Monkey-grinder

Every parent of the Cream era sincerely believed that their kid had it in them to become the next Yehudi Menuhin, Herb Alpert or Jose Feliciano (although the generally foreign disposition of such virtuosos implies that their next protege is unlikely to hail from Daventry). Those with the financial wherewithall could pack off little Thomas or Yvonne to classes in order that any musical aptitude might flourish under intensive tuition. Those without might invest in a tin drum, a plastic-stringed guitar or a toy piano and blindly hope that junior exhibited some fruit of genius hitherto overlooked in the branches of the family tree.

Hence the Bontempi organ (the company name translates as “good times” in the Latin mother tongue - Justin Lee Collins take note), onomatopoeic, plinky-plonky descendent of that grown-ups’ fully-featured, cocktails-and-fondue-party centrepiece. (Although we’re probably being over-generous - any classic ’70s home organ was inevitably only purchased by a bachelor eager to impress the birds with a bit of single-finger-chord action back at his lonely, Cointreau-on-the-rocks, Black Magic pad. Dim the lights, tootle through Red River Rock with those square-wave reeds and the next sound would be knickers hitting the floor - guaranteed.) Where the adults-only version was a mahogany-honed, faux-ivory and plastic part of the furniture, the baby Bontempis came in a curious mixture of beige and orange.

Ostensibly all wind-powered (the smallest of the range was actually marketed under the name “mouth piano”, for blowing into), each organ contained an electric compressor which would wheeze into action on start-up and effectively drown out any budding Billy Joel’s aspirations of musical prowess. Far from being environmentally friendly, the later electronic versions had circuit boards which would overheat and spew out plumes of toxic solvents, whereas the early “analogue” organs contributed significantly in terms of noise pollution.

On board, the two-octave keyboard was enhanced with additional “instant chord” buttons for pig-shit thick cheats. Hence, it was possible to pick up complex compositions like Here Comes The Bride in double quick time (each tune was diligently transcribed for “melody” and “chord” accompaniment in one of the many Bontempi books; Preludio, Golden Melodies, Sing-a-long, Folkfest or Christmas Time).

No matter, though, as the instruments showed little favour to talent and absolutely no mercy to the audience. Like the death throes of an asthmatic camel, floating on a burning funeral pyre across the rolling mists of the Mull Of Kintyre, ghost piper and all, a Bontempi tune - once heard - was never to be forgotten.