Music

My Musical Instruments

My first musical instrument was the flute. The flute had been bought for David, who four years earlier found more interesting things to do than blow across that mouthpiece. So when I reached fourth grade, it was determined that it was my turn with the flute — band lessons at school. Mr. Raspillaire, our band director at South Charleston High School, came to our school — Zogg O’Dell Elementary — weekly to teach our band class.

The above is a long introduction for a very quick ending. After three or four lessons, I told Mom that the flute was hard to hold up to my mouth with my right arm, and that I was not destined to be a flautist. So much for that. I was allowed to become a Raspillaire dropout.

Then, in fifth grade, we all got Tonettes — those plastic whistle-like instruments with holes to cover, changing the pitch — like a flute. Alice and I formed an immediate duet; we picked up on how to play songs, in harmony yet. Of course, by that time Alice had taken over the flute business, and continued to play for sixty years or so. More later on that. Anyway, we became the hottest act of our fifth grade, and showed our stuff at every chance.

About that same time, I had a sick spell and stayed home from school for about a week. Listening to local radio all day became a real bore, so one day Mom brought me a Marine Band Harmonica. I played my first tune, “Silent Night” I think, about two minutes later. Later on, I got a Honer Chromatica with the side button to play half steps. It was 1939; we had very little, so I don’t know where Mom found the money to pay for that “French Harp,” but somehow she did.

Then, one day Dad came home with a mandolin. Actually a banjo mandolin — strung and played like a mandolin with the body of a banjo — a round body with a skin top, with threaded screw-like tighteners all around the top edge. Dad had played a mandolin in his youth and someone gave him this one, so he was going to resume his own musical career. Sadly, I learned that Dad was no mandolinist, nor could he carry a tune or beat a rhythm. But I was proud of him anyway. The mandolin, of course, was donated to me, and I had real fun teaching myself how to use the pick across pairs of strings and play simple tunes. “Old Joe Clark” became my favorite. I never became a really good mandolin player; my young life was taking off in so many other directions — watching girls, all that, that music was merely a pleasant but brief part of my day.

Seventh grade: junior high school. Alice was having such fun with the flute, talking all the time about band practice, etc., that I got the bug again. So I went to Mr. Raspillaire and told him I was back for more, that I wanted to be in the band. I said the drums would be good. He started me with a pair of drumsticks and a practice pad, and I was ready to go. I carried my drumsticks with me all day at school, tapping on every desktop, railing, book — anything that had a flat surface. Then one day I was too energetic with the sticks and snapped the bead off one of them on the newel post at the bottom of the stairwell. You guessed it — I was a Raspillaire dropout for the second time.

Pete Raspillaire – Band Director, South Charleston High School

By that time Alice and I filled the house with music every day — she with her flute, me with the harmonica and mandolin, and both of us singing silly duets. I knew I really liked music — I just hadn’t found my niche. Alice and I both joined the youth (“Young Peoples’”) choir at church, and David was teaching me to jitterbug in the living room — Les Brown’s “Leap Frog” was the song of choice, playing every few minutes on the radio.

Ninth grade. That fall, Alice had her high school band uniform. Dazzling orange and black, with a leather shoulder strap. One Saturday she got dressed in the uniform early in the day. When I asked why so early, she airily mentioned that the band was going to an away game, on a school bus, no less. Then she added that the band traveled a good bit, and band members never had to buy a ticket to a game. I was intrigued. Go to a Black Eagles football game free? Ride the band bus to away games? What had I been missing! Of course, it was too late to join the band for the rest of football season, but in January, I went to “Pete” Raspillaire and told him I wanted to join the band. My motive, of course, was partly about the band bus, but I really did want to join for the music, having watched Alice’s progress for several years. I just don’t know why, but Mr. Raspillaire gave me yet a third chance! I do know that since Alice was a budding star, he perhaps had a soft spot for the Farley twins. In any case, he told me to see him after school that Friday.

So when I went to the band room on Friday, he presented me with a baritone sax that was school owned, and gave me a single sheet of paper with the C scale fingering diagram drawn in pencil. He said to take the sax home over the weekend and come back on Monday ready to show him what I could do. That was my big break. I took, or rather lugged the sax home, took it from the case and went to work. I soon found out that some of the keys didn’t totally close over their holes, there were loose springs, worn-out pads and the rest, but after several hours’ work it was playable. I looked at the C scale drawing, and, remembering the Tonette, I was in business. I fiddled around with the side keys, some Tonette fingering combinations, and the rest, and felt ready. I was so proud I even got Mom’s silver polish and cleaned the sax to a presentable shine. After working out the C scale, I actually learned a couple of others — probably F and G, along with three or four simple melodies.

When I played for Pete on Monday, he said OK, I was now a band member. Obviously, that changed my life forever, but that’s another story.

That spring, after four months in the band, I was selected to play baritone sax in the All-County Band. So I joined Alice and we were off.

My next instrument: cymbals. That fall, Pete understood that the baritone sax made no sense in a marching band, so he told me to play cymbals in the drum section. He gave me a quick lesson and I was up and running with yet another instrument. Of course, I couldn’t wait for concert season, when I would get back to the baritone sax. But that was not to be. You guessed it . . . my next instrument.

Oboe. A new student had moved to town, and she could really — really — play oboe. Her name was Jean Pike. In November, after football, I went to band class, got the sax out of its case, and we had our band rehearsal. As the bell rang Pete — I’m calling him by his nickname now because it’s so much easier than keying Raspillaire every time, and we all called him Pete behind his back — Pete told me to wait after class. I did, and to my surprise so did Jean Pike. Pete told me he’d like me to play oboe, but that I had a choice. Of course, the way he laid it out: every fine band has two oboe players, and so on. So I didn’t really have a choice. How could I turn Pete down after all the chances he had given me? So I said OK. Jean took me on as a student, and for the first time I had a true mentor who knew the instrument. I had never had a real lesson — even if you count the flute, the Tonette, the drumsticks, the harmonica, the mandolin, even the sax. I learned quickly — the fingering was so similar to that of the sax, and the double reed part came fairly easily. I was very, very proud to be named to the All-County Band that year, on a different instrument.

I finished high school as an oboist — neither Pete nor I had any ideas about new instruments.

By the way, when we were juniors, Pete asked Alice and me to play something in the Lions Club Minstrel Show, an annual fundraising event. Reluctantly, we agreed, not knowing just what to do. I told Alice I simply would not stand on stage with an oboe at a minstrel show. Bad match. So we got creative: flute and harmonica duet. We played “Waitin’ On the Robert E. Lee,” a ragtime-era train song, by popular request, and then we knocked ‘em out with “Temptation,” a sultry, Latin-type tune with lots of parallel major chords and chromatic runs. Lots of fun to drag those chords out of the Honer, with its chromatic button.

Morris Harvey Swing Band; Alan is on far right of front row

So, when I entered Morris Harvey College, I naturally signed up for band, chorus, music theory, etc. — all part of my curriculum as an announced business major. I guess my mind and heart were in two different places. The college owned a baritone sax, which I played. Then, because I was really into dance band and jazz, I talked Dad into signing off on the purchase of a new King Super 20 tenor sax. My rationale to Dad was that I could earn money for school by playing on weekends, which was true, and which I did. The tenor cost $180, and I was paid about $9.00, the then-Union scale, for a three-hour dance gig. So if you do the math you can see that the tenor paid for itself, and of course I made the monthly payments to Gorby’s Music for the purchase. Incidentally, I had to sell the tenor to my good friend Eddie Beulike two years later for $180 — enough to stay in school another semester.

A note here: when the college learned what I already knew; that I was a music major, the woodwind teacher found out about my oboe days in high school, and immediately announced that I was an oboe major. So be it, I thought. I finished my degree as an oboist, played my graduation recital, and went on to play occasionally with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra. But I also continued to play sax in local bands for ten or so years, until we moved from Charleston to Roanoke.

Back to 1950: My next instrument was my first guitar — bought at Gorby’s Music in South Charleston for $8.00. My excuse was that, with no piano at home, I could use the guitar to work out chords, etc. for my music theory class. The real reason? It’s no secret that I really loved country music along with all the other varieties, and the song Wildwood Flower, as performed by Maybelle Carter, had a fascinating guitar solo. I really bought that Stella so I could learn to play Wildwood Flower. Actually, the guitar did help — a little — with my theory class.

As is well-known today, in 2014, I bought a Martin guitar when I was 19. It stands in my front room as I write these memories, and it is in fine condition, ready to pass on to Leslie at any time now. Back then, I learned some bluegrass stuff like the Lester Flatt G Run, and I could do a weak mimic of Earl Scruggs’ style. So that guitar and I, along with Kenny and his ukulele, had some real fun. Leslie played an important role in the repair and rehabilitation of my Martin, and it’s the sweetest sounding, easiest playing guitar I’ve ever picked up. Leslie loves it, and it is hers. And the Martin knows Leslie; knows she can pick.

When I think about it, the oboe, the tenor sax, and the guitar were my all-time favorite instruments. The oboe and sax were around for just a few short years, while I’ve been picking the Martin for sixty-one years.

My next instrument wasn’t really mine . . . it was Leslie’s piano. We purchased a Yamaha piano for Leslie when she was about eight. She studied well, practiced well, and was basically well-taught by her (second) teacher. She took the piano with her when she moved to Charlotte, NC after college, and then traded it for a Yamaha Clavinova (electronic) piano, better known as a “keyboard.” That was in about 1987. Later, when she moved to Raleigh, she bought a very fine Yamaha Grand, and gave me the Clavinova, which stands beside the Martin guitar in the front room. I have always loved piano, and while I had no training whatever, I’m able to get around with a few chords and play favorite pop tunes, along with a couple of very fundamental works by Bach, Chopin and Beethoven. But the popular songs from my jazz/dance band days are my real favorites. I don’t play well enough for public performance, but as my own audience I am not displeased.

Finally, I suppose I should tell you of my most long-lasting musical instrument: my singing voice, for the voice is a musical instrument in the truest sense.

I think I began singing as soon as I could talk. As a young kid, Mom sang to and with me, teaching me songs from her own youth, as well as the best known western ballads, along with a smattering of pop tunes. As I mentioned earlier, Alice and I, being together all the time, sang together with progressively more advanced vocal abilities. We were in the youth choir at church together, and so on. Then, in high school I joined the chorus, and went on from there. I sang with a couple of my dance bands, and was in my college choir for four years. Along with all that, I sang, sang, sang to myself — all brands of pop, country and classical. And today, with my raspy voice, I sing, sing, sing. Aloud, but to myself.

I started as a soprano — ninth grade — and was a tenor in college (not by choice or voice quality; the director needed tenors more than baritones and I was elected), and today I am a true baritone. You probably wouldn’t think much of my singing — I’m actually an amateur at it. One semester of voice in college, and that’s it. But I know the basics very well — voice placement, breathing, diction, phrasing, projection, etc. etc. And you have read from my teaching days that I had really good high school groups, along with a really fine church choir.

So while my fingers grow stiff, and my facility with my hands fades, my last remaining musical instrument will probably be my voice. With its signature asthma-induced wheeziness, it’s mine and I’m keeping it.

Finally, while at Columbia I learned that — at Columbia at least — the conductor’s baton is considered a musical instrument. When I first head that I wondered “what’s going on here?” But as I had declared conducting as my chosen performance medium, it occurred that they were absolutely right; that the conductor is performing music with the baton.

Aside from incidental clarinet and alto sax work with dance bands, there you have it — the story of my musical instruments. They have their own stories too, but except for the Martin guitar and the keyboard they’re not around to tell those stories. I have to think — or certainly hope — they liked me as much as I liked them, for I took good care of them, they were played well and responded in kind — they fulfilled their life missions. I guess you know by now that music is my joy, my private and public fun time, a deep well of life memories. While I have had many, many exciting experiences in my profession as an educator, and while my interests include reading, writing, research, and the rest, it always — always — comes back to music. I’m talking, of course, about those motivations aside from family and friends, which are truly the essence of who we are. So if I’m remembered as the guy who couldn’t go through a day without a musical experience of some sort, that’ll please me greatly.

Debut

This happened in the spring of 1948. Alice and I were juniors in high school, totally wrapped up in the band. Alice, by that time, had become a really fine flutist, and played with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra. She was fiercely dedicated, and was by far the more accomplished musician of the two of us. I, on the other hand, was into 40s style big band jazz, along with my affection for bluegrass and other music styles. But — aside from my baritone sax, I did have a special instrument: a chromatic harmonica, upon which one could play the most sultry chords and melodies.

Our band director, Pete Raspillaire, was a member of the local Lions Club. (Huh? How did we know that? Well, we didn’t.) We didn’t until he asked us to stay after band class one day, which had Alice and me looking at each other with raised eyebrows. When the band room cleared, he sat down with us and said that we were going to perform at the Lions Club Spring Minstrel Show, and annual fund raiser for the club.

One never questioned Pete. If he said something, it was so. But as we looked at him quizzically, he simply told us the dates — two nights — and to work it out; we were to perform some kind of music for the cause. No mention of what kind of music, or which instruments. I assumed he meant flute and saxophone, so he was in for a small surprise. (It occurred to me much later that, being the local band director, the club had told Pete it was his job to provide musical entertainment for the show.)

Being my usual brain-dead teenage self, I had no idea what a “Minstrel Show” was. We asked at home, and were told it was entertainment in which white “folks” dressed up like “black folks,” along with blackened faces, and did comedy for an all-white audience. Of course, the history books say the Minstrel shows were hugely popular in white America at that time. Online photos of blackface actors and playbills will jar your senses.

That’s what it was, and we were there. So Mom fixed us up in matched outfits: Alice in a dress of course (in 1948 it was a dress or skirt and top, never ever pants or slacks), and I in my khakis and long-sleeved shirt. After visiting a rehearsal for about 10 minutes when we were shown when and where to make our appearance, we were ready.

What we didn’t understand was the blackface. At the rehearsal all the Lions were just regular people; they hadn’t blackened their faces nor were they in costume. So on the night of the show, we were peeking out from backstage and saw all that and were well, stunned. But when our cue came we went on stage, smiled, bowed, curtsied, and did our act.

Alice with her flute, I with the harmonica, played the great Perry Como hit “Temptation.”

Talk about sultry. That song was made for my harmonica: C Major chord to C# Major and back, simply by pressing the side button. Damn, I was cool! And of course, the flute solo was equally exotic. We received a roaring ovation, and cries for an encore. We were ready. I played a solo on Waiting for The Robert E. Lee, followed by our singing of that Mississippi River showboat song in harmony. Then another harmonica chorus and out. More applause.

That was our debut in show business. Talk about mixed emotions. We loved the experience of public performance, and the applause, but were really frustrated by the shock of blackface. We just weren’t ready for that. While we had knowledge of the issue of race, we hadn’t encountered the bald reality of racism in any real sense. We both went on to solo performances which weren’t scarred by that experience. Alice played beautifully with various groups, while I eventually turned to the baton as my performance medium. I can say, and Alice would agree, that to please an audience with one’s talent is truly exciting and rewarding. And if Alice could say so, she would agree that our debut was a terrific experience in spite of the strange circumstance. And the best part of it all was that we did it together. We were a real twin-brother-sister act in every way in those days. Being a twin can’t be described, so I’ll leave it at that.

I’ll be brief here. Only to say that music permeated my life. It rang in my head at all hours from a very early age. And at about eight, I started to memorize, without thinking about it. “A Tisket, A Tasket,” sung by Ella Fitzgerald: I remember where I was when it first came to mind — I was walking on a dirt path close to the house in, I think, 1939.

And so on. The rest of this is just a sketch of my time with music. I could make this a “chapter,” but that would go beyond the intended purpose of these writings. This has to be either too brief or too long; for your sake, I have chosen brief. You will find other references to my ‘music days’ elsewhere in these pages.

It goes like this:

First instrument: In fifth grade, we all had Tonettes, a plastic whistle-like instrument with finger holes to change notes. Alice and I excelled at Tonette, playing lots of duets — just by basic aptitude. (See a later piece called “my musical instruments”, which tells the stories of all my instruments.)

High school band: baritone sax, cymbals, bass drum, and, finally, oboe.

College: started as “business major,” but took freshman band, choir, theory. From there on I was a music major, just didn’t know it until the end of my sophomore year. I took virtually every music course offered. During that time I was saturated with music: dance bands, U.S. Army Reserve Band, college band, college choir, church choir, and college courses. Took a Bachelor of Music degree in 1953.

While most of my music activity was at the “serious,” or “classical” level, I had from an early age learned to love country music — I suppose it was somehow tied to the “country” side of my family: the Hales were true country folk, and Granddad Hale played banjo, clawhammer style. I found “The Grand Ole Opry” on Saturday night radio, and learned many country songs by listening to early bluegrass music. And I had a guitar, which is still with me today — a Martin, purchased in 1951.

After two initial years of local band directing, I became music director at St. Albans High School, teaching band, choir, stage band, general music, and theory. The music program grew to about 350 students. All this time I was playing in a large dance band, had a church choir, played in the Army Reserve Band, and became music director for the Charleston Light Opera Guild, directing the music for several Broadway musicals such as Oklahoma, South Pacific, The King and I, and so on.

In 1957 I began a master’s degree program at Teachers College, Columbia, where I chose conducting as my performing medium. (I went during summers only; kept my job at St. Albans.) I was a winner of conducting competition twice while there, and took a Master’s in Music and Music Education in 1959. It was there that I learned how to memorize a musical score — in the conducting competition we had to conduct from memory. From that time forward I never directed a public performance otherwise, except for the Broadway shows, which of course were so involved with staging, cues to singers, watching the crowd and watching for the unexpected that working from memory was not possible — for me, at least.

In 1963, we moved to Salem, Virginia, where I became band director at Andrew Lewis High School. Then in 1968 I left the classroom for work in research and development of innovative programs, with the hope of helping make school a better place for students beyond my classroom.

During my teaching career, I received high compliments for the performances of my students, for which I was grateful. I experienced moments of pure joy when my performers — my students — played and sang beyond their notions of their individual abilities. As with most musicians, I can cite specific times and places when that kind of magic occurred. When it does occur, everyone is aware of it; that is, all those involved in the performance. Not just the performers — the conductor as well. You’re all part of it, equal in all respects, having the same “out of body” experience. You just know. Both in performing and attending performances by others, I have been brought to moments of true joy countless times by the sheer beauty of great music well presented. A lot of people never have the chance to experience that, and for those who do — well, it’s what you live for. It can happen any time — in rehearsal, in a public performance — anywhere.

So it was with a sense of uneasiness, in 1968, that I went on to other pursuits. Leaving the classroom was one of the toughest decisions I ever made, but looking back, I have no regrets, for my ‘second’ career, in curriculum development, research and other administrative areas, was challenging, enriching and enjoyable. While I missed the daily pleasure of being with my students as we engaged music, I believe that in taking on a “new” career I did, in at least a small way, help make school a better place for students. But leaving the classroom was not just leaving music, and there remained a part of me that wanted to be with my “kids,” my fellow musicians, for all the remaining days of my career. But music has never left me, nor have I left it. There is nothing more enjoyable, nothing more agreeable, refreshing, moving, inspiring, fun, entertaining, powerful — than music. It still rings in my head constantly. My career in music was satisfying beyond description. While I went on to other things, both academic and personal, music has been the one constant in my life, and so it will surely remain. I still bang on the keyboard, pick the guitar, and sing when it pleases. And I hear, though not often enough, the music of Mozart, Scarlatti, Beethoven, Mahler, Ravel, Bach, Chopin, Palestrina, Verdi and the rest, and it is always as if I’ve never heard it before.

Charleston Light Opera Guild

5 photos

Clark and Roy

I was ten, I think. I had, during the previous several months, become addicted to hillbilly music, as it was called then. I had been kept home from school with a sore throat that wouldn’t go away, so during the long afternoons I would listen to local radio — AM only, of course, and country music was the fare. That led to my discovery of The Grand Ole Opry on Saturday nights, so I soaked it up. The sound of a mandolin really got me. Banjo, fiddle, all the rest. I listened from 7:30 until the final show closed at 11:00. That final show was a thirty-minute segment featuring Roy Acuff and the Smokey Mountain Boys. He was famous at the time, and had several big hits to his credit. They billed him as “The King of Country Music.”

I could go on and on about the Opry, but this is a more narrow story. It’s about Roy.

The ad hit the Charleston Gazette: Roy Acuff was coming to town, to the Municipal Auditorium, on a Sunday afternoon, in just three weeks. I whooped. Asked Mom if I could go; told her I had saved enough — well, almost enough, to buy a ticket. She said that wouldn’t work, she didn’t think I should go all the way to Charleston on the bus by myself. I begged. I pleaded. Finally she said OK. (I think she intended all along to go for it; she just wanted to impress on me the importance of taking care of myself.) So, along with the few cents I had, I saved enough for the ticket, with a dime to spare. I think the ticket was either 50 cents or a dollar, don’t remember which.

That Sunday, I dressed in my best green sweater, caught the bus. Bus driver looked at me, a small kid, asked where I was going. Puffed up, I told him “Municipal Auditorium.” I sat right behind him, looking out all the closest windows. He said “Here we are,” I got off in front of this monstrous building with all these people out front, and momentarily froze. Then I got my nerve up, bought a ticket and went inside. A cavern. Dark, huge. I found my way to the top, where there weren’t any people. I moved down two or three rows and got my seat. There was no one even close. I waited and waited, then finally the curtain went up and the show started.

The first act on the show was a fiddle contest. There were two “finalists.” The first was a country guy called Natchez the Indian. Evidently, he was famous and traveled with the show. His competitor was a local man named Clark Kessinger. The crowd roared at his introduction. Someone could write a short story about that fiddle contest. I’ll keep it simple. Natchez went on first. He played an old-time hoe down, and everyone clapped. Then he did his big number: “Listen to The Mocking Bird.” He made his fiddle sing. Pretty bird songs, nice fiddling in between. Up the fingerboard, back down. Tremelo, acrobatic stuff. I was entranced. When he finished he received a huge applause from the crowd.

Then Clark Kessinger stepped up. While Natchez had come out in a fancy costume with spangles and a wide hat, Clark stepped up to the microphone in black trousers, white dress shirt, no hat. He proceeded to play his regular fiddle tune, matching Natchez with fast-flying bow work, all over his fiddle. The audience yelled its approval. Then Clark stepped to the mike and said something like this: “Natchez is a fine player. But he played ‘Listen to The Mocking Bird,’ which I had planned as my feature song. So if you all don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and give you my version.”

And he did. He not only played the sweetest, various bird songs, interspersed with a fiddle version of the song, he then put the fiddle behind his neck and continued to play. Then the fiddle went behind his back. The crowd roared. By that time I was transfixed. Finally, he took the bow, placed it between his knees facing forward, and played by moving the fiddle upside down, back and forth. That did it. The crowd rose to their feet, Clark took a portly bow and walked off stage. Of course he was named the winner of the fiddle contest. By that time I was in a trance.

And then: then, the show started. Out came Roy Acuff himself (also in dress pants and white dress shirt — none of that cowboy stuff — and the music began. The Smoky Mountain Boys played and sang all the familiar hits that I’d been listening to on the Grand Ole Opry. I can name the songs, the band members, the comedy, all of it. But that’s not important here.

I simply can’t tell you how I felt that day. I suppose “magic” fits. That I can tell you about it now, some seventy years later, may help you see me, young, green sweater, with a dime left over, going to Charleston alone, seeing and hearing all that music, forever tied to that kind of music. As it turned out, not just that kind of music. That was in fact my first “live” music experience. While I loved listening to the radio, the live experience made sense of it all. Music is music, in the end. Roy helped me understand that. Note: It turned out that Clark Kessinger lived in South Charleston. I went to high school with his son and daughter. Clark was locally famous, and in his later years won national championships for senior fiddlers. I have many of his recordings. Look him up.