Enjoy this excerpt. Visualize the music.
The excerpt
As a kid I wanted to play the violin. (Which kid didn’t?) After some nudging, my father succumbed and we visited a nearby music school in my Montreal working-class neighbourhood. I got the feeling the place was not exactly the Julliard School. It was called something like “Bert’s Music Academy.” The logo was a treble clef. I never said Bert was imaginative.
My dad and I attended and met with Bert. We both took the meeting seriously. I wanted to enroll, and my dad wanted the best deal, meaning economy and some assurance from Bert that I would come out of the institute after about four weeks with skills and proficiency rivalling Itzhak Perlman. I don’t recall the entire conversation, but at one point my father did mention the “Place des Arts.” This venue, Montreal’s equivalent of Carnegie Hall, exceeded my expectations, at least for now. I never said my dad didn’t have a sense of humour.
There was a big hitch in the discussion at one point. After my father and Bert worked out a deal for the lessons, so many dollars per month, Bert asked him if I had my own violin. Naturally, this took my dad by surprise. How and why would I have my own violin? I didn’t even own a harmonica. Or a Monopoly game.
Bert told us that we would have to rent a violin from him, at an additional cost of $5 per month. This totally unexpected cost rattled my father. He turned to me and said in Yiddish, “goniff,” meaning “thief.”
I nodded my head in agreement. After all, five bucks was serious money for a simple violin rental. It was not as if we were renting a Stradivarius.
He and Bert each lit up a cigarette and they went into a heavy negotiation session. My music career hung in the balance. I thought it best not to interrupt and ask for a smoke as well.
I recall Bert showing my dad different violins, and even some other musical instruments, presumably cheaper to rent. My dad noticed a cello nearby, which Bert said rented for $6 per month. He told Bert that the violin I wanted to play should go for much less as it was much smaller than that big one. Bert gave my dad a curious look.
I was concerned the two would come up with some more economical-to-rent instrument, thereby ending my violin career. The only cheaper item I could think of was a conductor’s baton. Now which kid on earth wants to learn how to play that? It doesn’t even make a sound! And who wants to brag about being a conductor? I watched Fantasia twice and there was no way I wanted anyone to look at me and say, “There goes Leopold Stokowski.”
After a few more minutes and cigarette puffs, the two came to a deal. I was now enrolled as a pupil of Bert’s Music Academy. I walked out of the place proudly carrying an old violin in a beat-up case. To me it was a Stradivarius indeed. My career as a virtuoso violinist started. Place des Arts, here I come. This was just the first step. Unfortunately, little did I know, there were not going to be too many more steps.
I was learning to play a string instrument, but alas, my family was on a shoestring budget. Unless I was going to show rapid progress, my days as the next Itzhak Perlman were numbered.
The first lesson consisted of Bert teaching me some basic notes. This was followed by a few violin strokes, which unfortunately were not too melodic. While practising diligently at home, I had an audience of one. My dad. Judging by his look, presumably he expected Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. What I managed to muster was something sounding like an emergency amber alert broadcasted if a child goes missing.
Over the next lesson or two, my musical talents did not impress my father. When he watched me after about lesson three, he didn’t even pause to light up a cigarette. Within the month, my father decided to shut it down and we returned the violin to Bert. I recall there was still one lesson owing to me for the month. Bert asked if I wanted it. This was my final music lesson ever. I recall the tune to this day. Any member of the public upon hearing it would consider going out and looking for that missing child.
I certainly felt sad about having to stifle my music career. I felt a bit desperate. At that point I almost felt like asking what it would cost to take baton lessons.
I will say that I somewhat revisited my music career as an adult. I eventually bought myself a small harmonica.
Incidentally, I don’t know whatever became of Bert.
End of excerpt.
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