Adventures of a Bandnurd

Excerpt From Chapter 2: Pride, Prejudice & Punctures:1

Mothers have different methods for getting to the root of a problem than men. Far more sinister in nature than my father’s plans, Mom used her brain and nurturing instincts to come up with a fabulous formula to musically encourage her youngest son, organ lessons! Knowing that real musical training was what I needed, she selflessly decided to give to me a prize of six free organ lessons she had won in a drawing from Max Kruetz House of Music. Thanks mom. (Well at least it wasn’t Sears and Roebuck.) So at age nine, the spring of my third grade year, I ventured into the world of becoming a trained musician.2

I did not learn, until well after the fact, that I was actually her second choice. Jim Bob’s flat negation to her generous offer for advanced musical remediation, came with the ugly, brutal comment of, “What? You want me to be known as a Wiener Boy?” Apparently, Mom considered his feelings and offered me the “prize” with a bribe: If I completed the course of lessons, I would be the recipient of a brand new pair of drum sticks. Unfortunately, she conveniently forgot to mention that every kid in the neighborhood would regard me as a Wiener Boy should I embark on this quest for musical knowledge.3

Max Kruetz House of Music was to be my prison for the next three weeks. Organ lessons were given on Monday and Friday each week. We had a Story and Clark piano in our home, but this organ at the music store had two levels of keyboards and then these long foot pedals that stuck out from the bottom, underneath the player’s feet. I was feeling a little overwhelmed until the teacher appeared. At least my instructor was a guy. Granted, he was an older, thin, silver haired guy who spoke with a bit of a lisp and had a high pitched voice. “Hello, my name is Mr. Queen,” (I kid you not) he announced as he entered the teaching studio. “And are you Charles?” No one calls me by that name. I hated being referred to as Charles, probably for the same reason this guy loved being called Queen. “Let’s get started Charles, we have a lot to do,” he spoke as he sat down at the keyboard and showed off with Bach. 4

Admittedly, I learned a lot about how music was put together. The mnemonic for learning the names of the lines and spaces of the grand staff was part of my first lesson. Mr. Queen showed me how to play a simple melody with my right hand on the top keyboard and how to chord along with my left hand on the bottom keyboard. Noticing that my hands always tried to work together, and that I struggled to make them do separate tasks, he inquired as to what instrument found the most fascinating, fully expecting to hear the word, “organ.” A sneer crept across his entire face when I rejoined, “I am going to be the greatest drummer in the world.”5

He spoke through the fleer, “Young man, drummers are not musicians they are simply,” he looked heavenward, struggling to select the proper term, “well, drummers!” I wasn’t sure if those were fighting words or not for they lacked upfront barb one would use when calling your mother or sister a nasty name, but still. My young Texan’s sense of honor, having been drilled into my mind since birth, was having trouble accepting such hostile timbre. 6

“If you truly wish to be a drummer,” he inhaled sharply before releasing an exasperated breath, “and God only knows why any set of parents would doom their child to a life of degradation and misery,” (Again, were these fighting words? Did he just insult my parents?) “You will need to remember the following skills.” 7

Mr. Queen handed me a piece of staff paper and a pencil. “Write this information down and try to keep up,” he instructed. I seized the pencil and listened intently. “I am going to give you the six primary traits that any,” he said, pausing to clear his throat with a nasty sound of dislodging phlegm, “drummer will need in order to become something other than a drummer.” Staring off into the room, he appeared to gather his thoughts. 8

After a moments hesitation, he spoke again. “Number one, You must develop a good sense of timing.” I wrote furiously. “Is 'developed' spelled with a d-e or a d-e-e?”, I tried to interject, but he was already on number two. At this rate the lesson would be over in no time. 9

“Number two: You must develop a sense of body rhythm.” Before I could ask him what body rhythm was he continued. “Number three: Learn to listen to the REAL musicians around you.” 10

Okay, now I was sure that those were fighti- “Number four,” he immediately proceeded, “Learn to be self confident.” He then turned to me with a subtle look of skepticism and possible disgust. “Are you keeping up at all, World’s Greatest Drummer?” he asked in a somewhat taunting tone. 11

I was really beginning not to like this guy. Before I could get out my burning question,“Sir, can you tell me what a sense of bod-” I was, yet again, cut off. “Number five,” he pressed on, “Learn the history of the instrument that you love to play.” He spoke those words as he gently rubbed the console of the organ with both hands. Creepy. I secretly prayed that my mother was close by the private studio door and that the surrounding walls were not a hundred percent sound proof.12

“And finally,” he said, “Number Six: You must learn to keep a steady beat through constant practice, Practice, PRACTICE.” The man exhaled as if a one ton weight had just been lifted from his chest. “Now go and work on what you have learned today,” he stated turning away with a flippant wave. I was going to ask how to spell rhythm, but this seemed like the perfect opportunity to bolt for the door.13

The next five free lessons went by quickly and I even managed to learn how to play “Long, Long Ago,” on the organ. Mom sat there and watched with great pride, knowing that no new car windows had been broken, no dogs haphazardly wounded, and no pots and pans assaulted. Were all women this devious? I had to wonder. 14

Once the lessons were over, I was allowed to return to my beloved neighborhood where I quickly resumed in the usual games and mischief. A new descriptive term kept popping up in my presence. Not often at first, mind you, but slowly, like a festering pimple. This locution was becoming more and more prevalent when I was around the other neighborhood kids. “Wiener Boy.” 15

Some kids tried linking “Wiener Boy” with “Organ Boy,” but it came across sounding like a perverted super hero side kick, so the group just settled on “Wiener Boy.” Thus, I embarked on a new mission to prove I was not a Wiener Boy. In hindsight, I should have stuck with the organ lessons, just perhaps with a different teacher.16