[Note: This is the first in a 3-part series of autobiographical blogs about my unusual encounter with a guitar. The other installments will be available over irregular intervals.]
Let me tell you about my accordion, an instrument whose only commonality with a guitar is that they both make sounds. I know, this blog is about guitars and we'll get there eventually, trust me. But first some context and background.
My parents lived through the Great Depression and WWII. Their experiences of sacrifice and struggle led them to want the best for their children, particularly those things they themselves had been denied. They did everything within their modest means to enrich my childhood and those of my two sisters. This included the decision that we each should learn to play a musical instrument.
They might have chosen any number of things for me to play: piano, violin, flute, guitar, drums, alto sax. I'm not sure how they made the decision, but it wasn't any of those.
The instrument selected for me was a concert-style accordion the size of a refrigerator. I think I was about 10 at the time, and small for my age, so when I wrestled this thing onto my chest I pretty much disappeared except for my scrawny little arms poking out from the sides, and the top of my head sticking out over the top. You've probably seen examples of this kind of accordion -- a keyboard like a grand piano on the right front, and a grid of about 10,000 tiny buttons on the left which are played blind. It was so heavy for me I had to play it sitting down, and my practice sessions were as much physical workouts as they were musical experiences.
As you can perhaps tell, I wasn't wildly enthusiastic about learning to play the accordion. Definitely the best part was that I had a crush on my teacher, Miss Dardano, who gave me lessons each week at the music store where my parents had purchased the accordion. Every Saturday I would board a bus a few blocks from my house for the 45-minute journey to the store. I didn't take the accordion because it was way too heavy for me to transport, so I borrowed one at the store for my lesson. Miss Dardano was young and gorgeous, at least to my pre-pubescent eyes. We were in a tiny recital room that brought us breathtakingly close together, though we were separated by the refrigerator in my lap. I felt uncomfortable in her presence but also thrilled. I tried hard to live up to her expectations, and felt devastated when I didn't -- which was often the case. Most lessons ended with her admonition to "practice harder next week."
The pinnacle of my musical prowess was learning to play the wonderfully catchy tune "Turkey in the Straw," which I played as part of a group performance with about 20 other budding accordion artists one Saturday.
My accordion-playing career came to a sudden and welcome-though-painful end one summer when I broke my left wrist while playing with neighborhood kids. I had been trying a simple trick on a high bar and my dismount ended with a horizontal landing. The wrist had to be reset halfway through the healing process, resulting in it being in a cast nearly the entire summer and becoming extremely atrophied. It became clear to my parents that this ruled out wrestling with a heavy musical instrument for a long time. The accordion was sold sometime that fall and no more mention of music lessons was made.
I was relieved. Although I certainly had positive feelings for Miss Dardano, I never developed much fondness for my refrigerator, and playing Turkey in the Straw for my friends didn't exactly put me on the fast track to popularity. As I look back on it now, however, there were several very positive aspects of my experience. First, I learned to read music, an exercise that has made me appreciate that written music is a remarkable human development that enables us to transform the wonders of sound into squiggles of ink. I also gained a deep appreciation for what good musicians are able to do, and I marvel at the level of mastery some of them have achieved with their instruments. My hours of practice to reach even the pitiful level that I managed to achieve makes me profoundly in awe of those who have combined hard work with natural talent to enable them to produce sounds that evoke emotional and cognitive states that can enrich our lives in unquestionably profound ways. Finally, I think I unconsciously acquired something hard to put into words -- a seed of intuition about how harmonic structure and progression can be combined creatively to produce music that can be entertaining, as perhaps in the case of "Turkey in the Straw," but also music that is intensely personal, as I've recently discovered with my guitar.
Next: Dick meets guitar.
Suggested Reading:
Robert Persig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, first published in 1974.
My parents lived through the Great Depression and WWII. Their experiences of sacrifice and struggle led them to want the best for their children, particularly those things they themselves had been denied. They did everything within their modest means to enrich my childhood and those of my two sisters. This included the decision that we each should learn to play a musical instrument.
They might have chosen any number of things for me to play: piano, violin, flute, guitar, drums, alto sax. I'm not sure how they made the decision, but it wasn't any of those.
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| LOTS of buttons |
As you can perhaps tell, I wasn't wildly enthusiastic about learning to play the accordion. Definitely the best part was that I had a crush on my teacher, Miss Dardano, who gave me lessons each week at the music store where my parents had purchased the accordion. Every Saturday I would board a bus a few blocks from my house for the 45-minute journey to the store. I didn't take the accordion because it was way too heavy for me to transport, so I borrowed one at the store for my lesson. Miss Dardano was young and gorgeous, at least to my pre-pubescent eyes. We were in a tiny recital room that brought us breathtakingly close together, though we were separated by the refrigerator in my lap. I felt uncomfortable in her presence but also thrilled. I tried hard to live up to her expectations, and felt devastated when I didn't -- which was often the case. Most lessons ended with her admonition to "practice harder next week."
The pinnacle of my musical prowess was learning to play the wonderfully catchy tune "Turkey in the Straw," which I played as part of a group performance with about 20 other budding accordion artists one Saturday.
My accordion-playing career came to a sudden and welcome-though-painful end one summer when I broke my left wrist while playing with neighborhood kids. I had been trying a simple trick on a high bar and my dismount ended with a horizontal landing. The wrist had to be reset halfway through the healing process, resulting in it being in a cast nearly the entire summer and becoming extremely atrophied. It became clear to my parents that this ruled out wrestling with a heavy musical instrument for a long time. The accordion was sold sometime that fall and no more mention of music lessons was made.
I was relieved. Although I certainly had positive feelings for Miss Dardano, I never developed much fondness for my refrigerator, and playing Turkey in the Straw for my friends didn't exactly put me on the fast track to popularity. As I look back on it now, however, there were several very positive aspects of my experience. First, I learned to read music, an exercise that has made me appreciate that written music is a remarkable human development that enables us to transform the wonders of sound into squiggles of ink. I also gained a deep appreciation for what good musicians are able to do, and I marvel at the level of mastery some of them have achieved with their instruments. My hours of practice to reach even the pitiful level that I managed to achieve makes me profoundly in awe of those who have combined hard work with natural talent to enable them to produce sounds that evoke emotional and cognitive states that can enrich our lives in unquestionably profound ways. Finally, I think I unconsciously acquired something hard to put into words -- a seed of intuition about how harmonic structure and progression can be combined creatively to produce music that can be entertaining, as perhaps in the case of "Turkey in the Straw," but also music that is intensely personal, as I've recently discovered with my guitar.
Next: Dick meets guitar.
Suggested Reading:
Robert Persig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, first published in 1974.
3 comments:
Enjoyed the humor. My experience was with a clarinet. Result was similar. I gave it up after trying to play Rock of Ages with a neighbor friend who couldn't play his trumpet. All this in front of a church's congregation. Can't sing either. Ray
I was also a failed clarinetist. As you say, I did learn to read music a little, but the whole thing of chord progressions and key changes has always baffled but intrigued me. So I am finally talking an online music theory class!
Hmmmm. The clarinet might have been better, I don't know. At least I could have lifted it. One of my best friends growing up was a clarinet player, and he kept it up for quite a while, becoming quite good. I remember, though, something about "seasoning a new reed, which involved sucking on it for a long time until it got soft from his spit? Foul, yet fascinating to a kid my age.
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