This Saturday in Rock-dale, I get to play music with some old high school buddies for the Second Annual Fall Music Festival. This is exactly the kind of cultural event Rock-dale needs. I can’t wait to sit back, close my eyes and just listen to all the live music that’s in store. Listening to music outside does a lot of cheer to my soul.
Being with my hometown brothers Lee Jay Paschall and Nick Montelongo and other fellow music lovers reminds me of my musical roots, which were planted right here in The Rock.
Dad introduced us to Dixieland and big band and we listened to him play the drums, doing a Gene Krupa-style solo in the garage as we rode our Big Wheels in the driveway. Mom sang in the church choir at St. John’s United Methodist Church and played the piano. (She also knew one song on the ukulele.)
I began piano lessons in the fourth grade, but was more interested in figuring out how to make “Lightly Row” swing rather than learn beginning Mozart. Mom’s dreams of me being the next Van Cliburn were quickly put to pasture.
I learned to enjoy all types of music from my parents, and one guy I was friends with at Texas A&M Tennis Camp. He listened to classical music and I learned it was OK to enjoy that. His roommates teased him for his musical taste, but he didn’t care. He was confident enough in himself to look past the ribbing, and I thought that was a cool way to be.
I liked classical music myself, along with a musical smorgasbord of about everything else, so to find a “cool guy” who liked it was liberating. So, I began listening to Beethoven, Chopin, Handel and Tchaikovsky, along with the radio tunes of the day that included Van Halen, Jimi Hendrix and Willie Nelson.
Two years later, I agreed to join the church choir and explore this art form. (Or maybe I was dragged into it after someone died — I can’t remember.) What was not well thought out on my part, however, was that this is when my voice was changing. Tenor was a little high for me, but I fell into the bass parts, at least on every other verse.
My voice in the midst of torturous puberty, was squeaking and inconsistent. I would have unintended grace notes that sounded like bad car brakes before descending to the intended note. “Oh for a thou-sand TONgues to sing, my great re-DEE-mer’s praise...” or “...Great is thy faithfulness, morning by morning new mercies I (screeeeeeech!) see....”
It was awful and I didn’t subscribe to the tenet that “this, too, shall pass.” The adults were gracious and forgiving, as all good Methodists are, but I stayed embarrassed much of the time. A year later, I let go of my singing career.
Choir career aside, I took my musical talents on the road for years before coming back into journalism. It was a great way to see the U.S., travel to Europe and make enough to pay the bills. I should have kept better notes because touring musicians are a hilarious group to be around. Lots of good memories.
I play drums about once a month now with Lee Jay and Nick. I call it “bash therapy,” as it takes out some of the frustration of running a business.
Rockdale is fortunate to have players and supporters to put on the musical festival and I look forward to joining some real musicians.
I still love to have harmonious vocals seep into my soul and am appreciative of those on the microphone. And just a little bit jealous.
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