by Leslie Leigh
Tommy picked up a stringed instrument and strummed a chord over and over. I think it was a bouzouki. No, it was a balalaika, I think. I always get them confused. This had a triangular-shaped body.
“So how long have you been playing, Tommy?” I asked, trying to break the ice. I wasn’t sure I could even talk to someone this age, let alone play music with him. Gary must have been wildly exaggerating his abilities, or had lost his own sense of judgment.
“All my life,” he said, and seeing that I wasn’t particularly overwhelmed by this information, he then ripped through a scale covering the length of the fretboard with blinding speed and articulation, not to mention a clear, crystalline tone.
“Well, alright,” I smiled. “Let’s have a go!” Gary counted off and we began a slow, minor-keyed Russian tune, with Tommy fanning the strings, playing the melody while I fleshed out the chords behind him. Gary’s clarinet came in on the second verse, plaintive, mournful, gorgeous for the most part, hovering in the rich, lower register. I took the third verse, and Tommy dropped back, sensing when to increase his volume with little fills and strums, and then dropping back when I played. All three of us danced slowly around one another for the final verse, and ended as if we’d been playing the song for years.
“Very nice,” Gary smiled, clapping his hands toward both Tommy and me. I almost teared up at the delicate interplay we’d achieved on just the first attempt. Tommy flashed a toothy grin and popped another energy drink.
The rest of the practice was almost like a party, or a music nerd’s version of a party. We went through sheet music, and Gary played recordings for us. If we didn’t reject the song within the first 30 seconds, we usually thought it worth taking a stab. Tommy was low-key throughout the selection process. He seemed deferential to the two older musicians, and I suspected that he was game for nearly anything. Open-mindedness in a musician is an admirable trait, and probably why a 14-year-old boy was sitting there with an ancient instrument in his lap in the first place.
Our session ended, and before he departed, I smothered Tommy in a shamelessly unreserved hug. I’m sure that he hated that, but he smiled when I promised never to do it again.
I even gave Gary a hug, too. He was, indeed, a lifesaver and a selfless cultivator of young talent. We had three pieces under our belt, with another rehearsal scheduled for Sunday.
I think right then I realized that everything was going to be all right, after all.
***
The assembly concept kept ballooning and snowballing until it finally had to be held at the Crawford Community Center. Kids, faculty and parents from all over the county were in attendance, with an anticipated total of 700 people. Definitely the biggest audience for which I’d ever performed!
Was I nervous? Oh, yes, insanely so! But I had to keep up appearances in front of my bandmates, who seemed to take it all in stride. Mr. Van Dyke, that would be Zak, provided a very helpful morsel of wisdom for keeping calm.
“Once those lights go out,” he whispered, “you can’t see a damn thing. Pretend you’re alone, if you want, or that they’ve all gone home, or it’s just a few of your closest friends out there. Adjust your reality according to what suits you. Why not? Everybody else does!”
Michael and Mom came backstage to our dressing area. Mom was excited, and gave me a kiss and a hug for good luck. I was glad to see how proud she was of me. Thirty-five years old, but I can never get enough of her approval.
Michael was less demonstrative, but he gave me a quick, perfunctory hug.
“Michael, I’m glad that you made it, but surprised. Who’s keeping the world safe from crime?”
“Deputy Jimmy?” he queried, eyebrows arched comically. “Actually, we put away one of the bad guys today, but I don’t want to talk shop on your big day.”
“That’s okay,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “Anyone I know.”
“Bob Christian,” he said. “Yeah, Max Colopy was too easy, if you know what I mean. So I invited Bob to come down to Jimmy’s station, reminded him of his rights, etc., but he was his usual, helpful self, and was glad to assist in any way, no lawyer necessary.
“Well, I told him how Max wasn’t in any kind of shape to muster the finesse necessary for this homicide. And everyone else had an alibi and a witness, except him. And that his military records indicated a high degree of proficiency with a variety of weapons, including…bows and crossbows. In fact, he’d qualified as an expert marksman with both.
“So I asked if he’d care to revise his statement. And, if he didn’t, then I planned on shutting down that entire office with warrants and subpoenas. We would review all financial transactions, private correspondence, political contacts, and anything else they had, to find the reason why a part-time accountant was executed by the head of HR. Or, he could tell me that it was an accident.
“So he took one for the team and admitted that he’d shot her and tried to frame Max Colopy. But he admitted that he’d panicked, it wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, and he was willing to accept responsibility. He’ll probably be charged with manslaughter and plead down. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“Willing to fall on his sword for his commanding officer, you mean,” I said. “Did you really mean it when you said that you’d go after the whole company? Because I think that’s a great idea. I believe Nathan Cooke has a lot of skeletons in his closet, and Bob Christian could help find them.”
“Well, mostly, it was a bluff. It’s best to let sleeping dogs and millionaires lie, unless you know exactly what you’re looking for. I didn’t. Christian’s response tells me that there is something there, but I don’t have the resources to dig that deep. And I’m not going to spend the rest of my career on one guy. I’ve got a caseload bigger than I can handle now.”
I understood. It made sense. But a part of me refused to accept a free pass for Nathan Cooke. Something was rotten inside his operation, and I hoped to someday find out what it was.
Chapter 17
Mr. Van Dyke was right. When the lights dimmed in the theater, it was as if it were just Gary, Tommy and me, playing music that we enjoyed. I announced our intention to provide a glimpse of some of the possibilities the accordion as an instrument by showcasing a handful of the cultures and music in which it’s found all over the world.
We conjured rainy Parisian alleys, German beer tents, Mexican dances, and even, mid-way through the set, a quiet solo piece that hinted at the Balkan influence I wanted to showcase. It was a composition by Pauline Oliveras, and when I played the gentle, spacious melody, I imagined a sheepherder sitting on a hill, watching over his flock as the sun set. This was the magic of music! You might have never actually traveled to a particular far-flung place, but its music tells you something about the soul of the people.
The music was well received, if the applause was any indication. For the finale, both Gary and Tommy graciously exited backstage, affording my instrument the spotlight for a solo piece. Again, before playing, I introduced the music.
“Now that we’ve traveled all over the world, it’s appropriate that we return home and play something quintessentially American. Sort of.
“Charles Ives is one of the foremost American composers, although his music wasn’t well known during his own lifetime. Throughout his adult years, he supported his family by becoming a very successful businessman, and he confined his composing to his spare time. He died in 1954, leaving behind a legacy of symphonies and smaller pieces that were mostly discovered and appreciated after his death.
“This is a piece he wrote for organ when he was 17 years old. He sent it to music publishers, but they all rejected it. Fortunately, in 1949, E. Power Biggs, the preeminent concert organist of that time, discovered the piece and shared it with the public. This is the composition that I will play for you now to close our show.
“As for its American origin, the piece is actually the national anthem of England, known as ‘God Save the Queen,’ or ‘God Save the King,’ depending on
who’s sitting on the throne at the time. Here in America, we call it…’America.’ This is Charles Ives’ ‘Variations on ‘America.’’ Thank you.”
I closed my eyes and began playing.
The piece begins with a stately declaration of the familiar melody, incorporating counterpoint as it continues, eventually becoming more animated, swirling like the sounds of a merry-go-round. Rather than use technical terms for the variations, I’ll try to describe it impressionistically, at least the way the music strikes me.
To me, this piece, written in 1891, is a siren song, luring immigrants to our shores with promises of prosperity, equality and freedom. The opening variations reinforce this, but also suggest that these lofty goals are somewhat unrealistic and may contain some hype.
This is followed by a quieter, more thoughtful repetition of the melody, with more subdued tones. I always imagine a ship harbor with the sun rising over a gray horizon. This variation draws the listener in closer, like passengers on a ship approaching land.
Curling arpeggios flutter about the theme now, like a bird fluttering upward, or a scarf, blown aloft in a breeze. To me, this represents hope and dreams, rising as high as the imagination allows.
The theme grows a little wobbly now. I’m actually playing in two different keys here, and it clashes deliciously. This creates a slightly sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek effect, as if our dreams were being gently mocked.
Same melody, now with harsh, contrasting, discordant accompanying chords. Things have not turned out as expected. Traffic jams. Dissension. Conflict.
And now, the melody becomes playful, a skipping waltz rhythm, perhaps the dreams of children playing together, free of their parents’ anxiety…so far. I could hear giggles in the audience. A perfect response. I get to play lots of neat, left-handed runs here.
We shift into a minor key with urgent, Spanish-sounding rhythm. The orchestral version uses castanets and crisp, snare drums in this section. It’s graceful, but maybe too fast for most dancers to keep up with. Progress? Acceleration?
It gets darker in the next pass, with heavy, dense chords, but it’s less discordant than before. This is not your ‘light’ classical music. The friction between the right hand melody and the deep chords and rumbles of the left makes me picture workmen straining as they erect bridges or skyscrapers which will long outlast them. As my right hand scurries along the keyboard, I see elevators endlessly rise and fall, delivering multitudes to the corridors of commerce.
And, finally, in the closing section, it’s Fourth of July fireworks, an orgasmic explosion of colors and volume. A real crowd pleaser!
It’s the history of modern America, encapsulated, and it all clocked in at under 8 minutes. The good, the not so good and, yes, the ugly: all of it. This was the piece that drove Mom crazy for weeks. I hope she liked it better today. It’s a composition that has survived long after its composer, and longer than most skyscrapers and monuments.
And from the reaction of the audience, it was destined to live much longer.
###
Thank you for reading My Aim Is True.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
