A tnocs.com Friday Sidebar

Our own Bill Bois wrote another terrific article today.

The topic reminded me of two stories that happened back in the day. Here’s one of them: 

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In the early 1970s, synthesizers started to become popular among organ and piano players. But the market was still in its infancy. There weren’t too many places that you could go to see one, and maybe even play around with it for a little bit.

So, I did what I always did when something as important as this mission was at hand.

Mrs. Desmond’s not-such-a-surprise Friday pop quiz on Eastern European History would have to take a back seat. Tomorrow: I was cutting out.

Very early the next morning, I pretended to leave for school. Instead, I walked to the town center and navigated the bus route from the sleepy suburbs to the busy subway platform. Three train changes later, it was 8:03 AM, and I was peering into a dusty, jail-like barred widow of the city’s largest and most respected purveyor of gear.

I bounded up the three cement steps and grabbed the door handle with determined vigor. And summarily jammed my wrist, when the locked and barred door didn’t budge.

And then I remembered: no self-respecting musician would be awake and out of bed at 8:03 AM.

At that time, I was not exactly a fine example of multitasking productivity. I killed time by mostly just staring at the store from across the street for a couple of hours. Finally, a tired looking guy with really long hair appeared. He slowly walked up and unlocked the door. Because I wanted to seem cool, I gave him a whole 90 seconds before I walked in.

While on the train, I’d practiced my imagined conversation, and fantasied about the oh-so-hip banter with a store employee. I’d come up with some musiciany insight, and he’d nod, and say, “yeah, man.” What a morning this would be.

I approached Really Long Hair Guy and stated my business, making certain to toss in the requisite, “man.”

“Hey, man, I’d like to try out that ARP 2600.”

With equal parts distain and superiority, he said, “Not without an appointment. You got one?”

I tried to come up with a sharp retort. For a split second, I considered totally faking some kind of variation of, “Oh – you must not know who I am,” or something equally bold. And equally stupid.

I managed to muster up a real zinger: “Um, no. I forgot.” Which, while being a more honest reply than if I’d gone with trying to impersonate a recording artist, somehow sounded even stupider.”

“You have to call ahead.”

“Sorry.”

I pretended to shrug it all off, but I felt deflated, embarrassed, and worst of all, clueless. Or as we used to say in my neighborhood: “wicked bad.”

As I turned on a heel to get out of Dodge, I just about plowed into another customer who had been standing right behind me. He was direct from central casting. About 25, wearing an awful, road-worn black leather jacket, and sporting hair that was a mess, but somehow rocker-perfect at the same time.

He politely ignored that I’d almost mowed him down, and said, “Hey, man. Hang out for a minute.” He approached the counter and quietly said something to Really Long Hair Guy, who looked at me, puzzled, and then nodded and said, “Oh, OK. Sorry. Go on up.”

And before I knew what was happening, I was bringing up the rear, navigating a creaky set of narrow stairs. I had been invited to tag along up to the long rumored private, pro-only, upstairs showroom.

It was the pinnacle of a state of the art, professional and luxurious recording studio.

Oh, sorry, that’s my false memory talking. It was actually a dimly lit, cramped mess of gear. A second story dump with a cracked and suspiciously smoky and yellowed window. But at the time, it was perfection.

Leather Jacket Guy walked over to the powered-up ARP 2600, and started to explain how it worked. He asked if I knew what this knob did, and, “so what do you think will happen it we move this particular slider up a notch?”

Whenever I’d get a concept right, he’d subtly reward my response by having me demonstrate the answer – by playing it for him, right there on the appropriately priced, $2600 instrument. Let’s see… I’d say that’s, oh, about $18,400 in October 2022 dollars.

I would have settled for just being the fly on the wall. But instead of ignoring me and just going about his business, this total stranger named Dave noticed a disappointed kid, acted the big brother, and doubled down by assuming the role of a patient teacher. For no earthly reason, other than to be a good guy.

To a student who, ironically, on that day was a blatant truant.

And then, the cherry on the sundae:

“You pick up this stuff really quickly. You did great.

You should consider going to college to study music.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just mumbled some kind of generic ‘thank you.’

Dave said that he had to get going, and gave me the open handed, flying “brother” handshake that was popular at the time. “So cool,” I thought.

And if you’re waiting for the big reveal:

I got nothin’.

This guy? He was clearly somebody, someone important enough to get the nod to go upstairs. And bring along a nerdy kid with him. That’s some juice, right there.

But to my knowledge, he wasn’t a famous rock star or local celebrity. I’ve often wondered: maybe he was a teacher, or a semi-pro player?

It didn’t really matter. He was just a nice guy. And the hour spent was the only time that we’d ever meet.

I got home that afternoon and lied to my mother about how school was. And later that evening while my father was watching M*A*S*H, I waited for a commercial break to tell him that I had been thinking about where I might go to college in a couple of years.

“There’s this school in the city, and it’s for music, and maybe I could look into that?”

Dad kept looking at the TV and said, “Depends. Music school or medical school: If you want to go to college, you’d better concentrate on your grades.”

“Speaking of: what did you get on your Friday quiz?”

“I did good, I think. I think got an A.”

I know: my grade wasn’t for the quiz that he was referring to.

I spent the next couple of days thinking about it. And trying to convince myself that my answer wasn’t exactly a lie.

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Have a great weekend, everyone, and please consider popping in over the next 48, for a look, a comment about our great writers’ articles… or just a simple “hello” to tell us ‘what’s up with you.’

I always appreciate how nice you all are for keeping me – and all of our community – such good company.

Please be careful, take good care of yourselves and each other,

…and good on you all.

-mt58