Dan Morris: Was old pal creating musical mischief?

The departed, Eric, was the father of one of my closest friends. He’d been – and somewhere, I’m sure, still is – a lovely man, and it seemed that giving him a good send-off was the least we could do.

My pal had asked me to be a pallbearer – an honour I gladly accepted – and as I’d spent a lot of my life messing around in bands and dabbling with music, he also asked if I wouldn’t mind playing a song during the service.

This was a very special privilege, and one that carried a lot of weight. I’d only performed at a funeral once before, just over seven years ago in fact, and needless to say the pressure is a little different to that of your typical gig.

I gladly accepted my friend’s request, though for the first time in a very long time, I was nervous. Standing up in front of a crowd wasn’t the problem – I’d been doing that, guitar in hand, since I was 15. The nerves came from the fact that this really meant something to other people – friends and family members in the congregation I had never met, old friends who had come to say their farewells, and children and grandchildren of a great man who would all remember his final tribute forever.

This had better be good, Danny Boy.

The song my friend had chosen was one I’d been playing for years. It was one of my favourites, close to my heart for many reasons, and lyrically would make a wonderful tribute to a wonderful bloke. His choice was perfect.

When the morning of the funeral arrived, I washed, dressed and headed down to the church early to ensure I could set up and stow my guitar away safely, but ready for smooth deployment when the moment arrived. As I would be singing through the church mic, my set-up was simple. I only needed to tune my guitar and attach its strap.

The guitar strap I was using was particularly special to me. It had once belonged to the lead guitarist in my former band, and for years I have used it at every gig I’ve played. Black leather and replete with a single small white lightning bolt, it has always brought me luck and reminded me of good friends, bad ideas and hazy days.

Strap attached and my axe in tune, I rested it carefully out of sight, and went outside to await the arrival of the funeral party.

The service went beautifully, and after a series of poignant and emotional tributes, it was my turn. I was nervous, but confident. There were a lot of familiar faces in the church and I was looking forward to doing them, and the man we were honouring, proud.

I hooked my lucky strap over my shoulder, lightly tested my strings, and began to play. As I settled into the first verse I began to relax, my mind focussed only on the song. The acoustics of the proud medieval church were perfect, the balance couldn’t have been better, and I had the attention of everyone in the room.

As the first chorus approached, I allowed myself the lightest of smiles. everything was going to plan, and I was about to do the greatest justice I could to one of the most heartfelt refrains ever penned.

And then, snap.

My lucky lightning strap, ever faithful for so, so long, had slipped from its anchor at the base of my guitar. Instantly my instrument fell from my shoulder, and though I managed to catch it, with now only one hand free it was impossible to play. It was one of those rare moments in which time seemed to come to a standstill.

I had only two choices in front of me and my decision needed to be made in a split second or all was lost. One – stop, apologise, attempt repairs, but break the spell and lose the crowd. Or two – keep hold of the moment at all cost and let nothing de-rail the train.

I closed my eyes, breathed in deep, and without a single backing note to support my vocal, surprised everyone and launched into the chorus of the song.

A lifetime had passed in the space of a second, my heart had fallen through the floor, but I had kept the room and was recovering well from potential disaster. As I looked out over the congregation, I caught the eye of a few middle-row attendees who gave me an approving nod. I knew I had done the right thing, yet did wonder how long my improvised a cappella would continue to do justice to a song littered with instrumental brakes.

Fortunately, through what can only be described as some very unexpected dexterity, I eventually managed to one-handedly re-secure my strap, which luckily had only uncoupled rather than broken. By the time the second verse came round, I was back in full swing and managed to finish my performance to a happy round of applause.

After the service I caught up with my dad, who was also there. “I’ve never seen you lose a strap once – not one in 16 years,” he said.

I certainly couldn’t remember one letting me down before, but I had a feeling there were two good reasons why it had happened that day.

Eric, from what I knew and had been told about him, had a wicked sense of humour and always enjoyed having the last word. And in this he was far from alone. The funeral I had performed at seven years before had in fact been that of the lead guitarist from whom I had inherited ‘lucky’ lightning. Andy was an old rogue with a devilish wit, and he is still that strap’s true owner and master.

Maybe it was fate, maybe nothing more at all. But I like to think that those two lovable pirates had met at the great bar in the sky, looked down, and decided to use whatever ethereal powers they might have picked up to keep me on my toes.

Pop goes the strap – we’re still here boy.

I’d carried my performance at Andy’s funeral around with me for a long time, and it was lovely to be able to channel my memory of it into a tribute to another fantastic chap. More importantly it was nice to think that my old friend now had a new partner in crime to start some mischief with, and I’d merely been the first recipient of the carnage such a fine double-act would no doubt cause.

I still miss him, but I know he’ll be alright now.

Here’s to Andy and Eric. Stay out of trouble boys… Just not all of it.