While dutifully writing my weekly 550-word essay for the Sun, I realized that my seventh-grade music teacher, Mr. Davies, would have been pleased to know about it.
Mr. Davies was a volcanic personality, a man of great talent and short temper. Capable of playing and teaching virtually every instrument in the school band, he struggled each week to keep us on key and paying attention. This was back in the glory days, when music and art were regular and fully-funded parts of the grammar school curriculum. Being young and foolish of course, we seventh-graders misbehaved, not appreciating what a rare and precious opportunity a public school music program was. Right in the middle of singing “O’ What a Beautiful Morning,” near the line about an “elephant’s eye,” someone would crack a joke. Mr. Davies would slam his hands down on the keys, jump from his seat, point his finger at the offending student, yell “500 words on why I will not talk in music class!” and storm out the door. In five minutes he’d be back as if nothing had happened. He’d sit down at the piano, play a little intro, and raising one hand would lead us back into the musical cornfields of “Oklahoma!”
In high school, I discovered my tenor voice and joined the chorus. Walter Ehret, director of our high school music department, presided and conducted us in the Music Tower, with its dramatic vaulted ceiling high above us. Mr. Ehret, a graduate of the Juilliard School of Music and the Teacher’s College of Columbia University, was not only a wonderful conductor, but also had written the arrangements for literally many hundreds of pieces of choral music. Enormously talented, he conducted with his entire body, right down to his pinky finger, and drew from us sublime moments of true splendor. And, like Mr. Davies, his temper was ferocious. A wrong note, a laugh or a whisper was enough to make him stop mid-gesture, pinky in the air, and with an agonizing “NO!” that resonated and echoed off the walls he would turn on his heels and walk out, red-faced and steaming.
In two minutes he would return. We would sit in absolute silence while he strode to the front of the room. Nodding to the pianist, arm rising along with his dark eyebrows, his eyes would gently close and all temper forgotten, we would begin again.
I suppose that there are music teachers who are mild-mannered and even-tempered, quiet and gentle folks of endless patience. My teachers were otherwise; passionate perfectionists who tirelessly endeavored to awaken us to the magic of many human voices joined as one, beyond thought, beyond concept. They were devoted to the transformative nature of choral music, where individuals meld seamlessly in collective sound and explore a space denied the single voice.
I did in fact write a 500-word essay in seventh grade for Mr. Davies, and still recall it. After a long-winded 475-word apology about disruption, rudeness, and disrespect, I added that not talking in music class was important because singing with others was something I could not do by myself. Foolish seventh-grader that I was, at the time I had no idea just how meaningful that statement was.
