Since my entry into the world of care-home entertainment well over a decade ago, I’ve played in similar establishments across England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland, during which time I’ve dodged stuffed meerkats hurled at me mid-song by a passing resident, dealt with melting Mr. Whippy cornets in ineffectual shaky hands when all the staff had vanished to enjoy their own 99s in peace, and ignored (or at least attempted to) a naked man suddenly launching himself across the room just feet away from the microphone. I’ve performed both solo and in a variety of duos, often in the company of canines too, as dogs and music have proved to be a bit of a double whammy as far as the elderly are concerned. Residents who have had pets in the past are often reminded of their beloved companions and sometimes ask if one of my dogs will sit on their lap during the hour’s entertainment (or, indeed, as one confused resident did when she became convinced one of my precious miniature dachshunds was actually hers, demand I return their dog to them!). As for the music, it really does seem to reach all parts of the brain, so that even people with advanced dementia come to life when they hear a song that evokes memories from their distant past.
One lady in her nineties had been in various choirs in her younger days, and she loved to sing ‘Crazy’ every time I performed at her care home. On one occasion, she decided to follow it up with a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’, which I had to play by ear as I didn’t have the song in my folder. Unfortunately I pitched it in a rather higher key than she was used to, which was fine until she got to the ‘I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow’ part... Redder and redder her face became as she gamely attempted to reach the high notes – so much so that I envisaged her pegging out there and then and me being held responsible. But thankfully that didn’t happen: with a sparkle in her eyes, she victoriously reached the highest of high notes, the whole room burst into a deserved round of applause, and the video of her performance that she happily agreed could be shared online went on to get a very healthy number of views!
Towards the end of 2016, I learned an important lesson in balancing different expectations when I was rebooked to perform at a care home well over an hour away from where I was then living. The previous time I’d played there, my long-suffering sausage dogs, Silva and Chilli, who came everywhere with me back then, had gone down a storm, so I was more than happy to drive a considerable distance to perform there again.
This time, however, as the dogs and I arrived in the entertainment room, a vociferous woman sitting on a settee next to her silent friend was letting rip about the fact that the chap sitting on the armchair in front of them had moved it so that he was now facing the stage but was blocking their view. For his part, he just stared ahead passively, apparently oblivious to her loud and ever more obscene complaints directed at the carers as they tried to get her to stand up so that they could move the settee round. ‘He moved in front of us – why should we ’ave to move? It’s not right! Bloody arseholes, the lot of you!’ On and on she went, ad nauseam, to the point that I was feeling nothing but sympathy for the poor carers, as well as for the elderly gent who’d had the apparent audacity to move his chair but who seemed to me to be a bit out of it and unable to engage in any argument with the woman behind him. But I carried on setting my equipment up and tried not to look as though I was eavesdropping on the kerfuffle going on a few feet away. Finally the indignant lady gave in and allowed the sofa to be moved, but she carried on grumbling and the chap carried on looking straight ahead as though in blissful ignorance of the ruckus he’d started behind him.
Firmly siding with him in my mind, I nevertheless decided to go over to the peeved woman and try and calm her down by offering her and her friend their choice of Chilli or Silva to sit on their lap and stroke. As I approached her, her expression totally changed and her face lit up, her beef with the chap in front forgotten as I bent down with both sausage dogs in my arms and she started to gush over them. She doesn’t seem so bad after all, I was thinking as the gent in front turned round and said to me, ‘Excuse me, could I have a word with you?’ Blimey, he CAN speak – and he sounds perfectly lucid! I thought, somewhat ashamed at having made such wrong assumptions about him. But what he then said totally threw me.
‘I’m here to listen to your music, I’m not interested in your dogs. The last time you came, you played for forty minutes and then you took the dogs round. I hope you’re not going to do that again.’ Well! How very dare he not be interested in my darling daxies?! I swallowed my mounting wrath and said, as mildly as I could manage, ‘Well, I’m booked to play music and to bring the dogs, and some people want to see the dogs, so I have to do a bit of both.’ I was now firmly on the side of the lovely ladies on the sofa behind him…
The formerly cantankerous woman looked at me and could see that I was taken aback, so she raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Just ignore the old fool!’ So I engaged with her and her friend a bit more, as they were totally smitten with the dogs by then.
But then I had something of an epiphany, a realisation that I didn’t need to be so hostile towards the old man. I turned back to him and said, ‘I just want to say that I’m very flattered that you enjoyed my music enough to want to listen to a whole hour of it – so thank you for saying what you just said, and I’ll make sure I play for longer this time.’ He then smiled at me and the ice was broken. I looked up and saw a row of carers all looking towards me and smiling too.
Singing for an hour was a bit of an effort, I have to admit – in general, the audience wasn’t the most responsive I’ve ever played to in a care home, though the bolshy lady, her friend, the gent in front of her, another chap in a wheelchair who obviously liked country music, and a lady in the front row did all seem to be enjoying it, so that spurred me on. The last song, however – even though I threw in an extra final chorus and slowed it down a bit – didn’t quite take us up to the hour mark… more like fifty-seven minutes… Damn! I saw the gent look round at the clock and then raise his hand to say something, and waited for his rage at being cheated of three minutes. But this is what he said:
‘As the activity organisers don’t seem to be here, I’d like to say on everyone’s behalf what an absolutely splendid afternoon of music this has been, so thank you very much.’
No one’s ever said such a lovely thing at any of the care home gigs I’ve done – and for it to said by the person I’d have least expected it to come from, by the person I was expecting another ticking off from for having short-changed him yet again – well, I stuttered something like, ‘Thank you so much, that’s a really lovely thing to say!’ and resolved never to pre-judge anyone ever again. I also vowed to try and let bothersome things float over me as serenely as that gentleman had done: he had clearly been completely aware of the cacophony behind him, yet he’d let the carers deal with the situation and hadn’t engaged with it himself at all. Very impressive!
To be continued...
One lady in her nineties had been in various choirs in her younger days, and she loved to sing ‘Crazy’ every time I performed at her care home. On one occasion, she decided to follow it up with a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’, which I had to play by ear as I didn’t have the song in my folder. Unfortunately I pitched it in a rather higher key than she was used to, which was fine until she got to the ‘I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow’ part... Redder and redder her face became as she gamely attempted to reach the high notes – so much so that I envisaged her pegging out there and then and me being held responsible. But thankfully that didn’t happen: with a sparkle in her eyes, she victoriously reached the highest of high notes, the whole room burst into a deserved round of applause, and the video of her performance that she happily agreed could be shared online went on to get a very healthy number of views!
Towards the end of 2016, I learned an important lesson in balancing different expectations when I was rebooked to perform at a care home well over an hour away from where I was then living. The previous time I’d played there, my long-suffering sausage dogs, Silva and Chilli, who came everywhere with me back then, had gone down a storm, so I was more than happy to drive a considerable distance to perform there again.
This time, however, as the dogs and I arrived in the entertainment room, a vociferous woman sitting on a settee next to her silent friend was letting rip about the fact that the chap sitting on the armchair in front of them had moved it so that he was now facing the stage but was blocking their view. For his part, he just stared ahead passively, apparently oblivious to her loud and ever more obscene complaints directed at the carers as they tried to get her to stand up so that they could move the settee round. ‘He moved in front of us – why should we ’ave to move? It’s not right! Bloody arseholes, the lot of you!’ On and on she went, ad nauseam, to the point that I was feeling nothing but sympathy for the poor carers, as well as for the elderly gent who’d had the apparent audacity to move his chair but who seemed to me to be a bit out of it and unable to engage in any argument with the woman behind him. But I carried on setting my equipment up and tried not to look as though I was eavesdropping on the kerfuffle going on a few feet away. Finally the indignant lady gave in and allowed the sofa to be moved, but she carried on grumbling and the chap carried on looking straight ahead as though in blissful ignorance of the ruckus he’d started behind him.
Firmly siding with him in my mind, I nevertheless decided to go over to the peeved woman and try and calm her down by offering her and her friend their choice of Chilli or Silva to sit on their lap and stroke. As I approached her, her expression totally changed and her face lit up, her beef with the chap in front forgotten as I bent down with both sausage dogs in my arms and she started to gush over them. She doesn’t seem so bad after all, I was thinking as the gent in front turned round and said to me, ‘Excuse me, could I have a word with you?’ Blimey, he CAN speak – and he sounds perfectly lucid! I thought, somewhat ashamed at having made such wrong assumptions about him. But what he then said totally threw me.
‘I’m here to listen to your music, I’m not interested in your dogs. The last time you came, you played for forty minutes and then you took the dogs round. I hope you’re not going to do that again.’ Well! How very dare he not be interested in my darling daxies?! I swallowed my mounting wrath and said, as mildly as I could manage, ‘Well, I’m booked to play music and to bring the dogs, and some people want to see the dogs, so I have to do a bit of both.’ I was now firmly on the side of the lovely ladies on the sofa behind him…
The formerly cantankerous woman looked at me and could see that I was taken aback, so she raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Just ignore the old fool!’ So I engaged with her and her friend a bit more, as they were totally smitten with the dogs by then.
But then I had something of an epiphany, a realisation that I didn’t need to be so hostile towards the old man. I turned back to him and said, ‘I just want to say that I’m very flattered that you enjoyed my music enough to want to listen to a whole hour of it – so thank you for saying what you just said, and I’ll make sure I play for longer this time.’ He then smiled at me and the ice was broken. I looked up and saw a row of carers all looking towards me and smiling too.
Singing for an hour was a bit of an effort, I have to admit – in general, the audience wasn’t the most responsive I’ve ever played to in a care home, though the bolshy lady, her friend, the gent in front of her, another chap in a wheelchair who obviously liked country music, and a lady in the front row did all seem to be enjoying it, so that spurred me on. The last song, however – even though I threw in an extra final chorus and slowed it down a bit – didn’t quite take us up to the hour mark… more like fifty-seven minutes… Damn! I saw the gent look round at the clock and then raise his hand to say something, and waited for his rage at being cheated of three minutes. But this is what he said:
‘As the activity organisers don’t seem to be here, I’d like to say on everyone’s behalf what an absolutely splendid afternoon of music this has been, so thank you very much.’
No one’s ever said such a lovely thing at any of the care home gigs I’ve done – and for it to said by the person I’d have least expected it to come from, by the person I was expecting another ticking off from for having short-changed him yet again – well, I stuttered something like, ‘Thank you so much, that’s a really lovely thing to say!’ and resolved never to pre-judge anyone ever again. I also vowed to try and let bothersome things float over me as serenely as that gentleman had done: he had clearly been completely aware of the cacophony behind him, yet he’d let the carers deal with the situation and hadn’t engaged with it himself at all. Very impressive!
To be continued...
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