this, one was not supposed to say so.
Mr. Schatz didn’t play polkas. He was a jazz guitarist, light jazz, the kind of music you would never associate with smoky nightclubs and turtleneck-wearing, finger-snapping cool cats who inject heroin and wear berets. No, this was the sort of jazz you might pound the phone against your head in time to as you wait for the next available customer service representative to take your call. Mr. Schatz was good at playing this so-called mellow jazz, and had, in fact, played with Henry Mancini at Red Rocks Amphitheater. He’d been invited to go on the road with Mancini’s band, but because he married Mrs. Schatz, the girl of his dreams, Mr. Schatz gave up the road and became a middle school band director. Mr. Schatz and his wife, Dorothy, raised two boys, one of whom provided Mr. Schatz with a grandson named Hans, while the other provided a grandson named Luke and a granddaughter named Leia. Mr. Schatz showed us a picture of his grandchildren, little moppets with blond pageboy haircuts. All three looked exactly alike.
“Hans and Luke and Leia,” I said. “Your sons must’ve really liked Star Wars. ”
“What!?” Mr. Schatz said.
“Your grandchildren are named Hans and Luke and Leia like the characters in Star Wars ?”
“Oh,” he said. “Yes.”
Even at age ten, my son knew Mr. Schatz was uncool.
But Al took one look at Mr. Schatz’s guitar, a Gibson L-5 the man bought a million years ago when he was seventeen. It was an ornate piece of wood, stunningly beautiful, Al thought. The blond maple, the hand-polished frets, hand-polished neck and body, oiled fingerboard and bridge. Yes, Al thought, it’s an instrument that’s lovely to look at, but it’s also beautiful to listen to, like a thousand angels singing a thousand truths about one’s innate goodness—and Al was overcome by what is commonly known among music store owners as “guitar lust.” Before long, Al would buy one guitar, and then another, and then another. He would spend thousands of dollars on guitars and guitar accessories. Strings, a tuner, stands, picks and straps, a polishing cloth, hard cases. But to justify putting guitars and guitar accessories on his Discover card, Al decided he needed to learn how to play the guitar.
He, too, signed up for lessons with Mr. Schatz.
“What kind of music do you fellows like?” Mr. Schatz asked during their first lesson.
Al gushed that he loved music, that he had an appreciation for all different kinds of music, that music made him feel good, and it made him feel happy and alive, and that he was excited about learning how to read music, how to play music, especially the guitar.
The boy said he didn’t know.
“Sure you do, son!” I said. I was sitting in the corner. I’d brought along my checkbook to balance so I could fake busyness but still witness the boy’s musical awakening. “He likes Bruce Springsteen!” I told Mr. Schatz.
“What?!” the old man said.
“Springsteen!”
Mr. Schatz said, “Oh.”
I didn’t know whether Mr. Schatz thought I was inaudible or idiotic, but in either case, he was moving on. He told the boy and Al to open their Mel Bay’s Modern Guitar Method, Grade 1 to page one, and their first lesson began.
These lessons would be a terrible thing to sit through, though, as week after week, month after month, it became obvious that my son was not lying when he said he didn’t feel like learning to play the guitar. He had no interest in starring as the guitar son of my dreams. Not even when I told him I’d give him some money to move to L.A. The boy liked knowing how to pluck the notes to “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits” but otherwise showed no inclination toward learning how to play the guitar.
In fact, he seemed to be in deep denial that he was even taking guitar lessons. As Mr. Schatz explained something—which frets to hold down with which fingers to play a C, for example, or how to keep time—the
Mr. Schatz didn’t play polkas. He was a jazz guitarist, light jazz, the kind of music you would never associate with smoky nightclubs and turtleneck-wearing, finger-snapping cool cats who inject heroin and wear berets. No, this was the sort of jazz you might pound the phone against your head in time to as you wait for the next available customer service representative to take your call. Mr. Schatz was good at playing this so-called mellow jazz, and had, in fact, played with Henry Mancini at Red Rocks Amphitheater. He’d been invited to go on the road with Mancini’s band, but because he married Mrs. Schatz, the girl of his dreams, Mr. Schatz gave up the road and became a middle school band director. Mr. Schatz and his wife, Dorothy, raised two boys, one of whom provided Mr. Schatz with a grandson named Hans, while the other provided a grandson named Luke and a granddaughter named Leia. Mr. Schatz showed us a picture of his grandchildren, little moppets with blond pageboy haircuts. All three looked exactly alike.
“Hans and Luke and Leia,” I said. “Your sons must’ve really liked Star Wars. ”
“What!?” Mr. Schatz said.
“Your grandchildren are named Hans and Luke and Leia like the characters in Star Wars ?”
“Oh,” he said. “Yes.”
Even at age ten, my son knew Mr. Schatz was uncool.
But Al took one look at Mr. Schatz’s guitar, a Gibson L-5 the man bought a million years ago when he was seventeen. It was an ornate piece of wood, stunningly beautiful, Al thought. The blond maple, the hand-polished frets, hand-polished neck and body, oiled fingerboard and bridge. Yes, Al thought, it’s an instrument that’s lovely to look at, but it’s also beautiful to listen to, like a thousand angels singing a thousand truths about one’s innate goodness—and Al was overcome by what is commonly known among music store owners as “guitar lust.” Before long, Al would buy one guitar, and then another, and then another. He would spend thousands of dollars on guitars and guitar accessories. Strings, a tuner, stands, picks and straps, a polishing cloth, hard cases. But to justify putting guitars and guitar accessories on his Discover card, Al decided he needed to learn how to play the guitar.
He, too, signed up for lessons with Mr. Schatz.
“What kind of music do you fellows like?” Mr. Schatz asked during their first lesson.
Al gushed that he loved music, that he had an appreciation for all different kinds of music, that music made him feel good, and it made him feel happy and alive, and that he was excited about learning how to read music, how to play music, especially the guitar.
The boy said he didn’t know.
“Sure you do, son!” I said. I was sitting in the corner. I’d brought along my checkbook to balance so I could fake busyness but still witness the boy’s musical awakening. “He likes Bruce Springsteen!” I told Mr. Schatz.
“What?!” the old man said.
“Springsteen!”
Mr. Schatz said, “Oh.”
I didn’t know whether Mr. Schatz thought I was inaudible or idiotic, but in either case, he was moving on. He told the boy and Al to open their Mel Bay’s Modern Guitar Method, Grade 1 to page one, and their first lesson began.
These lessons would be a terrible thing to sit through, though, as week after week, month after month, it became obvious that my son was not lying when he said he didn’t feel like learning to play the guitar. He had no interest in starring as the guitar son of my dreams. Not even when I told him I’d give him some money to move to L.A. The boy liked knowing how to pluck the notes to “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits” but otherwise showed no inclination toward learning how to play the guitar.
In fact, he seemed to be in deep denial that he was even taking guitar lessons. As Mr. Schatz explained something—which frets to hold down with which fingers to play a C, for example, or how to keep time—the
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