Dithering on a didgeridoo (From Stroud News and Journal)

Dithering on a didgeridoo

When reporter Alli Pyrah spotted an advertisement offering didjeridoo lessons in Stroud she couldn't resist having a go. She had, after all, played a mean triangle once in her school nativity play.

UP until now, I didn't even know how to spell 'didjeridoo', let alone play one.

But tonight I will be part of a small group of wannabe musicians. Our guru is 17 year-old Niks Patel, who became curious about the instrument at a festival three and a half years ago, and has been 'didjing' ever since.

Arriving at the British School on Slad Road, Stroud straight from work, it occurs to me that my red trouser suit is not the ideal attire to participate in a hippie tunefest.

Most of the group seem to have brought along a didjeridoo or two, several of which have been hand-crafted and painted by their owners.

The instruments are much bigger than I expected, varying between 4 and 7ft in length. There is not a Jesus sandal in sight and I am beginning to suspect I am in a room of undercover professionals.

Still, I am fairly confident I should be able to muster a decent drone. If you were going to put a didjeridoo into the London Philharmonic Orchestra (a performance I wouldn't mind paying to see), I suppose it would go somewhere between the woodwind and percussion sections.

I could shake a triangle as well as anybody else in the school nativity play. How hard can this be?

As I am about to discover, extremely. The 'didj' player's ultimate aim is to produce a continuous sound, by simultaneously breathing in and out.

This is done through a technique called circular breathing, which is no mean feat for a smoker of 20 a day who has been known to take a taxi to the bus stop.

"It's like bagpipes," Niks explains. "You're using your cheeks as a reservoir of air, but you can use different parts of your body including your diaphragm. The Aboriginals, you never see their mouths moving. They say it is all in the diaphragm."

Blowing with all the might of my tar-infested lungs, I produced a pathetic-sounding warble faintly reminiscent of a lamb with haemorrhoids. My didjeridoo is more of a didjeri-don't.

"Imagine that you are trying to squirt water out and just push," says Niks, and suggests I try blowing through the side of my mouth. "I find it gives me more control. But some people find they have got more space to do things if they use the front of their mouths. It is just down to the individual."

This is something I hear frequently throughout the lesson. There are many factors that contribute to a didj's drone. The shape of every instrument and the material from which it is made varies, giving each its own unique sound.

Also, one didjeridoo will not sound the same played by different people, as the shape of the mouth is a factor in producing different drones.

With more enthusiasm than style, the group starts puffing away. Feeling faintly ridiculous, I am temporarily paralysed by a nervous attack of the giggles - which I am desperately trying to channel into the mouthpiece.

My main problem is that I seem to run out of breath very fast. The didjeridoo is a gruelling instrument to master, and half an hour into the session, I feel like I have run a marathon.

However, its experimental nature appeals to me. Successful didjing, it seems, is very much a process of trial and error. After plenty of the latter, I manage to find a good 'resonance' - a multi-tonal point in the sound range.

In order to create different tones, Niks advises us to mouth a variety of sounds into the didjeridoo.

He suggests we use one of his favourite phrases, "duckie-wa-do-wa". To help us to develop our circular breathing, we are also given an exercise to do at home involving a straw and a bottle.

Without wanting to blow my own didjeridoo, by the end of the session I am producing what I am told is a fairly credible drone. I also know how to make and care for a didj, and a bit about the history of the instrument.

At the end of the session, the group asks Niks to give us a tune and we are treated to an awe-inspiring performance.

Simultaneously playing the didjeridoo and a shaky egg, he produces a something that sounds like contemporary drum and bass. I can finally see what all the huffing and puffing is about.

Didjeridoo lessons cost £50 for four two-hour sessions, and run from 6pm-8pm on Thursdays at the British School on Slad Road in Stroud.

For more details contact Niks Patel on 01453 767399 or 07946 290514.