the wisdom of old men

O dark dark dark.
They all go into the dark

An old college buddy of mine sent me an email that my Music History/Ear Training (We used to call it ear straining) teacher, Dr. Edward Wolf, passed away this past Sunday. I was really saddened by this news.

Dr. Wolf was my professor at West Liberty State (now West Liberty University) when I was a struggling music education major from 1977 to 1980. I knew every little about music then and every week I came up against that hard fact. Wolf was one of those who would not let you off the hook. You learned, baby.

Dr. Wolf could have taught anywhere-Harvard, Yale, you name it. He was that good. Scary smart. Yet, he taught at a state school in WV to a bunch of lunkheads.

Nobody that took a class from him could forget his scholarship, integrity, brilliance and his often eccentric personality. "Wolfie," as we sometimes called him, always dressed in old school suit and tie (I would have guessed a sensible collection of suits from the 50's or 60's). On occasion, he might teach without a jacket, but never ever did I see him without a tie. Never flashy, but always groomed.

He was a very sober and dedicated individual whose personal discipline, to a bunch of lethargic confused stoner college kids, was something beyond comprehension. I once asked him about study habits. He told me about how, when his mind began to lose concentration during the inevitable long study hours, he would run laps around the library to re-energize. "And I never did any work after 11." To this day, because of that one conversation, I often set a time in which I will stop practice. The practical use of time is something that has to be learned. I never came close to it in college.

While one prof joined us for a kegger and one had an affair with a female student, you would never dream that of Dr. Wolf. He didn't want to be your friend, you were his student. The line was very clear and never crossed.

Like most people with a high intellect, his personality was odd. He was at once cheerful and friendly, seemingly interested in your well being and always ready to answer your music queries and another day, it appeared to have pained him to say hello. He would muster up an obligatory and frosty, "Hi" and keep on walking.

In music history, he could be strict and stern, but every student worth their salt respected his knowledge and scholarship. You might get terribly frustrated when you hit the inevitable wall in his class and say you hated the man, but you knew he was going to give the grade that you deserved. His integrity was beyond reproach.

He did drive me mad in Ear Training. He was too cheerful for the morning hours and practically jumped up and down while he would say, "Keep those finger tappers tapping!" We poor music students murdered the rhythms and pitches while we sang in the confounding solfeggio.

My colleague and college friend said it very well:

So the Old Guard passes. And we become the Old Guard, now, I guess (I have students now in Ferrywhose parents were students of mine).

Please spread the news far and wide, to whom it may concern, that one who challenged us greatly--and for whom we rose to the challenge--has passed on.

Honor Thy Happiness

Smile.

Smile at the stupidity, ineffectiveness and petty power struggles.

It's ok. It's what we are. Not just sometimes, but all the time.

Nothing surprises me.

What used to anger me now makes me laugh.

Maybe it's just the super spicy Chinese I had for lunch. It always makes me loopy.

Character Studies

We wear the mask that grins and lies
It hides our face and shades our eyes


Occasionally writers talk about their characters coming to life and begin a dialogue. I was wondering about some characters myself. I don't see faces yet, but I'm sure that will come.


I am probably suppressing some secret desires. I am jealous of others and try to derail other's dreams through reverse psychology. I believe I have a domineering personality.


I have low self-esteem because I find socializing awkward. I have no vices save a darkly personal one that makes me go to great lengths to satisfy it. This comes from low self-esteem.


I have a pleasant public face, acting sweet and innocent, but underneath I am ambitious without a conscience. I have intellectual vanity brought on by a domineering parent and my belief that I am not attractive.


I seek out company with the rich and influential because I want to be counted among them, but since I lack both, I never will be part of their world. Fundamentally, it's about the social hierarchy for me.


At my core, I am hedonistic and a seeker of luxury and comfort. An overinflated sense of self that alternates with a tendency towards depression. A fantasy life acts as a buffer between the real world and how I see myself.


I have no empathy for others because they are inferior to me. I have always sought out companions whom I felt were not my equals because I feel threatened by anyone who might be otherwise. I numb myself because I cannot recognize what caused the vacuum in my personality.


I have religious ideation because I want to believe that I am special. I believe myself to be in the know and am fascinated by controversy and conspiracy ideas and theories. This supports my idea of myself. I can be lazy and have little follow-through on my ideas.

A Good Kettle of Fish

Each semester, the deck is reshuffled and new guitar students appear before me. It's a chaotic time with students usually dragging the process out for two to three weeks, but this year things are looking much better. We are pretty much organized at this early a date. That's not the usual mode, let me tell you.

I was a bit more organized and ordered the book in advance for the college bookstore. That has made all the difference. I once had a student drag this process out for about five weeks. For those of you who do not know, there are fifteen weeks to the lessons. It was terribly frustrating.

Most of the students fall into three categories: 1. They just want an easy one credit hour. 2. They want an easy one hour credit, but genuinely want to start the guitar. 3. They have had some experience on their own and realize that they are ready for the next level. And they need an easy one hour credit.

The goal of the average college student is to weasel. Oh yay, be not naive oh brethren and sisteren. That's why the syllabus is virtually airtight: to avoid giving the clever weasel a way out.

Examples:

Long ago, I trusted in the basic goodness of students. Color me naive then. I do not have this belief now. Experience has taught me to mistrust.

I once had student who was not satisfied with the easy material that goes with learning to read music for the first time. He wanted more advanced pieces and I gave him some. Trouble was, the next week I asked to hear them, he'd struggle through a few bars or just outright declare that the piece was too difficult and could he try another. We went on this carousel for about 12 weeks before I realized what useless and circuitous path we were on. I forced him to choose pieces to play as a final exam. Well, he wasn't happy with that either. He started to blame his failure on me. Needless to say, neither of us were happy with each other, but I learned a very valuable lesson about what now appears on the setlist: A crystal clear set of objectives and skill set is outlined and you ain't gonna get out of it.

Another valuable lesson was a guy who missed so many lessons, I'd thought he'd dropped. He came sauntering in like nothing was amiss (He had balls, I'll give him that. Probably go on to a very successful political career.) and sat down. I tried to bury my anger and give him enough rope to hang himself and hang himself he did. Then, when all else failed, he lied and said that he hadn't gotten a syllabus. Then started the old misdirection began: his absences were because of blah blah and he didn't have time, blah. Finally, the kid disappeared for two more weeks and to my utter astonishment then shows up at the jury (The final playing exam). As I stated, the guy had nerve. (If Special Forces needs a candidate for their sniper program, boy howdy do I have a name for them.) The kid played miserably and did not even enough. When he finished, he looked at me like I was supposed give him a standing ovation. It was horribly uncomfortable. My colleague bailed us all out with a polite, "Thank you. That's all we need to hear." He was failed because he failed to fulfill the requirements.

The private lesson is a one-on-one meeting and is so different from the anonymity that a large classroom can afford. It's an odd kind of experience to be sure. There's a whole set of dynamics that comes with it that the teacher has to be prepared for. Students might find it easier to show displeasure when you are being purely objective and less friendly as you teach them. They also might mistake your friendliness as flirting or being a pushover.

You can't win. Too serious a demeanor and you scare away students as being too mean. Too goofy and they don't take you seriously.

I have seen expressions fall into dissappointment as I give the harsh news that, "This isn't going well." I have seen young women smile with sure certainty that I was enchanted by their beauty only to realize that an A was not in their future.

I had one older student who, upon leaving for her lesson, would walk a short distance down the hall, only to turn around, shoot a glance at a certain region on me, then a sharp look up at my face. How do you handle that? You don't until it becomes an issue.

Most slackers accept their fate with quiet acceptance, but some choose to try to blame it on me.



Don't even try.

As I said to a student last night, "My friend, I have been doing this since 1987. I know all the angles." He smiled huge.

And probably went out and thought about one I haven't thought of yet.

Steve

I found out this morning that my cousin Steve passed away. It was expected. He has been diagnosed with three types of cancer including the deadly pancreatic kind.

When that diagnosis came down several months ago, it was impossible to fathom why a nice guy, who worked hard and was near an early retirement, would be slammed with such terrible news.

His wife had been keeping us updated by email. In typical family tradition, her missives were always clear, concise and unwaveringly honest. Not even a whisper of self-pity about them. She always thought about him first.

I don't have any profound summary, no clever overview or indictment of the ways of the Big Man Upstairs. In short, sorrow and emptiness.

My aunt said that, "Even though you expect it, it's still a shock."

I feel numb, stupid, afraid and impossibly sorry for Steve, his wife and family.

The Book of Red

I like staying home. John Lennon declared himself a homebody "like most musicians" and so there I do my thing. When I do adventure out, I am sometimes reminded of a little saying that has been a part of this blog for a while:

This is not going well.

On Saturday, this could not have been more true.

Do you ever feel like the universe conspires to fuck with you? That no matter what, things get weird then they get worse? I get this feeling coming on sometimes and, as a much younger man, I would tend towards panic and struggle to rectify the invisible dealings of the cards being dealt. Now, I think the image of someone trying in vain to crawl their way out of a greased well is the best way to describe my emotional state at these times. The more you struggle, the uglier it gets.

My wife and her friend needed to get datebooks and calendars for their professional lives and so, Books-a-Million was chosen. We also have an FB friend who works there and we hoped to see her. Now, BAM is a place that Uncle Bill has blogged about many, many times. These true tales will chill yer bones.

"They are laughing at you."

"What? Who?"

"The people behind us."

I look over and see a woman with dark hair and a young couple. Evidently, when I stood up, they were amused at my outfit or something. I did look like a shit yard sale and my hair was a train wreck. I had been in winter household hibernation mode and thought that a sweater, sweat pants and boots was ok. Good enough for Books-a-Redneck, but evidently, I was sorely mistaken. The Rouge Fashionistas thought it amusing. Fine.

I wanted to go over and say, "I'm glad my outfit tonight has amused you," but let's face it, I'm a coward and I hate conflict. Plus, the rational side of me realizes that it never makes sense to get into arguments with people in public places. Especially those with zero class. The dark haired woman seemed to smile at me when I looked over. I could not tell if it was of the leering variety or the mocking one. The couple she was with started a long and lingering make-out session. And they had the stones to mock me?

Well...as I stated, I was not dressed well. Even ridiculous, pointed out lovingly by my wife. Wives can hammer home a point during times of vulnerability. I insisted that I didn't care, but we all do. We want to fit in, even with strangers. Even with those we wouldn't care to know.

Why doth the heathen rage?

Perhaps I need to ask Uncle Bill this question. I don't know why reds choose to hang out at the Cafe de Joe Muggs. They cannot believe they are among the literati. What do they do? Thumb through copies of Deliverance for that special scene of outdoor love? It's very apparent that Friday and Saturday are Date Night at Wal-Mart, so since BAM is just around the corner, it's like the local malt shop for the camo set.

Bookstores are full of posers (and genuine bibliophiles and caffeine heads). A girl closest to us was trying her damnest to look like a Bohemian sophisticate. It wasn't convincing. Seriously? At South Ridge? She looked around to see if anyone was noticing her while she held conversation with an earnest looking young man. He wasn't posing, but working a line to her.

The redneckish geeks comic book types next to the window were talking about film. One guy said, "It's that Japanese filmmaker....ah.." Kurosowa, maybe, dude?

The place had a vibe that was a bit too much and I was glad to be leaving.

The feeling continued while we "dined" at Arby's. The cashier was a character out of a Kevin Smith movie. An actor would have really work hard to get that much weird mojo working. There was a blank affect to him completely. He kind of reminded me of Barney Fife with tattoos. One of these small guys with a big chip on their shoulders with a little burned-out crazy thrown in.

The girls requested no lettuce or onions on their Italian subs. You might have thought they had just requested a side of placenta from the puzzled looks of the people who worked there. The "cook" peered from an opening in the back and strained to understand. I thought that the request for no veg on a sub was too much for him to bear, but evidently he was trying to hear above the din of a basketball game. Still, he looked pained to understand that a person might want their food a certain way.

Me? This is all adding up to "This is not going well and faster to hell."

Our friend does not talk quietly. I'm trying to be subtle here. She has this loud voice that you can hear across a department store and in the horrid ambiance of Le Arb, it was all I could do not to just slide underneath the table. Of course, a couple sat in the corner eavesdropping for all their worth. And then, of course, a heated discussion began. Private issues were now like public service announcements. I love her like a sister, but I would like a volume knob.

Then the phone rang and it was the local Drama Queen who yet had another crisis. Two of her dogs had gone missing within 48 hours. As distressing as this is to an animal lover such as myself, it was finally becoming funny to me. Loud exclamations of, "Where did you last see her?" "Did you check the animal shelter?" The DQ was quite sure that her boyfriend's other girlfriend (See, I told you?? Trust Uncle Jim. I never exaggerate for humor's sake.) had stolen the dogs to wreak havoc on her. Did I mention how loud our friend talks? The more agitated the DQ got, the more she got. Finally, I decided that there was not a large enough space under all the tables. It was Zen time, baby.

You see, when the universe starts this shit anymore, I try not to struggle. I try to sit back and detach myself and become an observer. As best as I could, I tried to see the humor in the evening.

It didn't work. I calmed down, but I was really ready to head home.

Home - where I can watch what I want, relax and look absolutely horrid in my apparel.

And no smirks.

Well...maybe just a few.

Thy Fish Doth Smelleth

"It's Monday at 1:40 p.m and I am about to change stations. No wonder people HATE classical music. What you are playing is morose and funereal and not what we need on a snowy winter day, when we're already depressed from the events of the last decade! Lighten up!"

Something very fishy about this one.

And So It Begins

"i am probably going to have drop this class. i do not have a personal guitar. i didn't know that was required when i signed up. i'm contacting my advisor and trying to get the correct forms to do so. thank you."

To the Decade's End

There were signs that this New Year's gig was going to be a big deal. But let's back up, ok?

On Weds, the owner walked right up to der guitarmeister and informed him, sans any salutary greetings, that he wanted him "to start right at five o'clock." Li-Li was playing with him that night and heard this conversation which she interpreted as being slightly on the brusque side. Is management getting itchy? Word had it that some 90 people had reservations. 90 people? Oh dear! Oh my!

[Laid back revelers and the sacred pale ale]

I rolled in late to pick up some charts. Sat at the bar and got a pale ale on draft. Delightful and with enough nourishment and kick to make blue bloods bearable. Evidently, the freak parade was in full swing with a headbanded character at the bar staring at the entertainment; making Li-Li a bit nervous. He ordered a Johnny Walker on the rocks, a Bloody Mary and a Miller Light. D-man, the wonder barman, asked which of those he wanted first. "All of them," came the cryptic answer. Planning on getting blitzed or just showing off? Methinks the latter.

I kept trying to watch the musicians, but kept getting eye contact from this character. It just got weird. The headband looked a tie. It said, "Look at me. I'm an asshole waiting to happen." Experience has taught me that some folks just cannot blend in, but rather seek out the attention of anyone who will bear their insufferable tales of greatness. Li-Li said he later got on his cell phone and openly talked about snuffing people out in Peru or somewhere. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the fiction portion of our programming this evening. Freaks, in every and any case, cannot bear not to be the center of attention and better if it makes them look all badass.

All that aside, Li finally got to see Big Red.

"Was she with friends?" I earnestly asked.

"No, she was alone." And as women do notice these things, she gave me a rundown of her outfit: mink coat, spiky boots and that fab-o famous flaming hair.

"All she needed was a cigarette holder."

"To become Cruella Deville."

Nah. We shouldn't pick on old Red. On to the gig.

To be honest, it began much quieter than usual. People were late gathering and when they did, it was to dine. It was a sedate crowd. I think we both were acutely aware that volume and style were critical at the beginning of the evening. Slowly, slowly, things began to build up.

After a two and a half hour set, a miracle occurred: we took a break. Yes, we actually stopped playing before the three hour mark. That is not a complaint, my dear readers. Nay. Playing with a guy with this much ability gives you energy like you never knew you had. Sometimes when the mix of musicians isn't right, it can tire you out because you feel, as one drummer said of a bass player, "It's like dragging a coal barge up the Kanawha river."

After getting a delicious pale ale draft, I followed der guitarmeister along his social path where I met a drummer, watched from afar as he chatted with a singularly beautiful woman and met some lovely people having desserts. I was asked for my Marlon Brando imitation and being the showman (HAM) that I am, I obliged. I had to carefully pick a Apocalypse Now Brando line that would not weird out the family dining scene. Thankfully, good taste prevailed and I didn't make an ass out of myself.

Back at the "band stand," I asked him who was that lovely lady? He told me. I, of course, instantly forgot the name. Then we both agreed: does it matter? No.

"When you're that beautiful, you don't have to do anything." I agreed. The awesomeness gives her a pass on all levels. It's like an all access pass. To everything.

"She's ridiculous like all beautiful women are ridiculous." Last night, after pale ale #2, that sounded more philosophically profound than it does now. Sobriety has that effect.

Back for a quick half hour set, then done.

Gig over, get paid, help load out, talk to two somewhat eccentric father and son fans, then pale ale #3 to finish. Drive home.

No wild party, just a working player. Happy, happy, happy.

All before midnight.