(Author’s note: Sometimes writing takes off in a completely different direction than what you had intended. I initially set out to write this post as a biopic tribute to Dr. Anton Webern (this will now be forthcoming), for what would have been his 140th birthday. After coming up with this title, however, my fingers took over and this is the post that came pouring out of my heart and soul. And because I am always listening, I lovingly obeyed where the spirit led.)
In his now classic song, “Leader of the Band,” Dan Fogelberg sang, “I thank you for the music and your stories of the road…”. A heartfelt tribute to his father, who had been a small town band director. On this December 3rd, I would like to borrow Fogelberg’s lyric and thank my own band director father for sharing his love of music with me and his stories of the road.
“He Gave To Me A Gift I Know I Never Can Repay”
Unconventional, renaissance man, esoteric, these are all words that could aptly describe my father, and now in turn myself. My earliest and best memories with my Dad revolve around music. Beside the turntable, around the band stand, in the band room, on the podium. Even before I was aware it was happening, my ears were being serenaded with the giants of music. Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, yes these composers made their presence known. The giants I remember most though had other, perhaps less well recognized names. John Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Karel Husa, Anton Webern.
My first word was Bird. My Grandma may be correct in saying she taught it to me, through looking at the birds outside her kitchen window. I have always preferred my own, more nostalgic version though, that I was speaking of Charlie “Bird” Parker. With my Dad and I there wasn’t much time for nursery rhymes, there was too much serious music to dig. Who needed “Mary Had A Little Lamb” when we could listen to Parker and Dizzy Gillespie trade fours or Bob Dylan sing about “Napoleon in rags?”
“Summertime And The Livin’ Is Easy”
Because he was a teacher my Dad got every summer off. For me, and later my brothers also, this meant two months of fun with Dad. The first two summers of my life though it was just me. While I don’t remember them, I am told they were spent listening, studying and napping. Perhaps in inverse order, especially for me. My Dad started on his Master’s degree in music shortly after I was born. As I myself found out, much later in my life, studying for a Master’s, while working full time, with a young family, is perhaps nothing less than masochism.
Fortunately, I was a chill kid. Perfectly content to sit and patiently wait, always listening and absorbing. As long as I was with Dad everything was cool. Dad loves to tell the story of me beating out the rhythm of the “Hussite Hymn” found in Karel Husa’s “Music For Prague 1968,” with a stick as we took a walk when I was three years old. Rhythms, tunes, and lyrics were sticking to my brain like glue even when I was just a toddler.
I can still remember playing “guess the composer,” in kindergarten, while riding in the car with Dad, listening to the local classical music station. Then there was the “Malt for a Month” contests. This was a contest in which, if my brother or I could identify a song title or artist on the classic rock station, we could win a malt every day for a month. Of course this was before the days of car stereos telling you the artist or cell phones to google immediately. No one ever won, although my brother still contests an answer.
“And Your Stories of the Road”
With Dad it is never just about the music though. All the best music has a story to go with it. Stories so vivid that I can picture myself there, even though for many of the stories I was not yet even alive. To the point that every time I hear that music again, I am once again part of the story. I can feel the warmth of the summer night as his Dad, my Grandpa, pulls the melancholic strains of “Písnička Česká” out of his accordion. I can feel the air of suspense taking the bus ride to purchase the LP of John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.”
It is often said that every song tells a story. Only in my case, sometimes the story of the song is not at all what the artist intended. My stories are linked to all my best memories. Listening to Dylan, Blood, Sweat and Tears and the Grateful Dead, at full blast, while delivering newspapers on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Hearing the soothing sounds of Dad practicing clarinet as sunlight poured in through the basement windows.
“His Gentle Means of Sculpting Souls Took Me Years To Understand”
As I got older, my favorite two weeks of the summer became when I got to go “back to school” and help Dad. Assisting with getting the band room ready for a new school year became a tradition. I became his head music librarian, sorting, organizing, preparing, always listening to music while working. There was simply nothing better for me than helping Dad in the band room. From 5th grade through 12th grade I did not miss a single one of Dad’s band concerts. Always, eagerly, serving as his right hand man setting up and tearing down for the performances. The two of us made a good team together.
There was something magical about watching Dad work with his junior high students. It was if he had the power to reach in and pluck the choicest fruits out of each of their souls. In contradiction to the otherwise assumed banality of adolescence, Dad taught to them to see infinity and realize what it is to be human. The passion with which he approached educating has only been reached by a scant few. He did not just teach music, he taught his students what it meant to be fully alive.
“Thank You For The Freedom When It Came My Time to Go”
When I was nearing the end of my high school education, I had endless possibilities to choose from. I could have been anything, doctor, lawyer or Indian chief. Yet, what I wanted, more than anything, was the chance to make music and teach with the same magic I had spent a lifetime watching my father work. I hurriedly and excitedly went to school to study music. Although I never ended up teaching for very long, I still try to echo the magic and passion of my Dad in everything I do. Raising my own daughter, writing, lecturing, cutting grass.
In a quote that I now associate just as much with my Dad as I do with her, Nadia Boulanger stated, “life is denied by a lack of attention to detail. Whether it be washing windows or creating a masterpiece.” Attention to detail, not willing to settle for less than perfection, sucking the marrow out of every moment of life. This is how I watched my Dad educate his students, this is how he has shaped my life.
“My Brothers’ Lives Were Different, For They Heard Another Call”
Perhaps it’s because I was the oldest. Maybe my soul has always been more attuned to the mystical, the magical, the otherworldly. No matter the reason, I was the only one, of the three brothers, who attempted to make a career out of music. To, as one of my favorite teachers kidded me, “atone for the sins of the father.” Yet I know that, even though they chose different career paths, my brothers were still blessed with, what is the magic touch of our Dad. I can see it in the passion with which Mark coaches basketball. The authority with which Scott practices the law.
Obscurity Rules!
As I mentioned previously, I started my career as a paperboy right about the time that CD’s began flooding the market. I was so excited to, as a sixth grader, be able to purchase my own Christmas presents for my family. Somehow it just means so much more when you especially pick out the present with your own hard earned money. I am also proud to say that I am probably the only son who ever picked out, “The Complete Works of Webern” CD set, for his Dad, when I was only in 7th grade!
Anton Webern was a member of the Second Viennese School in the first half of the twentieth century. A composer and musical theorist who, after pushing tonality to its end, became one of the foremost writers and thinkers in the field of atonality. Tonality is known for its memorable tunes. Atonality, which uses all twelve chromatic pitches, is a thinking man’s music, esoteric and obscure. Nevertheless, Webern was convinced that atonality was the next logical step in musical expression. He believed fully in his craft and spent his entire career promulgating the new music. So sure of its success was he, that he often said, “one day in the future the postman will whistle my music.”
“His Blood Runs Through My Instrument And His Song Is In My Soul”
Most today would laugh at this statement, especially when they hear the music. Even I, though I enjoy listening to it, I am unsure of its “whistleability.” Yet still I believe that one bright sunny day, with the windows open, I will hear the postman whistling Webern. Belief in the unknown, the unfathomable, the mystical. This is what I have joyfully received from my Dad throughout my life. Long before it was a movie, “The Polar Express” was a book. I remember sitting starry eyed listening to my Dad read us this book every Christmas season. My Dad taught me how to listen to what others can’t or won’t hear. I still hear Santa’s bell ringing, I still listen for the postman.
“And Papa I Don’t Think I’ve Said I Love You Near Enough”
December 3rd is the birthday of Anton Webern. This year he would have been 140 years old. Because we’re both esoteric and musicologists, for almost thirty years now, my Dad and I have always celebrated Webern on the 3rd. It’s one of our special days throughout the year. Usually the celebration, as it were, is just a phone call and a telling of what Webern Opus number we listened to that day. The vast majority of Webern’s works are under three minutes long, so it is not a huge commitment to listen to an old favorite. Often this day is the only day of the year throughout my hectic life that I take time to listen to Webern.
Yet today, I will again take my own “Complete Works of Webern,” CD box set, down off the shelf and listen to a track or two. I will remember the great composer who was so tragically taken from the world in 1945. I will spiritually and musically commune with my Dad who I know will be doing the same. No matter how busy life gets, I always want to have time to listen to a couple sides with my Dad. And to hear once again, the great stories that accompany them.
