A string quartet has sprung up virtually out of nowhere. It has caught several of the residents in the vicinity on the wrong foot. This ensemble has not come armed with two violins, viola and cello. It isn’t playing compositions from Bach or Mendelssohn. It has, instead, arrived with guitars, drums and powerful amps and a lead singer who, I suspect, (if this all doesn’t end very swiftly) is soon going to re-energise the subdued vocal efforts of Parthiv, my Gujarati-born neighbour on the left-hand side.
One minute there was total silence in our building and the pretty houses around; then the roof went up, almost literally — a witness to the detonating power of the decibel. Mr. Vittore, who was raised on soft dreamy songs by Perry Como (And I love you so), Dean Martin (Volare) and Elvis Presley (Wooden Heart) emerged when it was safe with his whiskers twitching — which is about as far as Vittore is likely to go in displaying a sense of rebellion and outrage. He is one of the oldest residents in the neighbourhood. People still address him by the honorific “Mr” and he in turn insists on returning the respect.
“Something must be done,” he bristled, “or we are in for some disturbing times.”
“What can we do, eh? It’s the way of the world,” shrugged Parthiv, nonchalantly.
Parthiv, for readers who haven’t been following his story, is a young man who, despite his love for singing, cannot deliver a note even if his life was held to ransom. And if he had lived in that bygone century when his life depended on it, he would have been led to the guillotine. That is my unbiased opinion
“Do you call this noise music?” Mr Vittore enquired.
“It will keep us all hopping about happily. Hip hop,” said Parthiv, in conciliatory tones.
I can venture this prediction as well: If Parthiv nurses ambitions of pursuing a career in diplomacy he has a long way to go, for tact doesn’t appear to be his forte.
“Hopping mad is what it will be making me,” was Mr Vittore’s retort.
When the song ended, everybody else suddenly discovered they had been shouting too, in order to be heard over the sound. The break didn’t last long, but there was sufficient interval for Mr Vittore to say he was going to call the cops. He marched back to his picturesque little house, with its manicured square of grass and a rectangular bed wherein reposes his pride: Three rose bushes in full bloom — two dazzlingly crimson the other, the middle bush, as if to offset the redness, a shade of butter yellow.
Ten minutes later, a police car drew up. A full quarter hour ensued, during which I got the humorous notion that the band was auditioning for the officers, so the law could determine whether they ought to bring their music to a halt or whether it was to be deemed safe and not destructive to the eardrums.
Anyway, after 15 minutes, the foursome and their equipment were escorted off the premises. Silence reigned.
“I thought Australia was a democratic country,” grumbled Parthiv, shortly after he had shaken Mr Vittore’s hand in a gesture that seemed to say he was grateful somebody had shown initiative in bringing peace back to the area. “I was enjoying their sound,” he said to me, after Mr Vittore had left, “Weren’t you? Kids are going to be kids. We should let them enjoy. They are only going to be young once. If everybody is forced to stop doing what they like best this is going to be a very boring life.”
That’s exactly what gave me the clue that Parthiv is not happy about having had his own singing ambition thwarted. It has filled me with greater fear than the sounds of the presently-departed quartet. There’s a time for keeping the fingers firmly crossed.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
