The real musos bought Howlin' Wolf, Robert Johnson, Bach, Mahler; whatever their taste, musos always seem to have a hardcore beginning, listening to the real McCoy from the time they are first weaned, and probably idly thrumming along on some prototype instrument.
My first record was "Woody Woodpecker Goes to the Moon". Woody had a terrific chuckle, but few musical pretentions, and the thing I liked best was the part where he bangs his head, sees double and sings the line "Two two head heads are are better better than than one one any any day day." Is that cool or what ? I can still remember the tune, too.
But let's be honest: this was not an auspicious musical awakening exactly. It was years before the actual moon landing, of course, so Woody was ahead of his time in that respect.
You know what ? I think some of the musos re-invent their first experiences. I mean, no serious musician approaching his dotage could possibly admit to his or her first record being "Please Mr Custer" by Charlie Drake. Or maybe something by Benny Hill. It would just be too humiliating. They would never live it down.
The musos also have musical parents, who come home after a hard days graft, sit their kid next to them on the on the piano stool, narrow their eyes, light up an evocative cigarette and tinkle through Gershwin until bedtime. Cut to: Mesmerised prodigy soaks up the vibe.
My mum had two records I know about. My Fair Lady and South Pacific. I don't think I ever heard her play them. She never had time. You could not put your cup down in our house, and if you did, she would swoop in and wash it up. No wonder she had so little time for anything other than Housewives Choice.
As for musical instruments, musos seem to grow up in houses littered with top-of-the-range instruments lying about the place. Our piano was chopped up (literally. I mean REALLY literally) as it was suspected of making the floor sag. You never read about that in the potted bios. That piano was a mystery in itself. Other than me, nobody ever played it. Nobody. Why did we have the thing in the first place ?
When I wanted to learn a musical instrument - it was the guitar I was lusting after - my parents were horrified. The expense ! And I would play it for a bit and then forget about it, and all that money would be wasted. I made two guitars before they realised I meant business. The first did not work at all, but was great for posing to Woody Woodpecker with. The second, made after days spent researching the library in town, worked a treat, but was a bit clunky and weighed only slightly less than the piano. This was no Brian May story.
They lovingly relented, and bought me an acoustic guitar, and I was launched. When I played Yesterday for my Uncle Malcolm, he screwed up his face as if he had just bitten through something unpleasantly resident in a lemon. "That", he said, "was awful.'"
School was pretty much with Uncle M. School music consisted largely of learning the dates and details of long-dead composers whose music we got to imagine but never heard. Those who played in the school orchestra were excused music lessons. No doubt in case the lessons should dent their enthusiasm. School regarded as un-musical the kids who rolled up with instruments to jam frenziedly in corners at lunchtime and swap chords to the latest Beatles track.
As a teenager, I sang in Iolanthe (Gilbert and Sullivan) as a rather short-sighted Peer. Peer was about right, and nightly I threatened to disappear off the front of the stage as the cast had been forbidden to wear anachronistic glasses. Harsh.
You can see that my musical beginnings were, well, dodgy at best. What I lacked in talent I made up for with mindless optimism, and dogged perseverance. Like life itself.
I might not have the early street cred, but if only Uncle Malcolm could hear me now.
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