Sunday, April 1, 2012

Strings 'n Things



A couple years or so back, an acquaintance of mine related one of her music teaching misadventures, with a student she referred to as "having a high IQ and a contrastingly low musical talent, all the while imagining himself adept at the art of violin composition, when he was, in fact, WMD to the ears".

I would assume that meant Weapon of Musical Distortion.

If so, this acquaintance could have easily been referring to me in my youth. Save for the high IQ part.

Years and three concussions later, I kind of recall being the learner of a musical instrument. Introduced to me as the violin, I also knowd it in southern vernacular as a fiddle. Despite living in Iowa, I stubbornly clung to the 'fiddle' as identifier, considering it to sound less sissified, and besides, calling it that drove my music teacher nuts.

This, I was good at.

After I got past the usual childhood urges to use the fiddle to shoot arrows with distinct, discordant TWANGs, or employing the bow in stirring reenactments of Errol Flynn vs Basil Rathbone sword play, I settled down to learn how to make the dog howl, the cat's hair stand on end, and my siblings grit their teeth.

That was the easy part.

Why a fiddle, you might ask? My initial inspiration came from the Three Stooges (pictured); later, from Tommy Smothers, watching him deftly handle his fiddle during the Smothers Brothers TV show. The thing looked so much bigger on TV; in fact, about as big as he was. But at that age, so did mine. Anyway, he was on whom I modelled myself after.

My instructor, of course, forever tried to pervert my inspiration: put the thing on your shoulder, she'd insist. I'd cite Tommy Smothers as my example for otherwise, and she'd just tell me to shut up, hold the fiddle...dammit..the violin properly, and stop calling it a fiddle.

That always hacked her off.

Then, as in the undoing of Puff the Magic Dragon, something started going terribly wrong: I was getting bigger. My fiddle didn't. My back was killing me, having to stoop over further and further to play the thing the way it was meant to be played. It was disconcerting to find that the way my instructor, so pigheadedly insisted I play it, was starting to make some sense.

Gradually, I masterd the art of the fiddle, and lived my single greatest musical moment in 1988, getting to play the distinctive fiddle solos during the more poignant moments for the soundtrack of the movie Beetlejuice. That proved to be my high-fiddle mark, and I gave it up for other pursuits, like tornado chasing and falling out of trees while gathering firewood.

Long after those heady, high-strung days, I've become somewhat more worldly, erudite, culturally barbaric and flatulent. And despite all that, I've come to the conclusion that it's time to tell the unvarnished and rosined truth about my musical acumen:

-- it was really a devastating lack thereof.

-- fact is, much like Tommy Smother's onstage schtick...I lied; it was my sister who played the violin and made the dog howl, cat wince, et al.

-- it was Dickie Smothers who played the fiddle, not Tommy.

-- It wasn't really a fiddle, it was a base fiddle, which tended to explain why Dickie never put the thing under his chin to play it.

-- I didn't really play the background fiddle in the Beetlejuice sequences, though a couple times I swiped my sister's fiddle and made it sound kinda like a frozen cat being trimmed with a chainsaw, sorta.


Truth is, in my elementary school days, I played a trumpet, just like Herb Alpert.

Well okay, so I played a trumpet like Herb Alpert's.

Okay, so it was a trumpet, designed kinda like Herb Alpert's.

Okay, so it would have sounded like a trumpet played by Herb Alpert, if Herb Alpert were playing it.

At least the two did have in common a spit valve; and I was very good at clearing that.

Really. Honest.

Well okay, so I didn't clear the spit valve as professionally as Herb Alpert.

At least I know I was better at one thing than Herb Alpert was with a trumpet: annoying the snarf out of my music teacher. Not only could I clear the spit valve with authority and in something kind of akin to E flat, I told her I could make my arm pit sound like a trumpet.

It sorta did, too, like when I'd noisily clear the spit valve.

Sometimes, I love remembering the past, even through the filter of three concussions. And I can ponder one day looking up my old music teacher, if she's still alive, and hoping that if she is, she lives where she can hear the sound of elk bugling. Because I'm sure it's torture for her.

See, she'll think it's me, noisily clearing my spit valve.

I'm glad I didn't have to put up with me, either.

Labels:

6 Comments:

Blogger Andy said...

Funny, Skunks! I too played the trumpet...cornet in Jr. High.

True story...I took piano lessons for 3 years, and one day when my Mom came to pick me up from Mrs. Green's house, Mrs. Green told my mother that she was truly wasting her money on my lessons.

I think I had not been happier in my young life! Zero talent. When my oldest son turned about 3 he sat down at our piano and began to pick out songs. By the time he was about 14, he had mastered the dang thing. Never.One.Lesson.

My aunt gave him an old saxophone, and two weeks later he was proficient...and became really great at it. The same thing with a guitar, a clarinet, and the drums.

He certainly did not get it from me.

02 October, 2009 07:54  
Blogger Sniffles and Smiles said...

This is full of delightful twists and turns...and I now know why I like you so very much!!!! We clearly share the extraordinary talent of EXAGGERATION!!! This was hilarious, Mike...I can so relate to this...only, it was my piano teacher who clearly went mad...I was bent on imitating the flamboyant Liberace, and playing by ear instead of reading the notes... My teacher began with well over 100 students....at the end of 4 1/2 years as my teacher, he was down to 7 students, and was regularly seeing a shrink...I think we would have been a pair in music class!!!! ROFL...A toast to you, my very comedic friend!!! This is a fabulously funny post!!! And if you can play the trumpet half as well as you can write witty words, then I think the Boston Pops might be looking for you...Hugs, Janine

03 October, 2009 11:54  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

My poor, tortured, saint of a man, long in endurance and deep in suffering (am I missing anything?) guitar teacher comes to mind :)!

Easily led person that I am, you had me at Beetle Juice- hook, line and sinker, I belived you! I was thinking I must rent the movie and listen for you~

03 October, 2009 23:43  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

oops sorry about the spelling.

03 October, 2009 23:43  
Blogger Right Truth said...

I always thought a violin or fiddle would be the hardest instrument to play. What, only 5 strings? How can anyone make all the notes needed with only 5 strings? That goes for a guitar too. Ha

Seriously, the piano is my instrument, or better yet a big hammond organ. I've played piano and organ in churches throughout my life. Not for pay, simply because I was the only one who could play and they were stuck with me, ha.

Deborah F. Hamilton
Right Truth
http://www.righttruth.typepad.com

04 October, 2009 07:36  
Blogger Elizabeth Mahlou said...

LOL. I love the expression, Weapon of Musical Destruction. I am a WMD when it comes to singing!

04 October, 2009 23:06  

Post a Comment

<< Home