Uncle Dave

IMG_4939Dave Henderson, my uncle, was a legend. No other word for it.

To me, growing up, he was this larger-than-life superhero figure, like Jacques Cousteau or James Bond. I even thought the guy in the Milk Tray ads that were out at the time had a slight air of Uncle Dave about him. There was just no-one else in my life who even remotely resembled him. And though the mystery that surrounded him gradually diminished the more I got to know him, my respect and admiration for him never did.

He passed away recently, at the legendary age of 80. I thought he’d live to a hundred. I remember him as a singularly athletic man. He was lean and wiry with the sort of relaxed physicality and poised energy that came from years of military discipline, someone used to being ‘at ease’. I remember playing in my Nana’s garden with Dave and all the cousins. A ball got bounced into the busy main road and Dave, to our astonishment, leapt over the hedge in a single bound to rescue it. It was only a hedge, but for us it was like he’d jumped over a tree.

Mum and Dave
Dave walking my mum into church on her wedding day.

He lived quite far from us, so we saw him only occasionally. My mum, Dave’s wee sister, told us he had settled in the south of England to get as far from their mother as it was possible to be while still living in the same country.

I don’t know how true that was but Annie, our beloved Nana, was a strong-willed woman with high expectations of her children. Dave, coming of age in the late fifties, early sixties and possessed of a will every bit as strong as his mother’s, had a fresh set of inclinations and modern ambitions that were in fierce opposition to the stern Catholic mores of his elders.

They clashed frequently and, as soon as he could, Dave took flight. Literally. His ticket out of Glasgow was the RAF. He joined the military band and travelled the world, eventually settling in Portsmouth where he trained as a telecommunications engineer and married his sweetheart, my wonderful Aunt Jan.

I only ever heard about Dave’s early conflicts with Annie in a roundabout way, alluded to in passing and quickly glossed. Sometimes you picked it up in a roll of Dave’s eyes when she was mentioned. My mother occasionally hinted at Annie’s strict and demanding nature, but never went into any detail. Age had evidently mellowed her – Nana was nice as ninepence to my brother and I and all our cousins, to the point of spoiling us. Annie was as sharp as a tack and possessed a wicked sense of humour. Brilliant at cards. An amazing wordsmith. She could be cunning but never malicious, and a wiser, more generous, more loving person I have never known.

IMG_4948
Annie, Dave, Jan and Thomas

Dave featured large in the tales that Annie and Auntie Maxie used to tell about the two sides of the family, the Hendersons and McArthurs. They loved to conjure the world they grew up in over endless pots of tea and rounds of toast in front of the ‘living flame’ gas fire in their living room. It was a beautiful little cosmos, lively with characters who all seemed to be called Tim and John and Martin. It was in their telling that Dave became this mythical hero of lore. A legend. An actual legend. And the fact that we saw him so seldom allowed the legend to grow.

We heard about the time Dave performed in the Edinburgh Military Tattoo. They described how Dave marched out with the RAF band onto the Edinburgh Castle Esplanade and, without missing a beat or breaking stride, waved up directly at them. It seemed so improbable to them that he should be able to pick them out in such a big crowd, but to hear Dave tell the story years later, Annie and Maxie wrapped up against the dimming northern night in their tartan blankets and rain-mates cut rather a conspicuous figure amongst the tourists.

There was Dave the deep-sea diver. He’d got into scuba during his years in Singapore and the far east. When he returned to civvy street and was living on the south coast of England, he was part of the dive team that did some of the reconnaissance work on Henry VIII’s sunken warship, the Mary Rose, before it was raised from its 450 year old bed in the Solent. Apparently, Dave’s local scuba club knew all about the wreck of the Mary Rose and had been diving it for years before there was talk of raising it. We watched him being interviewed on the news one day in his wet suit and diving gear. Legend status assured.

He and Jan lived for a while in the tiny town of Selsey, stuck on the tip of England that pokes into the Channel known as the Manhood Peninsula. Television’s Patrick Moore was their starry neighbour. My only memory is of a house filled with mysterious artefacts – strange looking shells, bells, ship’s wheels and assorted treasures from the deep, many of which he’d personally recovered. Their house was the first time I’d ever seen tropical fish and I’d stand at the massive tank, soothed by the sound of bubbles and mesmerised by the darting neon tetras and the languid swooshing angel fish.

There was Dave the jazzer. Nana had an album filled with fabulous photos of Dave from his military days, pictured in various far-flung locales. He played alto sax in the RAF dance band who had a regular gig at a hotel out in Singapore. He also had a jazz combo that jammed after hours in a kind of West Coast cool/ Paul Desmond/ Dave Brubeck vibe. Dave’s instrument was a super-stylish white plastic Grafton alto sax – one of the classic saxophone makes of the 50s, made famous by the likes of Ornette Coleman, Charlie Parker and Johnny Dankworth. In one of the photos, there’s Dave and his band with Buddy Rich – one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time. He was on tour, passing through, and came to sit in on one of Dave’s jams. Absolutely legendary.

No surprise, then, that I became a sax player. After my very first school music class at high school, I impressed my teacher enough for him to offer me an instrument to learn at home. I chose the trumpet. I came home excitedly that night and showed it to my mum. She didn’t much like the idea of an apprentice trumpeter in the house and I was sent back with it the next day with the explicit instruction to ask for something quieter, a “nice gentle instrument” like a flute or a clarinet “like your Uncle Dave plays”.

That clarinet took me into the military too, years later, as a bandsman in the 51st Highland Volunteers (the Black Watch Territorial Army band, based in Perth – which is a whole other story). I played first clarinet there for five years and the money I made allowed me to travel extensively throughout Europe in my early 20s and even paid for my first saxophone. I didn’t quite get to see the world with the TA, but it took me to some interesting places with some weird people and the music was never less than glorious.

I loved how musical Dave was. My Dad and I went down to Portsmouth to visit him and Aunt Jan. It was not long after his younger brother, my uncle Tom, had passed away, and the same year my daughter was born. During our stay, Dave took me up to his music room in the attic. He’d long since parted company with that gorgeous Grafton alto, but there was his clarinet which still sounded silky warm and woody, even in my unpractised hands. And there was the old diatonic button accordion that had belonged to his father, Hugh, my grandfather. There was a banjo ukelele that he’d had since he was a boy, given to him by an old aunt. And there was his newest addition – an electric guitar. At the age of 74 he had decided to learn and was teaching himself with YouTube and a Tune-a-Day book. He was just inspirational.

We didn’t keep in touch so well between visits. A few emails now and again, but I found it hard to sustain any kind of correspondence. Dave was always much better at that sort of thing. For years he phoned Annie every Friday to check in, swap stories, exchange news. And he continued this tradition with Maxie long after Annie died, calling her every week at the appointed hour until she too passed away.

Dave was a warm, wise and gentle soul with a streak of shining steel. He had a quick and ready laugh and a big, generous smile that began at the corners of his eyes and radiated out. He listened eagerly and with compassion. He was always interested in you, and in what you had to say. He loved sharing stories of the old days, about the Hendersons and the McArthurs and preferred to tell those rather than recount his own adventures. He knew all the old songs that his aunts and uncles used to sing at Hogmanay.

Dave reminded me of my Nana a lot. And apparently I reminded people of him. Auntie Maxie used to call me by his name. I looked nothing like him and thought the whole thing was nonsense but I guess people who knew us both recognised our kindred spirits.

One of my lasting regrets is that we never went on a bike ride together. Dave was a die-hard roadie, out doing time trials every weekend well into his 60s. My kind of cycling has, for the most part, been of the functional, get-around-town sort. I’d done a few cycle tours in Europe and completed the Land’s End to John o’Groats, but I only got into proper road cycling in my late thirties, by which time Dave was getting ready to hang up his bib shorts. I knew he and his club buddies went over to Normandy ever year for a long weekend – the Tour d’Honfleur, I think they called it – and I asked if I could tag along one year but I was politely rebuffed on the grounds of general infirmity and dwinding health among the group, not least Dave who was then struggling with various heart complications.

Kite flight
Dave teaching me how to fly a kite. Portsmouth 1980.

I did, however, get to play music with Dave. That afternoon in his music room, Dave took his guitar and started to play. I took out the clarinet and we sat and jammed together, gently, quietly. The first and only time we ever did. No Buddy Rich. No Brubeck. No legend to print. Just two kindred souls, conjuring notes in air, finding not just the joy in music, but the deeper joy of making our own.

Dave Henderson was a legend of the best kind, someone who lived his life truly and well. He was a brilliant, soulful human being with a knack for the new and a talent for excellence. He had a restless, questing mind and an unquenchable sense of adventure.

He was many things to many people, as the best of us often are, and we shall miss him dearly.

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Ana fil houb

أنا في الحب
By Lili Boniche

Lili BonicheThe song begins with a long plaintive violin solo over tremolo piano. It could be something from the Warsaw ghetto, the Russian steppe, something like Loyko, maybe? – somewhere familiar to the central Europe folk tradition. The violin solo ends with a flourish in the piano. The clarinet takes over, unaccompanied, with a low trill. We’re still in the same middle European territory, but darker maybe. Breathy and woody, it feels like centuries of sadness and yearning have found their expression here. The piano returns and a syncopating triple rhythm (a malaguena?) in the pizzicato violin jolts you onto the dancefloor of a rundown old cabaret, maybe, in flamenco heels, with your partner now, just beyond your reach. The piano and the violin are adversaries, toying with time, like dancers acting out a tragic love story. After a short, brilliant cadenza played by the pianist, now with a rose clenched between his teeth and thrown to the ground in a fit of pique, everything slows to a heartbeat, and introduces the first we hear of the singer, Lili. He delivers a long one-breath vocalise – a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, a heart spiked by a discarded rose, a lost gypsy soul. He is joined in his cry by the violin, which darkly, almost seductively, lurks around and behind the voice as it spins around and around, the soul and its shadow, a dazzling romantic duet. And as the band kicks in with a swaggering paso doble run-through of the melody, Lili returns, at last, with the line: Ana fil houb. I’m in love.

There’s no way my description can do justice either to the song and the musicianship that realise it so perfectly, or to the impact that it had on me when I first heard it. It was visceral and immediate. It was sung in Arabic, but I got the picture. This was the story of a heartbreak of tragic proportions, of louche late-night emotions given free reign, a wandering soul lost among the centuries and the continents. It was a song that seemed to celebrate melancholy, to revel in sorrow. It gave voice – beautifully, agonisingly – to the best and the worst that our heart is capable of.

Whatever I was doing when that song came on, it had to stop in order that as much of what was happening in the vibrating air around my head could be communicated via the clumsy apparatus of brain and ears, directly to my core.

It was the height of summer 2003 and my then girlfriend C- and I were in a seafront cafe/ restaurant in Dahab, a ramshackle resort in Sinai on the Gulf of Aqaba in the Red Sea. We had come via Cairo for a fortnight’s scuba diving. One of C-‘s dive buddies from her advanced scuba course, who was also staying at the same hotel as us, was there. They were talking about diving, I guess.

I had nothing much to offer the conversation. I had enrolled in a beginners’ scuba course and found out on the first day that being underwater wearing all that weird gear really wasn’t for me. It meant that I could tune out the chat, and absorb more of what was going on around us.

I’d been to Dahab before, nearly ten years before, with my Swiss-Lebanese girlfriend Ch- at the end of our time at Regavim. We stayed for a week in a concrete chalet and I contracted food poisoning from some dodgy sahlab. She spoke Arabic as one of her three native languages, which proved useful on occasion. Dahab is a Bedouin village that was “discovered” by Israeli soldiers when Sinai was occupied by Israel in the 1960s. Since then, it has been a place for hippies, backpackers, divers (and dodgers) who want to avoid (or can’t afford) the charms of Sharm el Sheikh further down the coast. It was interesting to note the changes all these years later – more businesses, more name hotels, more money, and a proliferation of scuba diving schools – and to try and see past that to what remained of the old place. God knows what it’s like now.

My first diving lesson was a day’s worth of obligatory safety chat, video watching and pally reassurances from a pair of complacent New Zealander girls and instruction from a serious looking Arab guy. I hated it all from the get-go, but I was keen to disperse my initial skepticism and give it a good try. I liked the sound of scuba diving. My uncle Dave was a brilliant diver in his day and I looked up to him enormously. I also wanted it to be a thing that C- and I did together.

But the reality was too much to bear. One of the exercises they make you do early on, to test your suitabilty for scuba, is a buoyancy test. You go out into fairly deep water and lie back and ‘just float’ for 30 seconds. But as soon as any water got into my mouth, eyes, nose or ears, I flinched and panicked and sank, sending a spray of water over everyone. I tried again. Same thing. I tried again. Same thing. I was getting flustered. The New Zealanders were getting impatient. “It’s easy. Just relax. It’s easy if you just relax.” I tried again. I couldn’t do it. And I knew they hated me for it.

We decided to come back to the buoyancy later so that we could get on with the essential business of using the scuba gear. The whole experience of being underwater with a pipe in your mouth and a bunch of stuff strapped to your back to keep you alive is not a natural one. For those who do it, I guess, it’s a means to an end, a bit like putting on the seatbelt in a car before you go for a drive, or clipping in to a pair of pedals before you go for a bike ride. I felt millimeters from death at all times. It was terrifying and claustrophobic, like being buried alive, like my lungs were about to become flooded with water at any moment. My lungs and brain and eyes couldn’t work together to convince each other that I wasn’t about to die right now.

Then, just when you’ve started to get used to the life-saving genius of the scuba gear, they make you take the whole thing off and put it back on again under water, while sharing someone else’s air pipe.

Scuba has developed its own primitive sign language so that you can communicate with your buddies. Giving and receiving thumbs ups is pretty constant, particularly in these early, fraught stages where anything can go wrong and the more experienced divers need to know that you’re ok and not about to drown. I managed eventually to unclip and unshackle the oxygen tanks from my back, I think, and at each stage the instructor was giving me the thumbs up with a questioning look, and I was returning it – but with a kind of white-eyed terror that only deepened with every thumbs up lie I signalled in return.

After that, to my relief, we went snorkelling, which I liked a lot. I liked the flippers – sorry, fins – that seem to propel you effortlessly through the water, and I loved being able to see the world under the waves. But that was real air I was breathing through that wee tube, not some bottled, Matrixy virtual air, and I could poke my head up from the sea surface and feel like I was back in my own world again. No apparatus, no clips and belts, no tanks of oxygen, no pipe down my throat.

When we got back to the base, I secretly left the decision on whether to return and finish the course to my subconscious. If I had bad dreams that night, I would listen to them and act accordingly. On the other hand, if I slept soundly, then I’d get over my bullshit pansy-ass flenchy-flinchy flip-flopping and get with the fucking programme.

Well that night, I dreamed the terrors of the deep and woke sobbing. I went back to the scuba centre the next morning, who were pretty good about giving me my money back, fortunately, bid goodbye to C- as she hooked up with her advanced diving pals, then went to go and lie out like a mad dog somewhere in the heat of the midday sun getting sunstroke while reading The Lovely Bones.

When the song came on in that restaurant, I was utterly lost to it, possessed by it. As soon as it finished I asked the waiter in the restaurant to find out what it was. He didn’t know. The best he could do was to tell me he thought it was from a compilation called Buddha Bar, which I bought from one of the many counterfeit CD shops in town as soon as they opened the next day.

The rest of the stuff I heard that evening was forgettable. A sort of clubby, loungey update on the easy listening exotica of the 1960s that brought the likes of Edumdo Ros and Mantovani to worldwide prominence. I have no idea what a Buddha Bar is, if it’s a franchise, a venue, a state of mind, nor do I have any idea about the identity of Claude Challe, who lends his name to the enterprise, or what the whole shebang has to do with Buddhism. But it brought Lili Boniche into my life, and for that I will always be grateful.

None of this backstory lends any credit or insight into the song, of course, but listening back to it, I am transported once more. I can still see the faded cabaret, the empty dancefloor, the discarded rose and the louche lost lover, singing his soul back to health with an eternity of longing and centuries of musical lore to draw upon for strength and inspiration.

I bought the original album from which the song is taken as soon as I could get to an internet-enabled computer with my Amazon account details. Trésors De La Chanson JudéoArabe. The title made a lot of sense of the music. Lili Boniche was still alive then; he died some five years later, in 2008. Before he did, he recorded an album with Bill Laswell called Boniche Dub, which you can hear here.

Ana fil houb. I listened obsessively to that song for months as I travelled back and forward to Edinburgh, working on a very iffy freelance contract, the fabric of my relationship with C- disintegrating by slow degrees, day by day, less in love.

Ana fil houb always took me to a magical place, where heartache and sorrow and loss are transformed into inner landscapes of untouchable beauty, where sad feelings fit like old clothes, and where language of any kind is inadequate. Only gesture, melody, rhythm, timbre, tone hold any sway.

Ana fil houb. I learned the meaning of the phrase exactly two years later, the summer I finally fell out of love with C-. I took a trip across Canada and met up with Ch- in her adopted Montreal. I played it to her on the car stereo as she drove round showing me the parts of the city she loved best and I longed, as I always did, to know what it felt to be the singer of that song.