Truth spoken here

I started piano lessons when in third grade at school; I was around eight years old at the time. I remember my first lesson. (For Victoria friends, my first teacher was Robin Wood – I lasted about three lessons): Right hand only — C D E – E F G – switch fingers 5/4 – G A G F E D – second finger over thumb – C. I practiced all week . . . and nailed it. No Inventions, or Scherzi, or Concerti. Just a right hand ditty for the ages. Who knew that such a debut would lead to years of practice, study, and a few performances of note. Nothing special, but a lot of fun at various times in various places.

When it came time for me to teach others, I discovered that some people take to music as ducks take to water. Others can struggle till doomsday and make only modest progress, but still enjoy it. I remember George, an elementary school teacher who lived in the country, cutting his own wood and ploughing his own driveway. His fingers resembled bananas, and his keyboard seemed smaller than normal — sort of ¾ size. Week after week, he battled away through the beginner’s book Jibbidy F and ABC, with a strange, finger-tangled pleasure.

W A Mozart and J S Bach were prodigies. George and I were definitely not. Most who play the piano are not. Many find satisfaction however with various degrees of accomplishment. As a kid who was “encouraged” to take piano lessons, my father once told me that if I kept at it I would be the life of any party. He and I enjoyed such status. He had not yet encountered YouTube, Smart phones or AI. As a WW2 veteran his world was mess halls, with or without a piano.

As for string or wind instruments, I can only imagine the challenge of making an actual sound. With many instruments sound doesn’t just happen; it player and instrument must come to an agreement about how sound is to be produced. I am told that the early days or learning the oboe or bassoon are akin to Mephistopheles visiting hades. At least with the piano you depress a key and the right sound appears.

With the guitar the inaugural ritual is to pluck stiff metal strings with one hand while depressing the same strings on a fret board with the other hand; such machinations can be quite painful at first until the fingers become  calloused. A very talented friend described how he built up callouses by scraping his fingers along concrete. In this, he succeeded, and well. Ouch.

Then there’s the bigger instruments, the ones for which you need to purchase an extra seat on the plane. I lived for a time with Paddy Lannigan, a colorful double bass player from County Down in Ireland. Anytime we went anywhere together, there were three of us. And the Tuba, definitely not a “tuba toothpaste.”

Here in Western Canada many school children learn notation, pitch, and rhythm from playing the recorder. They’re cheap to purchase and don’t bite like a trumpet. They don’t drip spit though a valve like a trombone; and you don’ stick your hand in the barrel as with a French horn. My own memory of recorder class is nothing special. But there was once a teacher in, I think, Prince George, did amazing things with recorder ensembles. And hey, take a listen to some ensembles here; and hey, there’s The Friendly Giant.               

At one time, while living up north myself, I taught fifty-three students piano, guitar, and theory, a total of thirteen adults and the remainder children of various ages. There I discovered that some folks find playing an instrument easy; and for others learning can be a kind of death sentence.

I really like the sentiment expressed in the meme atop this article. Having an ability to sing or play an instrument is a gift. Never forget that.

It’s true. I am grateful for what modest ability and experience I have been given. And I wish the same for others, whether your musical journey begins early in life or in later years. Our world needs more music presently. So join the chorus, vocally or instrumentally.

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