On the air

Horowitz At The Met; Vladimir Horowitz, piano

Mr. D. said, “If you understand and retain all of the information that I’ve taught you in this class, then there’s no reason that any of you shouldn’t be able to test out of the first year of music theory class in college.”

I started taking piano lessons from Dr. P. in March of 1983, my junior year in high school. In addition to teaching Music Theory I and ear training at SDSU, Dr. P. was head of the piano department. Around the time when enrollment at SDSU proved inevitable, I broached the subject of testing out of the first year of music theory with Dr. P. I had never seen such a mild, conservative man turn into the stark-raving, teeth-gnashing, savage, vicious, monstrous, snarling beast that stood in front of me in my entire life.

“NEVER!! … growl … NEVER!! NOBODY, AND I MEAN NOBODY GETS OUT OF MY THEORY CLASS!!! YOU’RE MINE – ALL MINE – D’YOU UNDERSTAND?!?! … huff … puff … NOBODY’S BEEN MUSIC THEORIED UNTIL I SAY THEY’VE BEEN MUSIC THEORIED!! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!” Okay.

About three months later, Dr. P. said, “I’ve been thinking about you and music theory. Judging from some of the things you’ve said at your lessons of late, we may be able to test you out of the first semester of music theory. After your lesson next week, I’m going to give you a little quiz. If you pass, we’ll have you start music theory at the second semester.”

My first semester excluded Music Theory I. But I did have to take Music History and Literature. I didn’t mind that. We got to listen to music; what’s not to like?

I met Dave D. in that class. Very nice fellow. He liked Music Lit. class. But music theory was getting him down. He couldn’t understand the subject, his grades were suffering as a result, and he viewed a failure in this music class as a failure in the whole music field. He changed his major at the semester. He played tuba in the Symphonic Band throughout the year, but put it away in May.

Dave was industrious. He found odd jobs here and there that he systemized with his class schedule. He drove a school bus for the Brookings Public Schools. He also loved fiddling around with audio equipment and landed the responsibility of recording recitals and concerts for the SDSU Music Department. My favorite job of his had him taking the evening shifts on the weekends as a radio host at KESD FM on South Dakota Public Radio. On Fridays and Saturdays, I would check the radio to see if he was ON-THE-AIR, and when I took a break from practicing, I would stop in the studio to see him.

On one visit, the selections that he’d chosen for airplay came up five minutes short to the top of the hour. “Erik, do you want to choose something for the South Dakota Public Radio audience to listen to?” Umm … Okay. “It can only be about four minutes long.” I didn’t have very much time to choose, but “Horowitz At The Met” lay right at eye-level. For years I had held up the Prelude in G Minor, Opus 23, No. 5, by Sergei Rachmaninoff as an exciting favorite but had never had the opportunity to hear Vladimir Horowitz play it. “My good friend is visiting the studio this evening and he thought that you might enjoy listening to this ….”

In the summer of 1986, Dave D. married his sweetheart in the tiny town of Woodstock, MN. He asked me to play at their wedding. I don’t know, I said. What kind of piano? He grinned. “It’s a Steinway.” So, I played the wedding … on a Steinway baby grand piano that only had eighty-five keys. Isn’t that weird? It must have been an old piano. Oddly enough, I kept making mistakes with my right hand. What is going on, I thought to myself. On my way home, it dawned on me how much a pianist relies on his or her peripheral vision for accuracy of notes. I had been trying to play the higher notes a certain distance from the right edge of the keyboard and that’s where the three extra keys were missing. Oh, well. Small price to pay for being granted the privilege to say that I had played at Woodstock.

Credits: To my friend Dave D., for sustaining his love for music and for purchasing a Steinway for his funeral home. “My good friend is visiting the studio…” Good friend, indeed. Thanks, pal.