The Audition

The Audition

"You haven't been practicing the lesson, have you?" The statement had a definite disdainful ring to it, and I cringed at the assault.
"Well, I..." My words were feeble.
"Yeah. Well, my caffeine intake was a little low today, so I'm gonna grab a cup. You get started."
From previous experience I knew that meant that my lesson was to be abbreviated. That was Scott's not so subtle way of letting you know that an unprepared student was not worth teaching. I began to slowly work through the required scales and etudes.
As the end of the hour approached I was going over the Telemann Sonata that was going to be the main selection at my audition to the music college at Northern Illinois University. The audition was a week away, and here I was pissing away this last private lesson with Scott Kagan, working on basics instead of fine tuning the piece with the help of this fine double bass teacher. The sixty dollar an hour rate simply served to make the time go a whole lot slower, and feel like an even grosser waste of time and dollars.
"How we doin'?" The Chicago accent was heavy and sarcastic. Scott entered the studio with a still steaming cup and flopped into his favorite ragged easy chair. He had that half-smile, half-glare that made you feel very uneasy.
"A little better, I guess, but I'm still having problems with the last eight measures..."
"Not surprised," Scott interrupted. "You're tentative as all hell.” He always listened from the kitchen, and finished the lesson by giving you a five minute lecture on the bad and the ugly. There was seldom any good during this type of lesson. Would I ever learn?
Scott jumped out of his chair, and I almost dropped my bow. “Get after it! Listen pal, you gotta a week to get your shit together, and the way you're slacking off, it ain't never gonna happen. Your ass is gonna be stuck in that shitty community orchestra for all time. Is that what you want? Listen man, you got talent, and you ain't willing to get your skills together. You're just a lazy ass!." The silence was deafening. "Yeah, well, let me know how it comes out. And go have some fun, dammit!” Scott turned on his heel and went for another cup.

* * * * * * *

It was a good forty-five minute drive to the university. The beat up blue Ford Pinto station wagon was aurally abusive in the warm, humid, quiet August Sunday night, mostly due to a shoddily self-repaired muffler. Although I had made the drive many times before, it seemed to take an eternity. The knot in my stomach came and went with varying degrees on intensity, but mysteriously seemed to lessen as I entered the university campus. As I pulled into the parking lot at the Music building and turned the worn key towards me, a strange feeling of complete relaxation came over me.

* * * * * * *

Music became my passion at four or five years old. Dad gave me a recording of Antal Dorati conducting the 1812 Overture for my sixth Birthday. Damn! That was my very first record! The "B" side had Deems Taylor reading a documentary on how they had recorded a true Napoleonic twelve pounder for the cannon blasts inserted into the bombastic climax of Tchaikovsky's most known and loved piece. As a little guy, I always thought that I would make a terrific Tympanist, or failing that, maybe have a go at the noble french horn. So, when in fourth grade we were allowed to tryout instruments for band, I requested a French Horn. The director took a brief look at my lips. shrugged, and gave me a brand new Olds Cornet. I was trying to oil the valves for the first time and promptly stripped the valve guides. My precious horn was lost to the repair shop for three weeks with that costly mistake. Junior high band was great fun, as many of my close friends were in band. By eighth grade my interest was beginning to wane. Not my interest in music mind you, but just the school band. As long as my buddies hung in there, I could justify staying on. It was just that this little known British band named The Beatles had invaded my musical universe through the wonder of the 45rpm record and the transistor radio. The Fab Four, the Stones, the Byrds, these were the bands that captured my ear. It seemed like every kid in the neighborhood was taking up the electric guitar. I borrowed one from my buddy Sam Baird. It was actually his older sister's boyfriends guitar, and I think he took a little grief for loaning it to me. I tried it out for a week, never really "got" it, and returned it somewhat discouraged.
The next several months were uneventful, but I was still considering what my future might be with this music called rock and roll. Arriving home from school one spring afternoon, an unfamiliar car was parked in our drive. It was a black, clapped out, late fifties four door Plymouth with California license plates. I approached the front porch a little more deliberately than usual. I could see my mom sitting on the couch. She was talking to someone, but they were hidden from my view. I entered tentatively and damn, who was there but my cousin Matt. Cousin Matt Rayne was five or six years my senior, and we had never really seen much of other growing up, although I had always kind of looked up to him. He and his sister Pam and my aunt Nan lived in Columbus, Ohio, and we just didn't get out that way very often. He had however, always been close to my mom.
“Matt has just received his discharge from the Navy, and he is going to stay with us for awhile, until he gets settled.” Mom looked very pleased. “He'll be staying in the spare bedroom.”
I suddenly remembered having seen an old Supro electric bass in Matt's bedroom on our last visit to Ohio. Looking back, it's doubtful he was ever very good at it, but the mere fact that he owned a bass was enough to impress a young aspiring rocker.
Matt and I got to talk music frequently during his stay. One day I received a different response to my usual rant about how my paper route was soon going to get me the electric guitar that was to propel me to a life of music, fame, girls and glory. Matt was usually very encouraging, but this time he threw in what seemed a strangely logical twist.
"Man, how many guys you know that already got guitars? You gonna be one of them? No, man. You've got to git you a bass! All them guitar players gonna need a bass player." The southern Ohio drawl was infectious.
He smiled like he knew that he had me. Older cousins can be so damned influential.
"Yeah." I smiled back. "That might be cool."
"Cool? Might be Cool? Damn! Look at McCartney, Bill Wyman, Chris Hillman. Those guys are cool. They got the bottom covered. You think those guys wanna play guitar? Girls, man. Girls throw lingerie at guitar players! Know what they throw at bass players? Hotel keys! Hotel keys, man! The excitement in his voice was enthralling, and drew the fantasy laden mind of a thirteen year old in like bees to honey. "Git you a bass, man. You'll always have a gig, and you'll never starve."
Matt's advice ran through my head constantly over the next few weeks, and finally I stopped by one the local music stores to check out the electric basses. A new Kingston bass at the outrageous price of fifty-two dollars and fifty cents caught my eye. It had a tobacco sunburst finish and a short scale neck, and was aptly named "The Baby Bass." A week later my Dad and I went to the mall, and with the money earned from folding and slinging the Courier News for a dozen weeks, that little bass was mine.
Matt was right. next thing I knew, I was everybody's bass player. Man, I had to learn fast, and thankfully I had good teachers. Or patient ones anyway. My parents encouraged proper instruction. Three lessons with an elderly (to me anyway. I now wonder just how old he was) gentleman named Walter Willis resulted in nothing more than a significant amount of pent up frustration. "Mary had a Little Lamb?" was not going to impress this thirteen year old rock star wannabe. My peers ended up being my real educators, and looking back, it was probably all I would have tolerated at the time. Obstinately independent, and unwilling to listen to unsolicited expert advice, it was unlikely that any formal instruction would have held my interest. Not that all of the advice was expert. When I announced in band class that I had a new electric bass, the illustrious Lane Junior High band director Mr. Head's response was: "That is not a real musical instrument, and rock and roll is not real music." Thus, he permanently alienated himself from a good half a dozen of us rebels. We promptly started a rock group, began performing at the school dances, and quit band. I did not like that man.
High school had brought what must have been a fairly common ritual for many of us young guns who aspired to rock and roll fame and had the good fortune to live through the sixties. Rehearsals happened a couple of weekday evenings, and if we were lucky we got some playing on the weekends. Hendrix, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Deep Purple, Cream, Led Zeppelin, we covered 'em all. The standard gigs were school sock-hops and YMCA dances. We graduated from high school and went directly to the Wisconsin bar scene, where eighteen year olds could legally drink. We were regular entrants to the local battles of the bands. My best buddy Jack and I wrote originals that didn't sound too original. We seemed to changed personnel like it was underwear. We argued amongst ourselves over everything: what tunes to play, what equipment to buy, whether or not a gig was worth it, what to wear, who's the leader. The marriage that was Jack and I never seemed to agree on much of anything. It finally got so bad that I quit, sold my gear, got a girlfriend and bought an dreadnaught acoustic Gibson guitar.
Predictably perhaps, this sabbatical did not last long. Robbie, one of my old band chums, called one day and asked if I wanted to join a blues band. One of the old black local blues musicians was putting together a new band and they supposedly had a few gigs. It sounded interesting, and the musical itch was definitely returning, so back I went to the music store for some new gear. The blues gig turned out to be be one of the best things that could have happened, although it was very short lived.
George Cooper was a big man. I put his age to be fifty something, but it was likely that he was much younger. His hands were large, with stubby fingers. The hands showed the wear of hard manual labor. I guessed that he probably worked in the foundry across the street from where he lived, and had done so for many years. What a dark, unforgiving place that must have been. He was one of the blackest blacks I had ever seen. His wide flat nose, huge bright eyes and several gold teeth gave his smile a look of caricature. His hair was graying, and he was slightly bald in front. He was a bass player and singer, and had a fine reputation among local musicians.
Robbie's older brother Steve was a well known local rock guitarist, and he had played with George on several occasions. Steve was helpful to younger musicians, but was somewhat severe and short with Robbie, who tended to make a nuisance of himself regularly. Still, he recommended Robbie when George had asked about any good young players in need of some real tutoring in the blues. Robbie met with with George, and recommended Rick and me as good candidates for the gig. All I could play was the bass, so George willingly switched to guitar and sang. He felt more comfortable leading the band as the guitarist, and he was a damn good guitarist. Robbie was also a guitarist, but could also play a little drums, and since that was what we needed, that's what he played. Another old friend, Rick, played Farfisa organ.
Three twenty year old white kids spending their Saturday afternoons drinking rum and cokes, eating pork rinds and playing the urban blues with what must have been the most patient man on the planet. Week after week we showed up to fight our way through Chicago blues standards that by rights we should have already known. The fact that we didn't know names like Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters and Willie Dixon seemed curious to George, but he was always able to keep a humor about our inability to get a particular blues feel or even just to follow a twelve bar blues progression. George lived in a white two story clapboard somewhat rundown house across the street from the old foundry. We rehearsed in a small room the in basement. Just up the hill was Eddie's, one of the the most notorious black night clubs in town.
The day finally came that George told us that we had an audition for a gig, and sure enough, it was at the infamous Eddie's Club. We entered that smoky bar to play for the owner and the few regular customers. The stares from the rough looking men who probably spent their every Saturday afternoon drinking at Eddie's while we were across the street torturing George with British rock versions of his favorite blues tunes made me as uncomfortable as I've ever been. We played a short set, and the patrons applauded politely, probably mostly for their friend George, but the gig was not to be ours. They probably feared for our lives. Shortly after George disbanded the group.
The experience left a lasting impression that I've not shaken. The Blues continues to fascinate me, and the authenticity of the music forever changed the way I approached music and rehearsing.
Once again I found myself in music limbo.

* * * * * * *

Dave was a childhood friend who had been one of the first in the neighborhood to get an electric guitar and also one of the first to give it up. After Dave had quit the guitar he had become the manager of our old rock band, which really meant that he promoted the band, got us the occasional gig, and was head referee. He called me out of the blue and said that he wanted to introduce me to a guitar player who was looking for a new musical opportunity. A call from Dave was always interesting.
Dave stood about six foot-five, had a twin brother, and was as smooth a talker as you would or wouldn't ever want to run into. My feeling was that the introduction just had to stem from Dave's desire to manage another band, and suspicion was at the forefront of my thinking as he laid out what a superb musician this guitar player was, and how this would be the band to end all bands. The story was an old familiar one, but I agreed to a meeting just the same.
Jerry had just been released from a tour of the Philippines with the U.S. Navy. The recurring Navy theme seemed slightly humorous. Jerry was looking to form a band.
“What kind of music are you going to play?” I asked the question innocently.
“Well, the big thing right now is country,” Jerry said, “and this new sound, country-rock, is catching on as well.”
“You know, guys like Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard.” He went on. “That sort of thing.” Jerry looked at me, his left eyebrow raised, almost defiant.
“You in?”
He read me like a book. Either that, or Dave had clued him in, which I sincerely doubted. This was a test. I was a rocker, with a new taste for the blues. Dave knew that. But Jerry had figured it out during our brief meeting. Damn! Was it that obvious. He knew I didn't have the slightest notion of what country music was about, or probably the slightest interest in it for that matter. Dave smiled. He knew this was coming, and yet hadn't said a word to Jerry or me. He was reveling in the awkwardness of the situation.
“Yeah, I'm in. Sure. I love country.” The words left my lips so fast I hadn't even had time to think before speaking. What the hell was I getting myself into this time. Jerry nodded slowly, sizing up my reaction, which judging by his emerging smile, must have been very unconvincing.
“Great. How's next Saturday? My place in on St. Charles Street.
“Two O'clock?”
Damn. I was going to become a country bass player. I simply nodded.
“We'll be there.” Dave replied. A little too gleefully, I thought.

Oh yeah. We had a country band alright. We played weddings, Eagles halls, Elk's halls, Moose halls. The sleaziest country redneck bars north of the Mason-Dixon line. We went through drummers like they were peanut m&m's. Jerry even taught himself the pedal steel guitar so we'd sound even more country. We wore white, (white for god's sake) jeans, and bright satin royal blue matching shirts. Big ass belt buckles. Blue suede cowboy boots become my normal attire. Oh, the guys busted a gut when I picked those out. Bolo ties, shirts with that godawful piping all over them. Cowboy hats! We quit our day gigs at the warehouse, and went on the road. A tour of the midwest covering northern Illinois, southern Wisconsin, and Iowa. We played a circuit that kept us playing three or four weeks a month, five and six days a week for two years. We spent our days in each new town or city scoping out the museums, parks, dive restaurants, or just lounging in the motel room smoking pot, waiting for our nine p.m. start. We played 'til two, and then partied with the bar staff 'til four or five, and fell helplessly on to our beds, sleeping 'til noon. Maid-Rite was our haven for breakfast or lunch, your choice. Man, I miss those crumbled meat sandwiches. We made it home once a month or so to see our girls, sometimes leaving right after we finished Saturday night. We would driving all night, and then head back out Monday afternoon to make the nine p.m. gig. Along the way, the band even found out that I could sing a little (something I always avoided like the plague) and soon I was what you would call the lead singer in our little nightmare of a country band. To be honest, it wasn't all country. Bands like the Eagles, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Gram Parsons, and Jackson Browne were getting recognition as crossover country-rock artists, and we learned the material quickly. Old rock tunes and Stones covers like Dead Flowers and Honky Tonk Women made their way onto the set list, and the band really was really getting a good sound.
And a funny thing happened. I became a bass player. All of those sets, night after night, playing roots and fifths, boom, boom, boom, boom. Learning my instrument, getting my fingers to the point where they really knew the fingerboard, understanding the form of the tunes, learning dynamics and true musicianship. Listening. It had happened without my really being cognizant of it. A certain pride took over, and I discovered music in a new and enlightened way.
Lounging in our motel room or sitting in the sun, after we had exhausted the sights and scenes of the local landscape, the subject of music would frequently come up for discussion. Jerry always recommended that we listen to jazz. “This is the music that will make us better players.” he said. Jerry's junior high and high school experience had been much different than mine. He played trombone, and had a very hip band director. He had played in his high school Stage Band, and had been very inspired by the variety of music that he was exposed to. He had also played guitar and done the whole rock thing. He knew music theory, and wanted to begin really studying jazz. He was always pushing himself to be a better musician. It was an attitude that was rubbing off on the rest of the guys, and it showed in our improved playing. It brought me back to my early roots. My dad had been a jazz fan. As a child, I had already been unwittingly been exposed to jazz legends like Duke Ellington, Miles Davis and Count Basie.

And eventually, the grind of the road began to take it's toll, and we ended up home, and back at the day gigs.

Jerry and I were now sharing the lower half of a nice old house, and we were playing music every chance we got. Sometimes it was a wedding, or one of the old honky tonks, or one of the many animal halls, but mostly it was jazz study in our living room. One day I came home from the day gig, and Sam (our rhythm guitarist) and Jerry were messing around with an old plywood Kay double bass.
“Hey man! Glad you're home. You gotta check this out. This thing is crazy!” Sam was also a bass player, and he was playing a Willie Dixon blues line, somewhat out of tune, and grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
“Lemme see that thing.” I said as I slid the bass up against my thigh, and gave the E string a hearty thump.
“It's yours.” Jerry said with a huge smile. “You need that thing. But I expect you to be able to play it in our new jazz group. I've heard enough of that horizontal bass.”
I stood holding the bass, speechless.
“You can't give me this. You just got it.” It's really cool though.”
Jerry smiled. “Yeah, and what am I gonna do with a doghouse bass? It's yours, man.”
“How much did you pay for it?” I knew it was more than I had.
“Three Bens. It was a steal.”
“Well, at least let me give you three for it then.”
“Yeah, fine. Whenever man, just play it.”
That bass and I became good friends over the next several years, and I took some private lessons with a local player who knew jazz and was playing in the Chicago Civic Orchestra, and another jazz player who introduced me to avant garde jazz and the music of Charles Mingus. Jerry and I signed up for a jazz combo night class at the local community college, which went pretty well, and was a good introduction to chart reading, chords, and jazz ensemble playing.
Sitting on the porch sipping an Old Style beer on one of those dog days of late summer, I watched as Jerry pulled up in his ancient Chevy Impala, stuck his head out of the window and yelled,
“Come on man, we're gonna be late.”
“Late for what?” I took another sip of my brew.
“Will ya just get off your lazy butt, and get in?” He was in mock anger mode now. I knew by now that it was better to go along than try to figure what he had in mind, so I slammed the beer and got in the old Chevy.
“Where we goin'?” Feigned indifference laced my voice.
“You'll see, but we gotta hurry. They're closing soon, and classes start tomorrow.” My head snapped around to eye Jerry.
“Classes? What classes?”
“Oh, just a few easy classes to get you a little more inspired. Nothing too serious. Music History I. Music Theory.”
He looked over at me with that raised left eyebrow.
“You in?”
I was incredulous.
“Man, I remember the last time you asked me that. I ended up singing in a country western band.”
His reply was slow and measured, and the humor was gone.
“A damn good country band as I recall.”
“Look,” he continued, “I know the teachers, you got nothing else going on, I'm signing you up. You will go to class.”
I could do nothing but stare blankly.
“Well, okay Dad. If that's the way...”
Jerry's interruption was swift.
“You bet your ass that's the way it's gonna be. And I ain't your daddy.” The smile returned.

* * * * * * *

The years spent with Ellen Fisher and Robert Harding were among the best of my life. Ellen was a classical oboist, a fine pianist, and taught Music Theory and Class Piano. Robert was new to the community college, taught Music Appreciation, Music History, Composition, and was the assistant conductor of the local community orchestra.
He also conducted a youth orchestra of some of the better students whose schools didn't have orchestra programs.
My studies expanded as my interest in all things music grew to levels I had never imagined. Ellen had me play in the pit band for the musical Cabaret. I played recitals for my classmates. Composition lessons with Robert led me to begin exploring melody, harmony and form in new and exciting ways. The two of them piqued an interest in Opera with a trip to Des Moines, Iowa to see productions of Bizet's Carmen and Menoti's The Counsel. Robert soon hooked me up with a new bass teacher from Chicago who played in our local orchestra. Things were moving fast and Robert insisted that I audition for the Symphony. It wasn't really an audition because they needed bass players for the upcoming concert of Handel's Messiah. I just showed up to rehearsal and played, or tried to anyway, as my reading wasn't what it should have been, while Margaret Hall (the choral conductor of the Chicago Symphony!) glared at me throughout the rehearsal. As I was the only bassist at the rehearsal, it was obvious who wasn't holding down the bottom. Into the fire I went!
I survived however, and played with the orchestra for a season and a half, getting more comfortable all the time. I kept playing with Jerry and our saxophone playing friend Pat Powers in our little jazz band. We still went through drummers like peanut m&m's.
One day Robert called me into his office and sat back in his chair smiling at me. Did I detect a raised eyebrow?
“It's time for you to move on.” Robert leaned back even further.
“You need to pursue your love of music.”
“Well, I'm happy studying right here.” It was almost a stammer, and I instantly felt self-conscious.
“Yes, I know, but Ellen and I feel that you need a more intense musical environment. Northern Illinois has a very good program right now. Good Jazz and Modern music departments, and I hear that the new conductor is superb. It's close, just an hour away. You could still play in our symphony. You have thought about it, no?” Maybe I had, but not in this way. Things were going so well. Now my teachers wanted to send me an hour away to a university of twenty thousand students that cost who knows how much.
“Your parents will help you.” Robert looked calm, as though he had this all planned out. “You are ready, you know.”
Was I? How could he know? Yeah, my parents would help out. and yes, they would be thrilled, but the thought of heading to a university to study music was more than a little frightening. Hell, I was twenty four years old and...
“You would transfer as a sophomore, I'm quite sure. You should be able to proficiency all of your theory if Ellen's done the job I think she has.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and tried to avoid eye contact.
Robert caught my uneasiness and his words turned gentle.
“Look, you have a future in music. It's what you love. You have prepared for this. Do it now while you can.”

A degree was something that had truly never crossed my mind. I was studying with teachers like Robert and Ellen and Jerry simply because I loved music.

* * * * * * *

I pulled the key from the ignition, grabbed my music bag from the passenger seat, and climbed out. I reached over my head and stretched hard before unlocking the rear hatch of the Pinto, and gently slid the bass out. As I tucked the bass under my arm and lifted it at the waist, I felt the knot in my stomach return. I crossed the small parking lot to the back door of the music building and entered the long dimly lit hallway that led to the faculty wing. It was probably dim because of the hour and day, as it was just before nine p.m. on Sunday night. The place was like a morgue. The fall semester didn't start for two weeks, and as I walked down the hall I could hear first a violin , and then a clarinet. Students practicing, I thought. And good players too. I considered that maybe they were faculty members.
My mind was suddenly racing with thoughts: This would soon be my hallway. The instrument locker room I just passed, my bass would be stored there. I would be the one using those practice rooms. The small, empty student lounge with its small soft chairs where I would relax and discuss music with my peers while sipping coffee.
What would my new conductor be like? Robert had told me that Mr. Sanger was Polish and had been a conductor in Europe before coming to America to be with his son, who was an aspiring actor in Los Angeles. He was now finishing his conducting career at Northern Illinois University. Robert said that he was very “old school European,” and I surmised that he meant “strict.” That would be just fine with me. Swift kicks usually served to keep me motivated.
As I neared the end of the hallway, I stopped to readjust my grip on the awkward, heavy instrument. I stood next to an open door marked “Recital Hall” and could hear a pianist working with a trumpet player on a piece of modern music that sounded familiar, but that I didn't recognize. Unable to resist, I stuck my head in and saw a small red-haired girl pounding at the piano keys. She looked up lazily, smiled, and kept right on pounding. The trumpet player seemed to be having a tough time keeping up.
Through the door and into the Music building front foyer, around the corner and up a short flight of stairs. My heart was now pounding as a result of schlepping the bass around and the excitement of being in this new environment. The second floor hallway where the faculty had their offices was darker and narrower than the one by the practice rooms. I had seen no other humans in the building since I arrived, save the pounding pianist and terrified trumpeter. As I reached the end of the hallway, I heard talking coming from a room just up on the right. Next to the door a small plastic plaque read “Maestro Sanger.” Standing close to the thick, solid door, my attempt at eavesdropping proved to no avail. One person seemed to be doing all of the talking, and their tone sounded animated but serious.
My audition was scheduled for nine-thirty p.m. and it was just past nine. I figured I might as well warm up a bit, mostly to get over the nervousness that was now threatening to engulf my being. I pulled the black canvas cover off the bass, dug the rosin and bow out their cases and proceeded to play long tone major scales. Softly. I still was trying to get a read on what was going on in there. The solitary voice could still be heard, but I hadn't heard a single note of music. Twenty after nine, and it now seemed deathly quiet in that room. I hesitated to go on practicing, but the wait and the silence were too much to bear. I pulled out the trusty Telemann Sonata and began to play through the first movement. Then the second movement. Still nothing. What the hell was going on in there? Then more talking, and quiet again. Damn! Wait, I now heard a second voice. Much too soft for me to make out, but a second voice just the same. I had almost been ready to knock on the door, but with two people in there, I couldn't do it now. My gold pocket watch now read nine-fifty.
Suddenly the door opened and I nearly dropped the bass. A soft, dim light escaped the room and fell on the hallway floor. Seconds later a lanky kid with glasses and sandy long blonde hair emerged with a cello case in hand. he was probably eighteen but looked like fifteen. And he looked scared. He made no eye contact as he slid by me and hurriedly walked down the hall. As he neared the stairs he dropped a black folder and sheet music spilled in a heap.
I stood stunned, unsure of what I should do, or if I even wanted to do anything except get the hell out of there. The room was again very quiet. I swallowed hard and meekly approached the doorway with my Telemann and my bass. Mr. Sanger sat hunched over a desk in the front corner of the room, although from the angle I entered I could not see his face. A black music stand stood on a large Indian rug in the middle of a sparsely decorated room. On two of the walls there were many cheaply framed black and white photographs of musicians that I didn't recognize. There was a small rocking chair behind the music stand. Several shelves contained hundreds of books. Were they all about music? Many of them were. A large formal desk was at the back of the room. It was piled high with stacks of sheet music and music scores, but I could see that Mr. Sanger did most of his work from the small roll-top desk at the front of the room. How I ever noticed that much about that room I'll never know.
I moved forward and placed the little baroque sonata on the music stand and took the bass bow from the quiver. Nervously I slid the bow across the rosin, although the bow already had more that enough rosin on it for a complete performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Mr. Sanger slowly rose from his office chair and turned towards me without looking up. He was wearing black slacks, a very wrinkled white dress shirt that was open at the collar and bedroom slippers. I broke a slight smile at his appearance as he slid across the floor. He reached the music stand, still without having addressed me, and eyed the pencil marked front page of the Telemann Sonata in A minor.
He suddenly grabbed the sheet music, and in one large sweeping motion threw it against the nearest wall while exclaiming in a loud irritated european accent,
“You vill not impress me with this Telemann!” Telemann fell to the floor.
He quickly turned to his desk and began shuffling papers. The smile that had graced my face had disappeared instantly and I was very relieved that we had not made any eye contact. I was beginning to understand the long silence and one sided conversation. Soon he found the object of his search, turned towards me again, this time showing me his full determined face, took two large strides to the music stand and placed the bass part for Mozart's thirty-fifth symphony, the “Haffner,” on the stand. He gave me a thorough looking over, turned again towards his desk, and as he sat in the hard wooden chair said, “Now, Play!” He was as he had been when I had entered, hunched over at his desk, staring at the music scores on his small desk.
I knew who Mozart was and had even played a few of his pieces with the youth and community orchestras, but I was totally unfamiliar with the Haffner Symphony. I scanned the page as Scott had taught me do when confronted with a sight-reading challenge. I mentally went over the first line. Let's see here, key of “D” major, cut time. The first measure a whole note “D,” played forte, and the second measure an octave jump to another “D.” Geez, this can't be too bad. I got this.
I took a very deep breath, as virtually all of my teachers had taught me to do when confronted with nerves that were likely to ruin a perfectly good playing opportunity. Placing the bow on the “D” string, I quickly glanced over at Mr. Sanger. He hadn't moved and inch. Was he breathing? I looked back at the page, took another much too shallow breath, and drew the bow down hard on the string. The open “D” string roared for two of the four counts of the measure before Mr. Sanger's hand shot into the air as he yelled,
“Stop!”
“Mr. Sanger, I...”
“You vill address me as Maestro.” He shot back.

The twenty minute lecture that followed is relatively unimportant, and to be honest the only thing I remember him saying was, “You must work very hard. I should not let you in zee orchestra, but you may play as long as you work very hard.” The ride home was long, and I alternately cried and laughed as I remembered first my half-a-note audition, and then the fact that as bad as it had been, I was admitted to “Zee orchestra.”

* * * * * * *
I spent the first semester at NIU playing in the orchestra, taking music classes, and enjoying my new job. The Maestro had called me into his office after rehearsal one day the second week of classes, and told me, “Since you cannot play well, I have a job for you. Orchestra Personnel Manager.” This involved meeting with The Maestro everyday after rehearsals to go over details involving the operations of the orchestra. After awhile, we became comfortable with each other, although I would never presume to have been his “Friend.” Many days he sat and ate his lunch, and after we had dealt with business, he would tell me stories of “the old country” and his experiences with some of the best musicians and orchestras in the world.
A year later we were rehearsing Mahler's First Symphony for a fall performance, and we came to the third movement, which begins with a bass solo. Our Principal bassist stumbled badly playing it, and Maestro stopped her short. He always felt music was from the heart, and was capable our baring the human soul. He was in the middle of lecturing the entire bass section when he abruptly stopped, and asked the second chair bassist to play the solo. Maestro first cued the tympani, and then the bassist in. He too fumbled the part, although he did manage to play the whole thing without being stopped. This continued until he got to me. The tympani started, and I came in without being cued. I had this incredible feeling of knowing the music and playing it as though it were mine. When I finished, my peers in the orchestra gave me the “foot-clap,” a shuffling of the feet on the wooden stage floor, that symbolized applause, but was done with the feet, as the hands were busy holding one's instrument. Three other bassists played it through and the seven of us stood with our instruments, waiting for the Maestro to resume his lecture.
He frowned, then half smiled, pointed first at me and then to the first stand.
“Move. You are now zee Principal.” “But you must work very hard...”

"

Band Battle 2009

Carbondale Middle School's 8th grade Jammin' Wolverines won the 2009 Jazz Aspen Snowmass Band Battle on Saturday. The third time in the last 8 years they have done so. This was a great event for the kids and they Rocked. A couple of nice blues tunes, and they finished the set with Low Rider. I could not have been more proud of them.

Springtime

Back from Isla for two weeks now, and I'm still on the island.
Really looking forward to a return trip. Downloading Caribbean sea sounds from itunes.
30 instructional days left of the school year. This one has gone by faster than any I can remember.
Still lots to do.
Next weekend taking the high school kids that work with Tim Fox down to Greeley (UNC) for the jazz fest. We'll get to see the Mingus tribute big band on Friday night, perform Saturday morning for the judges, hang for awhile and return Saturday night. A very busy time that is truly a wonderful experience for the kids. Myself, I can't wait to hear the Mingus band.
May 1st we are performing in downtown Carbondale, Colorado. The 7th and 8th grade CMS bands, the Roaring Fork H.S. Jazz band, as well as several RFHS groups that will be performing....
on May 2nd at the Jazz Aspen Snowmass Battle of the Bands. 20 bands in 5 hours. Big FUN!
May 7th and 9th will be the spring Symphony in the Valley concerts.
Other than that, it's pretty slow around here. teehee.

Isla Mujeres

Spring Break. Not a bad idea at all. It's creation much more for the teachers than the students I believe. So, with just 8 school weeks left, LLW Donna and I are off to the tiny and beautiful island of Isla Mujeres. Flying out of Denver tomorrow morn at 8:44, and by 3 p.m. Cancun local time, we should be on the ferry to Isla. The island is a whopping 4.5 miles long and a 1/4 mile wide. Lots of sun, cerveza, and relaxing.

I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened. -- Mark Twain

Welcome to The MOMG Files. (Mean Ol' Mr. Gray)
My son Dan hooked me up with this in my continuing quest to become a little more Hi-Tech.
And because I told him that I was interested in writing some short stories,
I became a public school Music Teacher in 2001, after owning a Music store (Glenwood Music), managing a Taco Bell, and working in a ski resort as a Property Manager. This all after migrating to Colorado from Illinois after attending Northern Illinois University where I was a "Comprehensive" Music major.

Here I hope to address some of my interests, and discuss one of my favorite topics: Useless information. I steadfastly refuse to take myself too seriously, but occasionally lapse into bouts of melancholy, and do just that. I am joined in my life quest by my Lovely Little Wife Donna, and my children; Stephanie, Dan, and A.J.
My passion for MUSIC drives most of my working (Playing) hours, but I enjoy cooking, reading, a good Dominican cigar, Islay Single Malt Scotch, and a good board game.
Enjoy the ride, and feel free to comment or question.