My wife Elizabeth and I started The Really Terrible Orchestra for

Host: The hall was small, drafty, and full of charm. Rows of mismatched chairs, an assortment of music stands, and a cluster of instruments that looked like they’d seen better decades. The sound — if you could call it that — was a curious mix of enthusiasm, chaos, and pure unfiltered joy. Violins screeched, flutes wheezed, cellos groaned under hands that loved more than they mastered.

Outside, the rain tapped lightly against the windows, but inside, laughter filled the space between wrong notes. There was no audience tonight — only players, dreamers, and the sacred comedy of imperfection.

Jack sat in the back row, clutching a trumpet like a lifeline, while Jeeny, violin in hand, stood at the front near a battered podium that pretended to be a conductor’s stand. Her hair was loosely tied, her eyes alive with mischief and courage — the energy of someone who believes that doing badly, joyfully, is better than never trying at all.

Jeeny: “Alexander McCall Smith once said, ‘My wife Elizabeth and I started The Really Terrible Orchestra for people like us who are pretty hopeless musicians who would like to play in an orchestra. It has been a great success. We give performances; we’ve become the most famous bad orchestra in the world.’”

Host: Jack grinned, already knowing where this was going.

Jack: “So, the secret to success is to be terrible — but publicly.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And to enjoy it so much that everyone else forgets you’re out of tune.”

Jack: “You think that’s bravery or madness?”

Jeeny: “Both. But all art starts that way. Bravery pretending not to be madness.”

Host: The lights in the hall flickered slightly, a few bulbs humming against the ceiling like small, patient witnesses. Jeeny raised her violin and began to tune. The sound was — generous.

Jack winced.

Jack: “You call that tuning?”

Jeeny: smiling “I call it optimism.”

Jack: “Optimism sounds flat.”

Jeeny: “Then play sharper.”

Host: Laughter echoed through the room — the kind that fills the heart before it reaches the mouth. Around them, others were warming up, or trying to: a trombone blurted out a sound that startled even itself; someone’s clarinet let out what could only be described as an existential sigh.

Jeeny lowered her bow and looked at Jack.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It celebrates failure not as shame, but as community. Everyone here is gloriously bad — and that’s exactly the point.”

Jack: “You mean mediocrity with purpose?”

Jeeny: “No. Joy without apology.”

Host: The conductor — an older man with hair like static electricity — raised his baton, and instantly, the chaos softened. There was anticipation, a shared breath, the kind of silence that exists before courage begins.

Jack: quietly “You really think it’s enough — being bad and happy about it?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Because perfection is boring. It ends the story. Mistakes keep the music alive.”

Jack: “That’s comforting coming from someone who just tuned her violin to the key of regret.”

Jeeny: laughing “And yet, here we are — still playing.”

Host: The baton came down. The orchestra erupted into sound — wild, uneven, heroic. It was like watching sincerity try to dance in boots too big. Notes missed, bows collided, rhythms stumbled — but no one stopped. The sheer will of it turned chaos into something strangely beautiful.

Jack’s trumpet came in half a beat too late, too loud, and entirely wrong — but it made Jeeny laugh mid-bow, and that laughter was worth more than the right note ever could be.

When the piece ended, applause broke out — not from an audience, but from the players themselves. A round of clapping, cheering, and a few exaggerated bows.

Jeeny wiped a tear from her eye — laughter’s kind, not sorrow’s.

Jeeny: “See? That’s the point. We sound awful, but we sound together. There’s more soul in these wrong notes than in a thousand perfect performances.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re trying to turn incompetence into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying art isn’t about precision, Jack. It’s about participation. About having the courage to look foolish in the pursuit of joy.”

Jack: “And here I thought courage was storming battlefields.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s just showing up with your trumpet.”

Host: The rain outside began to drum a little harder, as if keeping time with the leftover rhythm still bouncing through the hall.

Jack: “You know, I used to think talent was what mattered most. The ability to do something better than others.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s about doing something you love enough to not care who’s watching.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. That’s what makes the Really Terrible Orchestra brilliant — it’s not really about being bad at music. It’s about being good at joy.”

Host: The conductor tapped the podium again. “One more piece!” he announced. Groans and laughter followed. Someone shouted, “God help us!” Someone else: “He already tried!”

Jeeny raised her bow again, glancing at Jack.

Jeeny: “Ready?”

Jack: grinning “As I’ll ever be.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s make the most beautiful mess we can.”

Host: The baton fell. The sound rose — bold, terrible, wonderful. There was no polish, no perfection, no fear. Only people — breathing, laughing, playing.

Outside, the rain softened again, and through the windows, the streetlights glowed like quiet applause.

As the final note — or something close to it — rang out, Jeeny lowered her bow and turned to Jack.

Jeeny: “You know, I think the world needs more bad orchestras.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because they remind us that beauty isn’t something you earn. It’s something you make, even when you can’t make it well.”

Host: The camera drifted back, catching the sight of that strange, joyous orchestra — an army of imperfection united by laughter and sound.

And through the hum of tuning and chatter, Alexander McCall Smith’s words shimmered like the last note of a good-hearted song:

That success doesn’t always come from mastery —
sometimes it comes from mischief.

That the most beautiful performances
are born not of perfection,
but of participation.

And that the world,
so hungry for excellence,
still aches for the tender, fearless sound
of people who play —
not to impress,
but simply to belong.