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[Thank you to KZ for this timely personal reflection on the Suzuki Method and her meetings with Shinichi Suzuki himself.]
With all the hoopla going on in the music education world now about the differences between the Suzuki and O’Connor methods, I thought I would write about my experiences with the Suzuki method and my meeting with Shinichi Suzuki himself.
Back in 1966 when the Suzuki Method was being introduced in the US, my parents enrolled my brother and me in one of the first programs available, which happened to be at the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, NY, where we lived. For the next several years we went once or twice a week for private and group lessons with a handful of other students. We learned our Twinkle Twinkles and marched around the room clapping rhythms and sat in on each other’s lessons. We memorized all of our music by ear and could sing and feel all the songs deeply inside of ourselves. To this day I do that and lose many hours of sleep at night hearing and learning music in my head, heart and fingers. I am thankful (and often sleepy) for this ability.
One feature of the Suzuki method is to perform regularly, and to perform most or all of the songs you can play. Thus, repetition and pre-viewing occur right away in a student’s education. I performed constantly as a child, and our little group toured around New York State and to Ottawa, Canada for events. Japanese students also toured to the US, so I was introduced to the Japanese very early in my life.
One time in the late 1960’s Dr. Suzuki came to Rochester. My parents offered to host a gathering at our house for him, and it was also his birthday. So right then and there at age 7 or 8 I had met him; probably had a class with him that day though I don’t remember that, and loads of Japanese adults and children were in my home. Ten years later when I was a college student studying abroad in Japan for a year, I learned of a Suzuki concert happening and somehow found a way to contact Dr. Suzuki. In my low-level Japanese I composed a letter to him about having met him as a child and being interested in attending the concert and he responded with a couple of tickets to the concert. The seats were right next to him and three rows behind then Prime Minister Ohira! I was thrilled of course, and I soaked up the music and the sight of hundreds of Japanese children lined up in rows playing all the songs I knew so well.
In my little group of 8 students at the Eastman School, I know at least 3 of us have continued playing violin to this day, and we all play many styles and can improvise. It took many years for me to learn to improvise and hear music chordally instead of just learning notes from a page, but I eventually could do it, and I certainly had the practiced power of memorization.
I understand one of Mark O’Connor’s arguments against the Suzuki method that the repertoire could be considered passé and potentially replaced with new songs. Sure, let’s add some “newer” tunes: how about “Old Joe Clark” and “Soldier’s Joy”, both excellent fiddle tunes that could fit nicely into Book 1 or 2. But those classic Suzuki musical selections teach the concepts beautifully, and certainly universally.
My memories of the Suzuki method are positive, uniquely enhanced by meeting its maker. I value the kind-hearted approach he used with children and I happily applaud the man that made my world larger. Great memories!
Little blonde KZ and her brother at a party their family hosted for Suzuki in the 1960's.
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It’s embarrassing–I can't stand most of his work: grandiose, predictable, simplistic, manipulative –but Andrew Lloyd Webber may be one of my biggest influences. Let me explain. My family lived in England from 1966 to 1968. My brother and I were sent to English schools and when I was in first form (aka third grade) a Mr. Webber came and did a residency at our school. The musical he wrote and taught to us (I believe it was actually called an oratorio then—no acting, just songs) was Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. The music was fun—rock'n'roll—or so it seemed to me at age eight, and for the performances the school brought in a real rock band, The Mixed Bag—in matching Beatles haircuts, Beatle boots, and black leather jackets with lots of zippers. Mod! While we students were all in uniforms that would make Harry Potter and friends look like a Seattle grunge band. I got in trouble once for not having my school cap on when I arrived at the gate.
There's no way to know, of course, but I think it's likely that seeing songwriting in action at a very young age: revisions, songs discarded, lyrics re-written, melodies changed, keys changed, harmony parts added, etc.. -had a lasting influence on me. I know it seemed like a lot of fun, even then.
My brother still has a couple of the mimeographed lyric sheets. I wonder if they're worth anything to Webber fans.
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Driving back from a gig the other night we shared band name histories. Paul had one called "Gone" which I think rocks. He'll list the rest for us here once school is out and he has a little time again. As for me, I can't remember my earliest--that would have been 7th grade--any more (hmmm...), but here is what I do remember, not that it's anything to brag about:
Flatrock Plains; Stony Lonesome (both from my country rock/NRPS/The Byrds/Flying Burrito Brothers and the Band phase); Household Word (I liked it when people in the house shouted "Word!" "Word up!" when we went onstage; Storm Warning (I don't think they ever played an actual gig); The Deadbeats (had to turn drunken drummer's mic off after the first set so no one could hear his rambling crude jokes) , The 5 O'Clock Shadows, Route 66, and I played for several years with the Rusty Rockstar Roadshow, whose leader modeled the band on the Blues Brothers, dark golassies and all
...what else? Oh, how could I forget Bojun Hence! Wait, Was that an actual band or just a name we threw around? Am I dreaming?
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When I was 13 I got asked to do a recording for the Voice Of America, whose studios were in downtown Washington, D.C., my hometown at the time. They needed a boy’s voice for a broadcast. I was into acting as a kid. Summer stock in Washington gave me a chance to hang around with my older brother’s cool friends. think my drama teacher recommended me. Anyway, some paperwork was signed and I was taken to a sound booth, which in my memory had mint green pegboard walls, a big clock, and of course, a red-light “ON AIR” sign over the control room window: the Real Thing.
I felt prepared. The material was within my range. I had my game on. My gig was to yell, “Extra! Extra! Read all about!” a few times into a big microphone. I think the director asked me to lay on the nasal All-American kid thicker (as in: “Extry! Extry!”) but I’ve always been good with accents, so no problem. I was goood.
And that was it. I can’t remember whether I got paid or it was strictly volunteer, just one of those career-advancement and experience-building gigs (like what I still tell myself when the pay for The Buskers barely covers transportation, meals and lodging, which is all too often).
The next time I recorded anything was ten years later in somebody's studio in Park Slope, Brooklyn; a demo for Household Word, a short-lived (i.e. one gig) band with fellow SLC alum David Grossman and my crazy Cajun roommate André Deshotels on alto sax. [I just went looking for my one cassette of that session, but can’t find it, and I lost touch with Grossman twenty years ago.] Household Word’s one public performance was at the Gowanus Arts Exchange in Brooklyn. I put the show together and put up the money. We shared the bill with the artier band Mildred Pierce. The plywood stage was bouncy and I chipped my tooth on a microphone on the first song, and at one point my bass amp fell over. But the spice of that night was my other One Night Band (this one I knew would not survive): The Reggae/Polka Pick-Up Band, which also featured old friends Bob Goldberg and Henry Hample, of Washboard Jungle. Our big hit of the night was The Reggae Polka, penned mostly by yours truly. One verse consisted entirely of the line, “Coconut, calabash, ganja and
kielbasa” sung four times, with increasing enthusiasm. There might
have been other verses. Here’s the chorus:
Do the Reggae, do the reggae, do the reggae polka
Do the Reggae, do the reggae, do the reggae polka
It’s always on the upbeat, it’s never on the down
So do the reggae polka when you’re in this part of town. Hey!
The show brought in maybe 75 or 100 people, but in the end it cost me $150 and I had a stack of leftover beer and soda to dispose of at the end of the night.
In retrospect, I think it’s pretty clear I showed promise early on for a career in recording and performing music.
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