Rex

by Cathleen Lewis

  “Not only does he have absolutely perfect pitch, but he has exceptional memory, and he can transpose a song instantly from one key into another.”

  “I get the memory,” I said, “and perfect pitch is hearing a note and being able to replicate it exactly. But what does transpose mean?” I asked. I hurried to add, “In simpleton’s terms, please,” before Richard could hit me with an intellectualized explanation that would confuse me even further.

  He thought for a moment, struggling to translate concepts that were second nature to him into terms a nonmusician would understand. His brow furrowed, perplexed by the challenge, but then his eyes lit up. “Imagine taking a word, say ‘tambourine,’ and spelling it. To transpose to a different key, you would replace each letter in the word with a letter of the alphabet that follows or precedes it by a given value. For example, shift up one value, and the t of tambourine becomes u, or up two place values and it becomes v. The a becomes b or c and so on.”

  I was beginning to get it, likening transposing to encoding.

  Richard went on. “Then imagine being asked to shift every letter on an entire written page up or down three or five places in the alphabet and trying to spell without pause or time to calculate! That’s exactly what Rex can do with the notes of a musical composition!” He was excited now by his own analogy.

  For my part, I was dumbfounded as the complexity of it all was beginning to dawn on me. To do that, automatically and without reflection, would have to mean my son’s brain was like a musical computer. All I could muster was, “But what does that mean?”

  “It means Rex’s musical brain is light years ahead of his motor, his technical ability to produce it.” He looked at me intently. “His hands need some serious work to catch up. He needs a teacher.”

  Over the days that followed I was torn between wanting Rex’s piano to remain “his,” without outside interference and instruction, and a desire to help my son develop his obvious gift. The piano was his inspiration, and I didn’t want it to become a chore. As with all the important things in our lives, I presented the situation to God through prayer. The answer that came to me was in the image of a little boy playing hundreds of Bach notes he’d just heard, pushing three fingers of his right hand into overdrive to stay true to the music, merely because he didn’t know how to use his thumbs or pinkies.

  Richard had been teaching little tidbits to Rex for weeks now, and I would have asked him if he would consider giving some more formal lessons, but he had to move from our condo to a location forty minutes away. He would definitely continue to work with Rex as time permitted, but I knew we needed a formal, local commitment as well.

  Our search was over before it began. One Sunday at our church I asked the musical director, Lynn Marzulli, if he knew of someone who could teach piano to Rex. This devout man of God looked down at my little blond boy whom he’d seen around the church only from afar, reached into his pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to me, saying, “Give me a call.”

  A few days later, after Lynn and I had both apparently prayed about it, we went for an “assessment visit.” After driving up a long and winding road, through a rather precipitous canyon, we arrived at the musical director’s house, rustically tucked away in the hills of Malibu. The house was perched on a hill, with the lushly green property more vertical than horizontal, plunging down a steep slope into a dry creek bed. Lynn greeted us at the front gate and led us through vines and thorny rosebushes and down some rather jagged and uneven stone steps to the “music studio,” which was a small, windowed gazebo jutting out in space overlooking the stony creek. This man had the benevolence befitting the man of God he was, and I got the feeling he had accepted the challenge of potentially teaching my little blind son out of a sense of service. However, benevolence was quickly transformed to astonishment when he saw Rex demonstrate his piano skills. I realized it hadn’t been what he was expecting, as I watched him rubbing his chin, pondering the unlikely pianist in his midst. He summed up the visit with, “He clearly has incredible talent. We just have to see where we can take it.” And so we were on.

  It was a magical setting, a musical gazebo in nature’s palm, and Rex would come to call our twice-weekly drives to Lynn’s house our ascents up “the magical, musical mountain.” And so his formalized musical education began three months before his sixth birthday. The greatest challenges the piano teacher faced were more logistical than musical. It was a weekly battle between teacher and student—Rex would swat and tug at Lynn’s arm, while the teacher would try to dodge the student’s grabbing hands in order to demonstrate. To my amazement, Lynn took it all in stride, treating the grabbing, piano-possessive hands of this five-year-old as an integral part of a strange and fascinating package.

  During the first lesson, Lynn played a C-major scale while Rex sat on the bench next to him, with me neutralizing my son’s grabbing arm from behind. “Listen, Rex, to the notes,” Lynn said. Then, as he played the notes, he named them, “C–D–E–F–G–A–B, and back to C. That’s a C-major scale.” By that time, Rex had managed to snake and squirm out of my grasp. Which meant as soon as Lynn said, “I will play the C-major scale one more time,” the student grabbed the teacher’s hand, blocking him. Without preamble, and with lightning speed, Rex’s right hand hit the piano keys. And there they were, all the C-major scale notes, as if my son wanted to say, “That’s easy.”

  Lynn raised his eyebrows, perhaps believing Rex had already been shown a C scale, and said, “That was perfect. Okay. Let me show you another scale then.” His piano teacher hit a G note. “And this is a G-major scale,” he announced. But before he could demonstrate, Rex’s piano-hungry hand jumped the gun straight to the G note and he zipped through his own perfect G scale. “He knows his scales?” Lynn asked me.

  “No,” I said. “You just showed him his first one.” I confess, musician that I’m not, I didn’t even know what a musical scale was myself until that day. After that, I just sat back, letting the session flow, with the teacher’s eyes growing wider with each passing minute, as my son proceeded through each of the twelve major scales in turn, after having heard that one single scale played that sole time.

  Two weeks later, it was a lesson on the minor scales, but this time Lynn didn’t even play a scale in demonstration, just a single C-minor chord. Rex’s fingers again aborted any further demonstration by intuiting the accompanying scale himself. “Who showed him that?” Lynn asked this time, as though it was impossible that Rex could just play it from the chord. Again, the answer came back, “No one taught him that.”

  Because of the difficulty Lynn had playing his own piano for Rex during the lessons, he had devised a noninvasive way to teach him songs. He would record a “homework” piece onto a CD, recording a track with both hands together, and then tracks with the left and right hands separated out. That way Rex could listen to the piano on CD at home. Because of his exceptional memory and instant note recognition, he began “eating” musical compositions at a rapid rate—the very first week it was a Handel minuet in F; a week later it was a Bach minuet in G.

  Lynn faced a major task in the beginning getting Rex to use his fingers properly. My son had come to his first lesson with only self-taught use (or non-use) of his fingers, having obviously never even had a visual example to emulate. That meant his hands were flat as pancakes, with thumbs tucked into his palms, and pinkies only dragging along as part of a three-group to play a note. In sum, he used three fingers on his right hand and two on his left to somehow play everything. So Lynn gave him numerous exercises to allow his fingers to gain speed and precision, and surprisingly, he loved all those finger drills. Or maybe not surprisingly, since that was what allowed him to play classical pieces that were becoming more and more complex each week, even though it would be almost six months before he would use his thumbs with any consistency.

  During the same months we made our ascents faithfully up the mountain to study music with a man of God, there was a man of the intellect w
ho was just as faithful in his weekly Saturday commutes to our home. Richard Morton’s fascination with Rex had continued to grow, and he came to complement the lessons with Lynn by exposing my exceptional child to different kinds of musical harmonies and rhythms in order to challenge his brain. Not only classical, but jazz, blues, and the wide-open country rhythms of Aaron Copeland. Unlike Lynn, Richard would intellectualize about Rex’s extraordinary piano skills, trying to grasp, to quantify and explain what seemed beyond explanation. As the weeks passed, it became apparent that the Rhodes scholar in Richard was hooked—like a mathematician on a complexly integrated equation, hooked at once on the potential of the child and on the intrigue he had stumbled upon. He saw it as destiny—albeit destiny with a double edge. He would say, “Part of me feels like I’ve won the lottery, and part of me feels like I’ve been drafted.” Huge potential required huge responsibility. He saw Rex as an intellectual conundrum he wanted to understand.

  With the precision of a mathematician, Richard would carefully and painstakingly plan out lessons, working out chord progressions and advanced musical theory, spending hours on concepts Rex would grasp instantly. Although Richard attacked the lesson planning with a scholar’s vigor, trying to rise to the challenge of his student’s musical intellect, it didn’t take long before he realized that the success of his work was ultimately in its delivery! I clued him in pretty quickly that if he wanted to pass the lesson onto the child, he needed to become a child himself. Although it couldn’t have been easy to park that massive intellect at the door, in order to enter into a child’s world, that’s what he did.

  So each Saturday, I got to witness the astonishing transformation of a Rhodes scholar into a lumbering child there to play musical games with a five-year-old. The heart of the communication between teacher and student was in the music itself, speaking through a melody, a chord progression, or a chosen key. They would play back and forth, the equivalent of a musical conversation; Richard would play a line, which Rex would answer. Then Richard would lead somewhere musically, and Rex would pick it up and run with it. Almost like a chess game, Rex would strive to back his opponent into a musical corner, which would stump the teacher, leaving his fingers mute and frozen. Unable to make a move, the teacher would have to acknowledge, “I’ve got nowhere to go,” causing the student to squeal and laugh, shaking his head back and forth with excitement, knowing he’d just made a “musical checkmate.”

  Music was like colors

  to him, and he could

  distinguish any nuance,

  any shade without hesitation,

  in the manner of a great

  artist standing before

  his palette.

  As the months went by, Rex’s musical brain seemed to know no bounds. He easily learned the names for the notes and chords, the keys and chord progressions he heard so distinctly in his mind. Music was like colors to him, and he could distinguish any nuance, any shade without hesitation, in the manner of a great artist standing before his palette. That’s the way Lynn Marzulli described my son’s perfect pitch: “Rex sees all the colors, each subtlety, instantly, while the rest of us see only black and white.” Like Lynn, Richard pushed Rex to develop his technique, in the hopes his fingers could catch up to the warp-speed growth of his musical brain. He moved Rex into exercises to facilitate playing more sophisticated pieces, not at all an easy task since he only had a finger span of a six-year-old to work with. By the time Rex turned seven, he was diligently working on left-hand leaps that would open the door to a world of waltzes and even the rhythmically more complex Chopin mazurkas. The “jump bass,” up and down the keyboard, was the foundation for any such waltz or mazurka.

  How could he have such

  a flawless sense of space

  when seated there in front

  of the keys and yet get lost

  in his own living room?

  That’s when the growing paradox of my son hit me full force. It was the vision of Rex’s tiny left hand mastering precise two-octave jumps up and down the keyboard to a “1, 2, 3” waltz count that left me stupefied. Absolute spatial precision! How could he have such a flawless sense of space when seated there in front of the keys and yet get lost in his own living room? For an even more glaring comparison, I could visualize my son’s hands getting lost on a single page of a tactual book—top, bottom, left corner, right corner, it was all a jumble in his brain. It was the same thing at a table; he was incapable of locating anything in a methodic manner—meaning sweeping his hand left to right, back and forth, beginning at the top of the desk and proceeding down to the bottom. Despite repeated instruction in just that, there was no methodology in Rex’s search pattern, and each time he’d be asked to locate something, his pattern would morph into some sort of random jabbing with his hand, combined with partial sweeping of a minute fraction of the required surface. And yet, wasn’t it the same discipline—spatial awareness? A single discipline meant a single area of the brain would be used; at least, that was the theory. How then could you have one specific part of the brain functioning so differently in “space-related” tasks at the piano and in “space-related” tasks elsewhere—running the gamut from hyperperformance to complete breakdown? I asked myself the question, Could it be possible that when Rex played music, he was interpreting spatial distance in terms of tones instead of physical space, and as such, was operating from another part of the brain altogether? A part that not only wasn’t damaged, but that was hyperdeveloped?

  The same question applied to finger dexterity and fine motor coordination. Why didn’t Rex’s coordination at the piano translate into other areas? He couldn’t even unsnap his own pants, having neither the strength nor coordination in his fingers to do so. What was it in music that created such spatial order out of chaos in his brain and changed weak and fumbling fingers into vibrant strength? More important, how could music be used to accelerate my son’s development in other areas?

  Rex had just begun second grade, and Richard called me with a request. “Would it be okay to test some of Rex’s musical skills, as a sort of assessment, during the lesson this week?”

  It seemed like a normal request at the time. I didn’t hesitate in responding, “As long as it doesn’t tax Rex.” I was jealously guarding the fun I knew my son had during those times with Richard, all the while secretly wanting to understand the extent of his gift myself.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “He’ll have as much fun as usual with it.”

  Saturday came, and Rex was already seated at the piano, playing, as he awaited his teacher’s arrival. The usual knock came at the door. “Richard!” my son said, his voice brimming with anticipation.

  I opened the door to allow Richard’s large body and presence to enter. Normally he made a beeline for Rex and the piano, jumping right into the music. But today, he had a preoccupied look on his face. “I’ve begun doing research into perfect pitch,” he threw out as a greeting. Then without so much as a hello, he went on. “And Rex’s prodigious memory when coupled with his sophisticated harmonic sense and intervallic awareness . . .”

  That’s when he caught my “park it at the door” look, and it stopped him in mid-sentence.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, flashing the boyish smile that was so endearing once he took off his intellectual hat. He had known for some time how he needed to shift gears in Rex’s presence, and in my presence as well, for that matter.

  Like an actor walking on stage, Richard went through an instant character transformation as he stepped over to Rex and gave him a big “squeeze” hug that lifted my son straight off the piano bench and into his bearlike arms. Richard was now like a big, oversized kid himself. Rex laughed a boisterous laugh as the big man set him back down.

  Then as he often did, Richard began the lesson making up a tune and singing his sentences. Today it was:

  Rex, you’re laughing!

  Oh yes, you’re laughing!

  What a wonderful sound, that laughing!

&nb
sp; Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

  That means you’re happy,

  You’re ha, ha, ha, ha, happy!

  Let’s play something happy!

  Then Rex jumped in to the same tune:

  Let’s play something happy!

  Major keys are happy;

  They make me want to laugh!

  Ha, ha, ha, ha ha!

  He was playing a joyous melody as he sang the words, and Richard said, “That is very happy. Your G major is happy. But now let’s play something sad!”

  Rex instantly changed to a melancholic tune and said, loving the game, “Minor keys are sad keys; they make me want to cry.” Then making a sad face, without stopping the melody, he exaggerated, “Boo, hoo, B minor makes me very sad.”

  “That’s great Rex, now back to a happy D, please!” And the child was instantly playing in D major. The teacher was clearly assessing, even as the game progressed through different keys, the student never missing a beat. Richard had explained to me how he wanted Rex to associate emotion with music and had created the sad/happy game as it related to types of sounds and different musical keys.

  Richard then led Rex through a music building game, showing Rex’s ability to construct music from individual chords and notes, in the same way another child might snap legos together into a building. Richard clapped for his student’s success as Rex finished with a chord progression. “Good, Rex. Now, if Beethoven had written that same thing as a waltz—one . . . two, three, one . . . two, three—what would it sound like?”

  Rex struck the same chord progression his teacher had requested, but in waltz tempo now, instantly recognizing the song he was building. “It would sound like the ‘Moonlight Sonata,’” he said as he played the famous notes.

  “Molto bene !” said Richard, in the Italian my son loved so. “Now let’s turn it into a song and sing along.”

  Adagio cantabile,” said my son, caught up in this magical “musical world. “That means ‘slowly singing’ in Italian.”