Truth is Stranger than Fiction

For seven years of my youth, I took violin lessons. I lasted that long not because I had an interest in the violin, but because I loved my violin teacher, and I didn't want to disappoint him by quitting. He thought I was "very musical," you see. Said so right in this letter he sent home to my parents, which, if I can find it by Tuesday, I will have provided. _{sorry - that letter is buried somewhere in the garage of my new home}

For four years, every single school day, during fourth period just before lunch, I went to Orchestra. Our high school orchestra was quite good at the time, because we had this incredible strings and orchestra teacher, Mr. Purga. Adelbert Purga no less. He could play, he loved music, and he could get a roomful of teenagers to be deadly serious about classical music, or at least serious enough to not mess around in his class EVER. And serious enough to put on a really good show.

Problem was, I didn't give a crap about music. If you knew me now, you might find this hard to believe, because I am all about the music these days.

I never, ever, practiced. Never. I carried that thing home with me every single day after school, back to school the next morning, and never once took it out of its case. Well, once I did. I remember standing at the top of the back stairs and playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for my mother, who stood at the bottom of the stairs. I enjoyed putting on my little performance. But my mother, who was a teacher, could not tell what tune I was playing. Not ABC's, not Baa Baa Black Sheep, and not Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

“I must have really sucked” I remember thinking. And I decided then and there to never play the violin at home again. And I did not.

I learned a lot about music though. Except for how to love music. When high school was over, my violin went into its case and stayed there for a very long time.

A dozen or so years later, I tried classical lessons again. I was somewhere around age 30, and my teacher was much younger than I. He was an arrogant prick, nothing like dreamy Mr. Purga. I did learn more about music, but I still didn’t care about music.

I figured the problem was that I had been trying to learn the wrong kind of music. Maybe classical just wasn’t my bag. Maybe I would enjoy bluegrass, country, or folk. This actually was a great idea, except I could not find a teacher of any of those genres in my Park Slope, Brooklyn neighborhood. It would have to be classical, jazz, or nothing.

My kids were attending pre-school and after school programs at a Jewish Temple. I saw that the after school program was offering Suzuki violin lessons for the kids. At the bottom of the teacher’s flyer was a little note: “Deborah is also an accomplished klezmer violinist.”

I thought, “Klezmer. I'm not sure what that is, but why not?”

So I enrolled as a student of the after school. I took lessons at the temple, and participated in the temple’s after school program recital. Me, my violin, and the kiddies. But I played a klezmer tune.

I continued taking lessons at the Temple for a couple of years. Klezmer is great music to learn how to play the violin through, because the violinists were the band leaders back in the day, so nearly all of the tunes are in keys that are easy on the violin. When I got up the nerve, I started playing with other adults. I learned a bit about how to play secund (accompaniment), how to improvise, how to compose, how to be part of an ensemble, and how to jam. I became a member of several bands, one of which actually did gigs. And best of all, I now loved music.

That’s the big reveal.

In case you missed it.

I was once a pretty good klezmer violinist.