Sometimes in life, the adulation Bach and Vivaldi bring has to wait
By Tom Murse
Updated Feb 19, 2007 15:52
I’m alone up here onstage.
But I’m fine. Really. Take a deep breath, I tell myself. Sit up straight. Remember what the great classical guitarist Christopher Parkening wrote: “Strive to achieve a balance between security, relaxation, and the ability to produce a good sound.”
Exhale.
My left hand cradles the smooth neck of my acoustic, and the fingers of my right hand rest on the nylon strings, just below the sound hole. Just like Parkening instructs.
My thumb prepares to strike the first note of “Simple Gifts” in D major.
And then ... it happens.
I am distracted, thrown off balance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny figure padding silently toward my perch. The little shadow pauses before me, reaches out a hand and — poing! — brazenly plucks the little E string.
“Hello, Dadoo.”
The darkened corners of this grand, gilded hall of my daydreams evaporate, and soon my daughter, age 2, comes into focus. She is wearing only a diaper and a red Elmo T-shirt.
“What you doing?”
She is fresh out of the tub, her hair damp and curly. Her head is cocked to one side in that irresistible inquisitive sort of way. Her smile reveals a sizable gap between her two front teeth.
Braces, I cannot help but think.
“Dadoo is practicing,” I tell her.
‘“Twinkle Little Thtar.’ You play it?”
Ah, a request.
There’s nothing about this in either volume of “The Christopher Parkening Guitar Method.” There’s no Nursery Rhyme section in between the sheet music for Bach and Vivaldi.
So I will wing it. Put my dreams of wealth and stardom on hold for now.
We launch into a sprightly version of “Twinkle.” The girl sings and dances in circles across the floor. The old dog, hearing all the commotion, creaks into the room and curls up at the foot of a big, overstuffed chair.
We make our way through a set of toddler tunes. “Old McDonald’s” — yes, she’s had way too many fast-food lunches — “Happy Birthday” and the tiresome Barney theme song “I Love You, You Love Me.”
Mom joins the crowd, falling into the chair after a long day.
“You should play ‘Dust in the Wind,’” she says, remembering the serenades of old. “Or ‘Pretty Woman.’ What about ‘Stairway to Heaven?’”
I grimace.
We’re getting way off track here, I say to myself. Bach and Vivaldi and adulation await.
What, I wonder, would Parkening do in this situation? Improvise? Yes. We make our way through some Kansas, a little Stevie Ray Vaughan, even Pink Floyd for good measure.
The girl is clapping, bopping up and down. Mom is relaxing for the first time today.
Here we all are. In a cramped, unused bedroom on the second story of a cramped, semi-detached red-brick home, gettin’ down with classic rock and classic nursery rhymes.
Classical guitar and Carnegie Hall it ain’t. But Parkening, old pal, you’d be proud. We knocked ’em dead tonight. We left ’em wanting more.
What now?
Ah, yes, I almost forgot.
The encore.
Any requests out there?
Ah, yes. Good.
Parkening, my friend, on what page are The Wiggles again?
(The Voices column is written by a rotating team of New Era staffers. It appears Mondays.)
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