Recitals

Yesterday was my music studio's Spring Recital. I've got roughly 20 students right now, ranging in age from 7 to mid-50s. We had a fun afternoon, I think. I'm very proud of them all. 

I remember my first piano recital. I was either 5 or 6, and had been studying for most of the school year. My piano teacher lived down the street, and taught out of her basement. I played If I Could Talk to the Animals which had been in "Dr. Dolittle" at the end of the year recital. It was actually rather advanced for a child that young, and I remember lots of tears mixed into the rehearsal process. To make it worse, it had to be memorized! I was terrified that I would forget something. The recital, in May at the end of the school year, was in her church's fellowship hall. I remember my mother making cupcakes for the reception afterward, so I guess it was a kind of pot-luck affair. There were no lessons after that until the next fall, by which time, we'd moved.

In the new town, I studied with the wife of a professor at the college where Dad taught. She taught out of her living room, on a wonderful grand piano. She had a huge braided rug in the room, (I'd never seen one before!) and a huge Persian cat who liked to sleep on the rug. I loved her and her cat. I remember playing at her recital, but I don't remember where it was or what I played, except that I played a solo and a duet with another student. That was out of a book that I still have and was called Hot Potato. (I still think it's fun.)

Then the crazy pianist came to town, and convinced all the other teachers to retire. Her end-of-year recitals were a big deal. They were held in the main hall of Halliehurst Hall on the college campus. 

Halliehurst Hall, Davis & Elkins College

There was always a rehearsal the day before the recital, followed by a rehearsal dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the area. (And this for 30-40 kids!) Then the recital itself was always followed by a reception that she had had catered. 

You were given your recital piece just before Christmas. Months were spent on that song. First you had to learn all the notes, and the dynamics that were on the music. (Dynamics tell you how loudly or softly to play sections, where to speed up, where to slow down. That type of thing.) Once you got that down, then she would tell you what your interpretation was supposed to be. 

Now, by the time I was 12, I had 7 years of piano under my belt. And while I knew that there were years of lessons to come, I had worked my way up to being the 3rd from the last to perform at the recital the year before. (There was a strict heirarchy - you played in the order of your ability, so if you were the last one, you were the best.) So, when she started to tell me what my interpretation was going to be, I balked. If it was MY interpretation, shouldn't I have some say in the matter? The answer to that was NO. So, I played it her way in her living room. At home, I had to practice even more to work on my way of doing the song, along with hers. I played it the way she'd insisted at the rehearsal, but; and I'm still a little surprised at my own bravery, but when my turn came at the performance, I played Capricietto the way I wanted to. Turns out that was my last recital with her. 

We came to a parting of the ways the following year when she found out that piano was my second instrument, after voice. And she'd wanted me to practice for 6 hours every single day. And I had her for glee club every school day, plus an afternoon for my piano lesson. And I'd finally had enough of her brand of crazy.

Even though I've studied piano almost continually since then, that was my last piano recital. Or at least the last one that I played in. Because the recital saga continued with the next generation. Years later, my children took piano for a while.

Of theirs, the recital that was the most memorable was also the worst: 4 1/2 hours of kids and a few adults playing bad to mediocre piano solos. Yes, 4 1/2 hours! Besides my daughter, who was, of course, brilliant and had her song flawlessly memorized, I only remember one other performer. Poor thing, she was a beginning adult student. She walked up to the piano and began her song. You could see her hands shaking from the 3rd row. She played a few measures, and stopped. Blushing horribly, she started over, got to the same place, and stopped. She tried a third time, and then burst into tears and fled. Most of that could have been solved if she'd only been allowed to have the music with her. 

Anyway, I thought it was rude to stay for your child and then leave, so I insisted that we stay til the end. I had no idea it would be THAT long. But, we toughed it out. After all, I kept telling the kids, there's sure to be food afterward, you don't want to miss that. Food? One veggie tray that the teacher had picked up at the grocery. I would happily have brought something if I'd known. I think that she only had that, because she didn't expect anyone to stay though til the end.

So, when the time came to think about how I wanted to run recitals, I had a fair bit of experience in the field. (Yes, I know I'm primarily a voice teacher, but a recital is a recital, regardless of the instrument.) When compared to the usual round, I have made quite a few changes. I don't do the one big recital at the end of the year. I do one roughly every quarter. I want my students to have as much performance experience as I can give them. We talk a lot about how to perform, how to present yourself. And they perform for each other even more often than the recitals, with Master Class.

I don't insist on memorization. There are places where it is essential, and I will happily help prepare for that, but the recitals are not it. I can't afford to cater the reception, and I want more than a single veggie tray, so I ask people to bring munchies. My living room can't hold everyone, so I turn the recital into an open house, with people coming and going. Rather than have programs, I look around, see who is there, and call someone up to perform. We keep it relaxed, and have a fun party. So far, people seem to like it. Does this solve all the problems inherent in the recital process? Nope. But, it's the best I can think of at the moment.

Over the Rainbow

Last week I found myself talking with a friend, another opera singer, about my experience with the teacher who'd told me that I had no talent. She'd had a similar conversation with a voice teacher in college. Her teacher had been a little more polite, but the message had been the same. This led to a discussion on how she felt the college vocal program had let her down. 

Besides the obvious problem of not liking her voice, how had she been disappointed? In quite a few ways, actually. And I had some similar complaints from my days in college. When you are a voice major, there are certain requirements

Not long ago, I posted an article that listed the 10 most demanding college majors. They, the National Survey of Student Engagement, looked at:

• Average Weekly Hours of Study/Class Prep Time - the time that students spent studying out of class each week
• Number of Hours Faculty Expects You to Study - the amount of time that faculty told researchers that students needed to study to be fully prepared
• Percentage of Seniors that Spent 20+ Hours Studying for Class - "preparing" equals study
• Number of Hours Working for Pay - jobs to help pay for tuition

The 4th most demanding major was Arts and Humanities. Music falls under that umbrella. 

• Average Weekly Hours of Study/Class Prep Time - 17 hours
• Number of Hours Faculty Expects You to Study - 18 hours
• Percentage of Seniors that Spent 20+ Hours Studying for Class - 31%
• Number of Hours Working for Pay - 12

When I was a voice major, I had to sing in the concert choir. It was required of all voice majors, plus, my scholarship depended on that choir. The class counted for 1 credit hour. It met Monday through Friday for an hour. We were required to go on a two week tour during spring break, along with singing in many, many concerts throughout the year.  After the initial run-though on a song, we were expected to work on notes and timing on our own time. Rehearsals were for fine-tuning and learning the director's interpretation. All that for one measley credit.

I took voice for 3 credit hours. You got one, maybe two hours of time with the instructor each week, but were expected to spend at least an hour each and every single day working on your own. The main difference between the 1, 2 and 3 credit hours that you could take voice for was in the number of songs you were expected to memorize each semester and the number of times you were to perform in various venues.

We were also expected to be in each semester's "opera" workshop. Their idea of opera doesn't quite jibe with mine. They considered The Sound of Music to be an opera. Rehearsals were 3-4 hours, 6 evenings a week. The opera workshop gave you 1 credit hour. 

It takes 12 credit hours to be counted as a full-time student. Most music classes were only for 1 or 2 credits. And there were a bunch of them: Music Theory 1&2, Ear Training, Sight-singing, Vocal Pedagogy (learning how to teach voice), Directing, Diction for Singers 1&2, Improvization, the list goes on and on.  Foreign languages were a must. And we mustn't forget the rest of the college requirements: Math, English, Science and the like. Many music majors find themselves taking 18+ credit hours, or taking 5 years to get their degrees.

And for many, when they leave, they find that they really haven't learned what they needed. 

The program in most colleges centers around the various choirs. There are the basic concert choirs, jazz choirs, madrigal choirs, a cappella choirs, show choirs. . . I think you get the idea. These are great for bringing money into the college, almost like the sports teams. And, like the sports, they focus on team playing. Yes, there are a couple of star players, but overall, the goal is to play as a team. A choir must have a homogenous sound, with no voice standing out. With that goal in mind, most of the vocal instructors work toward that sound. And so, most singers come out with a "collegiate" sound, a voice just like every other singer that's out there. This sound is all about blending in and control. If the singer has hopes of a career in singing, this is not necessarily good. They are not encouraged to do anything that would help them stand out in an audition. 

And if the singer has a voice that doesn't easily fit into the cookie cutter standard, then they are discourged from pursuing this major. 

But there are other issues, too. At no point are the students taught how to audition. And by this, I mean how to how to present themselves as a hireable commodity. What to wear, what to say, or how to construct a good resume.

There is one skill that very few college voice teachers cover. I was very lucky in my second college voice teacher. Herr Weinsinger began to cover the art of singing. Not just the nuts and bolts, the technique, but the art: how to interpret a song, how to understand the period of a given piece, and then, how to make it your own.

Let me give you a f'r instance - Somewhere Over the Rainbow. To start with, here's Judy Garland.

She sticks pretty close to the printed music, although there are a few notes held out a touch longer than written. There's a little bit of sliding, and a couple of grace notes, all perfectly allowable in the era. Lovely, lovely voice; simple and elegant interpretation.

Now, if we want to leave simple far, far behind listen to Patti LaBelle.

And now for something completely different: Iz Kamakawiwo'ole

Three very different versions of the same song. There are hundreds of others: Eric Clapton, Frank Sinatra, Eva Cassidy, Josh Groban, Katharine McPhee, Glee, Martina McBride, or Celtic Woman, to name only a few. 

What's my point? I try to teach my students how to make a song their own. Some of this I learned with Herr Weinsinger, but most of this I gleaned from Mike Rhodes, my teacher in Germany. I learned today that he passed away last Sunday. This is a very small part of what he taught me.

The first step is to learn the music as written. Words, notes and timing. Many never make it past this step, but, once that's done, the fun (and the real work) starts. 

You need to take the time to sit, with the music in hand, and listen to every recording you can find. Thanks to YouTube, you can now find possibly hundreds of different performers doing any song you can think of. Listen to as many as you can stand, and then listen some more. Make notes, (always in pencil!) in your music of what you like. Then every few performers, stop and sing through the song, incorporating what you thought you liked. Sometimes once is enough to decide if it's right for your voice or not. Sometimes it may take a few tries to decide. 

As you play with the song, you will probably find that your understanding of the song changes. That's exactly what we want! My goal is to make your interpretation of the song unique. I don't even have to like it! The important thing to me is that my student, the singer, likes it, and feels that a part of herself is in the song. 

This is hard work. But fun work. And scary work. You can find that the song is suddenly telling far more about you than you'd originally intended. That's when it becomes art.

Is every song worth all this work? I don't know. I would say, probably not, but just because I think a song isn't worth this much effort, doesn't mean that you need to agree with me. That's part of the beauty of any art form: different tastes. 

Why did I pick this song? One of my students has been working on it. She'll be singing it at my studio's Spring Recital next weekend. She has taken a lot of time to listen, and practice, and think about what the song means to her. She's known it since she was little, as many of us have. But, as she's gotten older, it has come to mean different things. All of those things are right there in her voice. 

Each one of us is unique. Each one of us brings a different outlook to our song. That is beautiful.

You Can't Win Them All

This past month has been a busy audition season for my studio. I've written about it before, griping about what is going on in music today. Specifically what is going wrong with music in our schools. But, the auditions still happened, and some of my kids (all of my students are my kids, even the ones who are older than I am) got what they'd gone out for, and some didn't.

That combined with the upcoming anniversary of my birth, has made me feel a bit nostalgic. Again. 

1970 was a banner year for me. I saw my first opera. La Boheme. (Le Sigh.) It was magnificent. I came home and convinced my mother to help me learn Muzetta's Waltz. At 9. It must have been horrible. (I know that Mom's Italian was bad. Mine could only have been worse.)

That year also saw my first leading role. One day the morning announcements at school held an item of interest to a budding young opera singer: there would soon be auditions for Hansel and Gretel, an operetta to be put on by grades 3-6. I bubbled about that all morning. When I went home for lunch, I exploded all over the car. (Think Mentos and Diet Coke.) By the time we got home, my mother had reassured me that she had a song from the opera for me to use for the audition. I wolfed down my lunch so that we would have time to work on it before I went back to school. After all, they hadn't said when the audition would be.

Days passed. Weeks passed. No mention of the audition came on the loudspeaker. The music, carefully stored in my desk, was getting a little frayed. Finally, one morning, came utter devastation. An announcement about the upcoming auditions, to be the very next day! For grades 5 and 6. I was in grade 3. How I made it through the rest of the morning, I do not know. I may have cried through several classes. My teachers would have ignored that. ( I was something of a dramatic child.) I sobbed all through lunch. It is quite possible that my mother kept me home the rest of the day. I don't remember. What I do remember is her calling the principal. Poor Mrs. Constable. After all these years I still remember her name. She knew my parents quite well. Mom yelled at her a lot. Dad got things done much more quietly. 

Anyway, the next day, I got my audition. One of only two children whose parents' had raised a stink about the grade shift, I was very nervous. This was before not the usual grade-school music teacher, but the high school chorus director, a woman of far higher standing in my young mind. But, I had been well-rehearsed, and sang Evening Prayer from Engelbert Humperdinck's opera the best that I knew how. I met Mom at the car floating about 20 feet off the ground. I had been granted a place in the Angel Chorus! This was heady stuff! 

That night, we got the momentous phone call. Mrs. Whatsername (Why can I remember the principal's name but not the music teacher's?) had heard all the young aspirant's auditions, and had been forced to rethink her initial casting. I would not be in the Angel Chorus. I was going to be Gretel! My career was on it's way! And ~ she wanted me to stay through lunch the next day to sing Evening Prayer for Hansel and the Angel Chorus, to show them what it was supposed to sound like. Think about this for a moment: a 3rd grader is not only cast in a leading role, over 5th and 6th graders, but is now going to be showing them how to sing one of the songs. Really, the only kids who liked me were Papa, Hansel and the Witch. Most would not give me the time of day. And Mama actively hated me. Kind of fitting for the part, I guess. I wonder if she had wanted Gretel. 

Anyway, after a lot of drama and tears, the show had its run. We played on a real stage, with actual theater lights, and everything. Students from the college came to do our makeup, and run tech. The high school chemistry teacher made a smoke pot so that when we shoved the witch into the oven, smoke billowed out. I received rave reviews. I was a star.

And the day following our close, life returned to normal. I was crushed. How could people not continue to see how special I was? I must have been amazingly annoying.

The other thing that happened that year was that my older brother started college. Being a member of our family, of course he sang in the college choir. And, of course, he'd auditioned for the special, cool, choir. And he got in. Of course. I remember the first concert, about Christmas time. The first half was the concert choir. Ho-hum. Boring. I was waiting for the second half. The Madrigal Choir. Once I got over the giggles at seeing Hal in a tunic and tights, I was enthralled. The velvet gowns, the harmonies, the songs! It was beautiful. I knew that I had to sing in that choir when I was a student there. If you're not familiar with madrigal singing, and even if you are, check this out!

Years passed. I continued to get just about every choir or role that I went out for. By the time I was 17, I was a college freshman getting ready to audition for the college madrigal choir. I had been devastated to learn that the choir director just that summer had done away with the coveted madrigals. Now, in its place was a jazz choir. Dissappointed, I still confidently went out to audition. Having seldom, if ever, been turned away from any audition part-less, I was reasonably sure I would get something. But there was another difficulty: the madrigal choir had consisted of 12 singers. The new jazz choir would only be 8 voices. The existing choir would have first crack at being in the new group. Damn. Still, I knew that I was destined to be in this choir. 

The audition went well. I knew the director; had been the primary baby-sitter for his four children for years, piece of cake. He called me later with the news. I was in the jazz choir - sort of. There were no open soprano positions. But ~ he was starting a system of alternates, another quartet. We were understudies for the other parts. We would learn all the music and the choreography, and when someone was unable to perform, or left the choir, we would be ready to step in. This was the best that I could have hoped for under the circumstances, and I was pleased. 

The year went on. The other alternates slid into their appointed slots. I was left. Alone. And I was beginning to notice problems. The director, also my voice teacher, wasn't doing my voice any favors. I'd come into the year with a range of about 2 1/2 octaves. (That's not bad.) By spring, I barely could sing a full octave. (That's very bad.) He had tried to convince me that I wasn't really a soprano. He felt that my speaking voice was too low: I was really an alto. Even though I had no notes in the expected range for an alto. And then, he began missing my voice lessons. I'd go to his office at the correct time and the office would be locked. I'd knock. Nothing. I'd sit and wait and wait, and finally, after my lesson was up, leave a note saying that I'd been there, and asking where he'd been. This happened not once, not twice, but many times.

The spring semester was winding to a close, and he called me to his office. I went, expecting for him to apologize for all the lessons he'd missed. I was wrong. Oh, boy, was I wrong. He wanted to tell me that he was doing away with the alternates idea. And even though both of the sopranos were graduating, I would not be moving into either slot. He'd been discussing me with some of the other students (!), and the consensus was that I had no talent and should get out of music. I was 18. After the tears, I swore that he would not destroy my dream: I would be an opera singer! He would be made to eat his words. 

It wasn't easy undoing the damage that he'd done to my voice. I was years working my range back to where it had been, and then improving it. All of this has made me a better voice teacher. I think that even through the worse years, if you knew what to listen for, you could possibly have heard something in my voice worth the time and energy to draw out. It was only a few years later that I was offered a full voice scholarship to another college. I am very grateful to Herr Weinsinger, who heard that something in my voice. I owe him a debt of gratitude that I try to repay with my own students.

When I watched some of the first-round auditions for American Idol, (I put myself through this torture for the posting on auditions) and heard how the judges laughed at contestants who didn't measure up, I cried inside. I know how those people felt. How dare they laugh at a person's dream. You never know who will turn around and make it. When I got the good news about my scholarship all those years ago, I sent Dick (his real name!) a letter telling him what an idiot he'd been to say those things to me. I had proof now that I did have talent. He never got the letter. He'd been fired that spring. Karma can be a bitch sometimes.

Have I gotten every role that I've auditioned for since then? No. Have I become a lot more humble and more grateful for what I've got? Yes. Would I change anything? Probably. Would I like to go back and do it again? Are you kidding? No way! 

Each audition is a chance to show the adjutants and yourself what you are capable of doing. Whether they take you or not is merely a sign that you are not what they are looking for at this moment. They may take you the next time you appear before them. Or, they may call you out of the blue, and offer you a job. (It's happened, more than once!) All you can do is put yourself on the line and do the best that you can do. UItimately, you are the only judge that matters.

Duckies

I have pain issues. This weekend, my hands and wrists are being a  problem. It's very hard to type without using your hands or wrists. So, this week, I'm going to give you two songs that makes me smile.

 Enjoy and smile!

You Raise Me Up?

A few years ago my mother gave me the sheetmusic for a song that I "had to learn." I played through it and sang it for her, and she was thrilled. I wasn't impressed. I'd never heard of it before, (it appears that I live in a sound-proof bubble) and I just didn't think it was that amazing. Some of the problem may have been a certain tendency on my part to not like it simply because of the provenence. So, I put it up. 

Then I had a student who wanted to sing the song. I pulled it out, and looked at it anew. And still didn't like it. I've called this piece a hook in search of a song. But, I had a difficult time expressing just what it was that I didn't like.

And now I'm taking a music writing course. After only one class, I'm better able to articulate what I dislike about You Raise Me Up. Yes, I know that Josh Groban brought you to tears on the last chorus. I know that it's a standard now in many, many churches. That doesn't change what I dislike about it. 

Mr Groban has a lovely instrument, possessed of both power and subtlety. But, that's not what makes this song so popular. Borrowing heavily from Londonderry Aire (otherwise known as O Danny Boy), the beginning of the chorus is already in our heads. We may not consciously recognize it, but there is a feeling of familiarity, of comfort, right off the bat.

The music was written by Rolf Løvland, and was originally an instrumental piece for his band, Secret Garden. Then he asked Brendan Graham to write lyrics for the song. The result is a verse and a chorus. That's it. One verse and one chorus. I have the sheet music in front of me: it is six pages long. One verse and one chorus taking up six whole pages. How is this possible? Well, let's see. 

The first page is instrumental, and is our introduction to the melody line. I started to say the melody line for the chorus, but that's also the melody line for the verse. There's only one tune going on here. Over and over.

Then we get the verse. It's pretty short, taking up only three lines. This is performed very softly and simply. Instrumentation is minimal, just a piano playing very simple chords.

Comes the first rendition of the chorus. "You raise me up," on the word "up" the strings come in, bringing the energy of the song up a step. You have now heard the entire song. There is absolutely nothing new from here on out. I promise. Nothing. We are in the middle of page three. Did I mention that there are six pages?

Then we get a brief instrumental interlude. I'd like to call it a bridge, but a bridge is supposed to take you somewhere: in this case, from one section of a song to another. Or allow us to come to the chorus from a different perspective. This is just a repeat of the short melody with slightly different instrumentation. Oh, yes, and in a new key, literally raising us up a whole step. Then we go into the chorus, in the new key. 

Now, one of the things I've learned in this song writing class is that the first verse should be relatively low as far as energy goes, so that the song has space to grow. The first time through the chorus should be bigger, fuller, more energy. The second verse pulls back, but should still have more than the first verse so that the next chorus can be much fuller, more instruments, more backup singers, more energy.  Now, let's see if the next chorus blossoms forth with more instruments, more voices, more everything.

Yup, there it is. And another new key, this time, we've been raised up a half-step. Ooo, there's now a full chorus behind him. We've also gained percussion. Ane the literal high-note of the song, in this key, a B, just below the legendary high-C.

The chorus repeats - AGAIN - in the same key, with a few variations, and then pulls back to hint at the intimate nature of the song, to end softly and simply.

Wow. There is nothing to this song. And it was a huge hit. Why? Well, it is a catchy tune, what there is of it. And it does have, as I said a feeling of familarity. And I will add that the Celtic Woman version has a second verse. Theirs being live and outdoors, not only adds choirs, but fireworks at the climax of the song. I feel manipulated. This is a perfect example of how a song is performed being more important than the song itself. Yes, I think those performances are powerful. I get goosebumps when it raises me up with it. But, it's all a sham. 

When the song is good, I don't care that I'm being manipulated by the performance. The production values then just become a part of the whole, not something that is masking the lack of content.

Alicia Keyes' Girl on Fire is another case in point. I'm not going to go over it point by point, but see if you can hear the similarities to You Raise Me Up. Although, just to mention it, Girl on Fire at least has a bridge. But the song actually goes nowhere. I'm not on fire over it.

In this next song, though, they do it right. The buildup is the same, but I don't feel manipulated. There is no bridge, but they do bring us to the chorus from a different perspective simply by bringing in the song's composer and first singer. Oh yes, and by singing in English, up until now, the song has been sung in Italian, not the original language for Nights in White Satin.

All in all, I'm feeling pretty good about this song writing course. Who knows what I'll learn in the coming weeks?

Do It In Your Sleeve

There's an old Beatles' song called Why Don't We Do It In The Road. This is an interesting slant on that basic premise. 

As a private music instructor I get coughed and sneezed on with alarming regularity. Many times, I have had to take time out of lessons (time that the parents are paying good money for!) to instruct a child on the proper way to cough or sneeze. 

Sadly, it's not always the kids who are doing this. I was at a music conference, sitting and  waiting for a church choral reading session. There were some people standing behind me who were chatting and coughing all over my back and hair. I tried ducking, flinching, scooting my chair, and finally, (I'd been there before they came to stand behind me.) I turned and asked them to please take their coughing somewhere else. I got called a bitch and several other negative words, but, after a pointed cough in my face, they moved. (I wish I was making that up, or exaggerating, but I'm not.) And, guess what? I came home with a bad cold that turned very quickly into bronchitis.

You see, I am one of those people who are prone to upper respiratory infections. A cold, sometimes even allergies, quickly becomes bronchitis. Every year, I faithfully get whatever flu shots are available, as well as the pneumonia shot. (I know we're getting clear of flu season, but allergy season is almost here. It's just as bad.)

And I'm not the only one. Let's join the campaign to teach the proper way to cough or sneeze. It's not hard. And it may save someone you love from a nasty bout of pneumonia.

Please, practice safe coughing. Thank you.

Still My Guitar Gently Weeps

Today's post began life as a look at love songs. But, as I write, it has changed. Today, my older brother, Hal, would have been 61. I still miss him. He was 9 when I was born, and was instrumental in shaping my musical tastes. Dad liked Elvis, Hank Williams, The Beatles, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, and opera. (An odd mix, that.) Mom liked Broadway musicals, opera and John Davidson. Hal saw to it that I was exposed to a wider variety of styles. A teenager in the late '60s, of course he played guitar and was in several bands. I remember sitting on the floor while he practiced his guitar. It was probably 1966, (I was 5, he was 14) and he started slowly playing a new, for him, riff. I was entranced. I had to have a guitar and learn how to play that gorgeous piece. I didn't know at the time that he was practicing the song at a much slower tempo than it should be taken. 

Not long after, I was having a huge fight with my mother about the state of my room: I thought that since all of my toys were out of sight that was clean enough; my mother unreasonably felt that under my bed was not the proper place to store toys. Hal got tired of listening to me sobbing, and came into my room with a deal. If I could clean up my room, with the toys where they actually belonged, by dinnertime, then he would give me his old guitar, a 3/4 size instrument. Not a complete idiot, I jumped on this, and quickly cleaned my room like it had never been done before. By that evening, I was the proud owner of my first guitar, and insisted that Hal teach me to play that song. 

I quickly discovered that proficiency was a long way off. But, I stuck with it and eventually learned how to play my beloved song. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that there were lyrics to go with that wonderful riff. And, it was supposed to go a good bit faster than I'd thought.

I was introduced to the pre-fab four - the Monkees; Hal and I used to watch their show together. I thought that was so cool. With our age difference, there wasn't a lot that we did together.

Even as a kid, I noticed things on this video. I noticed that there was no way that what Mike was playing on the guitar could be what we were hearing. And how well could he be playing with that tie constantly flapping into the strings? I began to understand what lip-syncing was.

Hal was constantly in one band or another. At one point, there was a drum kit in the family room. But I was not allowed to touch it, seeing as how it belonged to one of his friends. They weren't allowed to practice at the friend's house, so the drums came to ours. 

The acoustic guitars began to give way to the electrics. His first amp was about one foot squared, but they grew. I learned that amplifiers were different from speakers. He topped out with a 6-foot concert speaker in his bedroom. (Fortunately, it was a very large room.) Even then he could only play it while our neighbors were at work or school. 

We had a wicker swag lamp hanging over the dining table instead of a chandelier. It looked a lot like this one to the right (I guess it went with the Dutch modern style that Mom preferred). When Hal would practice, I'd see the lamp swaying to the beat: I thought that was kind of cool; I don't think Mom agreed. Then Hal took up the bass: That not only made the lamp sway, it cracked the plaster in the dining room. I think Hal's room was directly over that part of the house.

Then came Woodstock. My favorite from that album set was Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit. I'd always like Grace Slick, anyway. 

But, for Hal, Woodstock was all about Jimi Hendrix. Hal worked on that version of the Star-Spangled Banner over and over and over. The swag lamp in the dining room went nuts on that one.

Such concepts as wah, fuzz and feedback were added to the more classical music terms my piano teacher gave me.

Gradually, I began to find my own tastes. This led to my one and only foray into the world of teenyboppers: Bobby Sherman. 

Hal was horrified and ashamed of his little sister for this. He took it as his personal mission to teach me the error of my ways. (Watching this video can still make me smile.) I was 9 when this came out, so I think I can be forgiven for any lapse in judgment. But, Hal, 18 at that point, was determined. He would take me to his room, an otherwise forbidden zone, and play music for me, trying to get me admit that something, anything, was better than Bobby. Crosby, Stills, Nash and occasionally Young, were played for me. I liked them, thought they were really good, but not better. Led Zeppelin - good, but not better. Alice Cooper (Mom would have had a fit!) - fun, but not better.

Part of it was sheer perversity on my part. I knew he was annoyed by my love of Bobby Sherman's music, so I stuck to it.

Then, finally, he played Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. I was entranced. This was amazing. It opened a world of music to me. This was art. Plus, it was just three people! Guitar, keyboards and drums. I could play piano and guitar. Perhaps something like this was possible! (Yeah, in my dreams!) 

My vocabulary expanded to include such words as Moog and synthesizer. 

We lived in a small college town, where Dad taught. I grew up on that campus. Dad's office was just at the end of our street. Hal was a student there. I thought I was grown up and cool. I also knew that I was going to be an opera singer. I'm sure that was a new brand of irritation to a teenager. I began to practice (in excerable Italian) arias that no 9-year old should be singing. Hal, who had practiced so loudly that it annoyed the neighbors, would leave the house when I sang in order to avoid listening. He said that I "sucked."

Not long after, he graduated and got married. But he still managed to influence my musical tastes by introducing me to Elton John, Heart, and Jethro Tull among many others. I'm sure that my love for ABBA, the Carpenters, and Barry Manilow would have been considered blots on my escutcheon. 

Years went by, as they tend to do. We discovered that we both had all of Weird Al's CDs. Hal was shocked that we were both fans. I wasn't: Hal had been important in guiding my formative years. When my kids were surprised to find out the the Billy Idol CD was mine and not their dad's, I knew that was a part of the musical heritage that Hal helped to extablish. 

I played the guitar that Hal gave me until I was 11. He helped to select the guitar that I got for that birthday. We all went to Clarksburg (the closest music store was abut 45 minutes away), and Hal led me to the ones that he thought I was ready for. The clerk came over, and began to talk to him. Hal told him that the guitar was going to be for me. The clerk then became condescending, and started to show me how to hold the instrument. I confidently took it and began to play House of the Rising Sun. I still play that guitar. I have Dad's guitar now, and one of Hal's. 

This is my favorite Beatles' song. George Harrison was a fantastic guitarist, but on the While Album version, the lead guitar was played by Eric Clapton. In keeping with everyone else, Hal thought that Clapton was the guitar god. This version, from 1987, has Harrison, Clapton, Ringo Starr and Phil Collins on drums, and Elton John on piano. All rock stars that Hal introduced to me. It seems a fitting tribute.