Mr. Klein

He was my music teacher at Skaneateles High School until my parents' divorce sent me off to the U.K. in the 9th grade. He was funny, witty, tall and rather thin, dressed in khakis, a white button down and a tie. Sometimes he wore a jacket, too, but sometimes, when he was working with his chorus or the band, he rolled up the sleeves. He had a long, large nose, wise brown eyes behind big glasses, and long musician's hands.

As this was back in the 50's, a time of teen angst, I don't really remember as much about him, or how he taught, or things he said, as I'd like to. He thought I might learn to be a vocalist, and though that probably wasn't likely, he cared enough to give me something to work toward, which is important for kids in general and which was very kind to me. The high point of my last year was singing a solo at the Christmas program. Even a few days later, broadcast by a local a.m. station, as one among the offerings of a hundred other high schools, I was proud to hear myself, clear and pitch perfect. If I'd stayed in Skaneateles, I probably would have studied music, simply because he was such an inspirational teacher.

My parents often went out to dance and hear music in Syracuse, and they came across Mr. Klein working another job, as pianist in a locally well-known jazz band. Those were the days when teachers didn't get paid very much, but this was more than just moonlighting. Mr. Klein's brown eyes always lit up in music class when he talked about "Jazz Hot" and "Jazz Cool," which was, according to him, the end point in the evolution of western musical tradition. "Jazz Cool," was, of course, what he preferred--and played.  At the big hotel, he was the featured player: "Pop Klein on the Piano," disguised, as were the rest of the band, behind hip dark glasses. It was, of course, a secret, not something that in those days the school board would have looked on kindly, so my parents swore me to secrecy.

Once, in class, Mr. Klein mentioned something about this other life, telling a story about another musician who was, around supper time, scratching  himself absently and saying "I got spag-eyes." Those not into jive talk imagined a horrible skin disease, but Mr. Klein explained that his hipster friend just wanted to go out for sphagetti.

Nope, I won't ever forget this marvelous teacher, the benign Mr. Klein! I hope he's still around somewhere, and that he has enjoyed the great stream of new jazz which has continued unabated ever since.

~~Juliet (Vandiver) Waldron

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Met at the Movies

Spent an afternoon at Met at the Movies, a bright new idea by the venerable Metropolitan Opera to cast their net over a wider audience by transmitting their Saturday afternoon matinees into movie theaters around the world. I’ve been going to these ever since I found out about them, three years ago. At our Regal Theater, we’re also able to see a repeat on the Wednesday night following the Saturday afternoon broadcast.

Opera lovers are an odd, and, for the most part, elderly subset of the population, but they are thick enough upon the ground to fill a theater here in Central Pennsylvania. Seats are first come, first serve, so you’ll see the old folks coming early, especially the wheel-chair bound and the oxygen toting group, also carrying in their sandwiches and bottles of water semi-surreptitiously in their totes. At $22 a ticket per Senior, the theater staff has (so far) graciously looked the other way at this otherwise frowned-upon practice. I brought water and a sliced apple to carry me through the recent performance of Don Carlo by Verdi, as it was to last 4 ½ hours.

Young people are arriving more frequently at these performances, brought in by local colleges as part of their musical or humanities education. I’ve been glad to see them attending, and hope that a few of these become converts to this most peculiar Western art form.

I’ve never seen "Don Carlo" before, although I’ve heard it on the Saturday afternoon radio broadcasts. It’s dark, even for Verdi, with the usual repressed and emotionally abused heroine—in this case a princess, a pawn played both by father and husband. There is also an on-stage burning of heretics, (a gruesome depiction of fanatical cruelty), betrayals of friendship, and backstabbing, all culminating in the murder of a prince condoned by his kingly father. Lawlessness and violence committed by The Church and by Society are enduring themes in Verdi operas; his music carries the despairing message even more powerfully than his story lines. I usually leave such operas emotionally drained, and Don Carlo was no exception.

It’s interesting to attend these events, for besides the spectacle there are small conversations to be had while waiting for the show to begin. We opera goers have stories to share that can only be appreciated by others of our kind, for instance, reading the Milton Cross Complete Guide to the Stories of the Opera. We talk about listening to the Met Broadcasts on the radio as part of our childhood experience, and perhaps reminisce a little about the person who introduced us to the art. I can still see my mother, lounging on a pink tufted Chenille bed spread, her blonde cocker spaniel tucked beside her. With cigarettes, matches, ash tray, lying on her side with a mostly unread book, she’d have the radio on, listening to Grand Opera from New York City. Oddly, at our house, near Syracuse, we received our Metropolitan Saturday Afternoon performance from a station in Toronto. Through the ether, across Lake Ontario from Canada, Great Art arrived at our snow-bound house in the Finger Lakes. It’s always gray outside that remembered window, and always snowing. The music is the brightest color in the room, especially if I’m lying on the braided wool rug with my toys, being a "good girl" which meant not bothering her by talking, just quietly imagining.