 ‘And they turn and they dance, and they laugh and they lust,
To the rancid sound of the accordion’s burst’
The lyrics are from Amsterdam, Jacque Brel’s masterpiece that has been translated into English and covered by numerous artists. It’s always a fun number to do. Where else could you find the words slut, whore and belch in the same song?
But it’s another word that resonates with me. Rancid, describes the noise made by an accordion perfectly. We all have instruments that we despise. One of Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoons has a renowned conductor going to hell and being introduced to an orchestra composed entirely of banjo players. "Here's your room, maestro," says the Devil. With me, it’s the accordion.
Not that there aren’t some gifted players out there, and I genuinely admire the skill it takes to work the thing. But it’s a bit like modern jazz. All that talent and application is wasted because the sound is rank.
There are several types of accordion around, many of them seriously expensive. The most common is the piano accordion, which is invariably played by chubby men with grey beards, dodgy hair and big lungs (you need volume to sing over such a racket.) There are also concertina and chromatic versions, but the one that’s seen most often on the folk scene, is the button accordion, presumably because the smaller models are easy to transport around. There are lots of them. Far too many.
Drastic action is called for, but breaking the fingers of a fellow musician rankles a bit, and besides, some of these people are bigger than me. So the other alternative is to render the instrument unplayable. If you have an accordion, I suggest you keep it close by in my company. I have a long pointy stick, and I know how to use it. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
‘In the port of Amsterdam, there’s a sailor who drinks,
And he drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks once again,
He drinks to the health of the whores of Amsterdam,
Who have promised their love to a thousand other men.’
It’s here that Jacque Brel has it wrong. The sailor isn’t toasting the mucky women of Holland’s premier city. He’s getting plastered in order to blot out the sounds of those dratted accordions. Now where's that beer glass?
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