“It’s Music to my Ears
By
Gerry Niskern
Has your child brought home the note yet? If he didn’t, get ready, he will shortly.
I’m referring to the notice that invites him to learn to play a musical instrument at school. Actually, research has proven that studying music increases test scores, self-esteem and retention of information.
Most boys opt to try their hand at the brass instruments or drums. If you’ve had a child in that category, I needn’t say more.
One smart fellow I know recalls that music lessons were mandatory at his grade school. He chose the tuba only because he wouldn’t have to carry an instrument back and forth. The school kept one and sent one home to use for practice.
I was in sixth grade when I brought home the notice and begged for a clarinet. The music stores didn’t rent instruments back then; parents had to buy them. My used clarinet was metal and cost twenty-five dollars which was real chunk out of dad’s pay check.
The only city music teacher covered the eight Phoenix elementary schools weekly. The poor lady traveled by streetcar and bus between schools.
Probably because to my lack of talent and progress, the public school teacher suggested private lessons also. Every Saturday, I took the Capitol streetcar, and then transferred to the North Central bus to my two-dollar lessons. After the private instructor heard my silver beauty he offered my mother a used woodwind clarinet that was guaranteed to have fewer squeaks. She paid off the difference over time. .
When both instructors asked me after each lesson if I had practiced an hour every day, I did what any red-blooded American kid would have done, I lied. Each week, after my session, my neighborhood friend Tammy Jo arrived in her grandpa’s Cadillac for a double lesson. Believe me, she practiced. I was only allowed to be in the orchestra for our spring recital. Tammy Jo, on the other hand, had a solo.
I went on to play in the Girl’s Band at Phoenix Union High School. Our uniforms were knee length white dresses, trimmed in red. I soon learned that band involved a lot of marching down Central Avenue in the Rodeo Parade.
Since then, I’ve taken my hat off to anyone who performs in his or her school band in a parade. That’s hard work!
I didn’t sign up for Band the next year. I don’t know what happened to that old black “Liquorices Stick”, but more importantly, I had been allowed to try my hand at music.
So your excited musical wannabe brings home the note, give it a thumbs up. Who knows? They may become a skillful musician or soon realize it’s not their forte’. Either way, they will be exposed to the world of music and will genuinely appreciate musicians the rest of their lives.
Guess the public music teacher couldn’t make it to Creighton, no streetcar or public bus service so I escaped that fate.
I can picture her still after all these years…..I remember I felt sorry for her and I was just a dumb kid!
My son got the note in the 5th grade at his school in the Bay Area. He so wanted to play the drums, having kept time to any music he heard from babyhood in his high chair, through toddler years with Tupperware and wooden spoons, to driving his teachers crazy by even keeping time to songs in the classroom or music in an educational film.
The band teacher said there were already too many boys wanting to play the drums and there were no other vacancies either for the school’s comedian.
So I signed him up for private lessons at a local music shop. Unfortunately, the instructor missed more lessons than he gave. Soon my son and I moved back to Arizona.
Here we found a drum teacher through Ziggy’s on 3rd Street, just south of Osborn. The young man held the lessons at his house, and soon told us that Alex not only had the desire to be a percussionist, but the talent and the coordination necessary. It was time to buy a drumset. We went around to our neighbors in the apartment complex and set on a time limit for my son to end his playing for the day–7:00 p.m. No problem in the spring and summer, but it seems much later, we found out from our neighbors, in the dark of fall and winter. The instructor helped my son select his first set of drums, of which he was so proud.
My parents said I was crazy to let their grandson play the drums, until the first concert they attended at his school. Then they agreed it was the best decision I’d made! Eventually, my Dad’s nickname for my son was “Buddy Rich”.
My former husband was very ill with a neurological condition which is hereditary. The drumming was so cathartic for our son as he saw his Dad’s decline, and then death, when our son was almost sixteen. My young musician formed rock bands who always practiced at our place, an old house near downtown by then. The other parents didn’t want the noise of a punk rock drummer and his bandmates on throbbing guitars backed up by booming amplifiers. The boys achieved some local success and played at various venues where teens into the punk scene would gather. In the meantime, my son learned he’d inherited his father’s condition.
Graduation from high school followed and the band stayed together. As time went on, however, the kids went their separate ways. My son attended college for awhile, worked at various jobs, met a girl and they eventually became engaged and lived together. However, as my son’s disease began to take hold, he played less and less. He moved back home two years ago. I’ll ask him after work if he got on his drum set in the afternoon to play any of his old songs. He’ll say he forgot, even though the kit is in the same room with him as he watches t.v. or movies. He no longer has the strength to pound out rhythm and make music as he used to do.
How I wish we could start all over with the note from the band teacher so many miles away and so long ago….
thank you for your e mail Sharon, we too had a drummer and a guitar player…..now they both play guitar and have for years….I completely understand your wish to go back……..Gerry
Thank you so much for reading my story, Gerry. I’m honored that you took the time. Love reading your columns and blogs. Hoping your holidays are the happiest!
Sharon