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This site is a member of WebRing. To browse visit here. Friday, May 28, 2004 Music to my ears . . . One bright spot in all the gloom, doom and overwork of the last few weeks is my grandson. Nick is your typical 13-year-old boy—mildly addicted to video games; loves sports, Harry Potter and bike-riding, in no particular order; eats anything that can't run faster than he can. Except he's not typical at all. Nick writes music.A year ago, he was hardly even aware of music as anything more than something to listen to on the radio, and not terribly enthusiastic about that. But he always headed straight for the piano any time he visited me. Or my recorder, or the concertina or the Irish penny whistle. Shelley said he balked at being involved with the music program in school, so I didn't push. I just taught him a couple of tunes on the penny whistle and let him plonk away on the piano whenever he wanted. He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, as the saying goes, though his pure boy-soprano voice of a couple of years ago was so beautiful it would bring tears to your eyes, off-key or not.When I moved into Shelley's apartment last July, I couldn't bring the piano with me, and wasn't willing to do without some variety of musical instrument for a year. So I bought an electronic keyboard—nothing fancy, but not a toy either. And a switch came on in Nick's brain. He fiddled with the various settings, and listened to the built-in melodies, and one morning, he slowly began to play something I'd never heard before. He started and stopped, stumbled over the keys and tried again, backtracked and tried something different."What's that?" I asked, thinking he was trying to play something he'd heard."I made it up," he said, with absolute wonder in his voice. "I didn't know I could do that. I made up a song!"That was ten months ago. Since then he has written many more simple little melodies, each fresh and new, each more complex in rhythm and construction than the last. He is still enormously naive, his music artless and unaffacted, but the fruit is plain to see in the still unopened bud of the flower. He "gets" it, in his genes.The other day, he was humming something that sounded like a melody he'd written much earlier. He saw my glance and said, "That's sort of like this . . . " He sang the original, and I nodded. "But it's a—a variant, sort of," he said. "Like the other one, but a little different.""That's called a variation," I told him, and played a bit of what I remembered of the Mozart variations on "Ah vous dirai-je maman" (otherwise known as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). I could see the gears turning in his brain as I played several of the variations, and I'll bet it won't be long before Mozart's example turns up in some of Nick's work.Yesterday we listened to a Hayden concerto for harpsichord, viola and strings on the radio in the car. "Oh man," he said with heart-wrenching wistfulness, when it finished, "I wish I could write something like that!" This is the boy who, a year ago, thumbed his nose at classical music, claiming it put him to sleep."You will," I promised him, believing it absolutely. "You're taking baby steps now. Look at how far you've gone in a year."He wants me to take him to an opera, to replace my old dead flute so we can play things together, to teach him some more songs to sing (his young adult baritone is living up to the promise of its boyhood purity, and he seldom wanders off-key any more). Every day is an amazing new experience for both of us, and I think that if I never do anything else worthwhile with the rest of my life, turning this child on to music will have been enough. posted by Liz @ 8:21 AM | The template is set to display 10 posts. To see all the posts for this month, click on the month name in the Archive section RSS Feed PERSONAL Send email toliz at life-as-a-spectator-sport.com Home I'm a mother, grandmother, a computer professional, Democrat, Christian. I welcome politely worded comments and email, my spam filter throws the rest away, so don't bother to flame me WHY 'LIFE AS A SPECTATOR SPORT' "If you're lucky not to live in the gutters of a slum, but still can't afford to take vacations in the Alps, you're part of that enormous middle class who lives life through the medium of the television, further separated from "real" life by air conditioner, by automobile, by dishwasher, microwave and ice-in-the-door refrigerator, by automatic washer and dryer, and all the other appliances and conveniences that make it possible for America to live life at second hand. I'm not sure why Americans decided that televised drama was better than the real thing, that cardboard microwave food containers were an adequate substitute for real dishes, and their contents for real food, or that cooking, dishwashing and face-to-face conversation wasn't worth the effort and time it required. Someone fed this nation a plastic crate of out-of-season tomatoes and told us it was life and we took them at their word, and we're so much the poorer for it that it's hard to know where to start to list the shortcomings." I wrote this a couple of years ago, but I have to admit it's much less amusing than I thought it would be to see the artifical construct falling apart. THE NON-ELECTRIC HOME Cleaning, 1 Cleaning, 2 Cleaning, 3 KNITTING BLOGS Extravayarnza Knitting Heretic Mind of Winter Pie Knits Persistent Illusion See Eunny Knit The Keyboard Biologist Taleweaver's Ramblings TECHnitting Wendy Knits FINISHED PROJECTS -------FINISHED IN 2006------- Peruvian Cap Tutti-Frutti Socks Shelley's Socks Carol's Socks -------FINISHED IN 2007------- Chain Link Socks Baby Surprise Jacket Valerie & Friend Baby Bonnet Rainbow Baby Socks Girls Pixie Hood Mitred Square Heart Red & White Socks Coffee Cup Pot Holder Nubbins Dishcloth Garterlac Dishcloth Suede Booties Kate's Socks Norwegian Sweet Baby Cap Half Thumbless Mittens Red Mittens for Akkol -------FINISHED IN 2008------- SELF-RELIANCE AND THE FUTURE -- Blogs and websites -- Causubon's Book Club Orlov Food Storage Made Easy From the Wilderness In the Wake Listening to Katrina Survival Topics The Modern Homestead The Oil Drum Notes from a Hillside Farm -- Mailing Lists -- 12vdc Power Living on the Land Rainwater Refrigeration Alternatives Old Ways of Living POLITICAL BLOGS and SITES The political sites have moved BOOKS I'M READING How to Grow More Vegetables, etc. Small Scale Grain Raising ARCHIVES February 2009 January 2009 December 2008 November 2008 October 2008 August 2008 July 2008 May 2008 April 2008 March 2008 February 2008 January 2008 December 2007 November 2007 October 2007 September 2007 August 2007 July 2007 June 2007 May 2007 April 2007 March 2007 February 2007 January 2007 December 2006 November 2006 October 2006 September 2006 August 2006 July 2006 June 2006 May 2006 April 2006 March 2006 February 2006 January 2006 December 2005 November 2005 October 2005 September 2005 August 2005 July 2005 June 2005 May 2005 April 2005 March 2005 February 2005 January 2005 December 2004 November 2004 October 2004 September 2004 August 2004 July 2004 June 2004 May 2004 April 2004 March 2004 February 2004 January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 April 2003 March 2003 February 2003 January 2003 December 2002 November 2002 October 2002 September 2002 August 2002 July 2002 June 2002 May 2002 April 2002 March 2002 February 2002 Feedjit Live Blog Stats
One bright spot in all the gloom, doom and overwork of the last few weeks is my grandson. Nick is your typical 13-year-old boy—mildly addicted to video games; loves sports, Harry Potter and bike-riding, in no particular order; eats anything that can't run faster than he can. Except he's not typical at all. Nick writes music.A year ago, he was hardly even aware of music as anything more than something to listen to on the radio, and not terribly enthusiastic about that. But he always headed straight for the piano any time he visited me. Or my recorder, or the concertina or the Irish penny whistle. Shelley said he balked at being involved with the music program in school, so I didn't push. I just taught him a couple of tunes on the penny whistle and let him plonk away on the piano whenever he wanted. He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, as the saying goes, though his pure boy-soprano voice of a couple of years ago was so beautiful it would bring tears to your eyes, off-key or not.When I moved into Shelley's apartment last July, I couldn't bring the piano with me, and wasn't willing to do without some variety of musical instrument for a year. So I bought an electronic keyboard—nothing fancy, but not a toy either. And a switch came on in Nick's brain. He fiddled with the various settings, and listened to the built-in melodies, and one morning, he slowly began to play something I'd never heard before. He started and stopped, stumbled over the keys and tried again, backtracked and tried something different."What's that?" I asked, thinking he was trying to play something he'd heard."I made it up," he said, with absolute wonder in his voice. "I didn't know I could do that. I made up a song!"That was ten months ago. Since then he has written many more simple little melodies, each fresh and new, each more complex in rhythm and construction than the last. He is still enormously naive, his music artless and unaffacted, but the fruit is plain to see in the still unopened bud of the flower. He "gets" it, in his genes.The other day, he was humming something that sounded like a melody he'd written much earlier. He saw my glance and said, "That's sort of like this . . . " He sang the original, and I nodded. "But it's a—a variant, sort of," he said. "Like the other one, but a little different.""That's called a variation," I told him, and played a bit of what I remembered of the Mozart variations on "Ah vous dirai-je maman" (otherwise known as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star). I could see the gears turning in his brain as I played several of the variations, and I'll bet it won't be long before Mozart's example turns up in some of Nick's work.Yesterday we listened to a Hayden concerto for harpsichord, viola and strings on the radio in the car. "Oh man," he said with heart-wrenching wistfulness, when it finished, "I wish I could write something like that!" This is the boy who, a year ago, thumbed his nose at classical music, claiming it put him to sleep."You will," I promised him, believing it absolutely. "You're taking baby steps now. Look at how far you've gone in a year."He wants me to take him to an opera, to replace my old dead flute so we can play things together, to teach him some more songs to sing (his young adult baritone is living up to the promise of its boyhood purity, and he seldom wanders off-key any more). Every day is an amazing new experience for both of us, and I think that if I never do anything else worthwhile with the rest of my life, turning this child on to music will have been enough.
The template is set to display 10 posts. To see all the posts for this month, click on the month name in the Archive section
RSS Feed
PERSONAL
WHY 'LIFE AS A SPECTATOR SPORT'
"If you're lucky not to live in the gutters of a slum, but still can't afford to take vacations in the Alps, you're part of that enormous middle class who lives life through the medium of the television, further separated from "real" life by air conditioner, by automobile, by dishwasher, microwave and ice-in-the-door refrigerator, by automatic washer and dryer, and all the other appliances and conveniences that make it possible for America to live life at second hand. I'm not sure why Americans decided that televised drama was better than the real thing, that cardboard microwave food containers were an adequate substitute for real dishes, and their contents for real food, or that cooking, dishwashing and face-to-face conversation wasn't worth the effort and time it required. Someone fed this nation a plastic crate of out-of-season tomatoes and told us it was life and we took them at their word, and we're so much the poorer for it that it's hard to know where to start to list the shortcomings." I wrote this a couple of years ago, but I have to admit it's much less amusing than I thought it would be to see the artifical construct falling apart.
THE NON-ELECTRIC HOME
Cleaning, 1 Cleaning, 2 Cleaning, 3
KNITTING BLOGS
Extravayarnza Knitting Heretic Mind of Winter Pie Knits Persistent Illusion See Eunny Knit The Keyboard Biologist Taleweaver's Ramblings TECHnitting Wendy Knits
FINISHED PROJECTS
SELF-RELIANCE AND THE FUTURE
POLITICAL BLOGS and SITES
BOOKS I'M READING
How to Grow More Vegetables, etc. Small Scale Grain Raising
ARCHIVES
February 2009 January 2009 December 2008 November 2008 October 2008 August 2008 July 2008 May 2008 April 2008 March 2008 February 2008 January 2008 December 2007 November 2007 October 2007 September 2007 August 2007 July 2007 June 2007 May 2007 April 2007 March 2007 February 2007 January 2007 December 2006 November 2006 October 2006 September 2006 August 2006 July 2006 June 2006 May 2006 April 2006 March 2006 February 2006 January 2006 December 2005 November 2005 October 2005 September 2005 August 2005 July 2005 June 2005 May 2005 April 2005 March 2005 February 2005 January 2005 December 2004 November 2004 October 2004 September 2004 August 2004 July 2004 June 2004 May 2004 April 2004 March 2004 February 2004 January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 April 2003 March 2003 February 2003 January 2003 December 2002 November 2002 October 2002 September 2002 August 2002 July 2002 June 2002 May 2002 April 2002 March 2002 February 2002
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