The Late Starters Orchestra by Ari L. Goldman Page B
Authors: Ari L. Goldman
âGo Tell Aunt Rhody,â âFrench Folk Song,â âThe Happy Farmer,â and even a simple minuet or two by Bach.
I happily sat through lessons and practiced each night with Judah. He was in first grade when we began and was just getting into the rhythm of nightly homework. Cello practice became part of his nightly routineâand mine. Just ten minutes in the beginning, but then fifteen and even twenty as he moved up through the grades. It was never onerous; always fun. Playing music became as natural as dinner, homework, and bedtime.
The Suzuki books start easy but quickly accelerate to more challenging material. By the end of Book 1, which is mostly made up of familiar folk songs, the young cellist is playing a minuet from a manuscript known as the Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach, presented by the composer to his second wife. The notebooks provide a glimpse into the domestic music of the eighteenth century, a time when, if you wanted music in your life, you had to create it. It was exhilarating to know that the same music being played in Bachâs house was being played in ours.
By the second Suzuki book, children have left folk songs and family dances behind and are playing Mozart, Handel, and Schumann. Successive books become more demanding in terms of bowing, speed, and position. By Book 4, the young cellist gets to play selections from the Bach suites that Pablo Casals made famous. From there, the repertoire is vast and accessible. Students are soon playing Beethoven, DvoÅák, Tchaikovsky, and Boccherini. In our house, we would make a party with cupcakes and ice cream when Judah finished one of the Suzuki books and moved on to the next.
When Judah started lessons, I called Mr. J to tell him that there was a new cellist in the family. Mr. J had just turned ninety and I checked in with him every few weeks just to say hello. He was overjoyed to hear about Judah. âHow wonderful,â he said. âMy musical son has a musical son.â I promised to drive up one day to show him the wonder of Judah playing but I never managed to. One day, a year or so later, I got a call from Andrew that Mr. J had had a massive stroke. Andrew gave me the name of the hospital where he was being cared for in Westchester and I drove there the next day. He told me to prepare myself for a sad sight.
When I approached Mr. Jâs room, I first spotted his beautiful mane of hair, as white and luxuriant as ever. But beneath that hair, I saw a face contorted as if in permanent pain. Hands that once mastered the cello repertoireâand flirted with the gambaâwere gnarled and clenched. Mr. Jâs eyes were open but it was clear that he did not see, not me, not anything. I sat vigil for the afternoon with Andrew and Angie and Angieâs mother, Ursula. A few weeks later he was gone.
In the years after Mr. Jâs death, several new cello teachers came into my life, some for Judah and others for me, and one for both of us. But even with Mr. J gone, I still heard his voice, sometimes in my head, at other times in my dreams, and at still other times in the music of the cello.
JUDAH AND I HAD a routine on Tuesday nights. Heâd come home from school, have a snack, and then we took the subway from our apartment at Columbia to his lesson on West Sixty-seventh Street. During his third year of Suzuki, though, I had the feeling that Judah was running in place. He was ready for the next level but I wasnât sure what that was. I began to ask around for a new cello teacher.
Early one morning while on an errand in my neighborhood, I turned the corner onto Broadway and found myself walking alongside a young woman with a cello on her back. She had curly blond hair and a happy bounce in her step.
I didnât want to come across as a weirdo but I had to ask. âExcuse me. Hello? Can I ask you a question?â The woman turned and looked at me suspiciously. âIâm sorry to bother you but do
I happily sat through lessons and practiced each night with Judah. He was in first grade when we began and was just getting into the rhythm of nightly homework. Cello practice became part of his nightly routineâand mine. Just ten minutes in the beginning, but then fifteen and even twenty as he moved up through the grades. It was never onerous; always fun. Playing music became as natural as dinner, homework, and bedtime.
The Suzuki books start easy but quickly accelerate to more challenging material. By the end of Book 1, which is mostly made up of familiar folk songs, the young cellist is playing a minuet from a manuscript known as the Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach, presented by the composer to his second wife. The notebooks provide a glimpse into the domestic music of the eighteenth century, a time when, if you wanted music in your life, you had to create it. It was exhilarating to know that the same music being played in Bachâs house was being played in ours.
By the second Suzuki book, children have left folk songs and family dances behind and are playing Mozart, Handel, and Schumann. Successive books become more demanding in terms of bowing, speed, and position. By Book 4, the young cellist gets to play selections from the Bach suites that Pablo Casals made famous. From there, the repertoire is vast and accessible. Students are soon playing Beethoven, DvoÅák, Tchaikovsky, and Boccherini. In our house, we would make a party with cupcakes and ice cream when Judah finished one of the Suzuki books and moved on to the next.
When Judah started lessons, I called Mr. J to tell him that there was a new cellist in the family. Mr. J had just turned ninety and I checked in with him every few weeks just to say hello. He was overjoyed to hear about Judah. âHow wonderful,â he said. âMy musical son has a musical son.â I promised to drive up one day to show him the wonder of Judah playing but I never managed to. One day, a year or so later, I got a call from Andrew that Mr. J had had a massive stroke. Andrew gave me the name of the hospital where he was being cared for in Westchester and I drove there the next day. He told me to prepare myself for a sad sight.
When I approached Mr. Jâs room, I first spotted his beautiful mane of hair, as white and luxuriant as ever. But beneath that hair, I saw a face contorted as if in permanent pain. Hands that once mastered the cello repertoireâand flirted with the gambaâwere gnarled and clenched. Mr. Jâs eyes were open but it was clear that he did not see, not me, not anything. I sat vigil for the afternoon with Andrew and Angie and Angieâs mother, Ursula. A few weeks later he was gone.
In the years after Mr. Jâs death, several new cello teachers came into my life, some for Judah and others for me, and one for both of us. But even with Mr. J gone, I still heard his voice, sometimes in my head, at other times in my dreams, and at still other times in the music of the cello.
JUDAH AND I HAD a routine on Tuesday nights. Heâd come home from school, have a snack, and then we took the subway from our apartment at Columbia to his lesson on West Sixty-seventh Street. During his third year of Suzuki, though, I had the feeling that Judah was running in place. He was ready for the next level but I wasnât sure what that was. I began to ask around for a new cello teacher.
Early one morning while on an errand in my neighborhood, I turned the corner onto Broadway and found myself walking alongside a young woman with a cello on her back. She had curly blond hair and a happy bounce in her step.
I didnât want to come across as a weirdo but I had to ask. âExcuse me. Hello? Can I ask you a question?â The woman turned and looked at me suspiciously. âIâm sorry to bother you but do