Of Fish in the Ocean
(Dedicated to Karl Haas)
I listen to classical music when driving. My appreciation for all forms of musical composition developed when I studied classical piano. Although, never skilled in my efforts at the keyboard, an issue for a frustrated piano teacher, I did gain a life-long love for musical works. My own problem related to a failure to move my fingers expeditiously across the keys. Another serious issue was my inability to memorize a composition. My efforts would be best described as lugging along with eyes fixed to the sheet music. Many lessons involved my listening to the superb skills of the music teacher, Mr. Carter. He finally concluded that I was an excellent listener, but quite inept as a musician. Amen, or as properly translated from the Hebrew, so be it.
Two memories of my musical efforts are remembered. Neither one is a fond memory, although I find much humor in the retelling. The first involved my audition to the high school orchestra, where I labored through 11 sheets of Deep Purple. Mr. Haas, the conductor, listened with great patience and concluded that I could read music, a good quality, and would promptly place me in the percussion section, if I swore an oath never to touch the piano.
The second demonstration of musical skills came about with my band. We practiced in the garage of our family’s row home, much to the disdain of the neighbors. It might have gone well if it were not for the accordion player; he was less skilled than I, and had a habit of working the instrument next to my ear. The air would rush back and forth with a run of bad notes making for a cacophony of sounds during rehearsals. Other band members included a confused trumpet player, Eddie on an electric guitar with three strings, and a rhythm-less drummer. The sounds that spewed forth could drive one mad. Often, added to the musical noise, would be a pounding on the wall by a neighbor. If he pounded properly, it would sync our rhythm, something our drummer could never accomplish, and thereby give recognition to some of our pieces.
Our debut occurred at the after-school music club. We were allowed two songs. Many talented youth performed at the club. We made it through the first song but the trumpet and drum got ahead of the music. I felt I was holding my own, but the accordion player, whose instrument kept gasping in my ear, kept falling behind. The club members were stunned, but kind, during the performance. Of course, only one of us got to the end of the piece, which was Tommy the Trumpet player, and when he quit so did the band. There was no attempt to perform the second piece and we sat down.
I can remember sitting on the curb outside the school with Tommy and Merton, the accordion squeezer, quite dejected after the music club ended that day. David Ross, the drummer, had already run home crying. I remember him as an emotional boy. I have no memory whether the guitar player took part during the performance. I recall he had serious reservations about performing in front of anyone. As the three of us sat, two very talented singers from the club joined us. One looked my way and said, “Don’t be discouraged, we sounded just like that our first time out.” I offered a weak smile of appreciation.
I realized that although my love for music was developing rapidly, I could expect to be an outsider looking into the world of song. Gifts necessary to be a skilled musician were denied me. Our club gig proved to be our first and last performance. The garage remained quiet, as rehearsals ceased. Neighbors to each side were relieved. Amen, so be it.
Although my piano lessons continued, my performances remained within the family. The piano was placed against a back wall, positioned accordingly, for the benefit of the residents of the adjoining homes. Those days are many years behind me and though still lacking in performance skills, I, will now pound out popular pieces and often sing along. I usually do this when I am alone. If visitors are in the house my efforts do not draw their audience. It’s a large house and I would imagine anyone in earshot would retreat to a far corner of the domicile for undisturbed conversation. As my fingers have never been able to leap over the keyboard, my musical efforts are always labored. I can not memorize a piece and still require sheet music to play a song.
It is the listening to music that thrills me, and at times, will leave me in tears perhaps reflecting my own incompetence. Recently, while driving, I was able to hear violinist Joshua Bell play the Scottish Fantasy, by Bruch. The way his bow flew over the strings in the last movement, creating exquisite melodies, that bounced from the heavens to the ears of this appreciative listener. How does he do that, touch every note, every nuance with the magnificent orchestra behind him as the music draws to a dazzling finish? Imagine being a musician in that orchestra, with the skills brought to fever pitch by the maestro, as one of the great violin concertos concludes. That I could play in such an orchestra, one note, that I could be in the presence of the brilliance of Joshua Bell, the youngest of a small fraternity of exceptional violin virtuosos. I can’t even memorize a simple piece. From where, comes such talent?
Yet, one can look beyond the musicians and consider the composer of such a work. God’s hand must participate in the writing of such a composition. What talent could create such a masterpiece that requires the additional genius of Joshua Bell to bring the musical sheets to life? Such a beautiful orchestration that reduces me to tears of appreciation and thoughts of what I would not give to have such unearthly skills. Oh, that I could write one great musical composition, perhaps just one note therein. Amen, so be it.
My children are skilled musicians. They are both pianists and each plays a
second instrument. I recall they were
invited to perform at a wedding.
Beethoven’s Third Symphony, the Erioca, rouses my passions when I hear it performed. There is such power in the first movement followed by the funeral dirge of the second. The third moves with rapid fire brilliance culminating in the breathtaking magnificence of the conclusion. Many believe it to be the greatest symphony ever written. Certainly, overall, it is viewed as his best. All nine symphonies are marvelous but I must admit the third carries me to great heights, well beyond the others. How does one write a symphony? What powers did Beethoven possess? How did a man who ultimately became deaf continue to write musical compositions that represent the most brilliant masterpieces in the musical repertoire? Where did these inspirations come from? That one man could produce such a masterpiece as the Eroica, might justify the existence of the whole human species. The brilliant composition was dedicated to Napoleon Bonaparte, but this honor was retracted by Beethoven, himself, as he became disillusioned with the leader.
As the music of the Erioca swirls in my head, I can appreciate man’s potential. I can read about 1000 atrocities, but such a dazzling musical composition gives me hope for a better world. Oh, that all would listen to such music. Oh, that I could play such music. Oh, that I could compose such music. How little I have accomplished considering a Beethoven composition. Amen, so be it.
The late Russian pianist Emile Gallells would accomplish the Brahms Second Piano Concerto with such skill and strength. It is often played on the radio and I want to hear every note. I have stopped my car and listened to this powerful piece for 40 minutes. How the music flows, how Gillells fingers race along the keyboard with powerful precision to bring the music to life and stand strong against the power of the orchestra. It is a booming piece that reaches the heavens in splendor and returns to earth with the gods riding on every note. As Gallels makes his way through the composition the driving force of the music never ceases and demands the utmost from the pianist, from the orchestra, and from the conductor. At the conclusion of the piece Gallells, the orchestra and the conductor are brought to exuberant exhaustion. Audiences are thrilled at the power and majesty of the composition. Oh, that I could play that composition. Oh, that I could play in that orchestra. Oh, that I could write one note of such music. What is within a man that he can create such a masterpiece? What energies allow a musician to play such a beautiful concerto. Oh, that my fingers could fly over the keys just one time.
Who am I and what have I accomplished? What will be said of me by those who know me, after I cross the bar? Riding along in my car, I heard a violin and cello composition. The cellist was YoYo Ma. The violinist was Itzak Perlman. The deep timbre of the Cello accented the beautiful strains of the violin. The instruments and the men were one. The Cello could not be separate from YoYo Ma, the violin was an extension of Perlman. All were joined in effortless expression. How beautiful the piece, and how enchanting. The resonance of the composition reached into the very soul. Yet, the music was simple. I sensed that if I had either instrument in my hand, I could have played with them. Their incredible skill was reduced to simple tones and rhythms reverberating through the beauty of the piece. At the finish I felt refreshed, not exhausted, as I would feel with the Brahms Second Piano Concerto or the Erioca. I did not feel spent as when Bruch’s Scottish fantasy concluded. Yet in each case I was lifted to the stars perhaps weary from one composition but refreshed by another. Who are these individuals with such talent? Who are those that can compose a masterpiece? Oh, that that I could play such a composition. Oh, that I could compose such a work, just one note.
There have been and are giants among us. They have special skills. Perhaps the Gods allow man’s folly due to a rare talent that periodically surfaces. In the world of music brilliant composers provide the notes for master musicians. Occasionally, the musician and composer are one in the same. It is a rare opportunity to hear the composer play his piece or conduct the orchestra through his own composition. These are special moments and I am never disappointed when such music comes my way.
In a recent dream my hands fly across the keyboard of my own composition. The full orchestra plays behind me. I play to thousands in a grand amphitheatre. The multitudes stretch as far as the eye can see. My music is majestic and overpowering. I also see myself in the audience with tears running down my cheeks. Though I am engrossed in my composition, I find my late mother and father listening with other living and departed souls. Oddly, wherever I look, I see myself among the hordes transfixed to my musical delights. I am overjoyed. My melodies roll to the heavens. For a time I sense the piece is endless and will play for all eternity. The past, present and future are enjoined with me and my composition.
Now, the orchestra joins me and we will reach a magnificent conclusion, the piece, in fact, will end. With the playing of the last note, the cheers and applause are overwhelming and will not cease. I discover myself again and again throughout the spectators in the grand amphitheater. I sense the familiar in every face I see. Rays of light illuminate the vast expanse of earth which holds my audience. My joy can not be described. I have written and played my masterpiece and it will join those great works before me. For the first time in my life, I feel accomplished. I have written and played my note. I have become the creator, I am fulfilled. Had I a choice, I would never awake from that dream. Here, in this place, I am home.
With the morning comes the realization that I remain a busy doctor with fingers that fumble at the keyboard, no big deal in the scheme of things. Amen, so be it.
END