Skip to main content

Music Class

Theories 

I was taught how to hold the clarinet.  And how not to make it squeak. I make it squeak. Boy, do I make it squeak. My first thought was clarinet blows.  I had already had a theory about music. I took musical theory when I learned how to play guitar. My theory was that I didn’t need to know what the theory was.  I took one guitar lesson and decided I could teach myself, this was before YouTube when you had to buy guitar books or sheet music instead. I bought Roy Clark's big-note guitar book. I had seen it advertised on Hee Haw and luckily, I found a copy at Coles in Tecumseh Mall. It was a songbook filled with the greatest hits of country and folk music. The best part was that it came with stickers. Why were these stickers so great? Every basic chord had little circle stickers. My first guitar was a Vantage. It wasn’t anything special. But it worked and so did the stickers. The whole fretboard was filled with stickers. I learned quickly and removed them as I improved. Stickers were not going to help me this time. This time I had to learn theory.

Scales

The first song we learn is Moon River. In front of me is a wobbly music stand and a foreign language I don’t understand. Before we can play the song we must first learn scales. The first week is all scales. Homework is all scales. After many hours of practice, I learned to play the song. The entire class learns the song or some version of it. Mr. Courtney is in front baton in hand. His eyes searched for a victim to throw his baton at. He never really hits anyone it's just playful banter. I had received a few eyebrow raisings and the odd baton toss.

Promotion

I’ll never forget when I moved up to first clarinet. This was a big deal not only did I get the approval of the maestro himself, I was now in the first row. Of course, this made it easier for him to throw his baton at me. Around this time, he started calling me the Clarinet Champ: a little play on my last name. This made me feel like I mattered. I craved acceptance so much then and truth be told I still do. I was a perfectionist. I’m kind of still that way today. I love to win but I hate to lose. Mr. Courtney made me feel like a winner and he did so the entire time I was in high school.

Making music

I am sixty-five years old now and I haven’t played the clarinet since high school. However, music did continue. I continued to play guitar. I was inspired by Willie Nelson's music and I started writing songs.  Songwriting and playing guitar.  I find it interesting; I used to run home in grade school to escape the bullies. Running is not a bad thing if you’re running toward something rather than away from something. I was running towards a dream. In grade school that dream was drawing cartoons. In high school, I ran home on purpose and that purpose was love. Love was music and it still is today. Music taught me how to tell a story even if strings were attached. Pun intended. Now I find myself writing stories without strings. I wake up with a song in my heart. And I will sing it out loud. 

Thanks, Mr. Courtney. For teaching me to listen to the music within. 

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Humming

We have a rose of Sharon bush in front of our  living room window. Every year it attracts humingbirds. Now the blooms are bursting with color. I patiently waited for this little guy to return.  Expectation and joy brings colors to life. The fluttering of wings, the souls delight.  To savor the nectar of a the new day. That is just the hummingbirds way.
Post a Comment
Read more

A pane in the glass

One pane of glass. One red, white and blue basketball. And one frustrating day in the window repair business.    My father was very good at repairing windows. He had plenty of practice. Our backyard was our arena, our stadium and the scene of many sporting errors.  Who done it? It all started on our one-lane road.  Every homeowner could hear the crack of the bat and then the smash of a ball. Where it came from, no one knew. We split, leaving the bat suspended just above the dust cloud. Not a kid in sight. Who done it was an unsolved mystery. All they could see was the weapon, the bat, the ball and the glass now littering the living room floor. Opps Things were different in our backyard. A wayward slapshot way upstairs. Crash. A change-up and a foul tip. Smash. Today's error: a basketball. A hook shot, nothing but air and glass. Bang. Shortly after the initial impact we heard something else, my father cuss "Friggin Kids" It was the only f word my dad was all...
Post a Comment
Read more

Teachers Toast

One class I wasn't a big fan of was Home Ec. I had already learned most of what I needed to know from my mother and my sisters. Mr. Long, our teacher and chef, is dressed in white, from his paper chef's hat down to his shoes. He has two prominent features: a  Fu Manchu moustache and a wandering eye. For that reason (not knowing which one to look into), I never engaged in conversation.  Today's lesson is breakfast preparation. Some kids are across the hall, setting up the teacher lounge for breakfast. Every place setting is decorated meticulously. There is a huge coffee urn gurgling in the corner. Teachers are hovering, waiting for their morning elixir.   I am in the kitchen learning how to paint lightly browned Texas toast with butter. Every slice has a round circle of yellow that never seems to reach the edges, stacked on a plate. I never understood why they gave us a paintbrush instead of a knife. I found this unacceptable. I have never spread my favourite spreadables t...
Post a Comment
Read more