11,125. RUDIMENTS, pt. 426

RUDIMENTS, pt. 426

(avenel 'training' lessons)

I always thought to myself

that a megaphone was not

needed. The messages to me

were as clear as a bell, and

they came through well. If

I was alone in the world, the

world would have been ideal.

-

On the other hand, the world

was found to be a very crowded

place. Therein was my conflict.

My piano teacher, the last one,

the guy I started up with again

after the train wreck years, was

a strange enough fellow, a cigar

smoking, and chomping, tax 

person or something, in his 

office-garage, at the rear of 821

Ridgedale Ave., in Woodbridge, 

at the corner of Lockwood. 

There was a piano in there, 

and he also had a little band

of his own  -  which played at

local church and Elks Hall 

and such, dances. Everything

was yellowed with cigar smoke,

and it all stank too. Even the

white ivory piano keys had 

been yellowed. Whatever 

and be that as it may  - back 

then, men smoked. Nobody 

cared. A doctor could be

delivering a baby, and have 

a cigarette dangling out his

mouth. This piano guy had

converted this nice red-brick

garage into both a work-office

for himself, and a piano studio

of sorts for his practice and the

giving of lessons.

-

I'd go in there, after having

bicycled myself over to the 

lesson, up that little hill, etc.,

turning up Lockwood, off 

Rahway Avenue and the tracks,

past the stone-throwers too,

and we'd talk a little; he'd play

some (he was really good, of 

course, as an instructor should 

be). I'd sit back, and he'd play

my practice piece from the last

week, and then I'd play it back.

A pale second, to be sure. Then

he'd sit next to me, on the

piano bench, and walk me

through it, slowly and again.

Little comment, if any at all.

The thing that had always

irked me  -  and still does  - 

was that after all these piano 

lessons over the years, (and I

went through 3 piano teachers,

all local people), all I ever got

was the equivalent, really, of

rote ABC learning. I found that

especially glaring as a lack. I'd

wished for explanations, music

theory, classical histories, the

way sounds have been developed,

the long and varied schools of

music and movements, composers,

all that. All it seemed I ever got

was to play another 'Fur Elise' or

'Happy Wanderer' or 'Indian Love 

Call.' No one ever talked anything

sensible; it was all and always like

the same happy-talk crap you could

find anywhere, and not even about

music. That drove me mad. I was

in a position to probably talk these

teachers down into headlocks about

things more then they ever could 

me. Fact of the matter was (and 

this was so indicative, to me, of 

all else in Woodbridge and Avenel),

they were as dull as bricks, (thick

too, I guess). There were so many

chances for, and places where, any

good conservatory instructor would

have gloried in my interest  -  like,

for instance, in 'Indian Love Call'

there was a solid, heavy use of 'A'

and 'E' as the basis for the repetitive

tribal dance feel of the piece. I

had a curiosity towards that pattern

and sequence of notes, what else

could be done with them, where does

a slide into 'D' perhaps enter in?

How, historically, had they been

used together, etc. As simple as

even that was, as questioning for

music preliminaries, the approach

was never offered me. This guy 

was just a dance-band bonhomie

guy; nothing in common with me.

-

So, once again, I'd hang my head

in dejection and stumble away from

all these things. It always seemed

like my life was paltry; dead-poor,

sated only with uselessness and

the empty pockets of a pauper

really, really, wanting more. How

could there even be a God, I'd

often ask myself, if He couldn't

even get this most simple stuff

right in the case of me. All this

trouble of making thoughtful

creatures, and then just throwing

them to the wolves. 

-

I was pretty miserable and only 

had myself as my own way out.

Everything and everyone else

around seemed the same copy of

one another, thousands of times.

What else could one possibly glean

from seeing 70 acres of grounds,

for instance, on Rahway Ave.,

over, across the road, all fenced

and laced, so morons could hit

golf balls into netting, or better

yet, bean the nutcase out there

on a tractor with a shield on it,

collecting golf balls. Talk about

'new math,' as everyone always

did, these numbers added up to

stupidity multiplied by ignorance;

and apparently I'd gotten the 

Edgar Hill door prize by 

contracting with a piano teacher 

who mostly did nothing of merit.

-

Those were crazy years, whichever

ones they were  -  I can't even really

recall : I guess 1959, 1960, around

there. Mostly I went by the styles

of cars, but in this case I can't

remember what anyone was

driving. Mr. Novak, the piano

teacher, I can't recall, but he

had a more expensive car than 

ours. Maybe a Buick. My father,

as I may recall, was tooling around

in a '56 Ford station wagon. The

next car was a 1960 Chevy wagon,

but that was like 1962 or 1963;

hard to say. It all gets jumbled up

in my home-life brain, especially

fresh like that after the train wreck.

I want to say that the last thing 

on my mind was to start up again

with piano lessons, but that can't

have been the case, because I did

it apparently willingly, and it took

work, bicycling myself there weekly,

and back. (I knew damn well I

wasn't about to get in any piano

lesson bound, or back, car with

my mother again. And those same

tracks still loomed at me  -  as I'd

cross them  -  weekly, twice).

-

I think I was maybe born out of

place and time. Or at least I was

after the train wreck, when I sort of

re-arrived in the same places as

before, except again they all seemed

different. The best location I'd found,

after those years, was the Woodbridge

Library when it was down along

Rahway Avenue, towards Woodbridge

just after the driving range grounds.

It had been a hardware and building

supplies kind of place, called

'Home Center.' Then, when they

folded, the town picked it up for a

stop-gap version of a library while

they figured out their plans and

funding gimmicks for the new heap

they finally built in the 1970's, by the

high school. About 1972, it opened.

Anyway, the one down at the old Home

Center was really cool. (Now it's
some cheesy banquet hall named
'Ariana's' - noisy and foul). It was 

kind of warehouse-like; open and

airy, one big space. Shelves and

books, of course, were jammed in,

along with reading tables and study

spaces. The rear area was periodicals,

and the the center and front was the

reference desk and book-check-out

desk. To me it was unique and grand,

and I spent a lot of that Winter in

there, at night. I even met my

girlfriend in there  - one night she

just followed me home, as I'd walk

there. I finally, after having seen her

a few times, turned around once and

just said, 'Hey, what's up?' And we

walked. But anyway, in that place

someone was always trying to help me;

all these lady librarians, I mean.

I'd take out art books, or ask for

philosophy titles and all that stupid

crud, and they'd start blabbing to me

like lonely-hearts about how they'd

always loved art themselves, or wished 

they'd moved to France and married

an existentialist  -  yeah, stupid stuff

like that, crazy as all get out. One lady

got sweet with me, over art, and said

she too painted, blah, blah, and then

she told me (and this has always stayed

with me) that when she painted  -  and

it was a lesson she revered  -  she always

first put newsprint or paper, collage like,

down on the canvas, and then painted 

on that. That way, she said, no matter

what you did paint, all the open areas

and space would still have something

going on in them (the newsprint), and

that was always a good thing to her.

I never tried it, never even much

thought about it actually. When I

was 17, all these ladies were already

40 or so. I'm guessing they're (sadly)

all dead now. Boy, life sucks.