For those in the dark, a recorder is a little plastic thing resembling a short woodwind. It's played by putting one end in the
mouth and covering the holes while blowing. And if you've ever heard one, you'll agree that "executed" is the right word: it sounds something like a live hyena being skinned as a bread truck runs over its foot. Or
at least that's the sound all the recorders I've ever heard make. Receiving his recorder was a highly anticipated moment in my son's school career. The kid must have reminded me a dozen times not to forget to
send in the money and he counted the days until it arrived. Then one afternoon he brought it home and played it for me -- over and over and over.
He was sitting in the den piping away, hitting notes heretofore
only rendered by alien races engaged in the delivery of surrender demands during fierce intergalactic battles, when his sister, who occasionally tortures the violin, sauntered in.
"Boy, that sounds terrible,"
she announced. Benny Goodman's feelings weren't hurt, though. Playing a recorder apparently also renders the musician (and I use that term quite loosely) completely deaf. It's the same reaction my husband has when I
notice the house needs painting. Of course, I thought he was ignoring me. As it turns out, he must have been playing the recorder, because whenever I mention household things need repairing, he's unable to hear a word I
say. This is quite odd because I never even knew he owned a recorder -- but I'm getting off track. Back to the kid.
On the day the recorders were passed out by the school's music teacher -- a woman with nerves
of steel or really heavy-duty ear plugs -- my son came bearing that plastic instrument like it was the sword pulled from the stone. And he played it for me and his sister and his dad and all the kitties and probably the
majority of our neighbors whose windows, like ours, were open . . . which might explain those strange gestures I originally thought were waves.
He played and played and played and taught himself the Mary and
the lamb thing and went to school. When he climbed off the bus the next music day, I praised his technique on "Mary Had A Little Lamb".
"That's not "Mary Had A Little Lamb", Mom. It's "Merrily We Roll
Along," he said.
"Oh. Well, they sound exactly alike," I told him.
When played on a recorder, all songs sound alike, even if they aren't. "Hail to The Chief", "Hey Jude", "Bolero", "The Dance of
the Sugar Plum Fairy", "String of Pearls", "Chain of Fools", the Captain Kangaroo theme song and all the Mentos candy commercials sound exactly the same. The only pieces of music I don't know about are Sousa marches and
Baba-Lou. He hasn't discovered those yet.
Yes, the recorder is a very democratic instrument. It makes music by people who call themselves Snoop Doggie Dog sound exactly like music by people who call themselves
Beethoven. And that's a very difficult thing to do, although I'm not sure Mr. Beethoven would think much of it.
So my son, urged on by his music teacher, came home one night and informed me he is to practice
each and every day. She would be proud of his dedication, although his father and I would prefer he perfect his (much quieter) marble-shooting technique.
He practiced so much that a little piece of his recorder
came off. He was heartbroken. I, of course, had a slightly different reaction. Then he clutched his broken recorder in his little hand and took it back in to school and, lo and behold! He brought home a new one. In
fact, thanks to his music teacher, he is currently recording away, hitting notes so hard they expire on the spot, meeting an awful, terrible end right here in my den. But all is not lost.
His music teacher says
if he breaks that one, he's not getting another one. I can only hope she's a woman of her word.
