Has everyone been Copeland-ed to death? I hope not, 'cause I need to crow!
There I was on my most recent trip to England, walking in the Charing Cross area looking in all the music shops. I wandered down Oxford Street, onto Rathbone and low and behold … there was Hobgoblin Music.
“Hey!” I said out loud. “I know this place from the web!” Wild horses could not have prevented my entering.
Clearly, the lads at Hobgoblin (bless their clever hearts) had me figured out, because no sooner had I crouched to peruse the woodwind display than one reached in and handed me an “orphaned” nickle Copeland, high D (do whistle-players have visually-distinguishing characteristics?).
“You don’t mind if I play this?” My eyebrows went up in awe - I’ve never even seen a Copeland in the flesh (as it were).
“Please!”
I spent the next half-hour walking around the store playing this incredibly sublime instrument, sliding effortlessly from note to note, octave to octave. I didn’t want to put it down. I didn’t care who heard me (normally I’m dreadfully shy about playing solo anything for anyone). Such a gorgeous, clear, to-die-for sound. Dabbed at the occasional tear. Played some more. Finally I returned to the counter.
“How much?”
I was quoted a price in stirling that translated to no more than one would pay for the thing new here. But still, steep. Very steep. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get another whistle after my Boudreau’s for a long while. Oh so reluctantly, I handed the whistle back with profuse thanks for the treat of being allowed to play it. I left the shop.
All that night, the only thing I could hear in my head was the sound of that whistle. The tactile memory was tantalising. Imagine the war going on between my Jiminy Cricket and me: You can’t afford that! But have you ever heard anything else like it? Your salary was just slashed, you idiot! But it’s a Copeland - it feels like an extension of my mind. Aren’t you the one who goes on about the cache of low-end whistles! Yeah, but … the sound … it’s so easy to play … it is different to my other whistles!
Over and over. I let the days pass.
Minutes before I was due to undertake my journey back to the US, I placed a call to Hobgoblin, hoping the whistle had since been sold, hoping it was still for sale.
“Just barely,” came the reply. “Ten minutes ago, it almost left the store.”
“But you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s still for sale?”
“Yes.”
I couldn’t help myself. I took the plunge. The tube arrived in the post yesterday. I am speechless.
Yes, I still like the plebby appeal of my crushable Walton Little Black, I adore my wooden Boudreau’s, my Dixon’s religiously travel in my handbag or get stuck in my car’s visor.
But now I own a Copeland and suddenly the world is a different place.
FE
