Musicology 101
This morning, I found out a couple of interesting things, the first of which sparked the impetus for writing this week’s column.
I was midway through a bowl of oatmeal when my better two-thirds showed me an article in this month’s Milford Living magazine that centered on Milford being home to a number of unique pipe organs. The beginning of the article caught her attention with the factoid that organs were invented over two thousand years ago with no intention of being a musical instrument. Ctesibius, an engineer who lived in Alexandria, invented the organ to demonstrate the principles of hydraulics. It wasn’t until three centuries later that the device became a musical instrument. Interesting, yes? I finished my breakfast recalling my somewhat checkered past with musical instruments.
It’s funny how memory works. I have a clear memory of being a child of about nine or ten learning how to play an accordion. Frankly, the memory is limited to one instance of a lesson being given to me by a man as we sat in the living room of my family’s second floor duplex. That’s it. I don’t remember anything beyond that one memory.
Fortunately, my sister remembered a little more than I. She believes I would have been ten and that not only did I take lessons, but I did so for about a year and practiced fairly diligently. How I wish I could learn why I stopped, although I might be grateful for doing so. My musical interests didn’t involve polka tunes and there weren’t many (if any) Rock ‘n’ Roll bands in the early 1960s that featured an accordion. It’s not unlikely that I would have ceased playing the instrument because of peer pressure and hormones. (Honestly, a somewhat introverted teenaged boy playing the accordion in the 1960s wasn’t about to direct female interest away from the guitar players and drummers.)
Learning the guitar, however, wasn’t in my future—at least not in my immediate future. My mother played the piano and bought one around the time I was ending my accordion career. When I expressed interest in learning guitar I was told to study the piano, an instrument that didn’t interest me either. It wasn’t that I disliked the piano; I wanted to learn the guitar which was a much more easily transportable instrument and, in my eyes, way cooler.
I began lessons with the understanding that if I took lessons for a year I could switch to guitar. For those of you who don’t know, this was not a plan that carried the promise of success. I’m not sure it would be a good plan in general; as I remember thinking that I only had to put up with piano lessons for a year and then could forget the instrument forever. Of course, I am certain my mother was on the mind that long before the year’s end I would have the passion of Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, and Dvořák. (Maybe if Mom had been a fan of Little Richard or Jerry Lee Lewis …)
The teacher Mom found for me wasn’t a great fit, either. She was, in my eyes, ancient (to me, anyway). Probably in her mid –sixties although she looked younger—about ten minutes younger, she exuded halitosis and wore a perfume that would cause birds to fall from the sky. Her long hair was always in a bun, ostensibly to hide the horns. Kali, as I came to think of her, was practiced in the dark arts, and I believed at the time she was thrown out of Hades management for being an overachiever. One thing I recall that I will carry to my grave is that she had a near-pathological passion for CPE Bach’s Solfeggietto in C minor which, ironically, to this day I can still tap out the first few opening notes. I also wasn’t too fond of the ruler she used to “gently tap” (her words, not mine) my knuckles.
This didn’t last a year. I wanted to play contemporary music, not classical, and being told “I teach real music” was not the way to win me over. Piano lessons ended as did my interest in learning how to play one. I did, however, try the guitar several years later but, again, the teacher and I weren’t a great fit, and I was old enough that other interests dominated my time. This teacher believed the best way to learn guitar was for me to work on children’s songs, which held less interest for me than CPE Bach (I was sixteen or seventeen; go figure). At least he didn’t have a ruler.
It pleases me that both of my sons learned to play instruments. They both play guitar and one plays saxophone (or did—I imagine working full time, sharing household responsibilities with his wife, and caring for our two granddaughters has led him away from his saxophone). My younger son learned guitar from the kind of teacher I wish I’d have had. This teacher’s approach is to greet new students with “What do you want to learn to play?” and focusing on their interests. I am friendly with several professional musicians who tell me that, too, is their approach to teaching.
I wish I could sing, but have been instructed not to. In a few states, laws have been passed to keep me from singing; I have been known to make cats cry. A couple of voice teachers have told me that “anyone can be taught to sing.” Many years ago one insisted I try so she could teach me a couple of things that would prove her point. Five minutes later her eyes had glazed over and she confessed there had to be exceptions to every rule. She’s a lovely person, though, and every year I always remember to send a birthday card to her at the asylum where she’s lived since shortly after meeting me.
At the beginning of this column, I mentioned there were two interesting things I found out today. The second one was on the top of my dresser, underneath a small notebook—my old harmonica. I’d forgotten I still had it and immediately showed it to my missus and said I thought it might be fun to learn to play it again. I know I have a book somewhere with a nice selection of popular songs from the ‘60s and ‘70s. If only I could find it. My better two-thirds said she’d help me look for it later, but right now she’s busy. I don’t know what she’s doing as I write this column, but she’s outside and I smell something burning. Probably my neighbor is using his fireplace.
This week’s Street Advertising Smile:
