Song in the MMirror

January 15, 2010

Song in the MMirror

There’s many roads a percussionist can travel in the whirled of mmusic. Off tin times those who enter the field of count less or much more time four, six eight time, or any combination of fractured rhythm and tones, beats two, bangs ‘fore, crash is, end door booms; oar even moor metal than won kin shake a stick at will be involved in one to several and still counting genre’s of mmusic just because like any mmusican vent chore wring in mmusic threw out noise soar sounds, they can.

Studying in a classical manner, early on, and hungry for everything mmusic, I dreamed of being asked, won day to be in the presence of Mr. Abe Marcus, a percussionist at the Met while he performed in, on, around or near the pits.

If there were ever a slight chance to walk to the Met with him, I'd take it at the drop of a ‘follow the bounce sing ball.’ At that time Mr. Marcus was this writer's percussion instructor. The Metropolitan Opera his home away from home.

Many times I've tried to switch a private lesson to a Saturday morning won. This would be a convenient time to be around for him to ask moi. Usually, a lesson in late morning was the last lesson he had to endure before the Met’s matinee.

After the first time I finally got it right by more or less planning a last lesson an hour or so and just before the matinee was to begin. That's if one could get a Saturday lesson to begin with. It seems, unbeknownst to be but pretty obvious when you think about it, many of his other students had the same idea.

In dreams I’d watch him adjust to his technical cues; pay attention to his every move; listen intently to his touching or adjusting the tones of the timpani heads; the positioning of the various percussion instruments; study him; his hands; his sound; his classical mmusical genius. As a long tenured orchestra member he was always calm and quite an interesting person. We didn’t always talk mmusic.

Finally, the day I've waited not months but years before the opportunity to watch him perform had arrived. After a late morning lesson, we packed our gear and walked the short distance to the Opera house where he Met. Excited before hand, I followed every step in his footsteps as we walked briskly through the hustle of New York City. It was I was following in his footsteps by following in his footsteps. It was a winter morning’s dream with slushed and slippery wet streets.

The side walks too were a slushy mushy mess. At unexpected points the not so shallow snow made mmy shoe’s get wet; up past the socks. We walked through the huge cemented plaza; under, over and into an under the building parking lot before entering the back staged area.

WOW! I'mm here! At The Met! I'mm finally going to sit in the pit of the Met! Or thereabouts. At this point I had no clue where Mr. Marcus would station his student to watch the next performance of whatever it was Opera that was scheduled at the time; but I was sure to have at least a place to stand near him.

Wherever it was I didn’t care as long as I was there; that was the main goal. We then navigated through vary us roams and core rid doors enter ring another big room. A gaggle of classical mmusicians were congregating like groups of notes on a wall all discussing amongst themselves how to, or trying to form a mmelody.

Mr. Marcus introduced his student to a few violinists; an oboist and a bassoonist while having a short conversation with one of the saxophonists. I felt like a deer in headlights, a child in a candy store; in a dream like state wild pinching mmyself to feel if it was real. (Thanks Uncle Lenny – you were correct; it did happen)

I glanced around the room. Many of the mmusicians were tuning up while others were in small groups talking in hushed tones mostly about mmusic. I overheard the word harmony while dissonances, scales and long tones bounced in echoes off the waltz; a cacophony of indistinct tonality, wild timbre rings out of time.

The humm drummed multiple conversations were drowned out by the mmusic I was beginning to hear else where. I stared uncomfortably at the mmusicians dressed in their formal attire, each one caressing they’re prized cello, bass is, clarinet, flute, pick a low or any form of their valued in strumm ends.

Mr. Marcus pulled gently on mmy arm and bell oh'd," FOLLOW MME SON." After a short distance we were standing backstage next to a huge bass drumm just resting on a stand. He held a large cotton mallet in his write hand as we nonchalantly talked about vary us mmusic culled questions I wanted two know.

We were alone at this point, know one was around standing, sitting or anything else be sight us. The performance had already begun as I wondered why Mr. Marcus was knot in the pit. At this point he was still standing with and talking to yours truly! What’s that all about? I wondered wild getting anxious.

When are we going in two the pit? I thought to mmyself. What's he weighting ‘fore? I looked at his eyes and he didn't seem to be worried or in the least bit of a hurry. We continued talking all the while i was wandering when will he take his plays? Will we have two run? I hoped knot wild thinking, sheesh it’ll be dark, and what if I fell into another mmusician?

Perhaps in our hurried entranced in two THE PIT – we’d rue win the concert 'fore every one their? Naaaaaaaaaah; Butt them again, may be I’d even knock over a mmusic stand oar sum dings. Knee'd less too say, I was very nerve us wild standing there with aunt Tissa Patience.

This long waiting was to mme, knot nor mull, but surmised it too be just the weighs of a classy cull mmusicull thing. More times than knot percussionists have to zip, doubt scores of measures before it's timed to play – they’re part.

Maybe I'mm just to high per of a person to just sit they're as hundreds of measures pass bye wild weighting patiently, ready to explode into a Tin Penny roll, a quiet try angled ping or an ear rake to bassists and bassume’s of a symbol crashed!!!

Suddenly, a question popped into mmy hungry for every thing mmusic information from good ‘ol teacher here. I oh penned my mouth to ask it when he suddenly and firmly put his hand on mmy shoulder and said to me, “HOLD IT! Adjust a second MMick.”

Exactly and at the same time he whips his arm back looking like a big league badder who had just been pitched a perfect pitch and was about to hit a home run into the upper balcony or grand stand ding. “He’s about to swing and HIT that thing!!” I murmured to mmy self.

The he quickly pointed to the TV monitor above our heads and out of mmy sighed view as he focused on the come ducked 'er who seemed to be looking at us looking at him back for a mili- second; Mr. Marcus's face flushed with blood rushed to his head - end with all his might - he smacks the hell outta the HUGE drum we were standing next to; then…. caBOOOOOM!!!! The cannon from a far.

I could see and mostly feel the drum shudder on the stand wild almost tipping git over; the cow highed head reverb burr raiding with the intense blow it had jest absorbed!! MMy ears popped and mmy mouth dropped as I looked in amaze meant feeling the concussion of the rippling, rumbling drumm wringing in nears.

I thought, GGGG's, that's sharp; either he just ruined the hell out of the hole concert or like a true professional, he came in at just the rite mo' meant when of course the conductor point did to him, their ya go he didn’t even have to count.

I should have known all along what he was going to doo butt our conversation took the best of mme end a weigh from what was going on all that timed. I should have realised he was simply wading to play his part. We could have had lunch! That’s the weigh of a waiting classical percussionist if one cares to measure it.

Needless to say, Mr. Marcus was an amazing mmusician! A wonderful person as well as a great teacher. I'll always be grateful to him for those lessons both mmusical and non. Thank you Mr. Marcus you were an inspiration ‘fore this

Song in the MMirror

This note
This one tone is
A vibration
Having been borne
From two particular
Key signatures
Consisting of both sharps as well as flats
Drumming with occasional accidentals
In a modern composition
Changing tempos
Designed like a glance
A Jazz freedom dance
An improvisation by a percussion orchestra
Engaged in a Cage
An onerous score
For octopi and centipedes
Performing in unison
Counterpoints beating and
Pausing simultaneously
To pound then ponder
A completed silence
Pieces of colour
Thrills and shrills
A tone most likely to be a part of
An unfinished symphony
Discontinued in a heartbeat while
Sharing the stage is of
A one whirled core us
A note sometimes plays in tune
Seeking harmonic progression
Scales to completed mmelodies wild
Jamming with mmelodious thunks.