“Listen to her,” Shira urged when she picked me up to drive me home from therapy that day. “You’re not ready. Your back is going to go out again.” I reminded Shira of my birthday plans. My goal was to play in public and, damnit, I needed to practice. “You can’t stop me,” I said defiantly and more than a little childishly.
My argument lost some of its persuasiveness when Shira pulled the car up to the apartment. I was able to open the door but couldn’t lift myself out of the car. Shira came around to help me. “Listen to Toni. You’re not ready.”
I did, however, have images of Mr. J playing his cello well into his eighties, even as arthritis took its toll on his body. The pain passes, Mr. J explained as he played, but the beauty remains. And, in fact, the music was as gorgeous as ever.
I wasn’t going to let some back pain stop me. Later that day, as Shira was working in the dining room, I closed the door to our bedroom and called Noah. “I’m ready,” I told him. We made a date. I could easily keep Toni in the dark about this plan; Shira was the greater challenge. After all, she was working at home just feet from where I keep my cello. One day, I waited for her to go out for an appointment and, with my heart pounding, I spirited the cello out of the house and into my office a block away. Later that day, I brought my cello to Noah’s studio. While I usually walk—it’s about a mile away—I decided instead to take the bus. I didn’t want to put more stress on my back. Plus I was already worried that Shira would somehow see me or that I’d meet a friend on the street who would later tell Shira, “Oh. Hi. I just saw Ari and his cello walking down Broadway. I thought he had a bad back?”
I boarded the bus and the driver, a rather garrulous type, greeted me loudly. “Hey, Elvis,” he said, mistaking my cello for a guitar. He then leaned back in his seat and began to play air guitar. “Ba-ba-ba-ba-baaaa,” he sang and laughed good-naturedly. Smiling uncomfortably, I moved to the back of the bus trying to be as inconspicuous as any six-foot-tall person bearing a cello might be. But he wasn’t finished with me. “Wow. That is a big guitar! What kind of guitar is that?”
I quietly tried to explain that it was a cello. “A cello? Aren’t those things heavy? Should you be lugging that around? A guitar would be easier. Or may be a ukulele. We can have a luau right here on the bus!”
I looked around at the other passengers. Everyone seemed to be enjoying his banter.
The one who would have enjoyed it most was Shira. I often think that Shira has magical powers; in fact, sometimes I think she is a witch. A good witch, of course, but a witch nonetheless. Having now spent almost thirty years with someone who has eerie psychic powers of perception, I wouldn’t put anything past her. I had to wonder: Was the bus driver’s behavior somehow Shira’s doing? Was she in cahoots with the bus driver? And, if so, how did she know about my sneaking out with the cello?
I soon realized that no clairvoyance was involved here. It was just a New York City bus driver with a big personality. “God bless you!” he sang out when someone sneezed. “How was the shopping expedition?” he asked one woman with a lot of shopping bags. “Make way for the twins!” he exclaimed when a large pregnant woman boarded. I took a seat in the back of the bus and marveled at the exuberant mood he was able to create.
The driver was so busy with everyone else, I figured he’d forgotten about me. When he called out, “Ninety-sixth Street. Change here for the Number 1 train and for the M96 crosstown bus. Free transfer!” I quietly crept to the exit. But then he caught sight of me in the rearview mirror. “Bye, Elvis!” he shouted.
MUSIC CAMP BRITISH STYLE
I was on the road to recovery. I could actually sit in a chair with my cello again without feeling pain in my back and my arms. That was a big step. My playing, on the other hand, sounded much like it did before: competent at moments, but inconsistent. I felt that I had endured the pain Mr. J promised, but I had not yet found the beauty. I was no more ready for my birthday performance than for the Tour de France. I needed to do something drastic—and fast. I remembered how the ELLSO summer program worked wonders for Elena and Andrea, the LSO founders, so I thought it might just be the thing I needed to move me up the musical ladder.
How to present this to Shira, though? She had recently balked at my spending Sunday afternoons drinking with my LSO friends after rehearsals. And, as she noted at the RTO concert, not all of them were wizened old grandmothers. The only way to pull this off, I figured, was to present it as a joint venture. ELLSO, I learned, also offered arts classes at its summer program. There would be painting, fine arts, dance, and movement and Shira would be welcome to participate. As it turned out, it wasn’t a tough sell at all. Shira loved the idea. In the back of my mind, I was hoping that, after a week at ELLSO, she would have to admit that classical music was the superior art form.
We were headed to Yorkshire, in the north of England, so we flew to Manchester and spent a weekend there before continuing to the summer retreat. Manchester, which has the reputation of being the gritty industrial capital of England, has been transformed in recent decades into a clean and vibrant cultural center. The city was in the midst of a huge jazz festival—with mostly amateur groups—at a half dozen outdoor locations throughout the city. We took in the sights of the city, its museums, cathedrals, and libraries, while sampling some extraordinary jazz, most of it in outdoor venues and almost all of it free of charge. We’d stop, have a beer, listen to music, and then be on our way to the next stop. On Saturday night, we managed to score tickets to a concert of opera favorites at the city’s new concert venue, Bridgewater Hall. While the soloists were professionals, the orchestra and the hundred-member chorus were there for the love of it. Amateurs all.
On Sunday morning we made our way by British Rail to Doncaster, an economically depressed town in Yorkshire that was surrounded by green fields, modest country cottages, and farmhouses. The ELLSO summer program was held on the outskirts of town, on a rustic college campus complete with a golf course, sheep, pigs, and a view of wheat fields that seemed to go on forever. Perhaps best of all (from my perspective) was that, with the students gone and the Wi-Fi shut off, we couldn’t connect to the Internet without going into town.
Shira, who had brought along work, initially wasn’t happy but soon she also felt liberated by our cyber isolation. She relaxed. As for me, I could at last concentrate on my music without interruption. Shira and I took advantage of the relatively swanky accommodations in the campus guesthouse, but most of the other ELLSO participants stayed in the dorms, with toilets down the hall and shared kitchen facilities. Still others brought sleeping bags and camped out on the college grounds.
The people who came were not wealthy and not especially talented. What they were was devoted. ELLSO offered them something rarely found: a complete escape from life, a chance to let go of the world and dive full force into music. Music camps of this intensity are generally reserved for children or for professionals.
While I expected proper classical music—essentially eighteenth- and nineteenth-century fare—ELLSO takes pride in being musically democratic, modern, and diverse. In addition to the classical repertoire, there was jazz, contemporary music, and a wide-ranging category lumped under the title of “Gypsy, Balkan, and Klezmer Music.” Many who played Bach and Beethoven during the day gathered around a campfire at night and experimented with music of quite a different sort. Shira signed up for classes in art, performance, and dance.
Most of the participants were British, but the program also drew amateur musicians from Finland, Ireland, and Belgium. Shira and I were among a small handful of Americans who came for the week of music. The participants ranged in age from thirty to almost ninety. And everyone had a story.
AARON
One of the first people to catch my eye at our very first ELLSO orchestra rehearsal was a cellist named Aaron, who was seventy-one and a retired nuclear engineer from Dorset. Aaron stood out because he played cello backward, that is, he bowed with his left hand and fingered with his right.
Left-handed violinists, cellists, and double bassists, though, have to adjust to the right-handed way—or find another instrument. The reason is simple. While rock musicians can stand helter-skelter with their instruments pointing every which way, classical musicians must have more discipline. They sit primly on stage, grouped by instruments. Imagine a right-handed violinist trying to share a stand with a left-handed violinist. There’d be more collisions than music. Not only must they face the same way, their bows must rise and fall together. There are even notations in the music that indicate “bow direction.” Being in an orchestra has some of the elements of being in the army. We march in lockstep, Mr. J would say. Uniformity is prized. Being part of an orchestra means playing by the rules.
But Aaron marched to his own percussionist. Not only did he reverse hands but he kept the right-handed stringing. How did this come about? “Years ago my daughter was taking cello lessons,” Aaron told me over lunch one day. “I just had to try it. I couldn’t very well reverse the strings—she was playing after all—but I also couldn’t adjust to playing it the right-handed way. So I just switched my hands.”
That was almost twenty-five years ago. Aaron picked up the cello again three years ago—in the way he knew best—with the bow in his left hand. “This is really the superior way to play,” Aaron said with a smile as he demonstrated with his cello. “This way the A string is more accessible. Why reach for it all the time?” He spoke with such enthusiasm that it was almost as if he made a discovery that Pablo Casals should have figured out.
Aaron acknowledges that his playing is unconventional. “My teachers have had to adjust,” he said.
“And what about your daughter, who got you started?” I asked Aaron.
“No, she stopped playing years ago, but I came back to it. . . . That is what retirement is for.”
Aaron plays in an amateur orchestra in Dorset that he described as a “rehearsal orchestra.”
“All we do is rehearse,” he explained. “We never play in public, never have concerts. No performances. We just play for the pleasure of it.”
GERALDINE
We took our meals at ELLSO at the college cafeteria and then ate, family style, at long tables. I work at a university and I know how bad college food can be, but this food set new records for inedibility. (Eventually we had to take a cab to town, find a grocery store, and stock up on provisions of our own.) The compensations for the poor food in the cafeteria were the good conversations at the dining tables. One day over lunch we met Geraldine, who was seventy years old and had a warm smile and a lilting Irish brogue. Like Aaron, Geraldine came to music through her daughter.
Geraldine was one of three double bass players—all of them women—who came to the ELLSO summer program. If I sometimes worry about carrying an instrument that takes up twice my normal footprint, imagine what it must be like to carry a double bass. A standard double bass is six feet tall, weighs forty pounds, and is so difficult to manage it is usually carted about on a single rubber wheel.
With an instrument that size, Geraldine really had no choice but to drive and ferry from Ireland. She took up the double bass six years ago after she retired from her work as a physical therapist in Dublin. “It seemed that all my waking hours were devoted to work and family,” she told me. “I’d finished supporting my children and then my eye settled over on the double bass in one corner gathering dust.” It had been decades since her daughter had played.
Geraldine found herself a teacher, practiced like a demon, and eventually caught on. “I couldn’t believe it,” she said, “because I had never done music before.” The double bass is big, but she didn’t find it intimidating.
“Hey, kids can do this,” she said. “It’s not rocket science. I knew I could learn.” Before long, she found a spot as a double bassist in the Greystones Orchestra, an amateur group in Dublin. “Was it hard to get in?” I asked.
“There was only one double bass player at the time,” she said drolly. “They were delighted to have me.”
I thought about all the lugging around she had to do and wondered if it kept her in shape.
“Put it this way,” she said. “I have to keep fit in order to play the double bass.”
Towing it around is such a big part of Geraldine’s life these days that she even bought a car to accommodate it. “Last time I shopped for a new car, I brought the double bass along to the showroom to be sure it would fit,” she said. Not simply in the trunk, of course. Her car is a hatchback and that is where the bass enters the car. She pushes it clear across the rear seats at an angle and it extends to the front passenger seat, which is folded down.
The trip from Ireland—in her spacious Renault Leguna Hatch—took seven hours: three hours on a ferry from Holyhead in Wales and then four hours across Britain to Doncaster. During orchestra rehearsal most of Geraldine was all but hidden behind her double bass in the back of the room, but I could make out her face. And she was always smiling.
ED, COLIN, AND CHRIS
After a long day of playing at ELLSO, many of the musicians would retire to the bar that was set up in the far corner of the campus dining room where we gathered for meals. During the day there was very little time to socialize. Participants went from session to practice room to session to practice room. Most of the daytime conversation was about a piece of music or an instrument that needed some quick repair. But in the evening, people drank, relaxed, and caught up on each other’s lives. Their instruments were never far away and no one ever locked them up at ELLSO; they were strewn about the halls and along the dining room walls. Sometimes, a spontaneous jam session would break out at the bar. A musician would whip out a fiddle, another a double bass, and someone else would sit down at the piano. A woman would get up and start dancing in place and then another and yet another would join her. Soon people would be doing reels and jigs as more and more dancers and musicians joined the fray.
It was at the bar one night that I met Colin, Ed, and Chris.
Colin was old, Ed was young, and Chris somewhere in between. One night, Colin, dressed in a frayed tweed jacket and tie, stood in a corner of the room and played his violin diligently as everyone around him chatted. Tall and thin, with a music stand in front of him, Colin played the basic repertoire of a young Suzuki musician: easy classical pieces in first position. It was an odd scene since there were practice rooms open on the campus from seven in the morning to midnight. “Why here?” I asked him. “Why play in a crowded bar when you can have your very own private room?”
“Just about everybody here is better than me,” Colin explained between songs. “I have to get over the fear of playing in front of people. And this helps.” Colin played his songs over and over again above the din of the bar. When he was finished he packed up his violin and folded his stand. With that, the bar patrons erupted in applause. Colin took a shy bow.
Ed and I shared a beer at the bar. Ed was thirty-three, unmarried, and worked for a human rights organization in London and Geneva. He took up the violin just six months before coming to summer school and had no idea what he was in for. Like everyone else who participated, Ed was asked to fill out forms in advance about his level of musical abilities so the organizers could place him in the appropriate musical classes. Ed boldly inflated both his musical knowledge and ability. “I figured that by the time the summer came along I would know what I was doing,” he said. “But to tell you the truth before I came here I never played a flat.”
Ed was placed in the top orchestra group and matched for chamber music with the most proficient chamber players, but once his lack of experience
and know-how were noted, he was downgraded. “Was that embarrassing?” I asked.
“No,” he said with a shrug. “Everyone here is very forgiving.”
A woman named Chris overheard our conversation and told how she, too, had underestimated how hard it would be to learn an instrument.
When she grew up in England in the 1960s, Chris recalled, a child had to make a choice between athletics and music. “If you were good at sports, you didn’t get an instrument,” she said. And she excelled in sports. She played hockey and football, joined the track team, skated, and danced. She was happy with her choices but carried a memory from her high school graduation. One of her classmates played an old English folk song, “The English Country Garden,” on her treble recorder. “It sounded so beautiful,” Chris recalled as if graduation had been held earlier that day. “I wondered: why wasn’t I given a chance to learn an instrument?”
She continued to play sports and be physically active through a career in the British Army until a back injury sidelined her. “I was really depressed for a year and then I remembered the girl playing ‘The English Country Garden.’ ”
In her mind, the treble recorder was too complicated. She thought the violin would be easier. “It was only four strings so I figured: how hard could it be?” In the thirteen years since she picked up the violin, she’s found out. But she’s never looked back. Like me, she first played with a youth ensemble and then graduated to an amateur orchestra. Her musical group has one of the best names I’ve ever heard. It’s called the Cobweb Orchestra because so many of its musicians have retrieved their instruments from attics and dusted them off for the first time in years.
“And what about ‘The English Country Garden’?” I asked Chris.
The Late Starters Orchestra Page 15
