It had been sitting on top of the wardrobe since we moved here.
Wrapped in an old towel because I lost the case somewhere between Manchester and Madrid. I told myself I’d clean it, maybe play a few notes, just to see. Two years later I finally did.
The valves stuck immediately. Years of neglect and Andalusian humidity will do that. I found a bottle of valve oil that had turned to glue and a mouthpiece full of dust. I gave it a shake and coughed.
Liz heard the noise from the other room. “Oh no,” she said, “you’re not starting a band again.”
I told her it was just curiosity. She raised an eyebrow that said she’d heard that before.
The first note I tried came out flat and angry, like a foghorn losing the will to live. The next was worse. My embouchure has gone the way of my hairline. Muscle memory helps, but not when the muscles have retired too.
I used to warm up with Clarke’s Technical Studies every morning. Four pages before breakfast, long tones until my lips felt carved out of oak. Now I was gasping after ten seconds. The neighbours’ dog barked. Somewhere down the street someone shouted olé, which I decided to take as encouragement.
I tried a slow B-flat scale, then gave up and just listened to the sound of the valves clattering. It wasn’t music, but it was honest.
Humidity in Cádiz is a killer for brass. Even the professionals complain. Salt air eats through lacquer, tuning slides stick, and you can feel the sea sitting on the metal. I wiped the trumpet down, cleaned the mouthpiece, checked the serial number like it would tell me how to start again.
It used to mean everything. Rehearsals, gigs, teaching students who thought they’d be the next Freddie Hubbard. I kept saying the same thing back then: breathe properly, don’t rush the note. I said it like it was gospel. Turns out I was preaching to myself.
After twenty minutes of noise I put the trumpet back in its towel. Liz came in with tea. “How did it go?”
“Not great,” I said.
She nodded. “Still, you didn’t throw it out the window.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon listening to Kind of Blue. Miles, muted, perfect. You forget how soft he plays. It’s not about hitting the note, it’s about holding the space around it. Maybe that’s what I need to learn again.
I’ll oil the valves properly tomorrow. Maybe try one clear note and leave it at that. The rest can wait. Cádiz teaches patience. The sea never hurries, and neither should an old horn player.
