Boris dragged the last life out of a black Balkan Sobranie cigarette, stubbed it out, and reached for the telephone. He hooked his finger in, and dialled. Click-whirrr, click-whirr, seven digits (it was in the days before one needed to prefix with “011”). He waited, listening to the ring-tone. Drrr.-drrr. Drrr-drrr. It usually took Roy around thirteen of those ring-tone pairs to reach the phone in his study. While Boris waited, he wondered what Roy would be smoking. His hand snaked out toward his Sobranie Balkans, re-routed toward the colourful Sobranie Cocktails, and then retracted as the phone on the other end was lifted.
Perhaps Roy was slumming it with a plain cigarette from a pack with the Texas Lone Star on the pack. Or maybe a local Lucky. Or maybe he was dragging on a classic long Dunhill. Boris could see him in his silken paisley smoking jacket. Perhaps he was drawing on an oval John Cotton. What a treat! One thing is for sure, Boris mused. Roy was a ciggie-snob. He would not be caught with a local fag in public. He knew full well that the Pall Mall on the a certain pack was more likely to have been conceived by a marketer in a Paarl mall than a tobacconist in Pall Mall, London.
Roy would know it was Boris calling. No one else would call at that time. With the handset to his ear, Boris began the conversation with “Hello”. Or, he meant to. The letter ‘H’ for heavy smokers, though, is fraught. His attempt came out as “Hwah”, then “Hweugh”. He tried again.”A-hweugh. A-hwagh. A-Hwah ha. Hagh”. He persisted, with unvarying results, gave up, and waited for Roy.
After a heavy silence, it was Roy’s turn. “Hwêuh. Hwegahgha”. Came the answer. “Hoo wêghwawa ha, haGah haGAH ha”. The sounds became a diminuendo segue into silence. Boris idly wondered if the Special Branch were listening. Would they suspect a secret code? They were daily more paranoid.
If his and Roy’s attempts were the first two verses, his next attempt modulated the key a fifth up for the bridge (in a boereorkes, he would turn to the other musicians and mouth the word ‘kruis’). It was similarly syncopated, a mix of hisses, vowels, with the only consonants being slight guttural gurgles and glottals. After a crescendo, once again, he declined to diminuendo pianissimo, then paused to a faint, husky, trembling fermata.
Roy remained silent on his end now, listening for Boris. They were some rumblings, some stifled sounds, and then Boris rendered something close enough to his first attempt for it to suffice as the last verse. Neither had yet managed a recognisable word, and neither was about to try again. After a long silence punctuated with more inhibited and mutes glottals, and having inadvertently followed the hallowed pop music AABA form of verse x 2, bridge, and verse, both hung up.
The following day, in the warmth of the day, they met in Rosebank. They were not in danger of their voices catching in the chill. Roy said “I knew it was you calling this morning”. Boris nodded. Carefully, he outlined the question of the trio passage in unison featuring flute, with muted trumpet, with soprano sax. “Alto”, Roy replied. “Alto. Rather use alto sax. Soprano sax intonation is dodgier, and alto will blend better”. Together, they sat al fresco at the small circular table outdoors, puffing and people-watching.
Half a century later, someone I know has asked me to instruct him on how to do lyrics for songs. He is a very talented writer. Now, there are two schools of thought about lyrics and music: do the melody first and try to fit the words to the melody, or do the words first and try to fit the melody. I prefer the latter: music is easier to change than words.
Still, generally the whole process is iterative, and one ends up trying a mix of both approaches: anything that works. To illustrate for my writer friend, I will create, using PC software, a rhythm track: keyboard, guitar, bass & drums, in a style he enjoys: kwaito, hip-hop, reggae or amapiano. I may do all of them. It will become an MP3 track. Then, he and his friends will gather round his device (tablet, phone, PC). He will play the track, and their challenge will be to cough and hack in the time-honoured Boris and Roy genre, and record catchy, funky, syncopated coughs, throat-clearers, glottal gulps and the like. They will have a lot of fun. If they have good enough rhythm, and I am betting on that, they will produce the grooviest chain smokers’ sound track of all time
it will be easier than words, more akin to rap, and will teach the challenge of fitting something to a certain type of beat, a much more fun introduction to song production, than trying a serious song about ‘lurve’’. I’m looking forward to it.