~
Lesson One: Playing Music
Randolph, NJ, 1970s
“Who wants to join the Fernbrook School band?” my music teacher Mrs. Luck chirped in her ever cheerful, sing-songy voice.
As a music-loving elementary school student, the opportunity to play a real instrument was too good to pass up, and I was the first one to raise my hand. I chose the flute, as did my friend Elizabeth, and threw myself into band with whole-hearted, youthful enthusiasm. When world-renowned flutist Jean-Pierre Rampal was to perform in Randolph, our mothers secured front-row tickets hoping to inspire us.
I was excited for the concert, yet the evening started on a sour note when my mother required I dress up. In a fussy dress, scratchy tights, and uncomfortable shoes, I squirmed as I sat in the elegant concert hall waiting for the performance to begin. Looking around, I realized this was a grownup affair with finely dressed, prim concertgoers filling the seats and few people my age in attendance. As the lights went down, my mother whispered, “Ann, Mr. Rampal will pause between each movement. Don’t clap until the entire piece is finished.”
She demonstrated proper technique with a refined tap, tap, tap of her hands.
Really? There’s a way I should clap? I was in disbelief. My music education continued as Mr. Rampal took the stage. Rather than sitting on a folding chair and tapping his foot as I did in band, he stood erect at his music stand and began playing with outrageous passion. One moment his fingers flew dervish-like, the next they slithered over the keys, luring swishes of sound from his flute.
As for the music, it was nothing like the frolicking tunes I was learning in band. Notes blundered about moving from rapid-fire and rattling to slow and dreary to shrill and discordant. Mr. Rampal
performed solo so the music was completely naked with even loud passages leaving the sound of the flute 100% exposed. You couldn’t tap your foot as he played nor could you hum along. This, I was certain, could not even be considered music.
Elizabeth and I exchanged looks and commiserated silently. In a moment of solidarity (Or was it boredom?), Elizabeth offered me a bon-bon. TWAAANG! The muffled sound of metal hitting wood reverberated throughout the concert hall as Elizabeth dropped the bon-bon tin while returning it to her purse.
Elizabeth’s mother shot us a look that could kill, Elizabeth bowed her head in embarrassment, and I almost injured myself trying not to laugh. It was the kind of silent hysterics where my face and sides hurt, tears streamed from my eyes, and I couldn’t look at Elizabeth for fear of losing it completely.
Our front-row seats were on the side of the stage, last-minute seating to accommodate a large crowd eager to see Mr. Rampal. All the while, he tootled on oblivious to the shenanigans taking place mere steps from his feet. The experience did not strengthen my love for the flute, and I eventually quit the band.
Laramie, Wyo., Early 1990s
As a graduate student at University of Wyoming, I had a large group of music-loving friends. Whether it was local musicians playing in a dive bar or coffee shop, a nationally-known band performing in nearby Denver or Red Rocks, or a world-renowned ensemble in concert at UW, we went to see live music any time we could break away from our work. When it came to musical happenings, we knew were in the know.
Although my friends and I came from across the country, we were alike in our whiteness, our education, and our strong-minded, independent spirit. In many ways we resembled the insufferable, elitist music snobs in Nick Hornby’s book High Fidelity. We talked about music endlessly, confident we could distinguish good music from bad, as if such a thing could be quantified or tested like a scientific theorem.
Bela Fleck, Grateful Dead, Winton Marsalis, a friend’s jam band = good. Pop, rap, hip-hop = bad.
The Parlor Bar was a close as you could get to a dance club in Laramie and it was popular. On the nights we lamented, “There’s no live music,” or we just wanted a change of pace, we’d “stoop” to the point of going to the Parlor.
Donned in a uniform of jeans, tie-dye or music festival t-shirts, and hiking boots, I marched with my posse up the rickety stairs to the Parlor. Despite my disdain for dance music, I settled into a booth and watched the scene unfold: dolled-up girls and arrogant guys strutting their stuff, the constant drone of pop music, a DJ spinning tunes and getting the crowd pumped, and us sitting there, too cool for words. My friends and I snickered as folks danced, a large group made of ticky-tacky all moving as one.
“Don’t these people know anything about quality music?” I pondered. “How can they stand this crap?”
At the time, Naughty by Nature was a rising star in the hip-hop world. Their hit “Hip-Hop Hooray” was a musical staple played by DJs at the Parlor. With its electric energy and mesmerizing beat it was guaranteed to get everyone, even music snobs like me, on their feet.
Lesson Three: Musical Maturity
Various Locations, 21st Century
After graduate school, I had the opportunity for work for two classical music festivals and later became a volunteer DJ at KGLT, Bozeman’s alternative public radio station. These experiences, along with music shared with me by friends, co-workers, and fans of my radio show, further broadened my musical landscape.
If music stirs nostalgia, makes you euphoric, or causes you to dance as if no one were watching, that is accomplishment enough and makes it noteworthy. When I started paying attention to music I considered “not my thing,” it was liberating to realize all forms of music have something to offer and my musical world became richer and more rewarding.
Today, the preferred music on my radio show is Americana, yet the free-format nature at KGLT allows me to change genre on a whim. A while back, I played “Hip-Hop Hooray” on my show and one of my regular Americana-loving fans phoned in to ask about it. He was captivated. Like me years prior, he was opening his ears to new sounds and he liked what he was hearing.
As he shared his story, a foolish grin crept across my face and I was hit with a lifetime of musical memories. It was a joyous feeling to realize I went from being a fidgety young girl in scratchy tights to a confident, stylish woman who shares music with the community and opens peoples’ eyes to the wide world of music that is out there waiting to be discovered.
~
This piece is a compilation of two previous pieces:
Although my friends and I came from across the country, we were alike in our whiteness, our education, and our strong-minded, independent spirit. In many ways we resembled the insufferable, elitist music snobs in Nick Hornby’s book High Fidelity. We talked about music endlessly, confident we could distinguish good music from bad, as if such a thing could be quantified or tested like a scientific theorem.
Bela Fleck, Grateful Dead, Winton Marsalis, a friend’s jam band = good. Pop, rap, hip-hop = bad.
The Parlor Bar was a close as you could get to a dance club in Laramie and it was popular. On the nights we lamented, “There’s no live music,” or we just wanted a change of pace, we’d “stoop” to the point of going to the Parlor.
Donned in a uniform of jeans, tie-dye or music festival t-shirts, and hiking boots, I marched with my posse up the rickety stairs to the Parlor. Despite my disdain for dance music, I settled into a booth and watched the scene unfold: dolled-up girls and arrogant guys strutting their stuff, the constant drone of pop music, a DJ spinning tunes and getting the crowd pumped, and us sitting there, too cool for words. My friends and I snickered as folks danced, a large group made of ticky-tacky all moving as one.
“Don’t these people know anything about quality music?” I pondered. “How can they stand this crap?”
At the time, Naughty by Nature was a rising star in the hip-hop world. Their hit “Hip-Hop Hooray” was a musical staple played by DJs at the Parlor. With its electric energy and mesmerizing beat it was guaranteed to get everyone, even music snobs like me, on their feet.
I live and die for hip-hop This is hip-hop for today I give props to hip-hop so hip-hop hooray... Hey...ho…hey…hoAnd at “Hey…Ho…” I chanted along with the crowd. Although my arms swayed overhead uninhibited and a grin permeated my face, I insisted I was doing so in mockery. After all, hip-hop was “not my thing.”
Lesson Three: Musical Maturity
Various Locations, 21st Century
After graduate school, I had the opportunity for work for two classical music festivals and later became a volunteer DJ at KGLT, Bozeman’s alternative public radio station. These experiences, along with music shared with me by friends, co-workers, and fans of my radio show, further broadened my musical landscape.
Today, the preferred music on my radio show is Americana, yet the free-format nature at KGLT allows me to change genre on a whim. A while back, I played “Hip-Hop Hooray” on my show and one of my regular Americana-loving fans phoned in to ask about it. He was captivated. Like me years prior, he was opening his ears to new sounds and he liked what he was hearing. As he shared his story, a foolish grin crept across my face and I was hit with a lifetime of musical memories. It was a joyous feeling to realize I went from being a fidgety young girl in scratchy tights to a confident, stylish woman who shares music with the community and opens peoples’ eyes to the wide world of music that is out there waiting to be discovered.
~
This piece is a compilation of two previous pieces:
- My guilty pleasure, Hip Hop Hooray: http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2016/08/hip-hop-hooray.html
- Reflections on a Jean Pierre Rampal concert: https://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2016/11/music-appreciation-lesson-one.html
No comments:
Post a Comment