Love Is Deaf

by John Christmann

Ah, the sounds of spring . . . robins twittering gaily in the morning . . . newly hung wind chimes ringing in the soft breeze . . . the gentle patter of May showers . . . the flat honk of a saxophone practicing in the living room.

Yes, as our budding musicians near the end of school, it is time for one of the most difficult of parental obligations: attending annual spring concerts. Because, of all of the hand-wringing instances where our kids are placed in the spotlight, listening to their first performances is by far the most painful. Even the worst grade school art retrospectives can be viewed with enjoyment: the only assault to our senses being that of unrecognizable scribbles. Dance performances, at their worst, come off only as uncoordinated movement to music. And the poorest drama productions can only be criticized for their length, not the performances of the young actors. But a music recital performed by beginning instrumentalists, even on its best day, will never ever be pleasing to the ear.

Of course we can’t blame our kids for this. Musical instruments are very difficult to learn. Not only do kids have to play the right notes, they have to work their fingers and lips and arms just to make the instrument sound pleasing. This is why so many kids start their musical education on the piano: it is one of the few instruments that still sound good even when played badly. A note struck by Vladimir Horowitz on a reasonably good piano does not sound significantly better than the same note struck by a five year old. Of course, string a few notes together along the maze of a musical staff and the difference emerges pretty dramatically. But unlike other instruments, mangling a piece of music on the piano, while esthetically unpleasing, at least is not assaulting to the ear drums. Any one who has heard a beginning violinist knows exactly what I am talking about. A few minutes with the long, ear piercing squeal of a violin can make water boarding look pretty good.

For parents like me who believe it is important to expose their children to the joys of music, the long road to Carnegie Hall starts at ground zero in the practice chair. In my case, the Excedrin headache emerges from a seat in the living room where my son practices his saxophone. He plays it almost everyday, on some days because he wants to and others because I make him. I know that the only way he will ever coax music out of the thing is to play it routinely. And so, day after day, I listen to the squeals and honks and flat pitches that accompany the learning process. I would rather help him with math, but there is a lot less artistic joy to be derived from fractions.

Fortunately, there is a fundamental law of music that applies to all beginning instrumentalists: the degree of listening pleasure is inversely proportional to the relation to the performer. It works like this. The instrument always sounds best to the performer. It sounds really good to the performer’s closest relatives. It sounds politely passable to friends and acquaintances. And to everybody else, it sounds like an endorsement for ear plugs. If this law were not true, orchestras would only consist of drums and harmonicas.

When I was in grade school I subjected my parents to the slide trombone. At the hands of a beginner this is a merciless instrument that makes incredibly rude noises, usually off key—which was probably why I liked it. I took lessons and for several years joyously blew that horn at extreme decibels in my room. My parents endured my playing every night, asking me to stop only when the neighbors called to complain.

But the most fun was playing in the concert band with all of the other beginning instrumentalists. I remember our very first rehearsal. We played the B flat major scale and the C scale. The woodwinds got confused so we actually played both scales together. It sounded pretty bad. When the band teacher finally got everyone to play the correct scale, it didn’t sound any better. But it didn’t really matter because we launched immediately into rehearsals for our spring concert: songs from the Sound of Music. I’m pretty sure that if Rodgers and Hammerstein had known that the Lyon Elementary School Concert Band would be performing their masterpiece, they never would have written it.

After several months of rehearsal we performed the musical in the grade school gym where the colorful notes could bounce off the walls and linger in acoustic splendor. My parts were pretty easy because I didn’t have to play that much—I guess because Rodgers and Hammerstein did not feel the Sound of Music really needed a trombone played by a sixth grader. I had many measures of rest which were written as big long black bars with numbers above them. Each rest was like a little vacation. I was expected to tap my foot and count so I would know when to start playing again. It was during the rests that I realized just how bad everyone else sounded. I couldn’t wait to start playing again to drown out everyone around me and bring up the caliber of musicianship.

We were all very nervous tuning our instruments as the audience filled the gymnasium with buzzing chatter. But before too long our band leader mounted the podium and tapped his baton on the music stand in front of him. The whole gymnasium grew silent. He mouthed out to us one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . and with the light drop of his baton the whole band entered in force. I could see the audience members in the first row wince, but I had to quickly look back to my sheet music because the note I was playing was about to change. I kept my eyes glued to the music and tapped my foot diligently, making sure I was playing the right notes in the right place. I could hear everyone else playing too. For a minute I thought I might be on the wrong piece, but the strains of the trumpets quickly assured me that the hills were indeed alive with the sound of music. Finally I came to my first long rest and looked out at the audience. I could see my parents sitting in the third row. They were smiling proudly. My little sister was squirming in her chair with her fingers in her ears.

I looked around. The saxophones were playing. They sounded like a flock of geese lost in a panic frenzy somewhere over Austria. I rocked back on my steel folding chair and it let out a very loud, sharp squeal. The conductor glanced sharply at the violin player, but she was sitting quietly with the violin on her lap. So he quickly focused on our percussionist, who was always goofing around because he had more rests than any one else in the band. Catching the sharp gaze of the band leader, the drummer quickly struck the big gong thinking that he had just missed his cue. The audience clapped. This seemed to mollify the conductor, and he kept going as if nothing had happened. Besides, he really didn’t have time to deal with our mistakes. Twenty bars into the piece he couldn’t even keep track of them.

After about thirty minutes or so we wound our way to the finale, a touching rendition of So Long, Farewell. I particularly loved the ending, which consisted of a gradual decrescendo by the woodwinds, followed by a thundering bah pah pah finale by the whole band. It was quite dramatic and really fun for the tuba player and me who had big brass instruments that we could blat with real force. I got ready for the powerful ending when I realized I had lost count of the number of bars I had been resting. Was I on bar 21 or 22? It wasn’t important; I would just look at everyone else around me. When they raised their instruments it would be time to play.

As the last audible strains of the oboe and flute died out with lack of oxygen, everyone quietly picked up their instruments to play. I drew in my breath and counted: one and two and three and four and I blew loud and strong and sure, my face red with the strain of pushing so much air through sixteen feet of brass plumbing.

Unfortunately, I was two beats too early. The gym filled with the reverberation of a flatulent elephant, followed two beats later by a thundering heard of hyenas laughing through their instruments. The conductor looked up in complete surprise, just as he drove down his baton to end our musical tour de force. The audience leapt to their feet amid thundering applause, mostly because we were finished.

It was the sound of music as best we could make it.

I eventually abandoned the trombone because the image I had of myself did not match the one that was parading in the front row of the marching band with an ill-fitting uniform and a large hat with a plume. My love of music was just not enough to endure the ever growing suspicion that I was indeed a dork. If I had stuck it out another year I would have enjoyed the jazz band, but I could no longer carry the elongated case to school without avoiding those that had nothing better to do than beat up trombone players. So I quit and took up the electric guitar in the hopes of attracting girls and respect. As it turns out, I was better at the trombone.

This is what I was thinking as I sat in the school auditorium on a warm spring evening waiting for my son to take the stage. My stomach was in knots, and the memories of bygone days performing music came flooding back to me. Only now I wasn’t playing. I was just a proud, but nervous parent hoping for the best and fearing the worst. But the worst wouldn’t happen. Not tonight. Because as he took the stage, I realized one important fact: my son is not the musician I was when I was his age. He is much, much better.

The conductor took the stage and we grew silent. My boy lifted his instrument with confidence, and on the down beat he and the band filled the whole auditorium with the sound of music. Great big beautiful music.