boy would tug his new Homie out of his pocket and he’d hold it out for inspection, saying, “See what I have?”
“What?!” Mr. Schatz said.
“See my Homie?”
Homies were small plastic figurines depicting Mexican-American characters with names like Bobby Loco, Mariachi Pedro, Bubbles, and La Chunky. Homies could be purchased for fifty cents from vending machines located in grocery stores and Mexican restaurants. My son was building his Homies a barrio out of Legos, a structure he called “Ashbury Park.” I was never convinced Homies were good toys because they hurt terribly when you stepped on them with bare feet, but I agreed to buy the boy ten every time he practiced for half an hour. In a few weeks’ time, he accumulated a hundred, and since he didn’t need or want any more, he quit practicing altogether.
But the guitar lessons were the high point of Al’s Tuesdays, something he looked forward to all week. Mr. Schatz taught Al how to play Spanish ditties like “Malagueña” and “Caliente” and English-speaking classics like “Georgia” and “The Girl from Ipanema.” Al would practice and practice these songs at home, but when he played for Mr. Schatz, it was like he’d never practiced at all. “I don’t understand,” he said apologetically. “I worked on this all week.”
“What?!” said Mr. Schatz.
“I guess I just need to prac—”
“You just need to practice more,” Mr. Schatz interrupted. “Both of you. Especially since your recital is coming up next month. You want to sound good at the recital, don’t you?”
My son said he didn’t want to be in any recital.
I, however, loved the idea. It seemed to me that once the boy stood in front of an audience, once he’d heard his name spoken over loudspeakers, once he’d taken a bow, then stood graciously for a moment to receive his due applause that would more than likely erupt into a standing ovation, he might come around to this music thing. It might be something he mentioned during the little speech he’d give when he went onstage to receive his Grammy. “I thank God my mother made me play in that recital,” he’d say, and, “I thank God for my mother.”
“We can’t wait for the recital!” I said.
Al mumbled something about how he didn’t want to be in any recital, either, and for once Mr. Schatz not only heard what someone said, he seemed to comprehend it. “Well, I understand you feel nervous, Allen,” he said. “Stage fright is very real, and it happens to us all. But if you practice a lot, you can overcome stage fright.” Mr. Schatz’s voice had taken on a bossy, bullying tone that probably put any number of seventh- and eighth-grade trombone players back in line and kept the flutists on edge. When Al mumbled that he really, really, really didn’t want to be in the recital, Mr. Schatz said nonsense. It would require a true commitment to practice, but with hard work and a little bit of confidence, he’d do fine.
The piece Mr. Schatz assigned Al to perform was called “Farruca.” A form of Flamenco music, farruca is said to be “the most Gypsy of all the Spanish dances.” Upon playing the last note, Mr. Schatz wanted Al to shout “Farruca!” in a bold and impassionate voice, and every time Al did, I pictured him in black breeches and boots, the flouncy white blouse, a long black vest trimmed with gold braiding, the red sash around his waist, and the gold hoop in his ear. He practiced that two-minute song, over and over, faster and faster, again and again; he played “Farruca” so much that it became the sound track of our lives, the music I heard in my head while I walked the dog, stirred the sauce, tried to read. The boy hummed it while playing with his Legos. Al whistled it, tapped it, played it on an air guitar while waiting for the pasta to boil. “Farruca” became the sound track to our dreams.
“Farruca!” Al shouted, then caught me smirking at him. “What?” he said. The guitar was
“What?!” Mr. Schatz said.
“See my Homie?”
Homies were small plastic figurines depicting Mexican-American characters with names like Bobby Loco, Mariachi Pedro, Bubbles, and La Chunky. Homies could be purchased for fifty cents from vending machines located in grocery stores and Mexican restaurants. My son was building his Homies a barrio out of Legos, a structure he called “Ashbury Park.” I was never convinced Homies were good toys because they hurt terribly when you stepped on them with bare feet, but I agreed to buy the boy ten every time he practiced for half an hour. In a few weeks’ time, he accumulated a hundred, and since he didn’t need or want any more, he quit practicing altogether.
But the guitar lessons were the high point of Al’s Tuesdays, something he looked forward to all week. Mr. Schatz taught Al how to play Spanish ditties like “Malagueña” and “Caliente” and English-speaking classics like “Georgia” and “The Girl from Ipanema.” Al would practice and practice these songs at home, but when he played for Mr. Schatz, it was like he’d never practiced at all. “I don’t understand,” he said apologetically. “I worked on this all week.”
“What?!” said Mr. Schatz.
“I guess I just need to prac—”
“You just need to practice more,” Mr. Schatz interrupted. “Both of you. Especially since your recital is coming up next month. You want to sound good at the recital, don’t you?”
My son said he didn’t want to be in any recital.
I, however, loved the idea. It seemed to me that once the boy stood in front of an audience, once he’d heard his name spoken over loudspeakers, once he’d taken a bow, then stood graciously for a moment to receive his due applause that would more than likely erupt into a standing ovation, he might come around to this music thing. It might be something he mentioned during the little speech he’d give when he went onstage to receive his Grammy. “I thank God my mother made me play in that recital,” he’d say, and, “I thank God for my mother.”
“We can’t wait for the recital!” I said.
Al mumbled something about how he didn’t want to be in any recital, either, and for once Mr. Schatz not only heard what someone said, he seemed to comprehend it. “Well, I understand you feel nervous, Allen,” he said. “Stage fright is very real, and it happens to us all. But if you practice a lot, you can overcome stage fright.” Mr. Schatz’s voice had taken on a bossy, bullying tone that probably put any number of seventh- and eighth-grade trombone players back in line and kept the flutists on edge. When Al mumbled that he really, really, really didn’t want to be in the recital, Mr. Schatz said nonsense. It would require a true commitment to practice, but with hard work and a little bit of confidence, he’d do fine.
The piece Mr. Schatz assigned Al to perform was called “Farruca.” A form of Flamenco music, farruca is said to be “the most Gypsy of all the Spanish dances.” Upon playing the last note, Mr. Schatz wanted Al to shout “Farruca!” in a bold and impassionate voice, and every time Al did, I pictured him in black breeches and boots, the flouncy white blouse, a long black vest trimmed with gold braiding, the red sash around his waist, and the gold hoop in his ear. He practiced that two-minute song, over and over, faster and faster, again and again; he played “Farruca” so much that it became the sound track of our lives, the music I heard in my head while I walked the dog, stirred the sauce, tried to read. The boy hummed it while playing with his Legos. Al whistled it, tapped it, played it on an air guitar while waiting for the pasta to boil. “Farruca” became the sound track to our dreams.
“Farruca!” Al shouted, then caught me smirking at him. “What?” he said. The guitar was
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