Jonny McCambridge: The recorder and funk beatbox orchestra

Within my own head, I am a great singer, with a deep and booming tenor voice not unlike a young Pavarotti.

However, those few unfortunates who have had the opportunity of hearing me sing have assured me it is not so. My voice is flat and hopelessly out of tune, I am told.

If I had less self-respect, I could be one of those contestants who briefly find infamy on ‘The X Factor’ or ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ because they are so delusional about their own vocal abilities.

I have casually tried to learn various musical instruments over the years without success. A few years back my wife bought me a ukulele on the premise that it might be easy to master; but it proved beyond me.

When I was at school our music teacher tried to put together an ensemble within our class. Some kids were given the trombone, guitar or violin to work with. I was always handed the triangle.

There is certainly an argument that my deficiencies are primarily caused by a lack of application; the theory being that if I practised harder, I would improve.

But I think this is trumped by the question of aptitude. I love to play snooker. I have played it for most of my life. I am still terrible at it. Music, I fear, would be the same.

Some people are simply born to do certain things better than others. Mozart wrote his first symphony at the age of eight. When I was several years older, I was still unable to master the tambourine.

My son has never shown much interest in music up to now. A few times we have gently suggested he might want to learn an instrument, but he never displayed any enthusiasm. I guess I imagined he had the same limitations as his daddy.

One of the advantages of this indifference is that I have previously been able to play the music I like in front of him in the car without any interference. When he was little, I could put on a Bach concerto or a Verdi aria safe in the knowledge he would nod along happily.

But things have started to change. Recently, when I turned on the radio, he screwed up his face and demanded I lower the volume.

‘Your music is terrible daddy.’

Stung, I decided to retort.

‘Well, what sort of music do you like then?’

‘I like funk.’

‘Funk! What the heck is funk?’

‘Funk is funk daddy, duh!’

I found this to be an unsatisfactory definition but decided to let it go.

A few days later he delivered another revelation when I picked him up from school.

‘I’m a beatboxer now daddy.’

‘Beatbox! What the heck is that?’

‘Beatbox is beatbox daddy, duh!’

I quickly Googled it. It seems that beatboxing is the art of using one’s own voice to imitate the sound of a drum machine. I was unsure why this was a thing. In fact, it seemed that the very invention of the drum machine should have rendered the practice redundant.

When we got home, he decided to show me. He started to make a sound.

‘Che, che, che, che, che, de, de de, de, tuh, tuh, tuh, tuh…’

I watched transfixed. In truth, if I had not known what he was doing I may have believed that he was having a seizure. However, I like to be supportive, so I applauded the effort.

And then, naturally, I decided to have a go.

‘Che, che, che, che, che, de, de de, de, tuh, tuh, tuh, tuh…’

However, I soon became frustrated by the limitations of the medium. It seemed that there was so much more a true maestro could achieve. I decided to go freeform.

‘Tuh, tuh, tuh, tuh, waca, waca, waca, oink, oink, oink, cluck, cluck, cluck, ompa, ompa, ompa.’