OH CRAP… DAD BOUGHT ME A “SQUEEZEBOX”

Childhood encouragement is a very basic parental value.  Most parents love to give their children the chance to see where their talents lie and help nurture those talents.  Some succeed and some fail.  For me, I think musical ability comes from having a little bit of talent, and a lot of passion.  I had very little of either. 

Without even thinking, I reached into our avocado-colored Sears fridge and grabbed a can of orange Hoffman soda from the top shelf. I pulled the pop-top off as quickly as I could and took a large gulp.  It was a really hot day and the house was sweltering.  We didn’t have air conditioning and the tiny window fan in the kitchen was simply blowing in more hot than cool air.   I glanced over at the Miller’s Meats wall thermometer, and the little red tube was nearly at the highest point on the scale.

It was unusually hot for mid-October, even for what they called Indian Summer.  This was more like regular summer.  I took another swig of soda and set the can down on the table.  I reached for my small looseleaf notebook, which contained my small collection of music sheets.  I started thumbing through the pages hoping to come up with a fairly simple tune I could play at my upcoming music recital. 

There was hardly anyone in my family who was blessed with any discernible musical talent.  My oldest sister Celia tried the violin at the tender age of 13, but her after-school practice lessons did little to cause family encouragement. It only infuriated the 4 or 5 dogs that lived in close proximity to our house, and they proceeded to howl in unison when she began her lessons at 4 p.m.  Anyone else who was home at the time quickly grabbed their portable 8-transistor Japanese radios and stuck those tinny-sounding earphones in their ears to avoid going insane.  

Other siblings tried the other popular instrument at the time, the recorder.   This hard white plastic device was utterly incapable of producing any kind of mood pleasing music, but most middle school students were encouraged to at least try it.

 Each kid who entered Mrs. Bachmann’s music appreciation class was overly enthusiastic to begin their supposed careers as first string recorder players, with dreams of someday performing at the famed Carnegie Hall in New York City.   

It all began with their first piece of sheet music, “Mary Had A Little Lamb”.  Unfortunately, playing it with any decent conviction required the user to have some breath control, and the ability to focus on pitch.  Most pre-adolescents hadn’t yet learned how to manage either of these tasks. This was especially true for teenage boys, whose daily testosterone injections wreaked havoc on their voices, going from squeaky to baritone every second.  The recorder, as my mother put it, was an instrument of torture, rather than music.  It’s a good thing they only cost us 75 cents each, because many of them wound up in the trash.

I was only 12 years old when dad decided that I should take up the accordion.  He bought me a 72-bass Honar for my birthday, and quickly enrolled me at the “Highway Music Academy” in Middletown, N.J.  He set me up with 8 lessons at first, just to see if I had any talent for the “squeezebox”, as he called it.  I actually surprised myself.  I took a liking to it, even though I had difficulty learning how to read music.  My propensity for accepting a challenge was pretty good at such a young age, but my lack of understanding of basic math, especially fractions, led to my confusion with counting bars and measures.  I totally got my D flats confused with my F naturals.

After the 8 lessons, I appeared at my first accordion recital.  It happened on another very hot Saturday in mid-October, and although my father didn’t attend, I did manage to have some representative encouragement in the audience in the form of my 3 older sisters and my mom.  I was listed in the program as just part of the orchestra.  However, on the day of the recital, I was told that Jordan Levy, the kid who was supposed to do a solo rendition of “April in Paris”, was sick and didn’t show up.  Mr. Stetson, my teacher, begged me to go “out there” and “give ‘em hell”, as he put it.  I informed him that I didn’t know the lead to “April in Paris”, and that I was only familiar with the accompaniment part.  “So what lead song can you do?” he asked.  “Well, I can try to play “Mr. Sandman.”   “That’s perfect”, he said, “everyone knows the words to that one, and you will get everyone to try to sing along as well”, he added. 

I walked onstage, my bulky accordion strapped around my shoulders, and peered at the closed curtain in front of me.  I could hear the loud clamor from the audience just a few feet away, and I got even more nervous.  Someone tapped gently on the microphone to get everyone’s attention and they finally quieted down. I tried to wipe away the tiny beads of sweat from my forehead with my handkerchief, but with the giant accordion on my chest, I couldn’t reach them.  I felt like an orange popsicle someone accidentally dropped on the hot July pavement.   

The curtain opened just wide enough for me to look out at the crowd, and I saw my mom in the second row whispering, pointing, and gesturing to her seat mate.  I finally calmed down after I was introduced as the lead soloist.  Everyone clapped.

The song went off without a hitch, but nobody sang along.  My rendition was peppy enough that even if I had hit an incorrect note or two, no one would have guessed.  I think I had played the original 45 RPM record by the “Chordettes” so many times, that it eventually gave me the confidence I needed to bring the song home onstage.  I was smiling from ear to ear.

 I gave up the accordion after a few more months and graduated to the piano. The only problem was that no one in the family had a piano to practice on, and I got a bit rusty from not continuing my talent. 

When I got to college, I started playing the piano again just for fun.   I had learned to play many tunes by ear over the years and by my senior year, I got was pretty good at it.  I sometimes gathered a nice crowd in the commons area just by belting out a few spiffy melodies.  And hell yes, I put out a tip jar.

Guitar was also very popular when I was growing up, but as far as I could remember, no one in my family ever tried their hand at playing one.  My brother Rich had a great voice and would sing along to just about any slow ballad oldie on the radio.  He especially loved mimicking Elvis. I’m sure that if he had pursued his talent, he could have been headlining to standing ovations at the Sands or the Flamingo in Vegas. But fame wasn’t meant for him, and now he only regales everyone with his vocals at backyard BBQs and pool parties.  As for me, I had my few moments in the spotlight, and now any time I hear the Chordettes sing “Mr. Sandman”, it just puts a big ol’ smile back on my face. 

Thanks for reading my blog.  I would really appreciate any comments you may have, and please like and subscribe if you haven’t already.  I love sharing my stories with you and hopefully you can look forward to many, many more. 

Thanks,

Lenny