Violin – that’s what you got. You wanted a guitar – school doesn’t teach Guitar. You got the Orchestra. You assassinate Music.
You love Rock ‘n Roll. Loved it ever since you first saw Elvis on Ed Sullivan. Your parents hate Rock n’ Roll – your parents can’t stand Elvis. They thought learning an instrument was a good idea – they thought if you listened to Classical music it would grow on you.
But there you are, signed up for Summer School – scratching away on your violin. The Music Teacher wanted to be in better places – he’s stuck with you and twenty other kids. He’s doing everything he can not to commit murder – you’ve been playing the same thing, over and over but it doesn’t get any better. The Triumphal March sounds like it’s been shot at close range. Your dad plays it on the hi-fi at home – it sounds nothing like what you’re playing.
You practice – you hate practicing. Worse, your dog hates you practicing and watches you, sounding like he’s been hit by a car. Your next door neighbor confesses you make her cry, but not in a good way – she closes all her windows and turns on Ben Hunter’s Move Matinee full blast, hoping to drown you out.
There is no hope – you are never going to understand the violin, and from the sounds of it, nobody else in your section is either.
You’re just lucky Summer School is six weeks and you’re halfway through – everybody else in the orchestra sounds their fair share of lousy, except one; she’s in the Flute section and she’s the only one who seems to know a thing or two about music, or at least the Triumphal March. To the teacher she’s the one glimmering hope – to you she’s drop-dead gorgeous. You don’t stand a chance – she’s not in your league. She’s the only reason you come to class everyday – you know you’re getting an F, you can feel it in your bloodstream – you don’t care. You could stare at her for hours, even though she regards you in the same manner as Atomic waste. Still . . .
Maybe you could try playing Folk Music.
You ponder your musical future and the mysteries of being in Junior High while dialing KFWB on your Pocket transistor with earphone firmly planted in your head – it’s the one place your parents won’t kill you for being in. Lying on top of the bed, staring at the ceiling wondering just what the hell is the future, anyway?
And to go along with Summer and violin practice, Bill Ballance on KFWB from August 18, 1959.
