I Hate to Sing-a, About the Moon-a or the June-a or the Spring-a

I was a music major in college, jazz studies, if we're going to be specific about it.  My primary (okay, only) instrument was trumpet, but as is the case with all music majors, I had to take methods classes in woodwinds, strings and percussion.  This presented all sorts of problems because as it turns out, the skills required to play the trumpet don't transfer so well to the contra-bassoon, the glockenspiel or the eight-string banjamagoggin[1].  The instrumental method classes were tolerable, though, because even though we sounded like crap when trying to play unfamiliar instruments, everyone was in the same musical predicament.  Trumpet players sounded crappy on clarinet, flute players sounded crappy on violin, and everyone sounded crappy on oboe, because it's impossible NOT to sound crappy on oboe.  Even if you're an oboe player.

There was one class, though, that all the instrumental majors hated with a passion usually reserved for serial killers and game show hosts.  The voice class.  We were instrumentalists, for crying out loud.  Real musicians!  We can't sing, nor do we want to.  But to get a degree in music, everyone has to pass a voice class, no way around it.  Thankfully, and probably so the voice majors wouldn't have to listen to us, there was a class called "Vocal Methods for Instrumental Majors".  A more accurate title might have been, "You Don't Want to Be Here, We Don't Want You Here, But it's a Requirement So Let's Make the Best of It 101".

In a voice class full of nothing but instrumental majors, there's no pressure at all.  Since everyone sucks to the same degree, there's no need to feel ashamed of your lack of vocal prowess.  If anything, stepping out of one's comfort zone creates a certain camaraderie, and going through this experience together helps forge a common bond, which makes the whole process a hell of a lot of fun.

But I wouldn't know anything about that, because I didn't enroll in "Vocal Methods for Instrumental Majors."  You see, due to a scheduling conflict, I had to take an English Composition course that met at the exact same time as the voice class.  To meet the voice requirement for my major, the dean of the music department allowed me to take a different class.

Vocal Methods for Voice Majors.

So the first day of class, there I was, a jazz trumpet player who hadn't sung in public since my first grade Christmas performance (Twelve Days of Christmas, I was a French hen) in a classroom full of collegiate-level opera divas, Madrigal singers, and up-and-coming Broadway stars.  I didn't want to draw attention to myself, so I resisted the urge to stand up and say something like "Okay, listen up, songbirds!  I'm not a singer, I just need to meet the course requirement.  Just bear with me, let me get my C-minus, and I'll be out of your lives forever!"  Instead, I tried to keep a low profile.

But the truth was bound to come out eventually.

The class met three times a week.  On Monday, we'd select our song and work on it individually.  On Wednesday, the pianist would be available to coach us and provide accompaniment.  Friday, of course, was "recital day," the highlight of the week when we'd all go over to the Harriet and Charles Luckman Fine Arts Center and perform our song for the class and other guests.

I knew I was in trouble the very first Friday.

The students, all thirty of us, entered the palatial music hall and took our seats in the first couple rows.  Much to my horror, about fifty other students had also stopped by to check out the recital.  It was the instrumental majors, who were just dying to see me make a complete and utter mezzo-idiot of myself in public.

The pianist took her seat at the Steinway baby grand and Dr. LaFontaine, the instructor, welcomed the audience and got the performance underway.  "Okay, would anyone like to volunteer to open the show?" she asked.

"I'll go first," said one of the tenors.  I think his name was Luciano.  Or Placido.  Something Italian and snooty-sounding.  He was wearing slacks, a tuxedo shirt, and a black blazer.  With a bow tie.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending tonight's performance," he said, even though it was 1:00 in the afternoon.  "I'll be performing Puccini's Che Gelida Manina, from La Boheme."

It was beautiful.  Fluid melodic passages, crisp arpeggios, sustained delicate high notes that resonated in the deepest corners of the concert hall.  When he stopped singing, his voice bounced around for an extra two minutes.

Next up was a soprano named Suzanna Van Horne who, in addition to being a talented opera singer attending college on a full music scholarship, spent her evenings rehearsing with a Los Angeles theater company.  She had recently been cast in the role of Maria in their production of West Side Story.

The chick had pipes, is what I'm saying.

She took the stage wearing a gorgeous black dress.  Floor length.  Spaghetti straps.  Cleavage.

"I'll be performing Un Bel Di Vedremo, from Madame Butterfly," she announced.

If anything, Suzanna's performance was even better than Luciano's.  Her upper register was perfectly in tune, her phrasing was precise and natural, quite simply, she was magnificent.  At the conclusion of her performance, the audience gave her a standing ovation, as they should have.  Clearly, no one in the class had talent remotely resembling that displayed by the lovely Miss Suzanna Van Horne.

But wait.  The next singer was taking the stage.

 It was a guy named Chris, a trumpet player who clearly had no business being at this recital.

I took the stage in my classy performance attire.  Jeans by Levi.  Shoes by Reebok.  Sweatshirt by Laundry Basket.

The instrumental majors gave me an enthusiastic welcome as I dragged my ass to center stage.

"Hi.  I'm Chris.  I'll, uh, be performing a song entitled You Are My Sunshine.  You might remember it from a French's mustard commercial in the 1970's."

Snickers from the audience.

The pianist played the introduction, and we were off.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  You make me happeeeee, when skies are gray . . . "

My voice crackled like bacon, frying in the pan.  Most of the notes came within a half-step or so of what was written on the page.  I remembered most of the words.  When the song mercifully ended, the crowd gave me a heart-felt sitting ovation.  "Smattering applause" is the phrase that comes to mind.

As the semester progressed, to the surprise of everyone, my vocal talent gradually improved.  In sixteen short weeks, I went from "completely sucks" to "not entirely unlistenable".  And to be honest, the vocal majors were very understanding of my situation and encouraged me to do the best I could.  No one booed, anyway.

Besides, sooner or later Suzanna Van Horne and Luciano the Tenor were going to have to take the brass methods class.  And playing the tuba is much harder than it looks.


[1] Thanks to Homemaker Man for the term "banjamagoggin".



d

Beethoven, Bugs, and the Terminator

If you've ever been to college, you have undoubtedly been forced to take courses that you had absolutely no interest in. They were required either as part of the general education core or as part of your major, so you signed up and gutted it out. I'm sure you noticed, as did I, that a startling number of these required classes are taught by professors who are: boring, long-winded, psychotic, foreign-born and have a difficult-to-understand accent, demanding, intolerant, sadistic, and/or hygienically-challenged.

Situations such as this are personality conflicts waiting to happen. The student needs the credits but doesn't want to be there. The professor is committed to teaching the material, yet frustrated by students who don't share this obsession, er, commitment. Do I have a particular example of this, you ask?

Indeed I do.

Welcome to Music 370 (History of Music in Western Civilization) and Dr. Helga von Terminbach. Dr. von Terminbach aka "The Terminator", was the Wicked Witch of the West minus the charm and compassion. She stood about 5'5", and weighed in at 73 pounds (give or take), the majority of which was accounted for by her nose. Most likely coming from a family lineage that included a few rabid wolverines and a Nazi torture expert, Dr. von Terminbach had a passion for music history that bordered on the unhealthy and possessed no patience whatsoever for students who did not genuflect before the musical masters such as Beethoven and Mozart.

And in the blue corner, a tuned-out jazz studies major who wasn't the least Francking bit interested in classical music . . . me.

Two factors contributed to the "irresistable force/immovable object" relationship between me and the good doctor. One was that she took everything very seriously and had absolutely no sense of humor, the other was that I can't stand being bored out of my mind. So, when she was pontificating about the works of Haydn, I was listening to a Coltrane tape on my Walkman (iPod? What's an iPod?). She'd elaborate on the Satanic implications of the diminished fifth, I'd catch up on my sleep. Helga would play excerpts from Wagner's "Ring of the Nibelung", my buddy Eric and I would try to determine the gender of the hairy opera student in the front row.

Let me tell you a little bit about Eric. He was my best friend and carpool partner, looked like a young Bill Cosby, and was extremely quiet. He did, however, possess a quick wit and perfect comic timing combined with the ability to maintain his ever-stoic expression in the process. These qualities got me into trouble (which HE of course always managed to avoid) on more than one occasion. With that in mind, we'll move on to Larry the string bass player.

Larry was a nice guy, with one distinguishing vocal quirk. He preceded every sentence with an "aaaaaaaaahhh".

"Vill sahm-body name zee composer of zee Jupiter Symphony? Larry?" asked The Terminator.

"Aaaaaaaahhh, that would be Mozart."

"Zehr gut. Und how many zymphonies did Mozart compose, Larry?"

"Aaaaaaahhh, 41, Dr. von Terminbach."

"Ya, das ist korrekt."

One day, Eric beat Larry to the punch.

"Vas is zee name of zee last movement of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique? Larry, do you know?"

Sotto voce, Eric let out an, "Aaaahhhhhh..." to the amusement of the back row.

And then came Larry's "Aaaaaaahhhh . . ." We cracked up.

The doctor shot me a glare.  "Ist sahm-zink fah-nee in zee back row?"

"No, nothing at all, Dr. von Terminbach," I said, battling a chuckle.

"I vould appreciate it if you vould concentrate on zee lesson at hand und stop vit zee foolishness, ya?"

"Ya, I mean, of course, Dr. von Terminbach. I apologize."

Thankfully, she let it go that time. We weren't always so fortunate.

Every few weeks, we would have a "listening exam". Basically, this was "Name That Tune" from hell. Did we get tunes like "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree"? Oh, no, not us. In eight bars or less, we'd have to identify such toe-tappers as Bela Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra or Debussy's Prelude to Afternoon of a Faun. Studying for a test like this was an exercise in futility. We'd stay up into the wee hours, playing album after album and trying to lock in to key themes or phrases. Our efforts were enhanced (or, in retrospect, perhaps impeded) by the consumption of large amounts of alcohol, which had the additional effect of leaving us groggy on exam day.Well, on one particular listening test, the Terminator dropped the record needle on Rossini's Largo al Factotum from The Barber of Seville.

You know the piece. The tenor busts out with, "Largo al factotum della cit TA - LAR GO. Fa la la, fa la la, fa la la LA" and culminates with the resounding "FEEEE-garo".

So about three measures in, Eric and I looked at each other and stifled a giggle. Have you ever been in a situation where something is funny, you know you can't laugh, and that makes you want to laugh even more? Of course, we all have. I tried desperately to hold it in, but the more the music played, the clearer the picture in my mind of Giovanni Jones, Bugs Bunny's targeted tenor in the classic "Long-Haired Hare" turning red, blue, purple, plaid, tuxedo coming undone, et cetera, et cetera. By the time the record got to "Feeeee-garo! Feeeee-garo! Feegaro-feegaro-feegaro!" I was in physical pain. Eric, of course, was sitting up straight, eyes on Fraulein Professor, not even cracking a smile. To my dismay, Dr. von Terminbach noticed me and stormed down the aisle, evoking the image of the "Surrender Dorothy" scene from the Wizard of Oz.

Again with the glare.  "Ist sahm-zink fahnee about ziss opp-hor-a?"

"No, (cough), Dr. Terminbach, (chuckle), nothing at all." I replied.

"Vatt aboot you, Meestair Williams? Do you find zee Bahr-bayr off Za-veel ist zee comedy?"

"No ma'am," mumbled Eric.

"Vell, you har laughink," she snarled at me, "obviously sahm-zink hast strucken zee fah-nee bone, no?"

"I don't think you'd see the humor in it, Dr. von Terminbach."

"Oh, ahf course I vill! I have zee great zence ahf humor. Vat ees zo fah-nee?"

"I'd rather not say, Dr. von Terminbach. Just go on with the test, please?"

She sighed, then turned back toward the record player. And just when I thought we were going to get through this unscathed, the androgenous front-row opera student had to give us away.

"What they're giggling about, Dr. von Terminbach," he (she?) said, "is that this piece was used in a Bugs Bunny cartoon."

"BOGS BAH-NEE?!?! VEE ARE LEESTENINK TO ZEE GREAT ROSSINI'S BAHR-BAYR AHF ZA-VEEL AND YOU HAR THEENKINK AHF BOGS BAH-NEE?!"

Her outburst, combined with her enunciation of "Bogs Bah-nee", did us in. The back row erupted in hysterics. Eric might have cracked a smile.

Dr. von Terminbach, giving me a look best described as "withering", snarled through clenched teeth, "Zat ist it, get out ahf ziss closs room at vunce."

So the following semester I got to take History of Music in Western Civilization all over again.


sw

The Category Five Hurricane

Note to my mother: The events described in the following story are completely made up. Just keep telling yourself that.

When I regained consciousness, I was curled up in the corner of an upward-bound elevator in the Orlando Sheraton.

The year was 1985. I was in college.

Our jazz ensemble traveled from Southern California to Orlando to participate in the Walt Disney World Jazz Festival. Now, you’ve all probably heard the stereotype that band members are geeks, dorks, and various types of goobers. This, of course, is a stereotype and as is the case with most stereotypes, it’s absolutely true. Most of us were nineteen or twenty years old, so we were still a year or so away from being of legal drinking age.

In California.

In the great state of Florida, however, the legal drinking age was twenty, a detail that did not escape our attention. The first night,we were sitting around in the hotel room, plotting the evening’s activities. When you’re underage, opportunities for obtaining alcohol are somewhat limited, and you get used to bumming booze off the older siblings of your party buds, or bribing someone of age to make a beer run. With our new found freedom, though, it was much simpler.

“Hey, let’s go down to the hotel bar and get hammered!” suggested Alex.

Alex Harrison was a trombone player, and I mean that in the nicest sense of the term. He was about six-two, and vaguely resembled Frankenstein. He was the kind of guy who would do anything for a laugh, even if he were the butt of the joke, which he often was. Alex owned a gold Volkswagen Beetle with a sunroof. Just for shits and giggles, he’d open the sunroof, pop his head out, and drive around like that. It was hilarious, as well as ridiculously stupid.

We hooked up with two more guys, Ralph and John, piled into the elevator and headed down to the Zanzibar Lounge. The hostess seated us at a table in the back, and we perused the drink menu. Gator Wizz. The Swamp Bomb. The Barracuda.

“Hey, check out this one,” said John, pointing at the drink menu. He was the lead trumpet player, incredibly arrogant, and among the four of us, had the most experience with alcohol. None of it good, but experience nonetheless. “The Category Five Hurricane. This looks pretty potent.”

The Category Five Hurricane, Zanzibar’s specialty, consisted of three kinds of fruit juice, rum, vodka, peach Schnapp’s, a shot of grenadine, and if I’m not mistaken, turpentine and nitroglycerin. The menu was not particularly specific.

Up to this point in our young, foolish lives, most of our drinking experience was with beer, and we all knew (more or less) what our personal limits were. For example, I knew that three beers gave me a nice buzz, while five had me doing the Technicolor yawn on someone’s carpet. Through an unforgivable oversight, the Zanzibar Lounge did not provide a beer-to-Category Five Hurricane conversion chart, but as it turns out, Budweiser and Hurricane do not have a one-to-one correspondence. It’s more like a one to a very tiny sip correspondence.

We did not know this at the time.

“You fellas gonna trah the Hurry-kine?” drawled the waitress. According to her gold name badge, she was Amanda. A bit on the pudgy side, not spectacular looking, but nothing you’d throw a bag over, either. Let’s call her a soft six on the one-to-ten scale.

“Yep,” said John. “A round of Category Five Hurricanes please, Amanda. We’re ready to party!”

A couple minutes later, Amanda brought out the hooch, and we were in absolute fucking awe. Though it wasn’t made clear by the picture on the menu, the Category Five Hurricane is served in a glass that’s approximately the size of the Stanley Cup.

Oh, were they tasty. Peach, orange, lime, just a hint of turpentine. We blew through the first round of Hurricanes like Anna Nicole at a Viagra convention.

“Okay, the next round’s on me,” said Ralph, although it came out more like, “Oh, kay. Zhuh neft rowd’s agh meh.” Ralph was a throwback to the 1950’s. Leather jacket, slicked back hair that he was always combing. He was a neo-Fonzie, if Fonzie played the tenor saxophone, wore an earring, and had an acne problem.

Amanda carted out the next round, and we dived back in.“Mebbe we orta get zub food zo we don’ get too wayshted,” suggested John, as he stared into his drink.

“Good thinkin’,” mumbled Alex. “Don’ wanna ged sick er shumfin.”

We ordered some hot wings, onion rings, potato skins, and the seafood platter. And, of course, another round of Hurricanes.

By this time, things were getting a little fuzzy. Okay, a lot fuzzy. We knew we had to get up early in the morning for our performance at the Tomorrowland Terrace, so we didn’t want to do something irresponsible like staying up too late.

“You boys ready fer one mo-ah round?” purred Amanda. Over the last half hour or so, she’d somehow gone from a six to a solid eight, and rising.

“Who’sh gudda buy duh nesht round?” asked Alex.

Ralph passed out face first in a plate of fried clams and cocktail sauce. We took that as a signal that the next round was on him.

By the time we polished off the last our Hurricanes, it was approaching one o’clock in the morning.

“Grf bulla frubba gut googa,” suggested John.

"Waff stroffa," replied Alex. "Bub dubba burble gorp."

“Merf,” I added, reluctantly. “Blubba gunk friff brap.”

Ralph said nothing. He was still asleep in his seafood platter.

We paid the check, which was astronomical, tipped the waitress, splashed some water on Ralph's face to revive him (somewhat) and stood up.

Have you ever been really, really hammered? Not tipsy, not buzzed, hell, not even merely drunk. I mean blurry vision, room spinning, jelly-legged, I-can’t-feel-my-fucking-face blasted. That kind of covers our state of being as we attempted to navigate our way out of the Zanzibar Lounge.

"Oh, Earl, look at those boys," said some blue-haired old bat. "That's just embarrassing."

"Frushk yoooou," mumbled John, drawing a shocked gasp from Gramma Moses.

We somehow made it to the elevator and headed up to our rooms. The sudden movement made me even dizzier than I already was, so I sat down in the corner and stared at the ceiling. It seemed to be melting.

The next thing I knew, I was in the elevator by myself. Nauseous. With a screaming headache. I stared at my watch and waited for it to come into focus.

Five o’clock AM. Those fuckers had abandoned me.

We were all supposed to be in the lobby at eight, so we could go over to Disney World and be ready to perform by eleven. I got off the elevator at the eleventh floor and stumbled to my room. When I opened the door, I noticed an unusual smell. Vomit, mixed with the unmistakable scent of fruit juice and cocktail sauce. I went into the bathroom, and there was Ralph, asleep with his head resting on the toilet seat.

Ralph had ralphed everywhere. The shower curtain. The bath tub. The sink. It looked like “The Exorcist Meets Psycho”.

I kicked him in the ribs to wake him up.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuucccckkkkkk,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, I know, me too. Let’s clean this shit up.”

We did the best we could. When the bathroom was passable (to us) we took turns showering and got about an hour of sleep. We got ready and barely made it to the lobby on time. John and Alex were asleep on one of the lobby couches. Everyone else was milling around, chipper as can be, ready for an exciting day in the Magic Kingdom.

As we dragged ourselves onto the bus, the band director noticed our condition.

“What the hell happened to you guys?” he asked. “You look like you’ve been hit by a tornado.”

He was pretty close. Actually, it was a series of Category Five Hurricanes.

Looking back on it, I'm not particularly proud of our indulgence.  While we did tend to go overboard once in a while, this story is an exception not the rule at least, not for most of us.  A few of our friends, however, didn't seem to know when to stop, and this led to all sorts of problems later on.  If you or someone you know has a drug or alcohol problem, California Drug Rehab could be their step back into life.


d