A few stories from this blog worked into one piece. (My guilty pleasure, Hip Hop Hooray: http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2016/08/hip-hop-hooray.html) and (Reflections on a Jean Pierre Rampal concert: https://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2016/11/music-appreciation-lesson-one.html).
We all have one or two constants in our life. For me, it has always been music. I have loved it since before I knew what it meant to be “into” something. As my education reached milestones, moves were made, relationships came, went, and stuck, and my career path diverged, my passion for music remained constant. When I think of how I matured over the years, I realize my relationship with music was an important part of the journey. It is this enduring passion, as much as anything else, that helped make me who I am today.
~
Each week in elementary school, we’d trudge to Mrs. Luck’s room for music. My class sat in two rows of colorful folding chairs as Mrs. Luck’s lead us in her sing-songy voice. The entire time her enthusiasm never wavered. We’d start with a bouncy tune.
I've been working on the railroadAll the live-long day.I've been working on the railroadJust to pass the time away.Can't you hear the whistle blowing,Rise up so early in the morn;Can't you hear the captain shouting,"Dinah, won’t you blow your horn!"
Then we’d use sticks and wooden blocks to tap out simple “ta, ta, ti, ti, ta,” rhythms. It was 45 minutes of pure drudgery. My classmates and I were certain we were too mature for these frivolous lessons.
One day music class got a lot more interesting when Mrs. Luck asked, “Who wants to join the Fernbrook School band?”
No more babyish wooden blocks and a chance to play a real instrument? Count me in! I was the first one to raise my hand. My life was largely idyllic yet tinged with a dose of insecurity and the fear of not measuring up. My achievement-oriented exurban community was filled with families lead by doctors, lawyers and other professionals, and I learned at a young age that it is important to be good at something.
Rachel was always the last one standing in the spelling bee. Everyone oohed as Jackie sank ten consecutive shots into the basket. Timmy crafted pottery the art teacher held up for all of us to admire. I hadn’t found my talent and desperately wanted to, so I could bask in the admiration of my teachers and classmates.
I had always loved music (But not music class) so Mrs. Luck’s offer was perfect. Band was my chance to have fun, work hard and prove myself.
I chose the flute, as did my friend Elizabeth, and we threw ourselves into band with whole-hearted, youthful enthusiasm. I took to the instrument quickly learning the scales with ease and being named first-chair for the spring concert. When world-renowned flutist Jean-Pierre Rampal was to perform in Randolph, our mothers bought tickets hoping to inspire us.Excitement mounted as the concert approached. I was looking forward to seeing this world -renowned virtuoso and was hoping to glean something about flute playing from Mr. Rampal. Perhaps gather some pearls of wisdom to fuel my budding greatness.
The evening arrived but 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 waited for the performance to begin. Our seats were in the front-row on the side of the stage, last-minute seating to accommodate a large crowd eager to see Mr. Rampal. From there I had a panoramic view of the concert hall and soon 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 to clap? I was in disbelief. My music education continued as Mr. Rampal took the stage. Rather than sitting 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 and even the loud passages left the sound of the flute fully 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 spun to face us. Mouth pin-straight, brow furrowed, and eyes piercing, this was the mother look letting you know you were in big trouble. 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.
All the while, Mr. Rampal tootled on oblivious. The experience did not strengthen my love for the flute, and I eventually quit the band.
Lesson Two: Analyzing Music
Laramie, Wyo., Early 1990s
As a graduate student at University of Wyoming, I had a large group of music-loving friends. We spent our free time seeking out live performances; everything from local bands playing in dive bars or coffee shops to world-renowned ensembles in concert at UW to nationally-known bands performing in nearby Denver or Red Rocks. When it came to musical happenings, we were in the know, and we were there.
My friends and I came from across the country but were alike in our education and strong-minded, independent spirit, a group of know-it-alls on the cusp of true adulthood trying hard to establish ourselves as deep, intelligent people. 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. Garth Brooks, Kenny G, Salt-n-Pepa = bad.
The Parlor Bar was as 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 head to the Parlor.
In a uniform of jeans, tie-dye t-shirt, and hiking boots, I marched with my posse up the rickety, tattered carpet-covered stairs to the Parlor. Despite my disdain for dance music, I settled into a high-backed booth in the corner and watched the scene unfold.
The smell of stale beer and desire permeated the air. A constant drone of short, snappy pop tunes grabbed the ear and rested simple on the mind. A perky DJ spoke in a series of exclamation marks to get people pumped. Young men were filled with swagger and coiffed young women dressed provocatively despite the often-harsh Wyoming weather. The body language of both sexes screamed “look at me” as they walked with confidence, eyes flitting about to see who was there and to look for admirers. And we sat there with our inflated egos convinced our distinctiveness along with our superiority was obvious.
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’d ask. “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…ho
And 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
I was still a fan of the jam bands I had grown fond of during graduate school, and I stilled enjoyed getting lost in 20+ minute songs with endless noodling. Overtime, I came to see the orchestra as ultimate jam band, 80+ people playing as one, but with a deeper level of intricacy and texture.
Free tickets was a job perk and I’d take friends to concerts. I enjoyed watching them discover new music. Soon friends began asking me about upcoming concerts. They were hoping to find more great music and looked to me for advice.
At the same time, Thursday’s were Disco Night at the Stagecoach Bar. Disco was a guilty pleasure my friends and I had kept to ourselves in our younger years, but we now found ourselves dancing as if no one were watching. Disco might not be considered brilliant music, but I began appreciating its place in history and the nostalgia it stirred. It felt good to let pretenses down and fully enjoy the tunes.
Today, I’m a volunteer DJ on KGLT, Bozeman’s alternative public radio station. Here I join 80 community members who each host a music program. My fellow DJs and I share musical passions along with access to the station’s vast music collection.
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, its thumping beat and beguiling cadence a stark contrast to the rhythmic guitar, gruff vocals and thoughtful lyrics I normally played.
The phone rang in the studio, probably a listener calling me to express outrage. This was an Americana music show after all.
“Man. …Wow. …I don’t know what to say. This is the wildest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said.
As he shared his story, a foolish grin crept across my face and I was hit a lifetime of musical memories. Of Phish and Allman Brothers Band shows at Red Rocks, Beethoven’s 7th Symphony in the acoustically perfect Walk Festival Hall, dancing in the pouring rain at the New Orleans Jazz Festival, seventh row seats at a Grateful Dead show in Washington DC.
I thought of all the people I shared music with as a concert-goer, through my work, and as a DJ. It was a joyous feeling to realize I’d gone 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.
Music filled the KGLT studio as I bopped my head and rapped along with Naughty by Nature. I was in my element. A stack of music was piled by my side. Robert Earl Keen, Tedeschi and Trucks, Neil Diamond, and a wide range of others. Thinking about what to play next, I knew that no matter what I chose, the song would have something to offer and people would have something to say about it. So, I picked what inspired me in that moment. I had nothing to prove.~
A few more about music:
- Musical memories from the early 1990s - http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2017/12/musical-memories-from-early-1990s.html
- Robert Earl Keen & Lyle Lovett in concert - http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2016/04/front-porch-to-center-stage.html
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