Ag class

Prelude a l'apres-midi d'un faune; London Symphony Orchestra; Michael Tilson Thomas, conducting

During the spring of 1980, Mr G., our principal, met with each one of us eighth-graders to help us choose our classes and make up our schedule for the following year. Dad had looked at the syllabus and asked me if I would, during my freshman and sophomore years, take Agriculture I and II. Well, what to you say to the man who buys the groceries and heats the house?

So, I took the classes. And I found them interesting.

At the end of my sophomore year, when we looked at the syllabus for our junior year classes, a bunch of musically savvy girls came to me and asked if I would join them in a music theory class the next year. I had seen it included in the other two years’ syllabi and hadn’t given it much thought. But Mr. D. had said that he hadn’t taught it for years because no one had signed up. Nine of us registered for the class.

During the summer, I got to thinking about the Agriculture III class that I hadn’t signed up for. It fell outside of Dad’s Ag class recomendation purview. He had only asked for two years. But I liked the class. I talked to Dad about it. The first thing he said was God’s honest truth: “You know, you’re not much of a farmer.” Nope, I don’t think I am, either. “Why don’t you go talk to Mr. G. See what he says.”

Mr. G., I think that I would like to try to fit Ag III in my schedule. “Ah. Well, there we have a problem.” What’s that? “Music Theory I meets at the same time as Ag III.” Ah.

Dad, Music Theory I meets at the same time as Ag III. “Ah. I see. Well, son, I’m thrilled that you attempted to continue beyond what I had requested, but I think that you know what you need to do in this case.”

That was the proverbial fork in the road. Every dad yearns to posses that wisdom that allows him to advise, and advise well, his son or daughter on a career path. Dad had always been somewhat hesitant to allow this “music thing” to get too serious. His conservative side would have approved more of a “music as a hobby” approach and make the living with more of a sure thing.

Not only did Dad NOT stand in the way when I made my music decisions, but he also had my back, every step of the way. I suspect Mom had a lot to do with most of that. She had and has my back, too.

The Music Theory class went great. Since that first time at the piano, at the age of three of four, things have made sense to me. I figured out the inner workings of music theory pretty quickly by myself. When I took the class, I knew what Mr. D. was talking about instantly; it was just a matter of applying labels to the things that I had already worked out on my own.

Mr. D. included a unit on music history and literature for about eight weeks. We learned about all of the composers and the era in which they wrote. He also taught us what each composer brought to the composition table that hadn’t been there before.

On Debussy Day, Mr. D. wrote “Prelude To The Afternoon Of A Faun” right underneath “Claire De Lune” on the chalkboard. What? That’s absurd. I don’t get it. What can a baby deer do over the course of the afternoon that would warrant eleven minutes of music to acknowledge it?

“Prelude a l’apres-midi d’un faune” presents a fork in the road. The work, hauntingly rich, beautiful and exotic, barely hangs onto tonality and harmonic function; at least the tonality and harmonic function that the previous eras had known. Chords, that for so long only followed two routes to a limited selection of other chords, suddenly existed in a different dimension and stasis. In a moment in time, and forever after, Mr. Debussy had changed the operation of harmony, and set upon a new course to accomplish great things in ways unimaginable to the composers before him.

After hearing this wondrous work on the cheap stereo system within the cinder blocks of our band room, I suspected that I would never look at Bambi in the same way again. Then, when I got to college some know-it-all informed me that Debussy's faun didn't look so much like this as it did like this. Okay, well, now that’s just weird.

Credits: To Mr. G., for twenty-six years as a dedicated principal at Sioux Valley Schools. Thank you for your wisdom and your thoughts for the day.