It’s been well over 30 years since I first reached into a school crate and pulled out a plastic descant recorder, and yet I can still remember the visceral thrill I got from coaxing birdlike sounds with my fingers and mouth. I was a shy five-year-old – I hadn’t started speaking until I was two – and although it might seem corny to suggest that this eight-holed baton acted as some kind of magical wand for my confidence, I don’t think that my trills and toots are wholly unrelated. They gave me a voice.
Like most of us, I was introduced to the recorder during rowdy group classes at my state-funded primary school. But unlike most of us, I chose to keep playing it well into my 20s, swapping my plastic descant for a larger wooden treble in order to tackle the baroque melodies of Telemann (with a hit-or-miss approach). There was something about its sensitivity to touch and breath that hooked me: a tender and earthy warble (if played well) v a squealing and screeching racket (if played badly).
