ I could hear her on the phone in the next room, and felt nervous about where the conversation was heading.
‘Yeah, he cooked… And then I was just, ugh… Yeah, straight to the toilet… Hopefully it’ll go away soon… What do you mean? …Oh, really? Thanks Kev… Bye.’
She stepped back into the kitchen and stared at me. Very flushed and generally terrible-looking, she didn’t look happy. I crossed my fingers, hoping Kevin hadn’t said anything, but I knew she had something to say…
‘Curry?’


A – from my fiancée, currently in Europe

Ralph has been involved in lots of very different types of music since he began playing the trumpet at the age of nine. He has a History degree but has decided to go further with his music and study a postgraduate diploma in performance trumpet, heading towards a full trumpet career.

Unfortunately, using a NZ$350 beaten up Yamaha from 1970 he found online for everything from baroque and classical work to jazz to reggae to funk to musicals isn't ideal. He often complains that it refuses to play in tune and he wastes a lot of time battling with the instrument instead of helping him. As a pianist, I am his accompanist and I know he always gets frustrated when I am on his back about trying to play better. But I know he can play better because I've also accompanied him on borrowed trumpets and cornets, so I know his own trumpet simply doesn't do him justice.

He needs a new trumpet so that people can take him seriously as a musician and he can continue to get better work and focus on making music, instead of getting frustrated with a piece of junk. But living in Dunedin, New Zealand, buying any kind of instrument is ridiculously expensive, any model is years behind and trying before you buy is out of the question.

Earlier this year he had finally saved up enough money to buy a new trumpet online, and was very excited about it, when he dropped everything to come to Europe, where I’ve been on an exchange, to see me for just three weeks for the first time in six months and save our relationship. He promises me I am the only thing that is more important to him than music. He even went the three weeks without playing just to be with me, even though within two days of his return to New Zealand he had three gigs and a brass band contest. He now has no money, and still has an old crappy trumpet, but he’s gained a fiancée.

I love him to bits and I know that a new trumpet would make him so happy. He has worked so hard to get where he is and this would make the sacrifice of playing a bad trumpet for so many years worthwhile.


B

The most fantastic moment in my playing life so far has been the closing night of a local amateur production of the musical Chess. The musical came near the end of my History degree, a time when I would soon have to be making some very big career decisions.

Because the show didn’t have the greatest conductor and we were sight-reading, at first the music from Chess made little sense to the band, and not surprisingly I wasn’t very fond of it. However, after a few practices we ironed out the dodgy bits (thankfully, so did the conductor) and I not only began to tolerate the music… I loved it. I had done several musicals before, but this one really seemed to connect with me. I felt like both a real musician, and a part of the whole production. We were doing the same thing every night for two weeks, but I never got bored. In fact, by closing night, I was sad to play and hear the tunes for the last time.

I had realised that music was my true passion. Despite almost having a History degree, having planned to study journalism for years, and having always told myself music was simply a hobby and I can’t rely on it, I decided I would follow my nana’s old advice: to just do whatever it is I want to do. I finally knew that was music. I figured pursuing music would be tricky, but I decided then and there to take it far more seriously, and do whatever it takes to reach my dream of playing bigger shows overseas.

Additionally, my musical commitments leading up to and including Chess had put excessive strain on the four-and-a-half-year relationship with my non-musical girlfriend. Previously I would have tried to make sacrifices for her, but not this time; I only wanted to play more and more music, and so we sadly, but mutually, put an end to the relationship early in the season of Chess.

Then, in a series of events almost too coincidental to be true, my former accompanist (a lovely and incredibly musical young lady) turned up to watch on closing night. After the show we got to talking about music among many other things, and she was the first person I told in-depth about the radical changes I had been going through in my mind. It was the longest we’d ever talked for. We somehow managed to meet at another few musical events later that year, and inevitably we ended up together…

Julia is now my fiancée, personal accompanist and inspiration. Whenever I play, I tell myself not to let her down, but to make her proud, and I perform at my best when she’s beside me at the piano. To think that this has been possible because of our bumping into each other on the closing night of Chess – in addition to the spine-shivering inspiration I felt that very night from being a part of the musical alone – almost makes one believe in destiny.

I’ve won numerous solo and band competitions, recorded CDs, and toured with bands nationally and internationally… but the most fantastic moment in my playing life did not score me any trophies, instant fame or a cash prize (this was confirmed when we got given our cheques). Instead this fantastic moment, the closing night of Chess, gathered my erratic thoughts, confirmed my ambitions to just play trumpet and to take it seriously, and made me realise I’d already met the perfect woman.

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