The day the music died

One of the gifts my parents gave me, over my dead body at times, was music lessons. I learned to play the piano over a period of several years, under two piano teachers.

The first was a taskmaster: a well-known boys and men's choir director at a church in Toronto. He was born of English parents in India, and had the classic British public school education. (Note to Americans: "public" meant private school in British English). It showed.

Since the major component of any British education is discipline, Mr. L. invoked fear and shame as the two major learning motivators. On someone who was in his late childhood, this approach had a profound effect that has lingered for years. My failure to practice diligently was detected at almost every lesson. No excuse served.

I believe it was this approach that caused me to perform miserably at his annual concert in the church hall, in front of parents and peers. I took my place on the stage at the piano, and after fiddling with the knobs on the piano seat, and placing my trembling hands on the keys, commenced Beethoven's "Für Elise", a tender love ballad.

I suddenly realized that I had no idea what key I was playing in. I soldiered on, and got off the stage as quickly as possible, vowing never EVER to play in one of those concerts again. I am certain Beethoven never heard his opus rendered as quickly in a transposed key in his lifetime.

Shortly thereafter, my parents persuaded me to resume lessons from a local woman whose manner was much more compassionate. Still, the damage was done. I suddenly lost my ability to sight read (i.e. play while reading notation from music that was totally new to me). I became terrified of keys with more than one sharp or flat. And thus did my formal musical education end just prior to the Grade 7 Piano level examinations.

Nevertheless, none of this deeply horrific psychological scarring dimmed my love for classical music. During my rebellious years (the teens through the late twenties, I believe they were), I wavered between long periods of listening to country music and jazz and rock 'n' roll, but I would always come back to Bach and the baroque.

High school found me at (what else) a boy's private school, which had a compulsory cadet corps. As I was terrified of guns and had never known war, I hated this whole experience, especially the prickly woolen uniform. I turned to music as a way of reducing the angst. I played clarinet and later, bass clarinet, in the cadet corps band.

I seem to recall that I was wearing orthodontic appliances with hooks and rubber bands during this period, a factor that deterred me from attempting my real interest, the trumpet. At least the clarinet did not lacerate the lips, although the upper band did tend to restrict the circulation in the upper lip while attempting to create a good seal over the mouthpiece. Still, in the best traditions of British education, I stiffened the upper lip and learned to love the "licorice stick".

I did, of course, have my moments of shame in the band. One night as we were marching down the hall toward the auditorium, I was carrying the bass clarinet. I would be the featured soloist in Ferde Grofe's Grand Canyon Suite, in particular the bit where the burro trundles the tourist down the narrow trail. What I didn't notice was that the pad had fallen out of the key cover at the low end of the clarinet. So that night, the burro trotted confidently "On the Trail", but as he neared the base of the cliff, he bellowed a very convincing "Hee Haw!!", and was rewarded by a flushed face on not only his rider, but also on that of the conductor of the tour.

I was, I surmised, meant not to perform, but rather to appreciate the artistry of those who do. And so, tonight, I'm tuned in to "Otto's Baroque" on 1.FM.

Join me, won't you?